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Chapter 13

Ihad worn a light blue skirt and a white blouse to my thirteenth birthday dinner. I was always told that blue, particularly a light blue, could heighten the golden flecks in my eyes. Of course, I scoffed at such a cliché, but it still felt nice to believe, even for a moment, that I was beautiful.

The restaurant was a drive away from the resort, in a small town that spliced through the previous display of forests. It was an odd combination - tall, thick pines surrounding an assortment of glass buildings and enormous skyscrapers. It appeared as if someone had plopped a random city in the middle of the woods.

The manager greeted us by name when we entered the exclusive dining room. A three-tiered chandelier hung low in the doorway, its bright light probably supposed to be welcoming. If anything, the intermittent flicker of the bulb made me think I was walking towards my doom.

Dinner started off par for the course (read as: awkward small-talk between my parents as they both ignored me). I sipped from my water and stirred the soup idly with my spoon. I hated this restaurant. The food, despite the price, was bland, and the atmosphere was too pretentious for my tastes. My opinions, of course, didn’t matter to my parents, and the fact it was my birthday wouldn’t change that.

You might think it was odd that my parents, emotionally negligent and physically abusive, would remember something as mundane as my birthday. Well, it was also my mother’s birthday, which was the entire reason four our celebration. They had never remembered that it was my day of birth as well.

I always wondered if that was why mom hated me - because she had to share her special day with me. She had once told me I was the worst birthday present she had ever received, as though it were my fault she couldn’t hold me in until the next day. Sometimes I wished she had been pregnant-constipated and incapable of delivering me. A twisted part of me wished I had died in her womb.

The waiter arrived with our food. A steak for D.O.D., a lobster for mommy dearest, and a salad for me. Daddy told me I needed to maintain my figure to be beautiful. At that age, I had just begun developing curves. My body was no longer lithe and lightly muscled, but in the beginning stages of womanhood.

He noticed.

And he made sure to make me feel inadequate whenever the opportunity arose.

Taking another sip of water, though it did very little to subdue the bitter taste of the ranch lathered lettuce, I turned towards the front door.

I couldn’t recall what drew my eyes there. Was it something inside me, like an innate knowledge of what was to come? Or was it a plea for someone to save me?

Ducky stood in the doorway, a sliver of moonlight illuminating him like a giant spotlight.

He wore his long, dark hair braided away from his face, showcasing his high cheekbones. I noticed that he dressed in a black suit, though it looked as if it belonged to a kid twice his size.

No. No.

What was he doing here?

I felt myself begin to panic. A thousand solutions floated through my mind: pretend that I wasn’t here, ask to go to the bathroom and warn him away, hope that it was just a coincidence.

Before I could collect myself, Ducky walked toward our table, a bright smile alighting his face.

“Hello. You guys must be Adelaide’s parents. I’m Ducky.” He extended his hand, eyes warm.

My dad and mom exchanged confused glances. At least, at the moment, they didn’t appear suspicious. They had always been slow. As one, I could see understanding flicker across their faces followed by surprise. I wasn’t supposed to know how to human, and this boy, this Ducky, broke that rule.

Protect.

I had to protect him.

Scrambling to come up with a reasonable explanation, I watched my dad survey Ducky with more contempt than courtesy. The too long pants, the unruly hair escaping his braid, the birthmark on his pale throat.

“Addie,” my father said with a deadly calm. “You never told me that you met a friend.”

I blurted the first thing I could think of. “He’s not my friend.”

Dad lifted a manicured eyebrow, and Ducky blanched as if I had slapped him.

“He seems to think you are friends,” Daddy said evenly. He cut into his steak, eyes never leaving mine. Yes, because it’s completely normal to play with knives while glaring at your daughter.

“Oh please,” I said with an eye roll. “As if I would ever be friends with someone like him. Have you seen his clothes? Pathetic. And that hair? Maybe he’s trying to be mistaken as a girl.”

I knew I hit his sore spot when Ducky’s face paled, and his lower lip trembled.

Ducky, I’m sorry. Please forgive me.