Then there’s me. My entire wardrobe fits into a bag and mostly consists of secondhand items that I purchased with money I saved up from jobs I worked here and there. But I like my clothes. They fit my personality, and when I wear them, I like to imagine who they used to belong to and what kind of life they had while they wore them.
Right now, I’m rocking a Nirvana shirt that I’m convinced someone wore to one of the band’s concerts decades ago. I also have on a pair of cut-off shorts, knee-high tights, and clunky, scuffed boots that lace up all the way over my knees. I topped off the look with a plaid overshirt and a leather jacket that used to belong to my mother. It’s one of the few items I have left of hers. I like to occasionally breathe in the scent, pretending I can still smell her perfume.
I miss her so, so much.
As tears begin to well in my eyes, I suck them back and focus on finishing getting ready, putting on a velvet choker then adding leather bands to my wrists. I always wear them to cover up the scars marking my flesh.
Like always, my dark hair is swept to the side in a wild mess of waves, and I kept my makeup minimal, consisting of kohl eyeliner and some lip gloss—I’m not really a makeup sort of girl.
“Raven! You have one more minute to get your butt down here, and then we’re leaving you!” Aunt Beth shouts, a warning ringing in her tone. “It’s not like it’s going to matter anyway. I’m sure I’ll probably get a call from the school halfway through the day, informing me that, once again, you got yourself suspended.”
She might be right. I do have a reputation for getting suspended. Most of the time, it’s because I get into a fight, either one that someone else started it or I took the first swing after someone repeatedly called me names. I’ve had to go to anger management classes a couple times that, honestly, I’m not sure helped.
It's not like I'm angry all the time. Most of the time, I can pull off indifference pretty damn well. But there's a particular name that really gets under my skin and, annoyingly, it's one of the words scarring my flesh beneath my clothes.
As my chest pressurizes at the memories of how the scars got there, I tear my gaze off the mirror, collect my bag, and then stick my hand underneath the mattress to grab a joint from my stash.
I have quite the collection under there. Most of it comes from my uncle, who sometimes brings drugs home after he's done a bust. He's been doing it for years, stealing a bit here and there then reporting that a less amount was found during a raid. How do I know this? Because I overheard a phone conversation once between him and one of his buddies. He didn't know I was home—I wasn't supposed to be—but I'd decided to ditch after a group of guys and girls jumped me and kicked my ass. I fought back, of course—my dad taught me how to protect myself at a young age—and I even got in a few good swings. But I was completely outnumbered. In the end, I gave someone a black eye and someone else a fat lip, while my face looked like a freakin’ lumpy blueberry.
But anyway, I left school, went home, and hid up in my bedroom. My uncle had come home for lunch and, as I was sneaking around, trying to stay hidden, I noticed him empty some bags out of his pockets, stuffing them into the attic crawlspace. Then he called someone and informed them of what he had managed to bring home that day.
“I got a lot today,” he said then paused. “Yeah, I know. I want you to push it as fast as you can.”
Before my parents died, I’d been raised in a questionable neighborhood and knew enough about the drug world to understand what that meant.
When he left, I snuck up to the crawlspace and jackpot. I didn’t take it all, just enough that he wouldn’t notice. After that, it became a routine. Usually, I’d find only weed in there, but on a couple of occasions, I found some ecstasy and coke.
I’m a little worried about how things are going to work now that we’ve moved and he has a new job. I guess I’ll find out. It’s going to suck if he stops stealing drugs and stashing them in the house. Not that I’m addicted, but getting high often calms me, and I need help with that whenever I can.
“Raven! For the love of God, get down here!” Aunt Beth shouts furiously.
Sighing, I put the joint in my bag then head down the stairs to start what I’m sure is going to be a hellish first day of school.
Chapter Two
I end up crossing paths with my uncle on my way out. He’s in the kitchen, sitting at the table, eating breakfast, and reading a newspaper. He doesn’t look a lot like my dad—shorter and stockier with a bald spot on his head—which I’m grateful for. He’s also dressed in his uniform.
I try to pass by the kitchen without being noticed and hurry toward the front door, but he glances up before I can make a quick exit.
His gaze sweeps across me then he frowns. “You’re really going to go to school dressed like that?”
I bite back a rude remark and shrug. “Yep.”
He eyes me over again, making my skin crawl. “You look like a slut.”
M anger ticks, and I want nothing more than to walk up and clock him in the face. But I fight the urge and turn for the door, preparing to walk out.
“You better not get into trouble today,” he calls out after me. “If you do, you’ll be punished. I mean it, Ravenlee. You’ll learn to obey, even if I have to—”
I rush out the front door and close it behind me, cutting off whatever threat he was about to throw my way.
I might pay for the move later, but right now, all I want to worry about is getting through school, so I keep my head low and climb into the backseat of my aunt’s car.
“God, it took you long enough. You can move so slow sometimes, Ravenlee,” my aunt gripes as she drives down the driveway, heading for the main road.
I shrug and stare out the window, too tired to get into it with her right now.
I really need some coffee. And breakfast. Why did my uncle have to be in the kitchen this morning?
I zone out for most of the ride to school while Dixie May babbles about some reality TV show she’s been watching. Aunt Beth occasionally joins in on the conversation, but Dixie May is usually the one to fill up the silence. The girl could probably break the world record for her ability to talk and talk and talk, especially about reality TV.
As soon as my aunt pulls up to the school, Dixie May’s focus switches.
“This is seriously the school we have to go to?” She crinkles her nose at the brick building. “It’s so small. And where the hell is student parking?”
“I’m sure it’s around here somewhere,” Aunt Beth tells her as she stops in the student drop-off area at the front. “Maybe at the back of the school.”
Dixie May glares at her mother. “Well, they better have it, because there’s no way in hell I’m parking Cutie in this tiny parking lot when it arrives.”
Cutie is Dixie May’s BMW that she got for her sixteenth birthday. Her parents didn’t want her racking up miles on it when we moved, so they had it shipped over. It hasn’t arrived yet, something Dixie complains about every day.
Me? I’m kind of grateful it hasn’t arrived because, when it does, I have to go back to riding to school with her. And she usually ends up leaving me stranded after school, so I either have to walk home or catch the city bus. I don’t think Honeyton has a city bus, which means I’ll end up having to walk the five miles home. I’d be okay with, except Honeyton’s winters are supposed to be intense.
“I’ll look into it,” Aunt Beth assures her.
“You better.” Dixie May frowns at the school. “Great. I bet there’s not even any FHs here.”
I roll my eyes. FHs stand for fuckable hotties in Dixie May language.
“Oh, I’m sure there are.” My aunt smiles as she points at a muscular guy walking past our car. “Look at him. He’s cute.”
"Ew, Mom, you're so disgusting. Seriously, are you having a mid-life crisis or something?" Dixie May says with her nose crinkled. Then she sticks out one hand in her mom's direction while pulling the visor down. "Give me some lunch money, so I get out of here and away from your gross comments."
“Oh, okay.” My aunt starts rummaging through her purse.
While Dixie May waits for her mom to dig out some money, she does a quick check of her hair and makeup. She fixes a couple of her blonde curls, twisting them before flipping up the visor. Then she glances down at the pink top and white skirt she’s wearing, smoothing out a few invisible wrinkles. By the time she’s finished, Aunt Beth has put a twenty-dollar bill into her palm.
Dixie May stuffs it into her bag then shoves the door open and moves to get out, but then she pauses, glancing over her shoulder at me. “Don’t even think about talking to me today. You know what will happen if you do.”
“You’ll have to pull out a dictionary to look up all the above four-letter words I’ll use?” I question.
“Ravenlee,” my aunt snaps. “Don’t be a brat.”
“Yeah, Ravenlee, don’t be a brat, or else everyone here is going to find out who you really are,” Dixie May sneers with a smirk.
The muscles in my jaw tick, and I curl my fingers inward, stabbing my fingernails into my flesh, wrestling back the urge to punch that smirk off her face.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Dixie May smirks at me one more time before climbing out of the car.
“Have a nice day,” my aunt says to Dixie May, who shoves the door closed without even replying.
My aunt lets out a quiet sigh as Dixie May walks away, heading for the entrance doors. Once she’s inside, Aunt Beth looks away, frowning at the passenger seat. “Crap, she forgot her makeup case.” She reaches over, picks up a sparkly case, and hands it to me. “Find Dixie May and give this to her. And don’t even think about stealing it. I’m going to text her to let her know you have it.”
“She doesn’t want me to talk to her, remember?” Not that I’m actually going to obey Dixie May. I really just don’t want to talk to her or carry around her stupid sparkly case.