Velvet (2 page)

I was nervous. And I felt stupid for feeling nervous. What was I, twelve?

To be fair, it had been a hell of a week. Funeral, freak storm, fever—my least favorite “F” words.

I stared grimly in the mirror: Dark circles puffed under my eyes, my skin looked pasty, and my lips were chapped. The big burgundy sweater I wore only made my face look more hollow. Skinny jeans, my mom’s wedding ring on my right hand, my dad’s wedding ring on my thumb, and an old pair of Rachel’s boots. Definitely looked like I wanted to be a fashion designer.

When I’d shown up at the ranch, I’d spent the majority of the first three days locked in my new room marathoning episodes of
Project Runway
on Netflix. I’d brought my sewing machine with me to Stony Creek, but the pedal cord had snapped in the back of my grandma’s station wagon on the move here, and I didn’t have the money to fix it. I did some embroidery to pass the time, but it wasn’t the same. I wanted to be a designer—I wanted to go to the Fashion Institute of Technology and open a store in New York. But our insurance was so crappy and Mom's medical bills were so insanely high that they obliterated any chance of going to college. When I graduated high school next year, I would be on my own, totally broke.

Next week
, I told myself. Next week, I’d start researching internships. I’d make a plan. I’d work on designs, I’d figure out how to get money to fix my sewing machine. I’d use friggin’ sheets, if I had to, to make a portfolio to show at the Fashion Institute. I’d find a way.

Today, however, I’d let myself feel as miserable as I wanted.

A hell of a week, indeed.

“Oh, good, you’re ready,” Rachel said, when I finally came down to the kitchen. “Come on, Norah!” she called up the stairs again. I could hear a muffled response as Rachel grabbed two brown paper bags and handed one to me. I was ruffling their routine, an extra mouth to feed and an extra body to transport. Joe, in his plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, sat at the table reading an article on his laptop, completely unaffected by the morning rush.

Rachel had tried to get me interested in the ranch, and I might have been, but because she wanted me to like it, I didn’t—which was immature, and I knew it was immature, but I didn’t care. There were eggs to collect, a cow to milk, a garden to tend (though nothing was growing in mid-October), and, of course, the horses. There were eight, five of which were boarders owned by city people who came by once or twice in the summer to ride them.

“That’s your lunch,” Rachel said, pointing at my bag as she filled her thermos with steaming coffee. “I didn’t know what you’d want, so I put in a little of everything.”

I didn’t say anything, but she was already at the foot of the stairs ready to call up one last warning just as my cousin came bounding down.

“Ready!” she announced, landing on the floor, grabbing her lunch out of her mom’s hands and dashing out the front door, hair still wet from her quick post-barn rinse-off in the shower. Norah was fourteen, a freshman, and completely obsessed with horses. She got up at four a.m. every day to feed them and, I don’t even know, muck out their stalls? My only source of farm terminology was
Black Beauty
, so I honestly don’t know what she did for three hours every morning before school. Norah didn’t like me and I was indifferent about Norah. I got it, though—I was invading her turf, soaking up all her parents’ attention. If the circumstances were different, if I had met her even once before moving into her house, I think I would have liked her. Problem was, I
hadn’t
met her before, and now we had a year and a half to butt heads.

“Have a good day, Caitlin,” my uncle called as I slid on my jacket. I waved halfheartedly at him without looking back.

It wasn’t Joe and Rachel’s fault my mom was dead, I had to give them that. I was mad at them for other reasons, but not for that. I just didn’t understand why they hadn’t shown up once the entire time she was sick. They’d sent a few e-mails to ask for updates and to try and cheer me up with these stupid, animated eCards, but they never called, they never asked to speak to my mom, they didn’t even show up for the funeral. I had to live with them because the lawyers said I did, but once I was eighteen, I was out of there.

Amid the scramble for seat belts in the truck, I managed to slip my earbuds in and spent the twenty-minute drive listening to angry pop music that simultaneously made me want to dance
and
punch someone in the face—both of which felt better than being depressed. Ever since the storm, my protective shell of anger had mostly given way to a listless sadness, and it pissed me off. Sadness wasn’t useful. I guess anger wasn’t really useful either, but it at least made me feel less pathetic.

Through the fogged-up window the rain-slick trees waved in the wind, beautiful and ghostly. Too soon, we arrived at the center of town and pulled into the parking lot of Warren County School. It was a squat brick building with ivy growing up the side of one wall, an arched roof, a covered picnic area with an adjacent covered playground, and an American and New York flag. I opened the door to the truck, Norah scrambling behind me to get out.

“Caitlin,” Rachel called from the driver’s side. I turned back to look at her. “Have a great day, okay, honey?”

I stared at her until her smile faltered and she looked away.

“Come on,” Norah said, tugging on my arm. I shut the door and my aunt drove back into the rain and fog. Maybe I was a brat after all. Maybe I didn’t give a shit. Maybe I really, really missed my mom and didn’t want to be here.

Norah and I dashed under the cover of the sheltered walkway surrounding the building. “Mom told me to look after you,” she announced after an awkward moment of silence. Her face was flat, probably trying to hide a scowl.

I decided to let her off the hook. “Just tell me where to check in; I can figure the rest out.”

“First door on the right,” she said, pointing I nodded and left her on the sidewalk.

Through the old, warped door, painted over many times and slightly too large for the frame, a cramped waiting room guarded a damp-smelling hallway. To the right, a tiny, feather-haired old lady sat behind her desk, hand shaking as she stamped a stack of papers. She hadn’t noticed me so I dinged the old orange bell on the counter.

“I’m a new student,” I said, as she finally looked up. “Should I sign in, or anything?”

She reached a trembling hand out to push a clipboard two inches in my direction and murmured, “Sign here.”

I scrawled
Caitlin Holte
on the sign-in sheet and then waited.

Mrs. Goode, as her plastic, clip-on name tag stated, seemed to have fallen asleep.

“Mrs. Goode? Ma’am?”

She jolted awake, blinked a few times as if remembering where she was, then handed me a schedule and a hand-drawn map of the campus.

“Mr. Warren is in room three; he’ll be your first period teacher.” She smiled up at me from behind her enormous glasses. “Welcome to Warren County.”

I glanced at the schedule. My homeroom teacher’s name was Warren, and the school was named Warren—that couldn’t be a coincidence. Maybe his grandfather was a town founder. Maybe people never left, like a horror-movie amusement park. I felt myself cringing—a year and a half in this place. A year and a half in the middle of podunk godforsaken nowhere completely against my will—and my mom’s. I mean that literally. Mom’s will stated that I should go live with my grandma, two blocks down from where I’d grown up. Then the state, in all their wisdom, declared Grandma wasn’t a fit guardian. As if losing my mom wasn’t bad enough, finding out two days after her funeral that I’d have to move in with an aunt, uncle, and cousin I’d never met before was so far beyond devastating that I pretty much existed in a state of perpetual rage. I wasn’t upset, I wasn’t
sad
—I was pissed.

And nervous. I hadn’t had that first-day-at-a-new-school experience since kindergarten. It’s not that I was worried about making friends; I just didn’t want to be noticed or bothered, and in a town this small, anyone that hadn’t lived here for three generations would be a source of gossip for weeks. I briefly considered skipping class to wander the town, but the little I’d seen was unimpressive and, anyway, I had zero cash.

I wandered back outside, pulling hard on the door twice to get it to actually close before studying the map. Mr. Warren was in room 3. Room 3 was ten feet to my left. I walked over and stared at the handle, knowing I had to open the stupid door eventually. Grabbing hold of the handle and expecting it to be warped and stuck like the office entry, I shoved too hard and pretty much fell into the classroom.

I pushed the door closed to cut out the cold draft that had swirled in after me, avoiding everyone’s eyes. A few students were sitting, others were lounging backward on their desks. Mr. Warren, an older man in a blue collared shirt, sweater vest, and khakis, was leaning back in the chair at the front of the room reading through a Dean Koontz paperback. He frowned as I waited awkwardly by the door and I wondered what on earth I could have done already to disappoint him. But then he smiled and he stood up, holding out his hand.

“You must be Caitlin,” he said as I stepped forward to shake it, very aware that everyone was staring at me. “Welcome. Have a seat anywhere.”

I nodded, then tried to find an empty seat. Tried, but failed. One girl just straight up stood in my way.

“You’re Caitlin Master?” the blond girl asked, standing half a head taller than me. She was built like a tank. I don’t mean she was fat; I mean it looked like she could wrestle bears.

“Holte, actually,” I said, trying to avoid this conversation.

“What?”

Something about her tone set my hackles on end. “My name,” I replied slowly, in case she couldn’t hear, “is Caitlin
Holte
.”

Ah, there was the anger again, fresh and raw, making me invincible and careless. So what if this tank-girl could wrestle bears? So what if everyone was staring at me again? I’d never been in a fight before. Maybe actually punching someone in the face instead of just wishing I could punch someone in the face would make me feel a little better.

The girl stared. Behind her, Mr. Warren watched us curiously over the top of his book. The moment stretched, and I could feel the eyes of the other kids on us.

Then, mysteriously, she relaxed. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said solemnly. “I know your aunt and uncle. Nice people.” She nodded at the other kids as if to say, “Come on; introduce yourselves.”

They murmured their names and smiled at me, but I forgot them immediately, overwhelmed by the abrupt turn of the conversation. After the last boy shook my hand, the tank-bear-girl said, “I’m Trish. Welcome to Stony Creek.”

The final bell rang. Mr. Warren stood and called everyone to attention, so I sat in the nearest empty seat, which happened to be next to Trish. My hands were shaking, and the classroom blurred in front of me slightly. Ever since the storm I’d been having dizzy spells. I chalked it up to remnants of the fever I’d come home with. That, or the rush of unused adrenaline that spiked my system when I’d briefly considered getting into a fight with Trish. The dizziness passed quickly and I slunk down in my seat, wishing for a lot of impossible things. It would be super great if my mom could somehow be not dead, but I’d settle for someone pulling the fire alarm so I could get out of here. Alas, no such miracle occurred.

For the most part, the junior class stayed together because there were virtually no electives to take at a school this size. Appearing to be engaged with my homework, I spent most of the day dodging conversation with Trish and the few brave others who asked me questions. I was actually just sketching in the margins of my books. I figured that counted as homework, given my career aspirations. People got the hint pretty quickly that I wasn’t much into chitchat, and with Trish’s line about being sorry for my loss, I guess they all understood why. Pretty sure I was giving off a newly minted orphan vibe.

First, second, and third period passed by in a blur of information that didn’t seem all that important for me to remember. Fourth was with a Mrs. Leckenby for art, which was mostly “sketching” with crusty markers and cheap tempera paint. I found a clipboard and tilted my paper toward me so no one could see the punk-rock/Victorian-crossover vest I was doodling. Frills and spikes, pale pink and black—not the most original idea in the world, but I was understandably off my game, and Mrs. Leckenby didn’t seem to care much what we made as long as we stayed quiet.

At lunch, everyone ate outdoors under the covered picnic tables. Trish stuck by me, but I was almost glad when Norah abandoned her fellow freshmen to plunk down her backpack at my table. She didn’t say much, but she was trying, which was more than I could say for myself.

I was just about to take a bite of my sandwich when I saw him out of the corner of my eye.

The
him.

The giant question mark in the back of my head. My
rescuer
, if Rachel was to be believed.

The night of the storm was a complete blank spot in my brain. I couldn’t remember what happened, and it freaked me out that I couldn’t remember, so I did my best not to think about it because I didn’t want Rachel and Joe sending me to a shrink or, God forbid, a real hospital. From far away, Norah was speaking to me, or maybe to someone else, I couldn’t tell, there was a strange ringing in my ears—because
there he was
.

“Caitlin! Snap out of it!”

“Is she okay?”

“I think so; she just does this sometimes.”

“I’m fine,” I said, still unable to tear my eyes away from him. “Curly-ish hair, expensive coat—what’s his name?”

Trish looked over, saw the tall, dark-haired guy I was staring at, then looked back at me, clearly amused.

“That’s gotta be a record. Adrian’s so quiet it usually takes new girls a day or two to get all doe-eyed.”

Norah leaned over to Trish and not-so-quietly whispered, “Caitlin got lost during that freak storm last week. Adrian found her. Probably saved her life.”