Page 11 of Darling Venom
“Are you high?”
But I was surprisingly and horrifyingly tempted.
More than anything, I didn’t want her to see me do it.
I don’t know.
What if I shit myself?
What if my head explodes?
I didn’t want her to remember me like that.
Totally. It’s going to ruin your chances of dating her from the grave.
“You have a family who loves you. A rich, famous father, and a dream to chase. Our circumstances are different. You have so much to live for.”
“But Tate—”
“He can’t keep you from your dad forever.” She shook her head. “I’m Charlotte, by the way.”
She stretched her hand toward me.
I didn’t take it.
Her presence had a presence, and she confused me. Then she said something that threw me off guard even more.
“We’re in the same class, I think.”
“You’ve noticed me?”
And the Most Pathetic Bastard Award goes to… me.
“Yeah. I saw you reading on your Kindle during lunch like some kind of animal.” She took a paperback out of the back pocket of her skirt. I couldn’t see what it was in the dark, but she slapped it on my thigh. “I think you’ll like this book. It’s about sadness, madness, and dissatisfaction. It’s about us.”
I knew his name, too.
Kellan Marchetti.
He was the son of America’s newly minted literary legend. I’d googled Kellan first thing after I arrived at St. Paul.
The elephant on the roof was that Kellan is unpopular.
Radically—and deliberately—so.
It was weird, because based on his looks—tall, lanky, cute, athletic—and last name, he should have had good social standing.
He chose to be a loner.
He dressed Goth at school. All black, safety pins everywhere, eyeliner, leopard patches, and painted nails. He once showed up at St. Paul with fishnets for gloves.
He walked with his back hunched, like Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He picked up cigarette butts at lunch and pretended to smoke them, and Sandy Hornbill once caught him licking a frog in biology.
Okay, the last part was a rumor.
Point was—Kellan wasn’t a freak.
He wanted to be one.
