Then about a month ago, something inside me changed. The day had started out just like any other day. I’d been going through my morning routine of getting dressed for school when, out of nowhere, I felt this prickling sensation on the back of my neck. Confused, I ran over to the mirror to check for any bumps or marks on my pale skin. But there was zilch there except my normal specks of freckles.
Chalking it up to my imagination, I grabbed my backpack and headed downstairs to get some breakfast. That’s when I felt the strangest thing I had ever felt—this 14/695
overwhelming sadness building up inside me. Seconds later, I was crying, real tears and everything.
It was weird.
Up until then, at least as far back as I could remember, I’d never experienced anything like it before. From then on, my life was never the same. The prickle would show up and bam, I’d be bouncing with happiness.
Or boiling with anger. Or…well, you get the picture. And once I felt an emotion, it never left me. In the beginning, I’d really struggled to keep all of my new found feelings under control. There was this one awful incident at school where I had this sudden outburst and started bawling right in the middle of Mr.
Belford’s lecture on Plate Tectonics. People stared at me like I was a freak, which is totally understandable. I mean, only a freak would cry over shifting plates.
But anyways…
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I had done quite a few searches on the internet, trying to figure out what was happening to me, but I found nothing remotely related to what I was going through. Apparently, whatever “it” was was one hundred percent original. Which was great. Just great.
My life would be so much easier if—
My alarm shrieked, startling me so badly I actually jumped and spun around.
Man, my nightmares were making me jumpy.
I hit the off button. Time for school.
Ugh. School was so my least favorite part of the day. My past inability to experience emotions had kept me detached from everyone and everything, which resulted in my current life being a friendless one. This had been fine when I couldn’t feel, because I’d had no idea what I was missing out on. But now…well, let’s just say that for someone who has no friends going to school is like dangling a piece of bacon in front of a dog’s face—pure 16/695
and utter torture. I hated watching everyone walk around in their little cliques while I stood on the sidelines alone.
I tossed my blanket on the bed and threw on a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. I ran a brush through my long, tangled brown hair and pulled it back into a ponytail. Then I went over to the full length mirror on the back of my bedroom door and did a quick glance over. My legs were way too long, my skin far too pale, and my eyes…they were violet. Yes weird, I know. But it fit right in with everything else that had to do with me.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Marco and Sophia—my grandparents who insist I call them by their first names—were already there. Sophia stood over the oven, pans hissing, as the smell of bacon filled the air.
Marco sat at the table, the morning newspaper opened up in front of him.
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The room was small and brightly lit, making the yellow walls nearly blinding. Add that to the teal cupboards—which Sophia insisted were sky blue, but who was she trying to kid—and the room had this sort of fun-house effect going on.
I grabbed a bowl from the cupboard and took a seat at the kitchen table.
Marco peered over the newspaper at me, his black oval rimmed glasses sliding down the brim of his slightly crooked nose.
“Gemma,” he mumbled with a subtle nod.
I strained a smile.
I’ve lived with Marco and Sophia since I was one, after my parent’s passed away in a tragic car accident. That’s all I know about my parents—how they died. I’d asked Marco and Sophia about them a few weeks ago after the crazy prickle thing had traced its way down my neck. To say they’d freaked out was putting it mildly. They’d gone full on ballistic, yelling that I was never to ask about my 18/695
parents again. And when I’d shed tears and screamed back, things got even worse. Finally, I ended up storming off to my room.
Ever since then, our already strained rela-tionship worsened. We barely talked to each other, which I guess isn’t that big of a change since we’d barely talked before.
Over the last few weeks, I’d been trying to make some sense out of why they refused to speak about my parents. All I could come up with was that maybe talking about my parents was too painful for them. Either that or they didn’t like me.
And it wasn’t just my asking about my parents that had Marco and Sophia acting crazy. Every time I was near them, I could sense them cringing, and the atmosphere would weigh down like the air taken on an abrupt case of humidity. One day I’d come down to breakfast smiling, and when Sophia saw me, she dropped a cup. Marco had stormed off outside, slamming the back door 19/695
behind him. Evidently, they preferred the old hollow me. I don’t know why, though. I didn’t. They never even asked me about my sudden ability to feel either. I mean, if you had a child that had been an emotionless zombie for most of her life, then suddenly she did a complete 180 in the emotional department, wouldn’t you celebrate and talk about it instead of getting pissed off.
I know I would.
But since Marco and Sophia chose to say nothing about it, I opted to keep the prickly sensation to myself. Besides, I had a gut wrenching feeling that if I did mention it to them, I’d be buying myself a one-way a ticket to the Psych Ward.
“Do you want some bacon?” Sophia’s voice yanked me out of my thoughts.
The bacon sizzled as she tapped her foot on the tile floor. She reminded me a lot of one of those women in a 1950’s TV series; 20/695
her auburn hair pulled back into a bun, a crisp white apron tied over her floral dress.
“Sure,” I said, starting to get to my feet. I wish we could be closer. Yes, I knew I should be grateful that I had grandparents who fed me and put a roof over my head. And don’t get me wrong, I am. But it would have been nice if they’d at least talk to me more than what was required. Or maybe give me a smile once and a while. Was that too much to ask?
“But I have to go start my car first.”
“Marco already did for you,” she said curtly.
“Oh.” I turned to Marco. “Then—” The sound of the chair grinding against the tile floor cut me off. Marco rose to his feet, all tall and mighty like. He folded his newspaper and tucked it under his arm. “I’m going to um…” He trailed off and hurried out of the kitchen.
He did that a lot—mumbling to himself or walking away mid-sentence. He was a 21/695
retired salesman, but it was so hard to picture since he couldn’t carry on a conversation for more than a minute.
The spatula clanked as Sophia tossed it on the counter. “Go get a plate and come get some then.” Her nippy tone was my signal to hurry up and get out of her hair.
So I did, rushing over and piling a few pieces of bacon on a plate, along with some eggs. Then I ate my food so quickly that I nearly choked twice.
Once I finished choking my food down, I trampled through the snowy driveway, climbed in my faded blue Mitsubishi Mirage that made a loud clanking noise every time I pushed on the gas pedal, and headed off to school.
Marco and Sophia had given me the car six months ago when they’d decided that they were tired of driving me to and from the bus stop, which was about a ten mile drive each way.
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See, I lived in this very small, very spread out town called Afton and driving anywhere always took some time. The town was known for two things: its infamous elk horn arch made of real elk antlers, and its talent for accumulating snow nine months out of the year. Now, I was in no way, shape, or form a fan of either the snow or the cold, so living here was like a polar bear trying to live