AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Eliza’s watery chuckle is echoed by Lux’s much more enthusiastic one, but it soon cuts out when I turn my frown on her. “And you,” my free hand pokes her on the thigh, “can’t keep shit like that from me.”
They’re my responsibility too, I silently add through raised brows and another, gentler poke.
When her eyes narrow indignantly, I know she got the message. “I had it under control!”
“So you punished her?”
If Lux’s sudden silence didn’t say it all, the snort and snarky comment from the backseat does. “She took her for ice cream.”
A pained half-groan, half-laugh leaves me as my forehead hits the steering wheel.
An early grave. I’m calling it. I have twenty years left, max, before these girls end me.
“Come on.” Lux pats my back. “Let’s get you a drink.”
11
LUNA
You knowthose shitty high school stereotypes coming-of-age movies love to use? Jocks, geeks, cheerleaders, whatever?
Well, based on looks, I know I’d be labelled The Mean Girl. The Head Bitch. The Regina George of Harlem.
But for a long, long time, I was The Bad Kid. The Class Disturbance. The student jittering and disrupting because my thoughts moved too fast to be constrained in tiny classrooms with insipid lessons for hours on end. I didn’t,don’t, like schedules and deadlines, or rather, my brain isn’t wired to obey someone else's, so teachers didn’t like me. And they liked me less when I finally got my diagnosis because attention deficit hyperactivity disorder? Codeword for lazy. Unmotivated. Excusatory.
That was when I became ‘Too Much.’ Too loud, too brash, too impulsive.
Too unwilling to sit on my ass and ignore the shit plaguing my mind, the intrusive thoughts designed to get me in trouble, like other people could.
I lament that quality most of the time. It’s hard, living with a brain like that. It’s tiring. It leads me to do things like slink out of my apartment dressed all in black with only nefarious intentions because I can’t stop picturing my roommate’s bleeding face.
They had a fight. Amelia and Dylan. Another loud, dramatic fight that bled through the thin walls between our bedrooms, about that damn Halloween party, of all things. Jackson’s Halloween party, I learned when I pressed my ear against the wall because it had gotten a little too quiet for my liking. When Amelia agreed to go like both Dylan and I knew she would, it just got me thinking.
Maybe, if Dylan wants to celebrate Halloween that badly, I should help him.
Hence why I’m skulking around Walmart a few minutes shy of midnight with a basket full of eggs, silly string, and spray paint. And a two pound bag of Sour Patch Kids. Because slightly villainous but definitely deserved deeds require sustenance, obviously.
My fingernails—glossy black because I take my criminal activity very seriously—tap against my basket as I debate whether an addition of something salty is necessary. Flamin’ Hot Cheetos are calling my name, and I’m reaching for a party-size pack when I get knocked off course.
“Woah.” Gripping the edge of the shopping cart attempting to mow me down, I crack a smile at the young girl driving it. “Relax, kid. There’s enough to go around.”
Deep brown eyes regard me with panic, and I lose my grip on the junk-food-laden cart as the girl stumbles backward. “Crap, I’m so sorry.”
“Hey, I’m a shit driver too. No judgment here,” I assure my weirdly familiar assailant. Nother, per se, but her face.
Her very sad face.
“You okay?” I can’t help but ask, peering around the aisle for whoever she might belong to. “Need help finding someone?”
The girl bristles in that indignant way teenagers striving for independence do. “No.”
I hum. “Someone need help finding you?”
She does a terrible job trying to hide her smirk. “Probably.”
A voice in my head makes a fond, nostalgic noise; it’s like looking in a mirror at my past, troublemaking self.
That’s not why she’s so damn familiar, though.
