Page 1 of Burn With Me

Prologue

GINNY

Age 10

I’ve always hated my appearance.

Deep copper hair. Sky blue eyes. Ivory skin with a distinct dusting of freckles across my nose and cheeks.

People have always looked.

No onehas ever made me feel the way Christopher Calloway is making me feel right now.

Like I’m dog poo on the bottom of his shoe that he just stepped on when he came inside his house and found his parents with the social worker and me. As if it wasmyfault his parents signed up to be foster parents.Myfault my mother died last night after losing her battle with cancer, and now I need to be placed somewhere.

The rage on his face is poorly concealed, but his parents and Mrs. Trech aren’t paying attention to him. His eyes flit up to his mother as he pushes off the wall before making his way over to me. Gripping my backpack tightly, I try to make myself smaller as he comes closer until he’s towering over me. He glances back at his parents once more before looking me over with his lip curled in distaste.

“I don’t want you here,” he says between clenched teeth, voice low so his parents won’t hear him.

Shrugging slightly, I peek up at him and respond, “I don’t want to be here.”

Letting out a soft snort, he reaches out and grabs a lock of my hair, tugging it hard enough to make me wince. “Don’t fuck with me.”

His words are lost on me. From what I’ve gathered in the short amount of time I’ve been in the Calloway’s home, I’ve learned that Mr. Calloway is a very successful surgeon, and Mrs. Calloway stays at home. Christopher is four years older than I am and is their pride and joy. But Mrs. Calloway has always wanted a daughter, and I suspect Christopher isn’t too happy about having to share his parents’ attention.

“If you try anything, I’ll make your life a living hell,” Christopher sneers quietly, just before his parents and Mrs. Trech appear behind him.

“Christopher, are you welcoming Guinevere to our home? We’re so sorry to hear about your mother, dear. Come, I’ll show you to your new room.” Mrs. Calloway holds her hand out for me to take as her son beams up at her like he’s the poster boy for the welcoming committee.

Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, I don’t take the offered hand but take a step closer to her to show her I’m ready to go.

I can feel Christopher’s eyes burning a hole into my back as I walk away.

Age 12

There are shadows outside my bedroom door.

Ones I’ve come to expect at least once a week.

They belong to Christopher and will remain there for a few minutes before he pushes the door open softly, so it doesn’t creak and alert his parents.

My chest tightens as I pull the blankets beneath my chin and turn toward the wall, pretending to be asleep.

Just like I always do when he comes in late at night.

There’s a scratch in the pink wallpaper. I stare at it, letting my mind wander to anywhere other than here, as I hear the soft sounds of his footsteps while he crosses the room.

“Ginny? You awake?” His voice is soft and quiet. Sometimes, I think he knows I am, but it’s easier for us both to pretend I’m not.

My mind roams to other places. Happier places. Places where my imaginary friend shows up and distracts me from Christopher’s shallow breaths and the wet sound of skin on skin as he touches himself.

Christopher’s view of me went from angry and annoyed, to angry and obsessed in the first year I lived with the Calloways. He was always picking on me, pinching my skin, or tugging my hair. And I dare not say anything because, as far as foster homes went, I had won the golden ticket. What was dealing with a bit of bullying?

But then, as we got older, his friends started to notice me. They’d make comments about my appearance, like boys their age do, and all of a sudden, Christopher’s attention turned from bullying to possessive.

A few months ago, he started coming to my room, asking if I was awake. I’ve always pretended to be asleep, and sometimes I wonder what he would do if I met him with a wide-eyed stare and said, “Yes, I’m awake. Why are you in my bedroom?”

So, I started to make up places in my mind. And since I didn’t really have any friends, I made up one of those, too. My imaginary friend is a boy because I think it’s easier to cope that way. He’s taller than me, with golden brown eyes, milk chocolate hair, and an English accent.

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