Bleeding Violet Read Online Free Page A

all my life, this motherly concern.
    She gave me the pack, then shooed me out the back door. I stepped out into an almost cool breeze. Thunderclouds had hijacked the whole of the sky; heavy rain obscured the morning air like fog.
    “Do you want me to be home by a certain time?” I asked as Rosalee peeked her head out the door to watch the sky.
    “I don’t care if you ever come back,” she said, her voice almost lost beneath the thunderous rain. “I hope to God you don’t.”
    Rosalee slammed the door and locked me out in the storm.

Chapter Four
    I’d arrived at the school so early, I hadn’t expected to see any kids, but they swarmed the pale blue corridors—every single one dressed in black, as though a goth had written the dress code.
    Country goths? Whoever heard of such a thing?
    The kids at Portero High weren’t as diverse as they’d been at my old school but were more diverse than I’d expected. A peppering of brown, black, and even yellow spiced up the sea of white faces. But no matter the color, the expression on each face was the same: watchful.
    They silenced as I went squeaking by in Rosalee’s horrid galoshes—and didn’t I feel ridiculous, like a clown squeezing astupid, oversize horn at a funeral—so I made a point to smile and wave at everyone I passed.
    No one smiled or waved back.
    But I refused to let it shake me. I had plenty of time to make friends.
    I found the administration office almost right away, but when I stepped inside, I had to resist the urge to step right back out. The feeling that I’d walked into someone’s funeral intensified.
    Behind the huge counter bisecting the office, a huddle of black-clad people stood weeping around a life-size glass statue. The man’s arms were outstretched, his see-through palms flat against a long stretch of window that wasn’t nearly as crystal clear as he was. Numerous bloodlike, gelatinous stains pinwheeled hypnotically at either end of the long window, like two giants outside the school had blown their brains out against the glass. But even as I watched, the stains vanished from the window, as though the rain were washing them away.
    I decided to ignore the stains—probably all in my head anyway, no thanks to my stupid, useless medication—and concentrate on the statue, which made me feel somewhat at home.During ski holidays in Finland, Poppa and I had often stayed at a hotel made wholly of snow and full of whimsical ice sculptures similar to the glass statue—a charming absurdity no one here seemed to appreciate.
    “How could he have forgotten his earplugs?” said one of the weepers, a short, round woman with mascara trails on her cheeks. “It’s such a transy move.”
    The trio of office workers petted the statue as they sobbed, stroking it as if to console it. The uselessness of the gesture reminded me of how I’d held on to Poppa’s hand all night after he’d died, as though my touch had made him less afraid to be dead.
    “Whatcha need, gal?”
    One of the weepers, an extremely old man in a cowboy hat, wiped his eyes and gave me his full attention at the counter.
    “I need to register.”
    “Needcher birth certificate, medical and dental records, and proof of residency.” He patted the countertop, letting me know exactly where I was to set all this information.
    “I don’t have those things.”
    “Your folks at work?”
    “My father’s dead, but my mother is home.” Was she?She’d still been in that sleep shirt when I’d left, and she hadn’t acted as though she needed to be anywhere in a hurry. I hoped Cowboy didn’t ask me what she did for a living—I had no idea.
    “What’s the number?” he asked.
    That I knew.
    “What’s your ma’s name?” asked Cowboy, punching the numbers I’d recited.
    “Rosalee Price.”
    The weeping ceased abruptly; the mourners around the statue gaped at me, even Cowboy, who exclaimed, “You ain’t
never
the daughter of Rosalee Price.”
    What could I say to that? “Oh, yes