Page 11 of A Sanctuary from Shadow
I pushed to my feet, scrubbing my wound. “When the power blinked! Some little shit in a monkey mask stole my phone! He kicked me like a freaking goat when I tried to get it back.” I tugged down the collar of the linen shirt and grimaced at a cloven blemish on my pale skin.
“What am I supposed to be looking at?” Olivia asked, deadpan.
I blinked at her.
“There’s nothing there, Amy. You’re the only freckle-less ginger I’ve ever met.”
I scurried into my dressing room, my reflection freezing me. My “bruise” shone like flawless alabaster, the purpling welt I’d spied just seconds before a phantom in the mirror, though quite visible when I peered down at myself again. My pain was sure as hell real too.
“And the power never went out.” Olivia leaned in my fitting room doorway as I gawked. “Is your blood sugar low? We should stop at the food court next.”
I shook my head.General Tso’s won’t fix this.
A whimsical trill chilled my soul. Slowly, I turned toward the bench where my purse sat. A glowing MulBerry sat in its front zipper pocket, mocking me.
Four
Foraweekinseventh grade, Briar Hawthorne, my burgeoning schoolgirl crush, had seemed to return interest in me. Inexplicably, the Crombee Bros. poster boy began meeting me in the hallway after Social Studies, where he’d take my armload of books, though he had his own, and walk me the whole way to the cafeteria on the other end of our large school. We’d always separated there, went off to eat with our respective peer groups—him the popular crowd, me the outcasts. But no matter their length, our friendly, leisurely strolls set my sappy heart aflutter.
I’d still been shy, fearful of saying something uncool and repelling him. But by the end of that week, his casual charm had relaxed me into feeling like we’d always been closer than sporadic family acquaintances. And I wondered if his eagerness to take those walks with me meant he craved even more than friendship, despite my homeliness.
That hope became heartbreak the following Monday. Excited to meet Briar again after my next class, I’d sauntered to my locker to change up my books and grab my lunch money. I’d just reached my destination when a gigantic body slammed me face first into it, so hard its grated vent sliced my cheek.
“Stay away from Briar, you worthless skank,” said Todd Degarmo, the biggest, meanest boy in our grade. He’d often bullied my group of friends, but he’d never gotten physical with us before. To say I was startled by his sudden violence was an understatement. “He’ll never like you, squatchy, so stop kidding yourself and leave him the hell alone.”
Shoving off me, he’d swaggered away, snickering with his buddies.
Trembling in both terror and embarrassment, I’d opened my locker and hid behind the door, trying without success to stem my pouring tears. When I’d finally mustered the courage to grab my stuff and turn around, blood seeping down my stinging cheek, I found Laurel Woodrush and her three closest minions smirking at me. Laurel with sordid delight in her blue eyes.
Her perfect face had twisted as our gazes met. “Ew,” she snarked to her friends. “It’s even uglier when it cries.”
Laughter heckled my retreat to the restroom, where I’d collapsed in a stall and broke down sobbing, shards of my heart in my tears. Why had I ever thought I could be something special to Briar Hawthorne? Or anyone of his caliber? Me, the redheaded freak of Colter K-8. I’d probably read too much into Briar’s kindness, anyway. How stupid of me?
I’dneverbe that stupid again.
Humiliated as I was, I decided against telling anyone what had happened. Not my teachers, not my friends, not my family. Especially not Briar. I simply pulled myself back together and arrived late to Social Studies. I stayed after to apologize to my teacher—“missing” my meeting with Briar. I’d straight up evaded him the next day. And the day after that, he didn’t wait. In fact, he never waited for me again.
He’d started dating Laurel in eighth grade, and though the flame I held for him had continued burning, I’d never again imagined we’d be anything other than distant acquaintances.
Yet now, there I was—preparing to go on a date with him, staring into my dorm room mirror at a pair of wide, up-slanted eyes embellished with mascara.
Depending on my mood, they could be any color of the rainbow—one of my lesser oddities—but gold always ringed my pupils. That late Sunday morning, my eyes were hazel flecked with amber, the color of a sunrise meeting Ireland’s bluffs—how Daddy sometimes described them.
I added a second coat of balm to my lips, frowning at how my canines gleamed like fangs amongst my other teeth.
“Quit your fussing,” Zahra chided from the archway of our vanity alcove. She sported her Sunday best—a pair of yoga pants and a punk band tee-shirt. “You look amazing. Lover boy’s tongue will mop the floor when he sees you.”
I grunted, examining my every facet in our mirror. Since I’d made up my face to the extreme, my outfit was casual—a lavender tank under a plain white cardigan with blue jeans. My copper hair hung loose to my waist, my bangs framing my forehead.
I looked okay. But what if Briar saw things differently? What if he thought I was trying too hard? Or not trying hard enough?
I’d never measure up to Laurel Woodrush.
“Are you sure I don’t need more mascara?” I rubbed my chest. The bruise there was still purple—at least to my eyes—but my pain had faded.
“For heaven’s sake,” Zahra grumbled, yanking me from the sink. “Chill.”
A knock shook our door; I jumped out of my skin.
