An unfortunate accident has sent Grace Reeves spiraling out of control. Having lost her voice, as well as her closest friends. , she returns home to recuperate. But as time passes, Grace's family grows concerned with the severity of her depression...
The gothic spires and flying buttresses of Pemberton Academy loom overhead, like a bat spreading its wings. Turrets pierce the low-hanging clouds, as if the weather itself has deemed the school impenetrable. A gust of wind sends bright leaves skating across my worn sneakers. I adjust my backpack, weaving through the uniformed students that exit the building.
I scan the heads, searching for one that will stand a full foot below the rest. It's easy to lose her in a crowd, which has always made me nervous. Luckily, I tower over the children our age. It puts me at an advantage for spotting her.
She's one of the last to exit the arched hallway. I wait at the edge of the sidewalk, content to watch as she stomps toward the street. She wears the same maroon blazer and pleated skirt, but she couldn't be more different from her peers. Combat boots are laced up to her knees, and fishnet stockings reveal the surreal paleness of her legs. Her dark hair is split into two braids, the ends tied with black lace. Guitar picks dangle from her ears like jewelry—if you squint, you can see Jimi Hendrix's scribbled autograph on one of them. Everyone thinks they're fake, but they aren't.
Deze afbeelding leeft onze inhoudsrichtlijnen niet na. Verwijder de afbeelding of upload een andere om verder te gaan met publiceren.
I follow her, keeping a few yards behind.
When we get further from school, and the sidewalk empties, Grace slips a pair of earbuds under her hair. She's engrossed in her phone, choosing a song to walk to. Her obliviousness to the world around her is both a source of amazement and perturbance. I've told her to be more conscientious of possible threats. She's small, and her lack of social awareness would make her a target to predators.
Take me, for example. I've been stalking her for a mile, and she hasn't even noticed. Frustrated, I lengthen my stride, catching up to her in a few steps. When I'm by her side, her gaze flits to my sneakers. She rips out her earbuds with a hiss.
"I told you to stop doing that!"
I seize the gap between us, flicking the tip of her button nose. "I told you to be more aware of your surroundings."
She rolls her eyes, releasing a huff as she stalks away.
For a moment, I'm transported to the very first time I met Grace. It was the summer I turned six, and Pops had forgotten to get me from football camp. Luckily, I'd made many friends—one of them being Aidan Reeves. His mother refused to let me walk home, so I climbed into their family's SUV. Grace was buckled into a booster seat in the middle, and paid me no mind. She smelled like Reese's Peanut Butter Cups—my favorite candy. She swung her feet, singing along to the radio. As young as we were, I'd never heard a voice like that. Later, when Mallory took us to an ice cream parlor and Grace ordered coffee flavor, I was astonished. I remember the very first words she ever spoke to me.
She glanced across the table in my direction, adjusting the floral crown on her head. Her eyes were like chocolate with flecks of gold, but her expression was disdainful. She was unimpressed, and for some reason, I wanted to be impressive. She opened her mouth, her tone flat. "Are you the quarterback?"
