Crimson Death (Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter #25)(4)
Mom pushed down on my hand to get me to let go of the peeler. “Ollie, you need to relax. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to talk with your friends. Everything will be fine. I want you to practice some mindfulness.”
“No, Mom—”
“Yes, Ollie. With me.” Experience told me I’d best play along. Fighting would take longer than giving in at this point. “Now, I want you to picture all the things you’re grateful for. This lovely big house that costs an eighth of the rent of the one in San Jose. How’s that for a start? Big houses, and clean air, and having your parents around to cook you a nutritious meal … are you experiencing the gratitude?”
“Oh, totally.”
“Oliver, I don’t want any of your sarcasm. Picture your fingertips. How do they feel? How does the wood feel underneath them? Ollie?”
“Mom, honestly I feel a little claustrophobic right now.”
She took her hands off my shoulders with a sheepish grimace. “Sorry. But work with me here, Ollie. You need to be relaaaaxed, and caaaallmm.”
See, Mom has some ideas about the world. She’s not super religious. Just more, I guess … spiritual? Basically, she believes in a Great, Ethereal Being out there in the universe that gives us whatever we want as long as we pretend that we’re totally happy and satisfied and positive. If we’re angry about something, though, it gives us more of it. A Great, Ethereal, petty-as-fuck Being, casually chilling out in the universe.
Which could’ve abducted Will, now that I thought about it.
Not that I cared about Will anymore, right?
Well, if I kept saying that, maybe the Great, Ethereal Being would make it so.
It took me so long to assemble a decent first-impression outfit for my introduction to Collinswood High that I practically sprinted downstairs, intending to dive straight into the car. My plans were thwarted, though, when I found both my parents in the kitchen, determined to put together breakfast for me. And, to my dismay, they wouldn’t take “no time” for an answer.
They’d decided on scrambled eggs. Which sounds simple, and fast. And it probably is, when you don’t go through three failed batches. By the time they managed to produce an edible meal between them, the floor was littered with meal detritus in the form of eggshells, burnt toast, salt, pepper, and errant smudges of butter. It was apocalypse by breakfast.
I inhaled the eggs as quickly as I could, dripping butter down the front of my jacket in the process. Fantastic. I debated changing, and ended up abandoning it altogether. I sprinted to the car, nearly tripping over my own feet.
First day, the very first day, and I was going to be so late.
I made my way to school with all the speed of a ninety-year-old on their way to bingo night. Not my fault, I might add. I just happened to hit every single red light. Straight flush. How lucky can a guy get?
Luckier than even that, it would seem. I was apparently the very last person to get to school, because every single parking space was occupied. Swearing, I turned down the blaring music and crawled around the Collinswood High parking lot.
No spots.
Still no spots.
And yet, somehow, still no empty spaces even after five full minutes of scanning. This was simply joyous.
Finally, I found a place, right at the edge of the lot. It was under one of those trees that drop sappy, sticky blossoms over everything in the vicinity. Silver lining: shade. Not-so-silver lining: I’d be spending the weekend with a hose and rag in my driveway in exchange for the privilege of parking here. Did I accept the trade-off? Well, put it this way: I was late enough by then I’d have parked on top of a portal to hell if it meant I could stop circling this damn lot.
I ripped my keys out from the ignition and launched myself out of the car. Except I vastly overestimated my skills of dexterity. In other words, I may have failed to properly unhook my left arm from the seat belt before leaping out the door. Which may have resulted in me being yanked backward with enough of a jolt to throw me into the car’s side, and then to my knees like a human pinball. God almighty, this morning was some sort of sick joke.
In the brief seconds I spent slumped on the concrete, one arm dangling above my head in a seat belt sling, I had an epiphany. Everything happened for a reason, and somehow, something out there had been looking out for me after all. That’s why I was running so late. So, when I made a spectacular idiot out of myself, I’d have precisely zero witnesses.
While I was in the process of practicing mindful gratitude and disentangling myself from the seat belt I realized I was, unfortunately, mistaken. The Great, Ethereal Being of the universe hated me after all. Because a girl stood two spots over, clutching her books and staring at me.
She was pretty, in a polished, “it’s the first day of school and I want to impress” way, dressed in a blazer, skinny jeans, and high-heeled boots. Her dark brown skin was totally pimple-and blemish-free, her lips wore a swipe of clear lip gloss, and her curls sat fluffy and voluminous on her shoulders.
Well, this was mortifying.
“I,” I called out to her, “am fine. Just to clarify.”
The girl shifted her rather large pile of books to lock her own car. “That’s a relief,” she said. “I was concerned for a minute.”
“No need.” I straightened and grabbed my backpack off of the passenger seat. Semi-smooth recovery.
“That’s okay then.” The girl shot me a quick smile, then turned her attention back to her car. I figured the conversation was over, and started the awkward journey past her. As I got closer, though, I realized why she was staring at her car. Her clicker thingy wasn’t working.