You, Me and Nobody

Ch.1-The Root of All Evil

"That's just a fancy way to say 'future hijacker of my car'."

"Sam."

"What?"

"You've become cynical in your old age. Anyway, one of these so-called future hijackers is coming over for dinner tonight, so you better behave."

Flirtation entered her voice, so I shut the door and leaned against it, staring blankly at my room. The window was open, letting in a warm summer breeze. There was my bed, a dresser, and my sacred bean bag chair, all of which stood in a current state of drowning beneath hordes of paperbacks and hard covers. Okay, so, yeah. Maybe I read a lot. But I liked books.

Books didn't talk.

Mom told me about this buddy program the minute I gave up on public education. I was supposed to attend Heart High School for my senior year, really finish with a bang and show the world what Ruby Harding was made of, but apparently Ruby Harding was made of a bunch of chicken shit, because I didn't do it. I flaked. Mom didn't even homeschool me, claiming I was smart enough to go without. But, to be honest, I think I really disappointed her. And I was pretty sure she just gave up.

Dad didn't say much about it, but he was always a softie when it came to his daughters, and he held us on some pedestal of righteous perfection. Given my mom's sordid past, she wasn't known to take a whole lot of bullshit. Especially not from her family. When Holly showed signs of breaking bad, she cracked that whip and my older sister never lost sight of the proverbial finish line again.

But with me . . .

Everything was different.

And I hated it, because I knew why everything was different, and that made it worse.

I was in the midst of picking up books, about to embark on the adventurous task of alphabetization, when the doorbell rang. A stone settled in my gut. As much as I loved Emma, Rhys, and their angel of a daughter Sara, their son was something else entirely.

Take a category five hurricane and put it smack dab in the middle of an EF5 tornado, and that was close to the mayhem Skyler Richardson proved himself capable of.

"Ruby!" Dad called. "The Richardsons are here!"

I shelved the Agatha Christie mystery in my hands, prayed for strength, and ventured down the stairs. As my bare foot hit the last step, it occurred to me I probably could have put on something nicer than jeans and my sister's old Guns N' Roses shirt from her classic rock phase. And maybe I could have run a brush through my mane of brown curls, completely alien to my family's straight locks. But it was too late, and if I went back upstairs, I ran the risk of not coming down again.

Deep breaths.

You can do this.

It was just dinner. Dinner with people I knew, no less, who were-minus one of them-really nice. Simple. Straight-forward.

"There she is!"

Mom locked her arm around my shoulders, flashing a smile like she hadn't just broken down over the questionable mental state of her youngest daughter. Pot roast, mashed potatoes, and peas occupied the table, along with peach cobbler for dessert on the counter. Mr. and Mrs. Richardson grabbed a seat across from my parents. Sara, apparently, was at a sleepover, leaving no buffer between me and . . .

"Skyler!" Dad shook the boy's hand, a smile cracking his face. "You look more like your father every day."

Mrs. Richardson rolled her eyes. "That's what I always say. He acts like it, too," she muttered, accenting her words with a sharp cuff upside her son's head. He flinched, rubbing the assaulted area.