Page 10 of The Blood Moon Hunt

I glance down at my lunch tray. The sandwich sits untouched, and I quietly fold the wrapper back over it. I’m not hungry. The lump in my throat makes it hard to swallow anyway. Around me, groups of girls are laughing, their perfect ponytails bouncing as they lean in to share secrets. They make it look so easy, like the whole world is theirs for the taking.

“Hey, Selene,” a sugary voice cuts through my focus, and my stomach drops. I don’t even need to look up to know who it is.

Jessica.

She’s standing there with her little posse, the queens of the school in their designer jeans and crop tops. Her perfect, icy smile makes me feel instantly small.

“What are you reading today?” she asks, her voice dripping with faux sweetness. “Another one of your nerdy fantasy books? Let me guess—princesses and castles and all that?”

I try to ignore her, keeping my eyes on the page, but my hands tremble slightly. She’s not going to stop. She never does.

“Oh, come on,” she coos, leaning over my table. “Don’t be shy, Selene. We’re just curious. What’s the book about? Does the ugly girl get the prince in the end?”

Laughter bubbles up from her friends, sharp and cruel. My face burns, and I clench my fists under the table.

“Leave me alone, Jessica,” I say quietly, barely audible over the noise of the cafeteria.

“What’s that?” she says, cupping her hand to her ear in mock confusion. “I couldn’t hear you. Speak up, Selene.”

One of her friends, Lisa, smirks and adds, “Maybe she can’t hear you over the sound of her stomach growling.”

Jessica gasps dramatically, feigning shock. “Oh, Lisa, don’t be mean! I’m sure Selene has plenty of snacks hidden in that bag of hers. Right, Selene? Gotta keep those curves, huh?”

The laughter gets louder, and my hands tighten around the edges of my book. My cheeks burn, and my throat feels like it’s closing up.

Lisa reaches for my tray and picks up the carton of chocolate milk. “Oops!” she says, feigning clumsiness as the carton tips over. Milk spills across the table, soaking the edges of my book.

“No!” I gasp, grabbing the book and shaking off the liquid. The pages are already ruined, the ink smearing in ugly streaks. My chest tightens, and tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to cry. Not here. Not in front of them.

Jessica laughs, flipping her perfect hair over her shoulder. “Sorry about that. Maybe you should stick to coloring books, huh? Easier to replace.”

“Or just give up reading altogether,” Lisa chimes in. “Not like you’re gonna be anything special anyway.”

Their laughter fades as they walk away, leaving me sitting there with my ruined book and my pounding heart. My throat tightens as I press the book to my chest, willing the tears not to fall. My hands shake as I cradle the book, the one place where I could pretend I wasn’t… this.

Not fat. Not awkward. Not invisible. Just me.

The walk home is long,and the rain only makes it worse. My shoes squelch with every step, and my damp hoodie clings to my skin. My backpack, soaked through, feels like it’s dragging me down. Each drop of rain stings, as if the world itself is punishing me. By the time I reach the front door, my hands are trembling from the cold, and my fingers are too numb to work the key properly.

I finally push the door open, and the warmth of the house envelops me. But it doesn’t feel comforting. It feels oppressive.

“Selene!” my father’s sharp voice cuts through the air before I can even set my backpack down. “How many times have I told you not to leave your shoes in the hallway?”

I look down and see the trail of water my shoes have left behind on the polished wood floor. My heart sinks. “Sorry,” I mumble, bending to pick them up.

“Sorry doesn’t fix the mess,” he snaps, his tone heavy with disappointment. He steps closer, his gaze narrowing as if the wet footprints are a personal insult. “You need to pay attention to the little things, Selene. You’re too careless. Honestly, no wonder you?—”

He cuts himself off, but the weight of what he almost said hangs in the air.

No wonder I what? Fail? Fall short? Disappoint him? The rest of the sentence doesn’t matter. I already know what he’s thinking. I’ve heard it in his voice before, seen it in the way his eyes skim over me without really seeing me. I’m not Matthew. I’m not the golden child who can do no wrong.

My father turns away with a sigh, muttering under his breath about how I’m always making things harder. I can feel the lump in my throat growing, but I bite it back. I won’t cry. Not in front of him.

Shoes in hand, I head toward the back porch, ignoring the ache in my chest. The porch has always been my escape, my one place to breathe when the walls of this house feel like they’re closing in. But when I open the door, I stop short. Matthew is already there.

He’s lounging on the porch swing, scrolling through his phone with a self-assured smirk that he probably doesn’t even realize he’s wearing. He doesn’t look up at first, but when he does, his expression shifts into something I’ve come to dread—teasing, smug, superior.

“Hey, look who finally showed up,” he says, his tone light but laced with condescension. “What happened? Get caught in a storm? Or did you just decide to take a shower with your clothes on?”

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