B. Celeste

I woke them again.

Two wraps at the door, followed by the silent knob turning until the wood clicks open and reveals a familiar scruffy face. “Charlie?”

He sounds tired, his tone licked with worry. They’re getting worse, I think. The nightmares. Four this week. Three last. Maybe two the week before.

I lost track.

Mint eyes greet me even in the darkness, comforting me back into the reality I simply lull in since waking.

An apology is about to slip from my lips before I remember how much Everett hates hearing them from me.

Never be sorry for that, Charlie.

But I am sorry.

Everett and River Tucker adopted me not knowing the demons waiting until nightfall to come out and play. They hide in the shadows, under the bed, buried deep in my conscious until I’m trapped in my old bedroom.

That’s where the terrors always start.

Shivering, I pull the black comforter up until half my face is hidden. He opens the door wider and walks into the room, his hands in the

I’m not a fan of reading, which kills Everett since he’s a bookworm, but it seems like I could relate to Dickinson. Maybe I’ll get to read more from her in English class. Asking Everett to lend me a book of her poetry would just give him false hope that he’s converted me into a full-fledged book nerd.

Music. That’s my passion. Specifically, creating it. Being the reason something is part of the world seems bigger than me, bigger than anyone. It’s power, and I’ve never had that.

It’s why I asked River if we could investigate another school. Bridgeport has two private academies that have god-awful plaid uniforms, but at least the chances of getting offered better classes is higher than Freemont. If getting

“Charlie,” he greets, poking me with the end of his pen. Who brings a pen to math class?

Instead of saying anything, I just stare. If he expects me to waste my breath on a conversation that will surely go down as one of the stupidest I’ve had, he’s mistaken.

He leans closer to me, giving me a slimy smile showing slightly yellowed teeth that I want to smack off his face. “My friends and I were just talking about you. You’re quiet. It makes us curious.”

I remain silent.

He laughs in a boyish way that grates on my nerves. Math is bad enough without him pestering me. “You know, guys like a mystery. It’s like a present we get to unwrap.”

His boring brown eyes slide down my body. I’m nothing to look at, especially not in my frumpy bootcut jeans and oversized t-shirt. I’m comfortable this way, invisible, blended.

A gag threatens to rise when I see his tongue dart across his bottom lip. I know what lust looks like—I’ve seen it before. Usually it’s just on older guys with balding heads and beer