Wicked Fate (The Wicked Trilogy) (3 page)

He tried to tell the teachers that I looked at the rock and it flew over and hit
him.  All that got him was a one-way ticket to the nurse’s station to have his head looked at.

Adam
never told anyone about the rock
or what he saw me do that day. Most kids would’ve squealed…not him. I think that’s when Adam became an enigma and I made it my mission to figure him out.

We finished
elementary school together, followed by
middle school, and even though he never said a w
ord, I knew
that he knew—I was different.

T
he o
nly form of contact we share now is when I occasionally catch him looking at me
.

“Okay, please pull out a notebook and let’s get started,” the teacher says, as she shuts the classroom door.

Leaving the outside world and the past behind, I peel
my eyes
away from the window to face her. Anxiety sets in when I
notice that not only is Bernie in this class with me, but so is Adam.
  They’ve placed themselves on either side of me and it’s awkward, especially considering both
have witnessed me doing strange things.

Keeping my head down
,
I glance to my right at
the girl named Bernie. S
he smiles
a secret smile at me before turning away
to listen to the teacher.

Seriously, she’s
still
smiling at me? Doesn’t she understand that being nice to me means getting her ass kicked every day? 

S
he must
like torture. And if that’s the case, then she should
definitely
keep it up. Being chummy with me will get her exactly what she wants.

But if she’s not a masochist, then this needs to stop. I
can’t be there every time someone decides s
he’
s a traitor to the
normal
people and attacks her. Somehow, I need to
clarify how important it is for her to stay the hell away from me.
If I have to
be
a bitch
about it
, then so be it.

Peeking over at
Adam
, I take a stolen moment to appreciate his profile. The curve of his neck, the tilt of his head, and the way a wavy piece of dark hair spills over his eyes.  He smirks to himself and softness blooms inside of me.

His hands capture my attention. I like the way his long fingers skim the side of his book, before slowly turning the page. A banded muscle in his arm ticks as he moves that hand back-and-forth. Dark, sooty lashes fan against his soft cheeks as he looks down at his working fingers.

The other hand, which is relaxing against his flat stomach, is moving up and down with the steady rhythm of his breathing. He doesn’t know I’m watching him, and in that rare moment, I get a glimpse of the boy I yearn to know.

C
lass flies by in an uncomforta
ble haze. I consider it a challenge to not look at either of them.  With the exception of a few quick glances, I do relatively well.

Mental note…
find a new seat tomorrow!

When the end-of-the-day bell rings,
I prepare to make a quick departu
re. I’m excited that I made it through the day without any problems—nothing huge, anyway.

I don’t get far before
I feel a warm hand wrap around my a
rm. I’m not used to physical contact, so my entire body stiffens. My automatic assumption is that it’s Bernie, but when I turn around, I’m amazed to see that it’s Adam.

My pulse bangs against my temples as my heart accelerates. His gaze is sharp and sure as he inspects my face. A wave of dizziness sweeps across me when the panic comes. Like a caged animal I search for an escape.

Instead, my eyes find his. And like the frantic, little fly that I am, I’m caught in his tangled web.  Soft, deep-set eyes stare into mine and I wonder to myself what he’s looking for. I feel exposed, like he can see right through me—I don’t like it.

He hasn’t spoken a word to me in eight years, and yet out of nowhere, he thinks
it’s
okay to grab my arm and practically demand my attention.  It’s not
okay
.

My panic is replaced with anger.
I jerk my arm back, partly because I want to be defiant and partly because his flesh touching mine
is scrambling my thoughts
.
Out of habit, I shoot him my
stay-away-from-the-evil-girl look.
I’m doing everything but hissing.

Instead of walking away
, he
stands there. His face mirrors mine—angry. I think for a minute that he’s a
bout to yell at me
, but then out of nowhere his mouth twi
tches and he
gives
me a lopsided, lazy grin
.

Woah
!

The wall I’d been building most of my life is almost eradicated by his
devastating
smile. My anger disappears and I feel light and giddy. Unlike Bernie’s smile, whic
h honestly makes me uncomfortable,
Adam’s grin li
ghts my insides on fire. It makes me feel all warm and, might I say it,
happy.

Like the girl I never wanted to be, I blush for the second time today.

He cocks a dark brow at me as if he’s amused. Then his smile finally reaches his eyes.

It brings to mind the cute little boy who defended me all those years ago.

I’m not sure why being around Adam does
this to me. Maybe it’s the excitement of him knowing a small part of my secrets. Perhaps it’s the fact that out of the thousands of people at school, he’s the only one that sees me.

But something about him sings to me, and the tune is refreshing.  It gives me
a
n
odd desire to know him.
It starte
d in the second grade and it’s only gotten worse
over the years.

Incapable of looking away, I’m paralyzed. The emerald gates of Oz are open and I’m being allowed a tiny glimpse of a color-filled world. 
Finally,
he blinks and his intense spell is broken. I take advantage of
the relief and quickly look out the window.
The sky is bright and blue
, a slither of sunlight shines down on us from a hovering white cloud.

The rain clouds from earlier have suddenly disappeared
and I know I’m responsible. The intensity of the warmth I feel being this close to him has transformed the day. What would’ve been a rainy walk home will now be sunny
.

I wonder to myself what the hell I’m doing.

I’m not a little, blushing
girl.
I’m not one of those girls who melt every time an attractive guy talks to them. I’m not a mindless tart who lusts after jerks!

Not sa
ying Adam’s a jerk, but there’
s no need for us to start t
alking now. I don’t want to condemn him to the gates of social hell for being polite to me. If he’
s still the sweet little boy from second grade
,
then he definitely
doesn’t deserve what Bernie
experienced a few hours ago.

I say nothing as I gather my things and walk away.

The trek home
is quick—one of the advantages of living close to sc
hool.

I’ve lived in the town of
Summerville for as long as I can remember.
My grandparents moved us here from somewhere up north when I was just a baby. Because of that, I know every back road and walking trail.

Azalea Plantation, my family home, is one of the historical homes in the area. Secluded in the shade of oaks and pines, most people don’t even know it exists.

I live here with my grandfather, the ghost of my grandmother, and the even more active ghost of my best friend Thaddeus.

My grandma
died
from pneumonia when I was five and I have no clue how Thaddeus died, but thanks to my special sixth sense, I can see and speak to them. It’s an ability that started when I was just a young girl, but I’d never tell anyone.  I don’t want to add anything extra to my long list of craziness.

My grandfather used to call
them my imaginary friends. I didn’t know at that time that seeing dead people was a unique ability. But after
being sent to the guidance counselor in third grade for talking to people wh
o weren’t there, I realized it would have to be my little secret.

The last thing I ever want is to be shipped off to some loony bin. I’d prefer to stay home where I’m the only crazy person walking the halls talking to no one.

“Did you have a good day at school, sweetie?” My grandma’s gray eyes appear before the rest of her.

Her eyes used to be an awesome amber color, but a
ll spirits lose their sparkle, and with that
goes
any remaining eye color. So in short, ghosts have gray eyes.

“Yeah, it was okay,” I plunder through the refrigerator.

My grandma has a special way of making me feel comfort. She’s a round woman, with long
,
white hair that’s kept tightly in a bun. When in a fit of laughter, her entire body jiggles. She’s beautiful inside and out, and even with the sad, gray eyes of a long-gone dead woman, she exemplifies what’s blissful and good to me.

“That’s good. I hope this year’s better for you,” her smile fades away when she does.

I’m
accustomed to these short
conversations, and it’s no longer crazy to watch the people I love slowly dissolve into air.

I shove a piece of cheddar in my mouth as I walk to the library.

Slamming the door behind me, d
ust swirls
around the room, dancing
in the sunlight that beams through the wall of wi
ndows. I flop into the old
,
leather chair propping my feet up on the gigantic, antique desk that’s in the middle of the room.

The
library is more like a big
,
dusty book. Upon first entering, you’re filled with the aroma of leather and cigars from years gone past. The dark
,
wooden décor is a direct contribution to the distinctly masculine atmosphere.

The tall, floor-to-
ceiling book shelves that line the r
oom are filled with aged books. Broken bindings as far as the eye can see.
The subject content of these books remains unknown, si
nce I don’t think I’ve ever
touched them. At one point
,
I’d decided that I was going to try and read at least one book a month—I never got around to it.

“Have a good day at school
,
darlin
’?” Thaddeus asks
in a deep southern drawl.

I look up into a pair of gloomy, gray eyes.

Thaddeus
, my best and only friend,
looks like he stepped right out of
Gone with the Wind
and talks like it
,
too.
Old-fashioned clothes of a man with money cover his tall and willowy
frame. The lean in his laid back, silky voice hums. Picture
Rhett Butler
meets
Matthew
McConaughe
y
—that’s Thaddeus
.

H
e’s handsome and debonair with
a presence that illuminates the room with
southern ele
gance. While exuding masculinity, he still moves with cat-like grace.  Screaming
chivalry with a southern accent
, Thaddeus radiates the warmth of
true traditional southern culture.

It’s a rare thing in these times to have the pleasure of knowing a person who
understand
s the meaning of loyalty and honor—a person who carries himself with the quiet dignity of a man full
of legendary southern hospitality.

As knowledgeable as an older gentleman, his twenty-year-old smile holds many historical secrets. His sad, gray eyes are aged from the troubles of a Confederate soldier in the Civil War. I’m not sure if he died in the war, since he never talks about himself. But I do know he’s the only person in the world who understands me and the library is his permanent home.

“Today was crazy strange,
” I pick at a piece of lint on my shirt.

“
Wanna
talk about it?” he asks
with a smile.

“I wouldn’t have come in here and bothered you if I didn’t.”

“You never bother me
,
sweetheart,” he moves c
loser. “I’m all ears,” his mischievous smile reaches his glowing eyes
.