I lobbed a brand new stick of deodorant at his arm.
But he sat up, catching it deftly. Caleb wouldn’t have—his reflexes were horrible and his hand-eye coordination was even worse.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I think you need this more than I do,” he said, tossing the deodorant back into my lap as he stood up.
“Dork,” I said.
“Tell me I’m not right.”
“Mickey, leave and let Kella get settled in,” Maeve said.
The door shut before I could say anything. As they walked downstairs, the soft thud of their footsteps faded away. Mickey’s voice wafted up the stairwell. “This’ll be interesting.”
“Don’t get too interested…”
I grinned. Did she honestly think we’d be into each other? Not only was he a couple years younger than me, but he acted exactly like I’d imagine a little brother ought to act: annoying but kind of likable, anyway.
My smile faded as I turned my attention back to my bag. I shook my head as I pulled out a set of Hello Kitty PJs. Who picked these things out?
Chapter 4
The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed, stumbling across the hallway and into the shower. It took about five minutes of near-scalding water before I felt somewhat awake. After another five minutes—when I’d already lathered my hair with shampoo—I remembered I’d taken a shower the night before. My frizz would make me pay.
When I got out of the shower, it hit me: I was a senior in high school and—on top of looking like the living dead in a baggy pastel pink shirt that made me look way too skinny—I’d be riding the big yellow bus to school today and every single day after that.
“Stupid foster care rules,” I muttered as I wiped the steamed mirror clear with my hand.
And stupid universe where I couldn’t even wear my own clothes. Not that Deena wasn’t willing to pull strings to help me get them back, but I would have had to go with her. Just thinking about walking by the spot where Caleb nearly bled out made me sway in place, forcing me to grip the bathroom counter.
No, getting my clothes was out of the question. I’d rather go to school looking like a circus tent.
I closed my eyes and breathed through my nose slowly, purging my mind of thoughts of blood—Caleb’s blood—before I really did faint. I’d never been good with stuff like that, and it had only gotten worse after what had happened.
Bruises, though…I was used to those.
I opened my eyes to examine the puffy blue and purple splotches swirling up and down the left side of my face. Only the edges of the bruising had faded to green. I frowned. Usually, I healed a lot faster—a few days at most. At least my lip looked close to normal. I figured that was something.
Maeve had lent me her makeup bag and I dug in, discovering a large—and almost untouched—collection of lipstick, mascara, and eye shadow. I eyed the five shades of concealer, each still in their packaging. I’d heard of people who bought clothes they never wore. Perhaps Maeve was like that but with makeup instead. Whatever the reason, I was glad for the large selection.
While I added a layer of concealer, someone rapped on the door. “Breakfast!” It was Mickey.
“Uh-huh.” I kept working.
“Now,” he added.
“Got it.”
I’d just finished powdering my face when Mickey knocked again.
“Yeah?”
“Maeve said to tell you that your oatmeal’s getting cold. Also, you used up the last of the hot water. I did not appreciate it.”
“Five minutes!” Maeve shouted up the stairs.
I flinched, smearing mascara under my left eye. I muttered under my breath as I wiped it off, along with three other layers of painstakingly applied makeup.
“Everything all right in there?” Mickey asked.
“Yeah. Almost done.”
I eyed myself in the mirror. Not too bad, considering I didn’t have my personal stash. Maeve’s plum lipstick turned out not to be a decent substitute for the purple primer I’d left at home, and her makeup—while not a perfect match—was close enough to my skin tone that it blended well enough.
I pulled on the pink I-look-like-a-zombie tee along with my baggy skinny jeans, grabbed my empty backpack, and raced downstairs to find Maeve sitting at the breakfast bar while Mickey poured orange juice.
Maeve looked me over and pursed her lips as I slid onto a bar stool.
“We’ll need to get you some clothes soon,” she said.
I smiled at her before shoving down spoonfuls of tepid oatmeal. When I looked up from my bowl, I found Mickey staring at me, his face inscrutable.
“What? Do I have something on my face?” I swiped the tip of my nose.
“No.” He turned away and quietly closed the fridge. “Your face looks fine,” he said with an edge to his voice that I shrugged off.
I ditched the dishes in the sink and followed Mickey out the door. He was about ten steps ahead of me, and I had to speed walk to catch up. Whatever was bothering him seemed gone by then.
“Crap,” I muttered as we rounded a bend in the driveway.
“What?”
“I didn’t get an excuse for gym.”
He smiled. “You’re anti-sports? Didn’t see that one coming.”
“I’m not, but I don’t want to sweat off my makeup. And then there’s the whole bruised rib thing.”
Mickey slowed down, so I did too.
“You seem to have a lot of practice,” Mickey said. “Covering up, I mean.”
I kicked an acorn out of the way. “I guess.”
After a long pause, Mickey asked, “You get excused from gym often?”
I sent another acorn skittering across the driveway to the edge of the lawn. “Often enough. If I knew Maeve’s signature, I’d just forge it, but I haven’t seen it yet.”
Mickey remained silent the rest of the way to the stop. But right before I stepped onto the bus, I could have sworn I heard him whisper, “Cory James.”
The bus ride to the school revealed more of the same landscape—huge swathes of trees interspersed by small homes,
