Page 29 of The Originals


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I lean forward and speak quietly to the back of his right shoulder. “Is everything okay?”

He inches his head to the right and laughs in one forced exhale through his nose. I want to kick the back of his chair to make him turn all the way around and look at me. I check to make sure Mr. Ames is still milling around in the hallway, then lean forward and try again.

“Sean,” I say, a bit more forcefully. Finally—maybe because he’s starting to get that I won’t stop if he doesn’t—he turns in his chair. His light brown eyes are cold.

“Nice lunch?” he asks, still holding my stare. Oddly, warmth spreads through my midsection because Sean’s jealous. It’s confirmation: He likes me, too.

“Yeah… at home,” I say, smiling. “Dave and I just walked in at the same time; he had all that food for the debate team.”

Sean’s eyes stay on mine, so I see them soften. The corners of his lips turn up just a little, right before Mr. Ames comes into the classroom.

“Oh,” he says sheepishly before facing front. I fight back a smile.

“How’s everyone doing today?” Mr. Ames asks, taking his spot at the podium. A few people mutter weak responses; he turns to write on the white board.

“I really did have other plans,” I whisper to Sean’s shoulder. “But I wanted to go to lunch with you.”

“Me, too,” Sean whispers before turning and zapping me once with those eyes of his, leaving me wired the rest of class.

“We’re out of soda,” I say to Ella, my face in the refrigerator. She’s over near the pantry digging for after-dinner snacks, tossing out pretzels and granola bars and Pirate’s Booty. Betsey comes in wearing jammies, her hair pulled back and her face scrubbed clean: She always changes quickly after work.

“No way,” Bet says, walking over to check the fridge I’ve just vacated, which bugs me like a gnat charging my face.

“I just said there wasn’t any.”

Bet shuts the refrigerator door and rolls her eyes at me. “Sometimes you miss things.”

“Go get some!” Ella whines to anyone who will listen. “There’s no way I can stay up to finish my paper without a Diet.”

“You go get some,” Betsey says. “I just got home.”

They both look at me; I look down at myself. I’m in jeans and a T-shirt. I frown at them.

“But you’re still dressed,” Ella protests the protest that I didn’t even have to vocalize. “Just go to the Quick Mart. It’ll take like five seconds.”

“Get some ice cream, too,” Bet adds, smiling because she knows I’ll cave.

“Fine,” I say, sighing and leaving the room. I pull on the coat and grab the keys, then check the wallet. “There’s no money in here,” I shout from the entryway.

“Sorry!” Bet shouts back. “I bought dinner out. Go to the ATM.”

Wanting to go stalk Facebook instead of spending time driving around San Diego in search of diet soda and ice cream, I opt for thievery instead. I clomp into Mom’s first-floor office, then open the drawer where she keeps a small amount of money for emergencies in a pretty little box. It has a bunch of passwords written on a yellow sticky note taped to the outside. Real secure, Mom. I take forty dollars and close the lid and the drawer, then for some reason, I peek in the others.

There’s nothing inside but meticulously straightened office supplies, medical files for each of us, and a stack of bank statements from Wyoming. I know what they are—and why they’re from Wyoming, of all places—but something makes me reach out and grab the one on the top. I’m curious. But then Ella startles me with her shouts from the kitchen.

“Hurry up! I need fuel!”

I sigh loudly, then replace the statement and shut the open desk drawers. I flip off the light, leaving Mom’s office as I found it, minus two crisp twenty-dollar bills.

six

Loud voices in the kitchen wake me up earlier than usual on Saturday morning. I roll out of bed and leave my room to investigate; Ella’s in the hall with crazy hair and an even crazier expression.

“What’s going on?” she asks. I listen and hear that Mom and Betsey are in a heated discussion. Mom says something about dating, and I’m jolted into action, grabbing Ella’s hand and pulling her down the hallway and the stairs.

“—looks bad. It makes us look like a loser,” Bet says as we walk into the kitchen. She’s standing near the island in striped PJ bottoms and a faded T-shirt, arms folded defensively over her chest.

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