Page 3 of Blood Queen
I like our life too; I just want a couple friends. I watch a tall boy stand on the rail of the bridge. He flexes his muscles at a blonde girl in a pretty sundress before jumping. The blonde girl rushes to the edge of the bridge and looks down.
I wait for the sound of the splash. It’s at least a six-meter fall given the length of time it takes him to hit the water. The blonde giggles and whispers to her friends. It’s not hard to notice the glaring differences between the blonde and myself. She looks soft and delicate.
I’m all sinewy muscle and dark hair.
I want to jump. I want to feel the cool water engulf me, but I won’t. Strangely none of the girls are jumping anyway, which seems weird. Why do only boys get to do it?
“Morning, Hun, nice to see you,” the checkout clerk says when I pass her with my cart. I smile and return her greeting. Papa says she’s all talk. He’s said that for the last five years. She looks nice enough. She has a big smile and warm eyes and is probably in her forties. Talking is likely all she has for entertainment in this town anyway. I pick up the items written on Papa’s list and check out.
“How’s your old man?” she asks.
“Just fine, thanks.” I pay her with the cash Papa gave me.
“Tell him Rosie says hello, would ya?” she says. I nod, smile and grab my bags.
Sweat beads on my chest and forehead as I walk my bags to the truck. One of the boys on the bridge meows in my generaldirection. I ignore him. I don’t even know what a meow is supposed to elicit from me as far as a response goes.
Do girls my age like that? Does it mean something good or bad? Honestly, I don’t get it. I don’t interact with townies. I don’t interact with anyone, generally.
At the feed store, I grab some food for the chickens and goats. My tank top is stuck to my back—slick with sweat from the heat. I pull at it, but it doesn’t make me feel any better, or cooler.
Most of the crowd at the bridge has moved on by the time I exit the feed store. Only a couple of kids remain. The idea of plunging into that cold water is impossible to ignore. I drop my purchases into the bed of the truck and walk over to the bridge.
A boy—about my age if I had to guess—jumps. I peer over the edge and watch him plummet. Moments later, his head breaks the surface of the water, a giant grin on his face. I toe off my sneakers absentmindedly before stepping up onto the ledge. I hear a couple of snickers behind me, but I can’t ignore the call of that cool water, and what Papa doesn’t know won’t kill him.
Without much thought, I leap. An unexpected shrill wail leaves my mouth as I drop. My stomach rushes up into my throat. I clamp my legs together and cross my arms over my chest and then I’m there.
Submerged in cool, clear water.
My elbow knicks something after impact and I flinch as I sink a little more before kicking my way up to the surface. My head breaks through and I gulp air.
That was by far the most exhilarating moment of my life. In that free fallnothingmattered. My head was clear. The sun didn’t scorch. I wasn’t under the watchful eye of Papa. I was free.
I can’t make out what the kids on the bridge are hollering at me, but it doesn’t matter. I swim to the riverbank and crawl up onto the grassy shore.
“You’re bleeding.” The voice startles me. The golden skinned boy from earlier is watching my arm with concern plastered all over his face. I look at my elbow.
Blood, a tiny rivulet of crimson rolls down my forearm.
I shrug. “Yup,” I say.
The boy’s eyes roam over me, taking in my wet clothes from my breasts to my ankles. I tug at my tank top to loosen it as much as possible, then walk past him to the trail that leads back up to the bridge.
“You’re that crazy guys’ kid.”
I roll my eyes and keep walking. He catches up. I frown and walk faster up the steep incline.
“Sorry, I guess that was rude,” he says.
“Yup.”Do not engage, Kid. Papa’s rules.
“Is that the only word you know?” he pushes.
I stop short and turn to face him. He’s much closer than I thought. “Papa isn’t crazy, and neither am I. He’s just…” I flounder to find a fitting description. “Private.” I start walking again.
“And you? Are you private?” the golden-skinned boy asks. He’s attractive in a hard-not-to-miss kind of way. He has a dimple and I wonder if it’s from smiling so much. He never seems to stop. His eyes are hard to look away from, a sharp green that reminds me of summer grass.
“I’m home-schooled, not private.” I don’t even know where that came from, but I shouldn’t be talking about my life with a stranger.
