Velvet Read Free

up. “Should I sign in, or anything?”
    She reached a trembling hand out to push a clipboard two inches in my direction and murmured, “Sign here.”
    I scrawled Caitlin Holte on the sign-in sheet and then waited.
    Mrs. Goode, as her plastic, clip-on name tag stated, seemed to have fallen asleep.
    “Mrs. Goode? Ma’am?”
    She jolted awake, blinked a few times as if remembering where she was, then handed me a schedule and a hand-drawn map of the campus.
    “Mr. Warren is in room three; he’ll be your first period teacher.” She smiled up at me from behind her enormous glasses. “Welcome to Warren County.”
    I glanced at the schedule. My homeroom teacher’s name was Warren, and the school was named Warren—that couldn’t be a coincidence. Maybe his grandfather was a town founder. Maybe people never left, like a horror-movie amusement park. I felt myself cringing—a year and a half in this place. A year and a half in the middle of podunk godforsaken nowhere completely against my will—and my mom’s. I mean that literally. Mom’s will stated that I should go live with my grandma, two blocks down from where I’d grown up. Then the state, in all their wisdom, declared Grandma wasn’t a fit guardian. As if losing my mom wasn’t bad enough, finding out two days after her funeral that I’d have to move in with an aunt, uncle, and cousin I’d never met before was so far beyond devastating that I pretty much existed in a state of perpetual rage. I wasn’t upset, I wasn’t sad —I was pissed.
    And nervous. I hadn’t had that first-day-at-a-new-school experience since kindergarten. It’s not that I was worried about making friends; I just didn’t want to be noticed or bothered, and in a town this small, anyone that hadn’t lived here for three generations would be a source of gossip for weeks. I briefly considered skipping class to wander the town, but the little I’d seen was unimpressive and, anyway, I had zero cash.
    I wandered back outside, pulling hard on the door twice to get it to actually close before studying the map. Mr. Warren was in room 3. Room 3 was ten feet to my left. I walked over and stared at the handle, knowing I had to open the stupid door eventually. Grabbing hold of the handle and expecting it to be warped and stuck like the office entry, I shoved too hard and pretty much fell into the classroom.
    I pushed the door closed to cut out the cold draft that had swirled in after me, avoiding everyone’s eyes. A few students were sitting, others were lounging backward on their desks. Mr. Warren, an older man in a blue collared shirt, sweater vest, and khakis, was leaning back in the chair at the front of the room reading through a Dean Koontz paperback. He frowned as I waited awkwardly by the door and I wondered what on earth I could have done already to disappoint him. But then he smiled and he stood up, holding out his hand.
    “You must be Caitlin,” he said as I stepped forward to shake it, very aware that everyone was staring at me. “Welcome. Have a seat anywhere.”
    I nodded, then tried to find an empty seat. Tried, but failed. One girl just straight up stood in my way.
    “You’re Caitlin Master?” the blond girl asked, standing half a head taller than me. She was built like a tank. I don’t mean she was fat; I mean it looked like she could wrestle bears.
    “Holte, actually,” I said, trying to avoid this conversation.
    “What?”
    Something about her tone set my hackles on end. “My name,” I replied slowly, in case she couldn’t hear, “is Caitlin Holte .”
    Ah, there was the anger again, fresh and raw, making me invincible and careless. So what if this tank-girl could wrestle bears? So what if everyone was staring at me again? I’d never been in a fight before. Maybe actually punching someone in the face instead of just wishing I could punch someone in the face would make me feel a little better.
    The girl stared. Behind her, Mr. Warren watched us curiously over the