"So, no plans for college, then? Just... cleaning?" Carla asks, feigning interest. Her words carry a clear judgment. Her longlashes sweep toward Miguel as if trying to clue him in on what a dud I am.
I swallow the lump forming in my throat. The air suddenly tastes like bleach—sharp and impossible to swallow. "For now. Who knows about the future?"
I’ve never had the time to even plan for a future. But right now, heat rises in my cheeks as I desperately wish I had. It’s hard to plan for anything when every day feels like I’m fighting just to make ends meet.
The rest of the group seems to sense the tension, exchanging awkward glances. Carla goes on as if she doesn’t notice.
"Your eyes are such an unusual color, Evie. Has anyone ever told you they find them... unsettling?"
Miguel squeezes my hand under the table, his grip reassuring. "I think they’re beautiful and striking," he says.
Something dark crosses Carla’s face for a moment before she pastes on her fake smile again.
Attempting to change the topic, another friend asks about my hobbies. But Carla isn’t finished.
As the night progresses, every question she throws my way is a veiled insult. Her intrigue isn’t out of genuine interest—it’s a way to judge and categorize me.
"That’s a unique skin tone you have, Evie. Does it come from being indoors all day, or is it just natural?" She cocks her head, lips curled into a smile that doesn’t touch her eyes.
"I bet cleaning other people’s messes gives you a lot of time to think about what you could’ve been, right?" Her voice is light, but each word feels like a lead weight in my stomach.
"Do you ever think you’re missing out on something better, not going to college?" Carla’s gaze is relentless, as if she’s dissecting every part of my life, looking for more cracks to exploit.
The tension feels like a physical wall I have to push through just to breathe.
"I’ve always admired how… low maintenance some people can be. You must save so much time not worrying about makeup or skincare," she continues, her voice oozing false admiration.
"Miguel, you’re always so relaxed about food. How does that work with Evie? She seems like she must be counting every calorie that goes into her mouth."
Her words are a dagger, aimed directly at my insecurities.
With each passive-aggressive remark, I retreat further into myself. I try to maintain composure, but Carla’s words chip away at what little confidence I have. My fingers curl into the soft fabric of my sweater, as if I could disappear inside it. Every muscle in my body is tense and coiled, ready to spring up and flee at any moment.
Or if I’m being honest with myself, I want to punch her in her smug face. I work to smother my dark, violent urges.
Suddenly, Miguel’s voice cuts through the tension, sharp and unyielding. "Carla, enough with the passive-aggressive bullshit," he says, his tone brooking no argument. "Evie is an incredible person, and her job doesn’t define her worth."
Carla’s expression sours instantly, her eyes narrowing into slits. "I’m just trying to get to know her better," she retorts, but her insincerity is as clear as glass.
"Well, I think you’re forgetting my family is in the business," he adds coolly. "And I’m just as proud of them as I am of Evie. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were ashamed of your mother for being a toll-booth operator and your dad for working in landscaping."
Her face contorts, lips twisting with the ugliness of her insides.
Miguel’s grip on my hand is the only thing anchoring me, a barrier between me and the pull of violence.
Carla leans forward, her movements deliberate, and reaches for a napkin. With a faux-concerned expression, she extends it toward my neck, as if attempting to wipe away the lightning bolt-like fern pattern that marks my skin.
I instinctively grab her wrist, stopping her. "Don’t," is all I get out.
"Oh, your birthmark is so... unique," she says, her voice dripping with feigned surprise. She knows exactly what she’s doing.
If Shadow were here, he’d rip her arm right off. I’m tempted to do it myself. Make her bleed, make her scream, make her fear me.
I lock down the impulse so hard I stop breathing. My nails dig into her flesh. It’d be so easy to break her.
A frown pulls her perfect brows down. "You’re hurting me."
We continue to stare at each other, locked in a silent battle. Something in her face shifts—recoils—as if she sees something in me that scares her. As if she wonders how much of her blood I could splatter across the walls.
