partner on this project?”
Her anger slips away as she gives me a slow assessment. A look down and a look up. “Of all the things that could or ever would bother me, that’s not one of them.”
There are hundreds of voices in my head. All of them always talking at the same time, but for a brief few seconds the voices stop. Silenced because whenever I tell someone this truth, they’re uncomfortable. It’s not a secret, I’ve never kept it a secret as the dyslexia is a part of me. Like the way I was born with my eye color. Some people don’t know how to handle something different. But this girl doesn’t even blink.
Wonder what she’d say if I told her I jumped off of cliffs for a high? Internally, I chuckle. She’d probably help by pushing me off the edge. “Ghosts? That’s a research paper?”
“Yes.”
“I have to get a good grade in this class to help my GPA or I can’t swim. Researching ghost stories sounds like the easiest route to an F.”
“The way I see it, you owe me, and I won’t hold that over your head to work with me, but I will ask you to take me to one of the places I want to research this weekend. If you don’t want to do the paper with me after our visit, fine.”
I do owe her, and if she wants me to drive her someplace as a thank-you, I’ll do it. “Sure, but that doesn’t mean I’m doing the paper with you.”
Veronica snatches my cell from my hand, and with a few quick swipes and taps, she enters her number into my cell then hands it back. “We have until Monday to decide groups, and I have a feeling you’ll choose me.” Then she’s out the door.
I follow and watch as she glides down the hallway. Her blond curls bounce near her shoulders, her hips have a gentle sway as she walks. The girl is gorgeous, sexy, mesmerizing, and has the biggest, brightest personality I’ve ever encountered.
In a world where most doesn’t impress me, I’m impressed.
VERONICA
I’m the last person out of school as I had to stop twice to puke in the bathroom. I hate migraines. Hate them. I once had a teacher tell me that hate was a bad word. I agree. It is a bad word and so is the word migraine.
I step outside, and the sunlight is like a demon sent from hell to torture me. I shield my eyes using my hand, and my heart soars that I don’t have to walk home. Leaning against the hood of his Chevy Impala, Nazareth waits for me in the student parking lot. I never asked for him to come for me, yet I knew he’d be there waiting because that’s how Nazareth is.
With my backpack dragging from my fingertips, I stop in front of him and barely have the energy to lift my head to look him in the eyes. He doesn’t ask how I am, nor does he ask where I want to go. His gaze flickers over my face, and it’s as if he understands all that’s happening beneath my skin—the normal exhaustion of school, the ugly pit in my stomach at being alone after he left, including and especially lunch, and then the pièce de résistance, the typical first day of school category-five migraine that causes blood-draining nausea.
With an incline of his head toward the passenger side, I slide into his car, lean my head against the window and close my eyes. Nazareth doesn’t turn on music, nor does he say a word. He just drives, letting me rest. The headache, though, becomes worse instead of better. My stomach churns, and I try to focus on my breaths to keep from vomiting on the floorboard.
The car eventually stops, and when I open my eyes, the sunlight is so bright that I’m temporarily blinded. Still, I slip out of the car and follow Nazareth to the aging, tiny blue farmhouse. My head feels as if it is a lead ball and my feet move as if there are one-hundred-pound weights attached to them.
Nazareth opens the back door of his house for me. The hinges squeak, the sound like a jackhammer to my skull. The world tunnels, and the darkness in the periphery of my sight starts to close in on me. I stop at the bottom of the steps as I refuse to go any farther.
“You always have permission to enter my