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

He never sits there, and his friends are snickering from two rows back. Mason is an arrogant jock, but I couldn’t even tell you what he plays. I just see his varsity jacket with the school’s patriotic colors and know he’s one of the many who’s stupid enough to believe they rule the school because he’s part of the Patriot pride that comes along with being on a team.

guts with nothing better to do than hit on young foster kids.

I shudder.

“I bet you’d be a fun present to unwrap,” he adds, shooting me a wink.

The brown hues he stares at me with are dull and void. There’s no purpose behind them. No dreams or aspirations. I’m not even sure I see my reflection in them, like he’s not even capable of giving me that.

I know a boy with pretty brown eyes. Chocolate, like the glaze of the Boston Creams I love so much.

Boy isn’t really the right term for what Oliver James is. Twenty-nine is far from boyhood. He doesn’t share the same gaze of immaturity that I see twinkling in Mason’s eyes. His jokes aren’t vile like the ones I hear from the guys I pass in the halls.

Everything about Oliver is the opposite of the lifeless idiots I deal with here. It’s why I like him. Why I see an ally in him.

“Not interested,” I finally say, turning my attention to the front of the room. The whiteboard already has today’s practice questions written on it. I’d rather look through those than talk to Mason, and I really hate math.

When he doesn’t go away, I grip my pencil tight in my fingers. The skin goes white at the tips, like I’ve seen River’s knuckles do when she grips the steering wheel too tight when traffic is crazy in the center of the city.

She hates driving.

I hate Mason Mills.

“Oh, come on.” He pokes me again.

Losing my temper, I grab his pen and toss it at his laughing friends. It hits one of them in the face, dangerously close to the eye. For all I

Landmark Café is packed with men in suits that look more expensive than what I imagine the mortgage is on our house. It’s the after-work rush, but Everett doesn’t pay it any attention as we wait for our drinks and pastries at the usual table we occupy during our outings.

loved. Silly, considering I know I am since joining the Tuckers. It’s different knowing Ollie could love me in any way.

Family.

Friend.

Someday.

I hear that a lot.

Someday I’ll get out of foster care.

Someday I’ll find a family.

Someday I’ll be happy.

Those somedays have all happened, which leaves me yearning for more. More todays, more tomorrows, more everything. With him, with Everett, with River.

“I should go,” I sigh, not wanting to.

“We’ll talk again soon.”

“You should visit.”

I hear the smile in his tone. “I’ll see what I can do. Okay?”

I perk up. “You mean it?”

“Anything for you, kid.”

The funny feeling in my stomach returns.

I pick off lint from my black sweatshirt. I found it on top of the dryer one day a few months ago. Even washed, it smells like Ollie’s citrusy, musky scent. Orange and tangy and mouthwatering, that’s what he smells like. I’m not sure why I took it,

The café is my second favorite place to go when I want to get lost. It’s easy to people watch through the large windows lining the front of the building, showing off every unique person that resides in the city.

Everett’s face is poised in a fatherly manner, something I’ve come to familiarize myself with since I moved in with them at thirteen. The tone of his eyes darkens in warning of a lecture that anyone can see from a mile away paired with the firm line of his lips.

“Before you say anything,” I defend, squirming in my seat, “the boy I threw the pen at was egging on his friend to keep hitting on me when I told him to leave me alone.”

It’s probably not fair to justify my actions with something I know he would want to praise me for, but I don’t want to disappoint him. I’ve been with the Tuckers for nearly two years. I’ve been called to the office six times in that time frame. One of them wasn’t my fault, and VanDyke even apologized to me for it in a moment of great rarity. The other five times…

His palm rakes the side of his stubbled jaw, and I know he wants to tell me good or say that the guy deserved it. I also know he won’t take that route no matter if he thinks so or not.

Shoulders squaring, he leans forward until his arms are resting on the edge of the tabletop. The fabric of his white button-down stretches over his large arms, making him blend in way better than me in my casual school attire and rugged shoes.

“You can’t keep letting people get to you, Charlie. What do you think will happen when you push VanDyke too far?”

I give him a small smile. “He’ll quit?”