Death & Dying
My past is misery; my present, agony; my future, bleak. And it is not just because I'm a thirteen-year-old girl, or because I'm too thin or too tall or because my hair is red (it's orange actually—but they call it red).
The wind howled through the rigging, and a sheet of airborne spray sliced toward me over the top of the dodger. I gasped as the icy water hit me, soaking me from head to foot before it swirled away down the cockpit drains.
"Mom!" I shouted. "Mom! Please help me!" My voice was hoarse and my teeth were chattering. "Mom! I need you!" The wind snatched my words away and drowned them in the tumble of waves and spray.
I didn't want to die out here.
The stick rose, and then it smacked down hard on Lucky's back. Maggie watched in horror as Lucky toppled over the edge of the cliff.
"I like being alone," I say. "Honestly. Groups just aren't my thing. It's actually fun not having friends."
I don't know why I said that. It was supposed to be funny, but it sounds pathetic. Van's face is more transparent even than mine. He doesn't embarrass easily but he definitely looks annoyed.
"I don't think sarcasm suits you," he says stiffly.
I'm tired of talking about this. I stand up and stretch. "Have you ever seen Renegade?" I ask.
"Who's Renegade?" says Van.
"A horse," I say. "Come on."
