Chapter 2 #3
“It is true,” I exclaimed. “The last thing I need is to be embarrassed by having an adult drop me off in an expensive-ass car like a freaking ugly diva and then have everybody watch me limp into the building. It’s high school—everyone’s an asshole, even to the crippled girl.
” Especially to the crippled girl. “So if you could please just stop the car.”
My brain was debating if that woman would buy the lies I was feeding her. I saw the doubt floating in her eyes before she cleared her throat and pulled the car over to the sidewalk.
Idiot.
She’d be fired and replaced in no time. It would probably be a new record.
I unlocked my door, then climbed out of the car.
As I did so, Ellie turned to face me and said, “Listen, I know people in high school can be jerks, and if there’s anyone who is bothering you, you can talk to me.
I can be your safety net,” she offered. “Or I can talk to the principal. Whatever you need, Karla, I’m here. ”
I rolled my eyes. That was nothing personal toward Ellie. I always rolled my eyes at humans because I found them insufferable. “Can you not do that?”
“Do what?”
“Act like the ‘cool’ nanny. Listen, just because you work for my father, it doesn’t mean you get to act like you know me.
We’ve known each other for, like, two hours.
You’re nothing to me, and I’m sure it won’t take long for my father to find a reason to fire you, too.
So don’t get comfortable. You’re just another temporary thing.
” Without another thought, I slammed her door shut.
Ellie seemed even weaker than the other nannies. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she cried after she drove away. For a split second, I felt bad for being so harsh toward her. Mom would’ve made me apologize. Then again, if Mom was around, Ellie wouldn’t be, so, well . . . her fault for dying.
How utterly selfish of her to do such a thing. Death was so dramatic.
I started in the direction of the school as Ellie drove away. The moment she turned left, I went right, and found myself back at the cemetery, where I’d spend the next few hours.
As I walked up to Mom’s permanent home, I was surprised to see another person standing in front of her tombstone. He was a boy around my age, maybe a little older, kneeling down, talking to her as if he knew her. He was dressed in all black like me and staring directly at Mom’s spot.
My breath caught in my throat as a wave of nerves shot through my system. “Who the hell are you?” I spat out, my voice cracking on the word “you.”
The boy turned around to face me, and I gasped when our eyes met.
He wore a worn-out black hoodie that was oversized for his slim figure, scuffed black shoes, and black jeans that had seen better days.
He had unkempt jet-black hair that fell forward, brushing against his thick eyebrows, and light-brown eyes that almost felt like comfort when they locked onto you.
He had beautiful brown skin without a blemish in sight.
I wished my skin was clear and smooth like his.
His eyes were dark and unreadable, which left me uneasy.
Yet when he lifted his eyebrow, they appeared to have a flicker of intrigue—or curiosity, perhaps?
His face appeared as if it were almost sitting in shadows, even though the sun was fully out.
He was . . . beautiful. But not in the normal way that annoyed me.
He was a broken kind of beautiful. The kind of beautiful that knew sadness a little too well.
The feelings of anger and unease kept racing through me, but it was the uneasiness that took the lead.
He felt like a ghost of some sort. I should’ve felt more scared, but he didn’t seem dangerous.
He just felt . . . wrong. Out of place in a way that I couldn’t explain.
Almost as if him being alive was a mistake and he was supposed to be haunting the graveyard as part of his daily tasks.
Was he a ghost?
Was I hallucinating?
Had I officially lost the last bit of my mind?
My stomach tightened, and my pulse skipped as I kept staring at him. I couldn’t look away, which felt odd to me. I could always look away from other people. It was one of my greatest skills—avoidance. Yet my eyes seemed glued to him.
He didn’t react to me in the slightest as he stared back.
That threw me off, because everyone reacted when they looked at me.
But not him. Instead, he slid his hands into the pockets of his black pants, smirked, and said, “Oh. Hi.” His voice was low and even, with a faint rasp, as if it were his first conversation ever with another human being.
A shiver slipped down my spine. Not because his voice was scary, but because it seemed familiar. It seemed . . . sad.
I hated that his sadness felt familiar.
He held up his hand, holding the letters I’d left for my mom. His smile widened, but it didn’t feel like a happy grin. It felt like the type of smile we were trained to do when we interacted with others. It felt flat, and forced, and dry, and still . . . it was beautiful. “You must be Karla.”