Page 97 of The Originals


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“Hey,” he says seriously. There aren’t any lights on in the entryway; we’re shadows.

“Hi,” I say.

“I’m really sorry for being a jerk this week,” he whispers. “I mostly came over to tell you that.”

“You weren’t a jerk,” I say. “You were just… upset. I can see how you would be. I know it can’t be easy to have Dave—”

Sean steps so close to me that our noses could touch.

“I was a jerk,” he says. “And I’m sorry.”

A wave of emotion rolls through me; I just nod once so I don’t cry or anything embarrassing like that. I turn toward the steps.

“Let’s go up.” I wave for him to follow me. His sweet apology still floating in the air like bubbles, I walk softly up the edge of the stairs for fear that my footfalls will ruin it. Maybe feeling the same way, Sean’s quiet behind me. But when we get to the top of the stairs, Betsey shouts a loud hello.

Pop.

We head into the rec room.

“Look what I found in the bushes,” I say, smiling. Bet laughs.

“Did you take some ballsy pills tonight, Sean?” she asks.

He laughs as he sits down on the couch opposite Betsey. He sets his bag next to him; I want to ask what’s in it, but I decide to wait until we’re alone.

“I figured that if I couldn’t take Lizzie to the dance, I’d bring it to her.”

“That’s barfingly cute,” Betsey says. “Later, lovebirds.” She stands and leaves. I blush a little at the “lovebirds” comment, but Sean doesn’t seem to mind.

>“Sure,” I say, glancing at the blue sky and thinking that it should be illegal to comment on the weather in San Diego. I look at the slow-moving numbers on the pump and wonder if I should stop it, then start again to see if it’ll go faster.

“Do you go to Woodbury?” the woman asks, gesturing toward school.

“Uh-huh,” I say. “I’m on lunch break.”

The woman nods, then tips her head to the side. “You look familiar,” she says. “Do you live in Mira Mesa?”

“No, up in the hills,” I say, waving in the general direction of my house. After a lifetime of being taught to fear strangers, I don’t get too specific.

“I’m Mary,” she says. “What’s your name?”

“Uh…” I say, looking down and toward my car. I don’t want to tell her my real name, but right now I can’t think of a single other name in the world. Then, finally, I say, “Natasha.”

“Nice to meet you, Natasha,” the woman says, smiling in a funny way. I have no good reason to think this, but I don’t believe that her name’s Mary. Then again, I just told her I’m Natasha, of all people.

The pump keeps crawling and the lady keeps gabbing. I try the stop-and-restart thing; it doesn’t work.

“So, are you from here?” she asks.

“We moved here when I was nine,” I say, seriously considering just going to school and letting Betsey deal with gas later.

“Where did you move from?” Mary—or whoever she is—asks. Just as I’m formulating another lie in my brain, the gas tank goes clink. Relieved, I reach over and pull out the nozzle, and replace it in its holder. The screen asks me if I want a receipt; I punch the No button.

“Sorry,” I say to Nosy Mary, “I’m late for school.”

“Have a good day… Natasha,” she says.

I get into the car and buckle up, then drive around past the woman’s side of the island to leave the gas station. I’m not sure what makes me look over but I do: The little computer on her side is stuck on the welcome screen. I think back to when she arrived: Did I hear the beeps when she punched in her selections, or did I just assume she was getting gas because she put the nozzle in her car?

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