Chameleon ✔️

1 beginnings

My dad is standing inside the front door of an unattractive, compacted house, car keys in hand. Dangling them just out of my reach. Goes through the checklist. I have to earn them.

"You got your new license?"

"Yep."

"Your house key?"

"Yep."

"What's your name?"

"Alyssa."

"Alyssa what?"

"Alyssa George."

"And my name?"

"Andrew George."

"And what do I do for a living?"

"You're a copy-editor. You work from home. Freelance."

"And what is your birthdate?"

"Nine four oh-four."

"Where'd you come from?"

"Chicago."

"What's it like there?"

"Windy."

"And why'd you move here?"

"Mom died. Had to get away." This part, actually, is not entirely a lie.

"Alright. Seems like you're good to go. You remember how to get to the school?"

Reach for the keys. "Yeah, Dad. The entire town's a big square. I don't think I'll get lost. Can I go now?"

My father sighs. He always hates this part. Me leaving. Being unprotected. Being privy to Gray's finding.

My father has always been a handsome man, tall and blond and strong with pale blue eyes and a heavyset brow. And as much as I Iove and miss my mom, I always wished I'd inherited more of my dad's genes, at least in physicality. I'd much have rathered to be Florida fair-haired and tanned. This wish is not only one of envy, but one of empathy, as well. I have always been the spitting image of my mother, and my father has to look at me everyday and remember all that he's lost. I know that this is the reason his aura sometimes drops when he looks upon me; I know this and I have to constantly remind myself lest it affect me detrimentally. He's nearing fifty now, and the stress from years of hiding and running is finally catching up to him, little crinkles on the corners of his eyes and mouth, lines across his forehead.

He's throwing an unhealthy amount of black my way. Black, which can mean a lot of things. Sin, evil, guilt, fear. I know it's fear. He'd much rather pull me out of school altogether and keep me locked up inside forever. But one day, when this is all over, I'd like to go to college and actually make something of myself. My chosen plan of revenge is not an altogether unhealthy one.

"Nothing's gonna happen, Dad. I'm going five miles down the road. Nothing's gonna happen."

Drops the keys in my hand. "Be careful."

I smile up at my father. "Eat a lemon, Dad." This has always been our little code for "cheer up". Because lemons are yellow, and yellow is sunshine. Yellow is fun. Yellow is happiness.

Dad's response is a small, pained grin. I reach up on my tip-toes, place my hands on his shoulders, and pull him down to kiss his cheek. Then I step past him and out of the door to the silver Toyota Camry. Simple. Average. One in a dozen. Not particularly attention-drawing.

As soon as I park in the student lot of the town's only public high school, I shove my earbuds into my ears so no one tries to talk to me. As I walk onto the campus, the passive-aggressive melodies flooding my eardrums, I am flooded with colors. It's not something I typically enjoy, but it is definitely not anything new. People everywhere just can't seem to keep their thoughts to themselves, no matter the city, no matter the campus. And as I walk through the courtyard area and towards the front office, I find that many of the colors are concerning me. They are mostly oranges — curiousity. This I understand. I'm the new girl in the middle of the second semester in a school of roughly four hundred kids. I'm big news. But I catch a few kelly greens here and there from the stares of girls — envy. What on earth they have to be jealous of me for, I have no idea. And then I catch a few deep plum purples from a group of boys near the office doors. Lust. And now I understand. New student. Fresh, untouched meat. Who's gonna be the first to bed her? Let's take bets.