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I follow the virtues of my father’s church before Mama got kicked out. It brings me hope when, otherwise, I have no good reason to have any.

She calls me the Devil’s Child, because no child of hers would have hair this white with eyebrows to match, and she blames me for everything that went wrong in her marriage.

I glance down at my outfit one last time, which I spent all day yesterday picking out. I chose an ivory dress with frills on the shoulders, the material flowing down to the ground, hiding everything I have underneath.

It’s the prettiest piece of clothing I own, and nothing like any other girls wear. Mama won’t let me dress the way other girls do, and I don’t want to, anyway. I will hide the creaky chastity belt until the day I die, or until I have the courage to take it off myself.

In her deranged mind, this belt will prevent me from ever bearing an equally evil child, not that it matters. She will get her way because I don’t plan on talking to a single person at school, let alone kiss anyone.

I grab my backpack and slip out of the house, blowing out a breath as I step outside readying myself for a long and painful walk to the bus stop.

DIDI

In the past four years, I’ve had five first days of school. I liked my last school, and the town of Mystic. I made it through the awkward phase when everyone just stared at my white eyes, and then, when they realized my blood is red, just like theirs, I started to make friends.

Over the past year, as my body has filled out, boys have taken an interest, though only kissing me on dares. And now I have to start all over again and deal with the judgmental looks and whispers.

I sigh and walk down our dead lawn, briefly looking back at the one-story brick house and the long dead grass that surrounds it. It would be so easy to stay back there and hide, living on food stamps and scraps from people who feel sorry for us.

But there must be more to this. That can’t be my life. Mama can strip a lot from me—my dignity, my self-worth, my worthiness of love and acceptance—but school is something she never had. And it’s something I’m actually good at.

The grass is wet from the morning dew as I trudge along the side of the country road. Spring hasn’t yet broken ground, but winter is pretty much over, leaving everything dry and dead. The birds don’t seem to like it out here, and there is mist in the air, a heaviness I can’t quite describe, and all I can focus on is the creaking sound every time I take a step.

I barely make it ten feet down the road before I’m plagued with the belt digging into my skin, causing chafing. I almost begged Mama to take it off, knowing she has the key hidden somewhere in the house. She takes it off sometimes, mostly so I can bathe, and last month when it almost got infected, but only to avoid a costly hospital visit or prying questions from authorities.

Her voice echoes in my head. Sinful, ungodly girl.

I am sinful. God would be ashamed of me for letting that boy do what he did—sticking his tongue in my mouth. I can’t let that happen again.

I could tell someone what she’s doing, but I don’t. Because she’s all I have, and if I tell someone, I will lose her. Deep down, she loves me, and perhaps she’s right. Something isn’t right about me.

The scars on my thigh have become almost normal, the pain my only companion.

I keep moving, pulling back tears. The bus stop is only a couple of miles away, connected to a place called FreshMart, which also marks the end of the line for any form of transit—Mama and I are so far off the beaten path, we’re technically not part of the town of Kinsmen. From there, it’s a ten-minute bus ride to Kinsmen High School, which I technically haven’t enrolled myself in yet.

I’m just relieved I don’t have to spend more time in that house than necessary.

The two miles make an incredible difference in the tree line as I approach FreshMart. The grass wasteland turns into a denser lush forest, which harbors the shiny and rich town that lives inside the magnificent trees that seem to stretch on forever.

I stand and wait, wrapping my arms around myself, hoping I didn’t miss the bus. I peer in either direction, only to be met with silence and dust. Eventually, I sit cross-legged and wait.

The bus finally arrives ten minutes later.

When it stops in front of me, the door opens, and an old man in overalls jumps out and pops inside FreshMart, barely sparing me a glance as he walks by.

Although his hair is gray, he has a big, dark, bushy mustache. He’s portly, with holes in his clothes like me, and the bus barely looks like it can drive, let alone drive me anywhere. The paint is practically peeled off.

I rise to my feet to wait for him, and when he gets back, he’s holding a small Dixie cup full of fresh coffee. He sits in the driver’s seat, tilts his head up and takes a sip of the flimsy cup and the aroma makes my mouth salivate. I’ve never had fresh coffee. Mama only drinks tea, but it smells delightful.

“Two cents to ride,” he drawls as he grabs a magazine and puts his feet up without sparing me a glance. The bus is empty, and he doesn’t seem like he’s ready to drive for a while, which probably means I will miss the start of school.

I halt in my spot. I didn’t think about money, or the fact I need money to get anywhere. I am, however, supposed to use the money Mama gave me to buy food, and I can’t show up at home without food.

Mama won’t be pleased.

I stand awkwardly, my feet frozen. “I…I’m sorry. I don’t have any money.”

Finally, he looks at me, and his eyes widen before he quickly composes himself.