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1
Loren Connors faced the world beyond the battered screen door with the same hope she had every morning since moving in ten months ago. Was it too much to ask if today could be…
A little less shitty?
As always, the optimism didn’t last. Seconds into her trek to the bus stop, a familiar dread ran down her spine, heralding a truth that seemed as inevitable as the rain promised by the purple clouds swirling above. Today would be just like the rest—another shitstorm she’d have to trudge through in a worn pair of sneakers.
The shoes were a sticking point, weighing on her mind with every step. Last night, she’d hoped to convince her father to buy new ones. A pair of boots, perhaps? It was the least he could do. Considering that she’d destroyed her sneakers performing the job that should have been his—delivering newspapers to their outlying part of town.
She planned to spring the request on him last night after dinner, when he was well into his second beer. Winter was approaching fast, and the bottoms of herKickswere already reinforced with more duct tape than the original soles.
To be fair, the attempt almost succeeded. She cooked dinner like usual and even managed to stay out of his way afterward.
But then…
She got too close. Close enough for him to smelliton her—the intoxicating scent of fresh air and horses.Instantly, he knew she had beenthere.
Game over.
Instead of new shoes, that bit of disobedience earned her a blow to the chest that still ached beneath her sweater. Her sole consolation was that he didn’t hit her in theface, where the resulting bruise would signal that all was not well within the crumbling walls of the Connors’ household.
Devising excuses to explain the multiple injuries had become a game of sorts during the few months she lived with him. Today she’d need a reason to skip gym, where the thin T-shirt wouldn’t be enough to disguise this newest injury.
Her period, maybe? Or had she used that excuse last week? Lost in thought, she didn’t notice a hot pink sports car pulling up alongside her until one of the occupants called out.
“Hey, Connors.” The driver, a beautiful blond by the name of Naomi, cackled maliciously. “Need a ride?”
Loren didn’t bother replying. Like a turtle recoiling in its shell, she had her own tricks to avoid detection—keep walking and mentally count the steps remaining between her and the bus stop.
One. Two. Three.
“Naomi,” a minion stage-whispered from the convertible’s back seat. “You know she’s like,mute.”
Loren felt her lips quirk into a faint smile. As far as the student body at New Walsh Academy was concerned, she had spoken all of ten words since she’d moved there. Namely to teachers, and never without vigorous prompting on their part.
The rumored consensus was she was cripplingly shy, or a little “touched.” Mute. The real explanation was a lot simpler. It was so much easier to live a lie in silence. There was a selfish motivation, too. If shehadn’tclammed up all those years ago, the sound of her own screaming might have driven her insane. Still, she should have had enough sense to hide her emotions this time—her smile was too wide, and Naomi’s green eyes cut to her maliciously.
“You think this is funny?” The tires of that expensive sports car squealed as Naomi slammed her foot on the brake. “I think I prefer your dumb blank stare to that shitty little smirk.”
“Hey…” The second minion spoke up. “Naomi, I don’t want to be late again—”
The blond shrugged off the protest. “Just a second.”
With her head held high, she climbed from the driver’s seat to block Loren’s path.
“You think you’re so much better than us, Connors?” she demanded, hands on her perfectly slender hips. “Ever since you moved here, you’ve been a stuck-up little bitch, walking around with your nose in the air. Hello? I’m talking to you—”
Loren barely heard her. She was too busy eyeing the girl’s beautiful pair of faux-kidskin boots. Obviously, she didn’t have to begherfather for new shoes.
“Hey!” A pair of manicured fingers appeared beneath her nose, snapping impatiently. “I’m talking to you, Connors. Do. You. Think you’re better than us?”
Naomi gestured to her so-called friends, who all seemed like bleached-blond copies.
Loren shook her head and kept walking.
Five.
Six.
