Page 6 of Wicked Dreams

My original home. The one that no longer exists.

Robert shows me to the office and introduces me to one of the guidance counselors, whose name goes in one ear and out the other.

She waves me into the office with a bright smile. “Margo Wolfe? Come with me.”

I perch on the chair next to her desk, watching her type.

“You have a lot of different schools on your record,” she says in a mild voice. “Why is that?”

“I’m a foster. Some homes didn’t work out.”

“Robert and Lenora are good friends.” She’s still typing, her nails clacking against the keys. “We were a little worried about them taking in a teenager, but…”

My eye twitches.

“You’re going to behave, right?”

I’ve heard her tone before. A smidge condescending masked by fake lightheartedness. I hate it, and yet I sit perfectly still.

I say, “Yes, ma’am.”

She flashes me a smile. “Lovely. Okay, here’s your schedule. I had to put you in a lower math class, but perhaps you can find a tutor.”

That stings. I used to love math, but the idea of it got harder to grasp until one day I just gave up.

“Thank you.”

The bell rings, punctuating my words, and I jump.

“End of homeroom. You’re going to be late to first period if you don’t hurry. Show this to your teachers, it explains that you’re new, et cetera…”

She passes me a pink slip of paper along with the schedule, which is a complex mess of numbers and words. Am I supposed to decipher this on my own? Figure out where to go, how to get there…

My heart beats faster. Why does the idea of being late seem like the absolute worst thing in the world?

“I don’t know where to go,” I blurt out.

She sighs. “Right. Follow me.”

We walk out of her office, and her whole body perks up when her gaze lands on a boy filling out a form. And then I take a good look at him, and something in my chest loosens.

A familiar face.

His gaze snaps to mine, and his name comes out of my memories.

“Caleb Asher,” the guidance counselor says. “This is Margo?—”

“Wolfe,” he finishes. “We’ve met.”

We’ve met. That’s a poor way to cover our history. I can’t tell by his tone if he thinks it’s a good thing or a bad thing. I would say good, but…

He has a vibe about him, and it immediately raises my hackles.

Caleb Asher.

His gaze travels up and down my body, but he switches it to the guidance counselor when he smiles. All charm, I think, especially as his voice drops lower to say, “I’ll take her to class for you, Ms. Ames.”

“Thank you, Caleb.” She pats his shoulder and spins on her heel without another glance toward me.

---