Page 60 of The Blood we Crave

He isn’t lying. Jacob Nettle will inherit Nettle Auto once he graduates and become another cog in the Ponderosa Springs machine. I unfortunately need this class for future endeavors; even if my mother’s life insurance left a questionable amount of money behind, I still want a career.

That alone should be enough reason for me to be focusing on this class, but it isn’t. Not this morning—this morning, I couldn’t be bothered with anything other than him.

“Settle down, class. Settle down,” he instructs with a mild sternness that makes students listen. “Does anyone else have an answer? What is the most important question in organic chemistry?”

Thatcher is all over my thoughts, running around the spaces of my mind, doing laps. He exists in every free space inside of me. All my brain can seem to think about is when our next lesson is, even if he’d been tiptoeing around the things I actually needed to learn.

Every time he messaged, I kept secretly hoping our meeting would be at his house. But he never failed to direct our lessons somewhere else, still not trusting me with the space that might make him even the slightest bit vulnerable.

My hands had been thankful for the lack of physical activity because of the blisters I’d acquired after handling a shovel for hours, but that had been a while ago.

The calluses and cracked palms had healed. I’m ready to get my hands dirty again—this time, less actual dirt. I’m tired of studying the endless books he’d laid out in front of me in our local library: anatomy of the human body, a textbook on serial murderers and their victims, even a mortician guide.

Then he’d give me a bullshit quiz. If I wanted tostudymurder, I would have majored in criminology. This was not what I had meant when I’d asked him for this, and he knows that. He knows that his constant teasing is only further irritating me, but if there’s one thing I know more than anything, it’s Thatcher’s way or no way.He takes his time; he is patient. A diamond forming under slow pressure, something others would wait lifetimes for.

Even though I know he is stalling. I know he is. And every single time I try to call him out on it, he gives me the same passive answer.

“Students study, Lyra.”

The only thing that seems to get me through the boring, quiet moments in that stuffy library is Thatcher in a pair of glasses. Thin, steel-gray frames that only intensify his harsh gaze,they seem to amplify the stark blue of his eyes, so crystal clear and striking. It feels impossible not to wither in front of his gaze.

Yet I’d seen no one or anything more attractive.

I spend more time analyzing him in the chair across from me than truly reading, openly gawking at his every movement, following the way his slender, steady fingers flip through his own book. Firm, yet so gentle with the old pages.

Even though he mostly overlooks me, I still enjoy being around him. I’d rather be ignored by him than noticed by anyone else.

“Anyone?” Godfrey probes again, retiring me from my daydream of Thatcher.

I look around the room, seeing no one else intent on giving an answer, so I decide to put us all out of our misery. I raise my hand, only to speed up the time we’re trapped in our chairs.

Conner’s eyes drift to my hand before slipping to my face, and a gentle smile warms his features as he lifts his finger, pointing to me in order to give me the floor to speak.

I open my mouth, but my voice isn’t what spreads across the room. Instead, Mary Turgid’s confident answer slips right out of her mouth.

“The most important question is, where are the electrons? Understanding electronegativities helps decide which portions of a molecule have relatively high electron density. And electronegativities of the atoms we will normally see in organic chemistry.”

It’s these grim moments when I think I might be worse than Thatcher. Murder is immoral. I know that, but even he has a code of conduct he follows: not to harm the innocent or helpless. I don’t believe I have that.

I shouldn’t want to harm girls my age, but I don’t think it would matter who it was. If the alarm is triggered inside of me, my hunger wouldn’t care who it dug its teeth in. All I can imagine is me grabbing a handful of that platinum-blonde hair and slamming her face into the desk until she is unrecognizable, face just as distorted and ugly as she is on the inside.

Not because she interrupted me—of course not that. If it was because of something so trivial, I would’ve snapped a long time ago. No, it’s her small penance for what she did to my friend. This feeling of rusted nails stabbing my spine, of burnt rubber and old pennies that tastes bitter on my tongue. It’s for revenge.

To wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze, count the clock until I hear the resounding snap of her neck. Listen to her scream, watch her struggle as she pays for betraying someone like Sage. For turning her back on her when she was supposed to be her closest friend. I want to make it hurt, avenge the pain she’d caused Sage.

Snap.

I glance down at the cracked pen in my hand, split down the middle and cracked from the strength of my squeezing. A chill runs down my spine, fear licking my heels, fear of myself. When will I stop being afraid of this? Of what I am and what I feel?

“Correct, Miss Turgid,” Conner says with a toothless smile, giving her a curt nod. “That’s all for today. I’ll see you all Monday, and please make sure you have the reading done before class.”

When I stand, Mary is turned around to look up at me.

“Sorry about that. I didn’t even realize you were in this class,” she says with a bright smile that is anything but sweet. “It’s like you don’t even exist.”

Giggles ripple across the two girls that are sitting next to her, and I simply shrug. There is nothing they can tell me I haven’t already heard before. I’m one of the many ghosts of Ponderosa Springs. A lore, a scary story that haunts the halls and lives in attics. I know that. I accepted it a long time ago.

The girl with the morbid childhood who decided blending in was easier than standing out. I’m much better at being a ghost than a human.

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