The Wicked Blessed

EVERYTHING'S GOING TO BE ALRIGHT

I just have to flow.

Hold myself together.

A feminine voice brings me out of my daze just as the squeaky tires of butter yellow bus roll against the asphalt at the end of the street. "You're Palmer, right?"

The girl stands a foot below me, thick brunette hair tucked into her hooded blazer. She looks up at me with prudent eyes like the sharp copper of a penny, thumb running over a blank phone screen. Her nails are chipped. I don't know how she knows me. I don't want her to.

"Ethan Palmer, actually," I correct.

She smiles and nods slowly, eyes taking in my attire. Clearly not satisfied. "Kaycee Morgan." But the girl tilts her head anyway, enough for me to get the message and follow her onto the bus where we sit side by side mid-row. It isn't really my choice, all the other seats seem to be taken. Despite being in the middle of stealing back my own life, I'm not a thief.

"How...do you know me?"

Only Kaycee is on her phone, typing away to a contact I can't make out. She hits send, turns to me, looking me over once more before offering me a stick of gum. "My friend works on the yearbook team. Our vice principal might have slipped that we were getting a new student and she wanted me to make sure I gave you a good welcome."

"Consider me welcomed," I mumble.

Kaycee smiles and for the first time, it seems genuine. "Not quite yet. It's this whole," she stammers, "huzzah thing, you know?"

I don't.

For the rest of the ride, we talk about SoCal, why I left it behind. She asks me why I prefer Ethan over the name stamped on my birth certificate and I just say, "Because I do."

I am only glad I was able to put in a word to change it beforehand before it caused real damage. My real name is an aftertaste people get after drinking me in; it puckers their lips, eyes widening with shock. Eldritch Ethan Palmer got good grades and had a plan; I'm not him anymore.

Everyone knows Eldritch, what he was like. No one knows Ethan. I don't think anyone really cares.

So, instead, I make myself a work in progress. I lie about my college admissions because the truth isn't for everyone's ears. She tells me she's only riding the bus because her yearbook friend called in sick last minute, so no carpool.

She's easy to talk to in a way that nothing we say really matters much. Kaycee, I realize, is quiet in an awkward kind of way but diligent. When she says she likes my outfit, I believe her. And when she stops talking, so do I.

I follow her off the bus as we pull in and she walks me to the front office, pointing out names and faces to teachers or students she thinks will be useful. I forget almost all of them right away.

It's cooler inside though shocking to see a school not laid bare for all the world to see. West Coast schools are hardly ever indoors. I have to remind myself to keep my face passive as I take in the maroon lockers and follow Kaycee to the small office lined with potted plants and bulletin boards for upcoming events I will likely never attend.

She goes to grab us fruit water from the vending machine while I talk to the older lady at the front desk about a schedule. Most of the classes worth college credits I've already taken which leaves me with mostly electives and a study period I already know will be wasted. I don't know much about Culinary Arts but, as of today, I am officially enrolled in it.

My plan is simple: don't get close to anyone. Don't let anyone in. Be boring. Run. Survive.

The survival part isn't really part of the objective but I have to tack it on at the end for the sake of my parents. I'm following the whole fantasy they had planned for me. The one that ends with me actually living long enough to thank them for it.