Cursed heritage

Buzz!! Buzz!!! The insistent buzz from my alarm clock on a Monday morning has to be my worst nightmare, because what do you mean the weekend I barely spent is almost over? I slap the clock until it shuts up and lie there staring at the ceiling, negotiating with God. “Five more minutes. Just five. Maybe if I'm sick, or if the school floods, or if the world ends.” “Grr!” I groan. Nothing. The universe has never once taken my side on a Monday. "Ariel! Up!" Mom's voice carries up the stairs, already tired, and it's not even seven. "I'm up!" I lie. My feet find the cold floor eventually. Getting ready is a routine I could do half-asleep, and most mornings I do. I brush my teeth with my eyes closed. I pull on the hoodie from yesterday because the clean one is still in the laundry basket downstairs, and I'm not going down there for that. “Ariel!” Mom's voice echoes across the hallway, followed by Lilly's sharp yapping. Clearly, the dog is already fed up with my morning sluggishness, which makes two of us. "I'm coming, I'm coming!" I holler back, grabbing my backpack from the floor and nearly tripping over a rogue sneaker. Stumbling down the stairs, I find Mom in her work clothes standing by the kitchen island, one shoe on, one shoe off, juggling a travel mug of coffee, car keys, and a piece of toast while trying to keep Lilly from darting out the front door. And in her high chair, banging a spoon against her tray like she's leading a marching band, is Amelia. Three years old and the only person in this house who wakes up happy. "Morning, Amelia." I kiss the top of her sticky head, and she giggles. Mom's eyes land on me. "Eat something." Then she goes to drop strawberries on Amelia's tray. "I'm not hungry." "Eat something anyway.” She picks a strawberry from my sister's tray and shoves it into my mouth. Then she goes back to the counter. "If you miss the bus today, Ariel, you are walking," Mom warns without turning around, though there's a fond, resigned smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Noted. Loud and clear," I pull out the strawberry from my mouth and nibble on it before snatching a piece of toast from the bowl on the counter. Just then Lilly decides my shoelaces are her primary target for the day. With a final groan, I dodge the dog, push open the front door, and step out into the crisp Monday morning air. The universe might not have taken my side, but at least I get to smile this morning. The bus stop is at the corner of Maple and 4th, a windswept little patch of pavement where half the neighborhood kids congregate like zombies waiting for their cue to wake up. By the time I get there, the usual crowd is already gathered. Charlene, my best friend since I moved into this town, is leaning against the rusted metal signpost, furiously thumbing away at her phone with red-rimmed eyes. "You look like a corpse," Charlene says without looking up as I shuffle to a stop beside her. "Thanks. I feel like one," I mutter, leaning my head against the cold metal pole. "Did you finish the AP Chem pre-lab? Because I stared at question four for forty-five minutes last night until my brain started leaking out of my ears, and I'm pretty sure the answer is just 'cry'." Charlene finally drops her phone, offering a sympathetic grimace. "Didn't touch it. I went to the party, which means Mr. Harrison is going to execute us both." “Wait! What party?” I ask with utter confusion written clearly on my face. “What do you mean by what party? Jax's, of course. Wait! You aren't in the group anymore?” Great. Just what I needed to jump-start my week. An ostracization! As the yellow leviathan of a school bus finally screeches to a halt, brakes hissing in protest, I file in behind Charlene. The interior smells of cheap body spray, damp jackets, and the overzealous voices of teenagers bustling with testosterone—a stark reminder of how much I desire to have a personal ride to school. I head down the aisle and take a seat near the middle, sliding in alone on an empty bench. From the back row, Charlene’s boyfriend, Mark, spots us. He’s smart, built more like a classic high school jock, but notoriously known as a total playboy and, conveniently, a good friend to my own boyfriend. He flashes a grin, unzacks himself from the group in the back, and walks up the aisle toward Charlene. As he reaches her, he puts his arms around her and pecks her cheeks before casting a stupid grin on me. He makes a sneaky remark about my suddenly open social calendar that irritates me, and my disgust is entirely visible. For a split second, I want to ask him if he knows the real reason I was suddenly removed from the group chat, but I am not going to give him the satisfaction. Hissing under my breath, I look away and shove my earbuds in, blasting “Joke's on You” by Charlotte at full volume while my mind races through possible reasons for the freeze-out. To be honest, though? Part of me doesn't even mind. Lately, the whole high school drama scene has felt excruciatingly superficial. Over the past few weeks, a strange, persistent restlessness has been brewing beneath my skin. It’s hard to put into words, even to myself. Sometimes, out of nowhere, my blood feels.hot. Not like a fever, but like a current of electricity snapping beneath my pulse point, vibrating at a frequency that makes the hair on my arms stand up. Twice this morning while brushing my teeth, the fluorescent lights in the bathroom flickered whenever I got frustrated. I brushed it off as bad wiring, but deep down, a quiet, terrifying part of me knows it wasn't the lights. It was me. "Ariel! You listening?" I pop an earbud out as Charlene slides onto the vinyl bench beside me, abandoning Mark to his rowdy friends. Her expression has shifted from smug gossip to genuine concern. "Sorry," I say, adjusting my backpack on my lap. "Was tuning out the world." "Look, about the party." Charlene hesitates, picking at a loose thread on her denim jacket. "It wasn't my idea to drop you from the chat. It was Jax." The mention of my boyfriend's name hits me like a splash of ice water. *Jax.* "Jax?" My voice comes out flatter than intended. "Why would Jax take me off the invite list?" "He said you were acting weird," Charlene says carefully, keeping her voice down as the bus rattles over a pothole. "He told everyone you’ve been distant. That every time he tries to touch your hand or hang out, you flinch or look right through him. He said you were freakish last Friday." I close my mouth, the prickling sensation spreading rapidly across the back of my neck. *Freakish.* Is that what he called it? Last Friday, Jax had tried to corner me behind the bleachers after track practice. When he pulled me in for a kiss, a sudden surge of raw, terrifying heat had burst from my palms, accidentally searing his wrist bad enough to leave a red mark. I had panicked, shoved him away, and bolted without an explanation. I couldn't tell him that I felt like a human fire hazard, or that when I looked into his eyes, a strange voice in the back of my head screamed at me to *run*. "I'm not freakish," I whisper, though the copper taste of anxiety fills my mouth. "I've just been sick." "I know, Ari," Charlene sighs, giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "He's just being a dramatic i***t. But you two really need to talk. The whole school thinks you guys broke up." "Maybe we should," I mutter under my breath. The bus lurches to a stop in front of Crestview High. The massive brick building looms ahead like a prison, surrounded by the usual sea of students milling around the lawn. But as I step off the bus into the damp autumn air, the weird sensation in my chest suddenly doubles in intensity. The air feels thick, heavy with an electric charge that has nothing to do with the looming thunderstorm overhead. My eyes drift past the main entrance, drawn inexplicably toward the tree line bordering the north side of the campus. The woods are dark, dense, and strictly off-limits to students. Standing right at the edge of the shadows is a man I've never seen before. He isn't dressed in a high school jacket or a teacher's coat. He wears a dark, impeccably tailored trench coat, his posture straight and formidable. Even from fifty yards away, I can feel his gaze locked directly onto me. His eyes—a luminous, terrifying amber—seem to burn right through the distance between us. My breath hitches. The static in my blood roars to life, a deafening hum in my ears that drowns out the chatter of the crowd, the roaring engine of the bus, and Charlene calling my name. He doesn't move. He just stands there in the rain, watching me like a hunter waiting for its prey to realize it’s caught in a trap. And for the first time in my life, the quiet voice beneath my skin speaks clearly: *Your normal life is over.*