Page 10 of Freckles

So, so messy.

My fingers itch, wanting to put her into order. Smoothing, straightening, washing away the dregs of makeup, and using cool water to ease the frenetic colour.

“Sit.” My voice is hoarse, half an octave lower than usual. “I’ll ask you questions, and if you ever want to get out of here, you’ll answer.”

She obeys, perching on the edge of the slatted bench. Her fingers pick at the top button of her thin blouse, the cheap fabric inadequate for the cold weather, even with the school cardigan on top.

Drops of crimson stain the neckline, the pattern roughly an inch long. The collar is askew, the tail pulled out of her kilt on one side, tucked on the other.

When I move a step closer, looming over her, she wrings her hands, twitching as a door bangs shut on the opposite side of the gym. Nervous energy pulses from her and she looks ready to bolt.

“Take a deep breath and calm down. I’m not planning to hurt you.”

In a quivering voice she asks, “What will you do to me?”

“Depends on what you did to piss off Alice and her mob.”

“It’s just shitty girl stuff.”

She pouts and usually I’d hate it, but on her the petulant thrust of her lower lip looks good.

With slow building pleasure, I scan her again, not finding any part of her distasteful. The same gene responsible for her fiery hair paints her pale skin with freckles. Hundreds of them coat her thin arms and what I can see of her legs.

They have less coverage on her face, most crowding across the bridge of her nose and cheekbones, a few shades lighter than her eyebrows and long lashes. In striking contrast to the deep pink of her plump lips.

And it’s those lips and her wide mouth that draws my focus. They offer a tempting range of possibilities, even as her green eyes turn stormy with fear and resentment.

“You’re in my physics class, right?”

From what I’ve seen, she’s a typical brainiac, hand always thrust in the air, eager to share the right answer and gain the teacher’s approval.

Her shoulders relax as she processes the question. “Yes.”

“And you moved here this year?”

She nods more easily this time. “Westlake has a study pathway into the undergraduate astrophysics program at Rathbone. That’s where I want to do my degree.”

Another dose of curiosity tugs at my gut. It’s…pleasing.I can’t remember the last time anyone surprised me. “You want to be an astronaut?”

“No.” She frowns, then gives a small, secret smile. “But I want to build rockets and keep those who do volunteer for that role alive.”

“That sounds pretty cool.”

Her face lights up and she leans towards me. “It really is. There are so many things that can go wrong with the mechanics of launch and then, even if everything goes smoothly, they’re living in the most hostile environment you can imagine. Not only the obvious, like springing a pressure leak or becoming untethered but stuff like how your bones and organs change when you’re weightless and how to diminish those effects with intelligent design or figure out the best programs to restore the astronauts to full health when they return.”

As she talks, her hands are expressive, making wild gestures. One knocks against the edge of the locker, and she abruptly stops.

A blush spreads across her cheeks like she’s ashamed to gush over her passion and I wonder how often she’s been scolded into silence.

“It’s competitive,” she adds, angling her chin like I’d suggested otherwise. “Attending Westlake gives me my best shot.”

“Sure. And you’re eighteen, right? You’re not one of those masterminds who skipped years at school.”

Her frown returns, but she nods. “Yeah, I’m eighteen.”

I watch her scan me slowly but don’t need her to know why I’m checking.

“Me, too.”

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