Page 1 of The Love of My Next Life
PROLOGUE
“I thought our story was epic, you know, you and me? Spanning years and continents. Lives ruined, bloodshed. Epic.”
-Logan Echols,
Veronica Mars,2x19
Age 9
I fiddlewith the hem of my dress.
It’s blue with little white polka dots and a thin lace trim.
I hate this dress. It makes me feel like a little kid. I also hate the black Mary Janes on my feet.
I glance at my reflection in the side mirror, then quickly look away. My braid is loose and messy. There are little pieces of hair already falling out and hanging down by my cheeks. I hate this braid, too. Daddy tried, though, so I keep quiet and watch out the window as the pretty trees and fancy houses breeze by.
Daddy pulls into the parking lot and turns off the engine. Without the radio playing, my heartbeat is too loud in my head. Everything is too loud. He turns from the driver’s seat to look at me in the back.
“Ready, Pumpkin?”
I nod. I’m not ready. Not at all. But I smile anyway.
“You look very nice,” he says, and I push out thethank youhe’s hoping for. He smiles back. “Okay, Pumpkin. Out we go.”
Daddy holds my hand as we walk up the sidewalk, and he pulls open one of the large doors for me. I know where I’m going. We were here last week to sign me up and stuff. Just inside the large double doors is another smaller door, and through that door is the office. I keep my eyes on my ugly Mary Janes the whole way.
“Mr. Washington,” a raspy voice greets. “Good morning.”
When I finally look up from my feet, I see the smiling face of Principal Townes. She’s tall, plump, and very pretty. She’s also very nice. She gave me a chapter book to read last week while she and Daddy talked.
“Hello, Lennon,” she says to me with a smile. “Welcome back.”
“Good morning, Juanita,” Daddy says, and he puts his hand on my shoulder and gives me a little squeeze.
“Hi,” I say with a quick upturn of my lips, then look back at my shoes.
While Daddy and Principal Townes talk, I stare out the window at the parking lot. Their voices drag and muffle, until I can barely hear them at all. Just the whirring of something mechanical and the clacking of the reception lady typing at her computer. Between the clacks and whirs, some words filter through.
Newandshyandquiet.
Fit inandtimeandchanges.
I’m sorry.
I drag the toe of one of my Mary Janes across the linoleum and watch as the rubber leaves a filmy, gray streak. Then I use the heel of my other Mary Jane to try and scratch the streak away. It doesn’t work, though. I just end up making more streaks.
Streaks like the shadows the blinds made in the study.
Streaks like the rain on the car window as it fell from the dark clouds.
Streaks like the mascara tear tracks as they marred pale, cold cheeks.
My memories are full of streaks, but they’re sharp and constant. Unlike the streaks my Mary Janes make on the linoleum. I resist the urge to bend down and scrub them off the floor.
Principal Townes stands from her desk and the movement pulls my attention back to the now.
“Are you ready, Lennon?” she asks softly, and I nod.
