Page 101 of The Wrong Heart

I prefer the shade. The shadows.

They let me hide.

I tried to hide from my teachers and classmates when my first year of high school began—holing up in the bathroom stalls, even skipping classes. But when the principal contacted my foster mother, it only brought more attention to me. To my flaws and deficiencies. My shortfalls.

“All you need to do is take your shirt off, Parker,” Gwen sneers. “What do you say?”

I feel my cheeks heat up, my stomach swirling with anxiety. “No thanks.”

Gwen yanks the book from my hands, then drops to her knees in front of me, a toothy grin blossoming when my eyes meet hers. “How come? Gargoyles deserve to have fun, too.”

“Just leave me alone,” I bite out, pulling myself to shaky legs, then leaning down to collect my school supplies. I’m startled when I feel a tug on the back of my t-shirt, causing my reflexes to spike and my agitation to spiral. Whipping around, I shove her arm away. “Don’t touch me, Gwen. Please, go away.”

“Just becauseyoudon’t want to have fun, doesn’t meanIcan’t have fun.”

Gwen sprints toward me again, reaching for my shirt. She wants to humiliate me. She wants access to my scars so she can carve her own cruelty into them and leave her mark on me. “No! Stop.” I dodge her, but she keeps coiling around me, slithering like a snake, all hiss and venom. Her hands grip the front of my shirt, tugging it upward until my burn scars reach her eyes.

She snorts at the evidence. “I feel sorry for you. You’re never going to get a girlfriend looking like this.”

The barb cuts deep, adding to my collection. I’ve been noticing girls in school lately, even though they don’t notice me back. Part of me is angry at all of them because they remind me of my mother. And Gwen. Sometimes I hear my mother’s laughter when feminine giggles claim my ears during lunch period, or sometimes I’ll see Gwen’s icy blue eyes when a girl rakes her stare over me in gym class.

But my body doesn’t seem to agree. It doesn’t seem to hate them like the rest of me does. My body is curious about girls, which only adds to my confusion and insecurity.

As Gwen continues to try and lift my shirt higher, a familiar voice breaks through my heightening shame.

“Hey! Witch Face,” calls the voice. “You better go fly off on your broomstick before I shove it up your bony butt.”

Bree storms over to the willow tree, dropping her own backpack to the grass and rolling up the sleeves to her blouse.

Gwen steps away from me, cowering slightly. “Oh, look, Parker’s bodyguard to the rescue.”

“Hardly,” Bree snips. “Parker can easily knock your lights out. I just like to intervene before it gets to that point.”

“Are you trying to be my bodyguard now, too?” Gwen goads.

“No. I want the honor of doing it myself.”

Bree holds up her fist as she wiggles her eyebrows with menace.

Gwen looks between us, deciding if she wants to keep tormenting me or busy herself with other forms of enjoyment. Sighing, she spears me with a cool glare before folding her arms and stomping off to the other side of the yard. “Whatever.”

I let out a mouthful of air and smooth my t-shirt back down, waiting for my heartbeat to slow as Gwen skips out of sight.

“She’s vile,” Bree says, her chestnut curls bouncing as she shuffles over to me. “Do you think she’s actually a witch?”

My sense of humor has faded over the years, so I just shrug at the jest, while Bree stops beside the tree and props her shoulder against it. She’s eighteen now, finishing her last week of high school, and she’s still the only person in this house who treats me like a human being instead of a monster.

A gargoyle.

I’m not sure what I’ll do when she moves out and starts a new life.

“You know that’s all bullshit, right?”

I lift my eyes to my foster sister, noting the warmth shimmering in her amber irises. “What?”

“The stuff she says about you. About your scars.”

“She’s not wrong.” I scuff my sneaker against the freshly mowed grass, kicking at the loose blades. “They’re hideous.”

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