Kit Marquez represents one side of the coin. Heads. She's a heart attack with poisonous smiles and eyes like melted chocolate, captivating and deadly. She's also angry. Angry at the world, angry at the people in her life, angry with everyone except...
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BITTERNESS LEAVES A nasty stain like acrid smoke in the back of her throat every time Kit looks at the girl sitting in the passenger's seat in front of her. The wind, biting at her uncovered shoulders and causing pinpricks of tears to form at the corners of her eyes, combined with the beating warmth of the sun overhead, makes phantom shivers run down her spine. Kit remembers that one superstitious saying that used to haunt her childhood like a plague: every time you shiver, someone in the future is stepping over your grave.
"Well, then. I must have a lot of mourners," Kit says quietly. None of the others hear her over the invasively loud pumps of the convertible's stereo blasting out whatever new song everyone's currently obsessed with. Laurie Zhang — a curly-haired Asian girl with enough freckles on her cheeks to form constellations and eyes so dark they define the word black — rises on shaky feet and grips the back of the driver's seat's back with one hand. The other shoots up into the air and an enthusiastic holler escapes her lips, tearing through the air and audible even over the loud music and roaring wind.
Miles Booker, also known as Kit's cousin, laughs and whoops along with her. His knuckles are white, a contrast against his dark skin almost as stark as obsidian in the snow, gripping the steering wheel like it's his lifeline.
Kit glances at Laurie and sees the girl's gaze is already glued to her own. She forces a tight smile and tries to swallow her sour mood. Laurie sends her a sympathetic look and lowers herself back down into her seat.
"I know you're mad we invited her," she whispers, calmly brushing her long strands of hair away from her face. "But it's only for a couple of hours, and then you don't have to see her again until. . . what, the end of summer?"
"I'm not mad at you," Kit mumbles bashfully, ducking her head. Her own curly mop of a mane is pulled back into a bun. She fiddles with her indigo bandana and adds, "or Miles. It's just—"
