The place is out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by hills that give a sense of seclusion and friendliness. Well, that's the bullshit my uncle told us when he announced we were moving here. Personally, I'm not buying it. I took a walk around town yesterday, and the looks I got from the townspeople were less than friendly. I could practically smell the judgment and snobbery lacing the crisp fall air and feel my impending outcast title waiting for me today when I enter the hallways of my new school. I do look kind of intimidating, though.
But it’s cool. I can handle it. I can and have dealt with a lot worst. In fact, I'm used to being the outcast. I've been one since I moved in with my uncle, aunt, and their daughter, Dixie May.
Dixie fucking May. Though she’s my cousin and is the same age as me, we have no other similarities. If I’m a reincarnated raven, then Dixie May is probably a hawk, which I once read are supposed to be predators to ravens and can represent danger. Honestly, from what I’ve read, ravens can usually only fend off a hawk if there’s a group of them, also known as a conspiracy. I like the name conspiracy better, probably because I mentally conspire all the time to take Dixie May down. But I’ve never had any real friends, at least long-lasting ones, so, more than likely, that’s not going to happen. Not that I just let her walk all over me. I don’t at all. But Dixie May is the most manipulative, fake, and devious person I’ve crossed paths with. She’s also very pretty and charming when she needs to be, except at home where she acts like a spoiled brat. She also has ammunition against me—knows the reason I came to live with her and her family all those years ago. And when she told everyone at our old school about it, I instantly became labeled the freak that people not only despised but feared.
“Oh my God, I’m so sick of these damn boxes,” Dixie May complains from her bedroom across the hall from mine. “I can’t find anything at all. And my favorite pair of shoes are missing. I bet the movers stole them.”
I roll my eyes. The movers were two big dudes who seemed nice enough, and in no way, shape, or form seemed like the kind of people who’d steal designer shoes. Not to mention, one single pair of shoes.
“I’ll call and make a complaint,” my aunt calls out to her.
“What’s a freakin’ complaint going to do?” Dixie May whines. “It won’t get me my shoes back. And they were my favorite pair.”
“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” my aunt tells her. “If you want, we can drive over to the city this weekend and go shopping.”
“Fine. But you better buy me a couple of extra pairs in case this happens again,” Dixie May warns.
“Of course,” my aunt says. “I’ll even buy you a few new outfits if you want.”
I’d roll my eyes again, but at this point, I’m starting to worry that they’ll get stuck in my head. For reals, though. Dixie May has so many clothes that my aunt and uncle had to add an extra closet to her room before we could move into this house.
Then there’s me. My entire wardrobe fits into a bag and mostly consists of secondhand items that I purchased with money I saved up from jobs I worked here and there. But I like my clothes. They fit my personality, and when I wear them, I like to imagine who they used to belong to and what kind of life they had while they wore them.
Right now, I’m rocking a Nirvana shirt that I’m convinced someone wore to one of the band’s concerts decades ago. I also have on a pair of cut-off shorts, knee-high tights, and clunky, scuffed boots that lace up all the way over my knees. I topped off the look with a plaid overshirt and a leather jacket that used to belong to my mother. It’s one of the few items I have left of hers. I like to occasionally breathe in the scent, pretending I can still smell her perfume.
I miss her so, so much.
As tears begin to well in my eyes, I suck them back and focus on finishing getting ready, putting on a velvet choker then adding leather bands to my wrists. I always wear them to cover up the scars marking my flesh.
Like always, my dark hair is swept to the side in a wild mess of waves, and I kept my makeup minimal, consisting of kohl eyeliner and some lip gloss—I’m not really a makeup sort of girl.
“Raven! You have one more minute to get your butt down here, and then we’re leaving you!” Aunt Beth shouts, a warning ringing in her tone. “It’s not like it’s going to matter anyway. I’m sure I’ll probably get a call from the school halfway through the day, informing me that, once again, you got yourself suspended.”
She might be right. I do have a reputation for getting suspended. Most of the time, it’s because I get into a fight, either one that someone else started it or I took the first swing after someone repeatedly called me names. I’ve had to go to anger management classes a couple times that, honestly, I’m not sure helped.
It's not like I'm angry all the time. Most of the time, I can pull off indifference pretty damn well. But there's a particular name that really gets under my skin and, annoyingly, it's one of the words scarring my flesh beneath my clothes.
As my chest pressurizes at the memories of how the scars got there, I tear my gaze off the mirror, collect my bag, and then stick my hand underneath the mattress to grab a joint from my stash.
I have quite the collection under there. Most of it comes from my uncle, who sometimes brings drugs home after he's done a bust. He's been doing it for years, stealing a bit here and there then reporting that a less amount was found during a raid. How do I know this? Because I overheard a phone conversation once between him and one of his buddies. He didn't know I was home—I wasn't supposed to be—but I'd decided to ditch after a group of guys and girls jumped me and kicked my ass. I fought back, of course—my dad taught me how to protect myself at a young age—and I even got in a few good swings. But I was completely outnumbered. In the end, I gave someone a black eye and someone else a fat lip, while my face looked like a freakin’ lumpy blueberry.
But anyway, I left school, went home, and hid up in my bedroom. My uncle had come home for lunch and, as I was sneaking around, trying to stay hidden, I noticed him empty some bags out of his pockets, stuffing them into the attic crawlspace. Then he called someone and informed them of what he had managed to bring home that day.
“I got a lot today,” he said then paused. “Yeah, I know. I want you to push it as fast as you can.”
Before my parents died, I’d been raised in a questionable neighborhood and knew enough about the drug world to understand what that meant.
When he left, I snuck up to the crawlspace and jackpot. I didn’t take it all, just enough that he wouldn’t notice. After that, it became a routine. Usually, I’d find only weed in there, but on a couple of occasions, I found some ecstasy and coke.
I’m a little worried about how things are going to work now that we’ve moved and he has a new job. I guess I’ll find out. It’s going to suck if he stops stealing drugs and stashing them in the house. Not that I’m addicted, but getting high often calms me, and I need help with that whenever I can.
“Raven! For the love of God, get down here!” Aunt Beth shouts furiously.
Sighing, I put the joint in my bag then head down the stairs to start what I’m sure is going to be a hellish first day of school.