Page 7

I needed a family, I needed a sober parent, not a hopeless fool.

This girl, with her wide stare, half smile, and relaxed shoulders—she didn't seem to care who I was.

“Oh yeah, so do I. What do you want, a damn trophy?” I felt annoyed instantly with this little girl, and I wasn't sure why.

Maybe it was because I wasn't in the mood and she was just being a nuisance. Maybe it was because her clothes were clean, she looked well fed, and she wasn't covered in bruises.

Either way, I was ready for her to vanish. I wanted to be alone. Because that was how I liked it.

“Well?” she asked, setting her small hands on her hips.

“Well, what?”

“Aren't you going introduce yourself and ask me my name?”

“Nope,” I said, pushing myself up off the ground and brushing the dirt off my pants. Tipping my head back towards the cornfield, I listened carefully.

Wind blew between my ears, crows screeched from the few scattered trees, and I could faintly hear the sound of cars from the highway in the distance. But, I couldn't hear my father anymore, and that was all that mattered.

Keeping my head down, I focused on the splinter and started walking. I could hear the dirt as it was tossed like feed for the chickens and caught a glimpse of her shadow as it moved in the same direction.

“Where you going?” she asked as the sun caught her toe, sending a laser beam of light right into my corneas.

Blinking, I lifted my head and rubbed my eyes because her obnoxiously shiny black shoes almost blinded me. “It's none of your business.”

“You don't know where you're going, do you?” Her voice held a sliver of amusement as if she had caught me with my tail between my legs.

Keeping my head forward, I spoke so my voice projected outward. “My mama used to say that the best laid plans were the ones we didn't write down.” Flaring my nostrils, I kicked myself in the ass.

Damn it, now she's going to think I want to talk to her. Why did I say that?

“Not that it's any of your business, now go away,” I quickly said, keeping my tone flat. Trying to walk faster, I hoped she would listen and leave me alone.

It didn't work, she stayed at my side, her small mouth still flapping. “My name's Betty-Sue, but everyone calls me Blue.”

“Blue? What kind of name is that?”

“Uh, it's a nickname, duh.” Arching one brow, she let that last word hang in the air on its own for a second. “You do know what a nickname is, right?”

Flicking my eyes in her direction, I groaned, not giving her an answer. Because it was a stupid question, of course I knew what a nickname was, I wasn't that dumb.

I might not be a privileged child, I might not have straight A's, or read at a level that was years above my age, but I did know stuff, I wasn't a fool.

Tucking her hands behind her back, she kicked down tall blades of wheat grass, stomping the tops into the dirt. “When I was really little I couldn't say my name, it always sounded like I was saying Blue instead of Betty-Sue, so that's what my mama started calling me.”

“When you were really little? It couldn't have been that long ago, what are you—six?”

“What?No, I'm ten, but I'll be eleven in a few months. What are you, four?” Her voice was shifting lower, thick in sarcasm.

“Ha ha, good one, and no, I'm thirteen.” Fiddling with my palm, I watched the ground as I walked.

“Thirteen? Really? You don't look thirteen.”

How would she know what a thirteen year old looks like?

And why does she even care?

“Not that it makes a difference, but I'm basically thirteen, my birthday's in February, I think that's close enough.”