Wicked Fate
Tabatha Vargo
Wicked Fate
Copyright 2012 by Tabatha Vargo
All Rights Reserved. Printed in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manor whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events or real people are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Wicked Fate/ Tabatha Vargo. –1 Edition
Cover Art by Regina Wamba/ Mae I Design and Photography.
ISBN 978-1480258297
[1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Magic—Fiction. 3. Good and evil—Fiction 4. Love—Fiction.] I.Title.
First Edition
For Mini Me, my reason for breathing <3
Chapter 1
First Impressions
I can sum up the high school experience in one word—shitty. Spending an entire day going through the mundane motions of the learning process, while being surrounded by what can only be described as teenage zombies, merits the description. I wouldn’t even bother coming to school if it weren’t for the slightest chance that I might get a glimpse of him.
I’m getting that glimpse now as he leans against the milk cooler. Talking to the guy in front of him, he juggles a bottle of water and laughs out loud. His laughter is deep and inviting, yet unexpected since he’s usually a quiet guy. His dark hair shifts, then spills into his eyes as he nods at a cute girl that walks by. Getting his attention for even a nanosecond makes the girl blush, not that I can blame her.
No one seems to care that he’s holding up the line like he’s in the VIP section of a social club instead of standing in the lunch line. I guess looking the way he does earns you certain rights. He reaches up and runs his slender fingers through his chocolate hair causing his shirt to lift and giving everyone, including me, a brief teaser of hip-hanging jeans and golden-brown skin.
The crash of a water bottle and the aggravated sigh of the girl in front of me break my concentration. Badly dyed hair gets flicked at me as she spins around, attitude written on her face. But once she notices me, her tan skin pales before she rushes off without her tray.
Anyone else would apologize for not paying attention. If I thought for one second that she’d listen, I’d say sorry for knocking her stuff over. It’s really not my fault anyway, if he wasn’t eight people ahead of me looking like summer seduction on a stick, then maybe I could pay attention.
It’s simple…I blame him.
The small commotion does, however, earn me a brief hint of emerald green eyes as he peeks over at me. Like the girl before, the second of eye contact causes me to blush. I look down, covering my flushed face with my ebony hair.
He turns the corner in the line, and disappears from my sight.
As if waking up from a drug-induced state, my surroundings come back into focus and the noises of the room assail me—loud gossip and laughter fills my ears. The obnoxious sound hurts my overly-sensitive hearing and enhances the headache I’ve had since waking up. I massage my aching temples for relief.
The cafeteria at Summerville High holds more drama than a Lifetime movie. Last year, a fight broke out between two testosterone-filled boys over some loose and limber cheerleader. Sharing wasn’t caring for those two, and one of the boys got sent to the hospital with a broken nose. The year before that, there was a small fire in the “popular” corner. It was said that drugs were involved with the fire, but no one ever went to jail or anything.
I could blow up my table with a meth lab and no one would notice.
The big theatrical display of this year remains to be seen, since it’s the first day and all. My only hope is that it doesn’t involve me or anything that could add to my less than normal reputation.
I pass the frozen pizza that’s seared under the heating lamps before squeezing myself through the dreaded mile-long line. I grab the only edible thing on the menu, a fake chicken patty on a hard bun topped with shriveled lettuce, before hauling myself towards Mage’s Table.
It’s the same table I sat at freshman year and it’s the only empty table in the room. Sometimes I wonder if anyone sits here at any lunch period. Do people think I’m so disease-ridden that they won’t even sit at a table I use?
I look down at the word freak that’s carved into the faux wood from the year before. It’s thicker and bigger than the rest of the derogatory words. I cover the offensive word with my tray.
Don’t think about it, Mage.
Adam and his piercing, green eyes are nowhere in sight, so I focus on fading into the background.
The loud banging of the trays and chattering disappear as I slip in my ear buds and crank up the music.
Today’s turning out to be decent. So far, the gawking eyes have been kept to a minimum. So far, being the operative phrase. Maybe that means this year will be different, maybe it’ll be better.
I’ve lived most of my life on the outside of everything, which is totally fine by me. People around here don’t have much to say to me because, well…I’m different. There’s not really a polite way to put it, but apparently, not being like everyone else is completely unacceptable. Who knew?
It sounds a bit cliché, but I’m not your ordinary teenage girl. I’m unique, but not in the “cute-girl-who-dresses-a-little-awkward” kind of way. I’m unique in the “no-one-should-ever-come-near-me” kind of way, and no one ever does, with the exception of Adam—once.
I’m relieved that people stay away, but I’m curious to know what they think I’m capable of. It’s not like their hearts will stop by being near me. Maybe they think they’ll turn to stone if they look me. The truth is, I’ve never seriously hurt anyone—even though accidently hurting someone is a huge a fear of mine.
My fear of hurting someone, combined with their fear of getting hurt, makes for a very isolated school experience for me. No one ever looks at me, much less speaks to me. In their defense, it’s not like I exude a large amount of friendliness. It’s as if I don’t exist to them anymore and I prefer it that way. The less people bother me, the less effort I have to exert to control what is sometimes an uncontrollable thing.
A girl with a lunch tray makes her way towards my table. She’s bouncy—a little too excited to be in school for my taste. Not your average-sized girl, chunky, but in a cute way. Her heart-shaped face is the color of vanilla yogurt with a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her little pudgy nose.
Unlike my black monstrosity, her shoulder length brown hair is full of vivacious curls. They’re bouncing with the beat of the music on my iPod with every step. The shorter curls that frame her face remind me of a teenage Shirley Temple with a saucy attitude.
Her dark brown eyes are an exact match to the color of her hair, with lush, black lashes that make them stand out from beneath her perfectly shaped brows. The scooped neckline of her aqua-blue designer shirt is a little low and every now and again a leopard printed bra strap peeks out. It makes my plain, white bra suddenly feel insufficient.
Her jeans, which are made to look dirty and distressed, look like mine, which in actuality are really old and worn. Except, while I paid three bucks for mine at the local Goodwill, I’m sure she dropped at least ninety on hers at some fancy store in the mall.
Playing peek-a-boo behind her baby-soft curls are cute dangling butterfly earrings that remind me of happiness. The pep-in-her-step is contagious and I find myself wanting to frolic across the lunch room like a little butterfl
y fairy—never going to happen, by-the-way. I don’t frolic…ever.
Her innocent spirit calls to me, and in a bizarre way, I instantly like her. The corners of my mouth tug up against my will and I have to force them down. I’m not sure what a random smile from me would make the onlookers think, but I picture a mad-dash for the doors out of fear.
Her eyes sparkle with her cheerful grin as she tosses her matching bag onto the table.
She must be new. Only a new person would brave the school pariah.
My tasteless chicken sandwich becomes the most interesting thing in the room as I look down at my tray and ignore her.
“Hi!” she says in a very non-Mage up-beat kind of way.
My ear buds pop out of my ears with one quick tug. Gawking eyes beat into me causing anxiety to press against my chest. Everyone’s staring as if a meth lab explosion just occurred at my table—jaws hanging open and all.
“People don’t talk to me. If you want to make any friends around here, I would leave,” I mumble.
She shifts her eyes and makes a face that tells me she thinks I’m wacko. “Okay…well, my name’s Bernadette, but people call me Bernie. Do you always sit here all alone?”
“Yes.”
“Well, do you want me to move to another table?”
“Do what you want, but if you sit here no one’s going to talk to you.”
“I honestly don’t care what other people do,” she shrugs. “What’s your name?”
She realizes everyone is staring at us and her dark eyes widen. Dipping her head, she whispers, “Do these people always stare like this?”
“It’s ‘cause you’re sitting here with me. I told you, if you sit here they’re going to either treat you like crap, or they’re going to ignore you completely.”
Get the hell away from me, new girl.
God help her if people start to think we’re friends. Anyone who isn’t me couldn’t handle all the isolation I endure. A normal person would go nuts without an ounce of socialization.
“That’s stupid. Why are they acting like that?”
“They don’t like me,” I mutter.
“Well, people generally don’t like me either. So, I say screw ‘em!” she waves her hand carelessly in the air. “So…nice to meet you…?” her freshly waxed brow lifts in question.
“Mage,” I continue to look away from her.
“For real! Dude, that’s the coolest name ever. Is that like a nickname or something? You’re so lucky! I hate my name. Every time I hear it I think of freaking Sesame Street. You know, with the whole Bert and Ernie thing? Like, who the hell names their kid Bernie?”
The less conversation we have, the better for her. I snatch up my book bag and throw in my iPod. I do all this while pretending she isn’t there. My grandpa taught me to always be polite, so I feel bad for treating her so rudely. She’ll thank me one day.
I stand up, pick up my untouched tray, and walk away.
Normally, I don’t mind playing the role of evil girl, but something about this Bernie chick’s different. She seems so genuinely sweet. It’s alarming.
Why’d she have to be so damn nice? Now I feel guilty. And knowing me, that guilt will eat at me all freaking day.
The girl’s bathroom behind the cafeteria is always empty, so I go straight there. I’ve had enough attention for the day.
I stare in the mirror, tracing the lines of my face and turning my head from side-to-side. For some reason, I need to make sure I’m still me. I don’t feel like myself today.
Maybe it’s the blue shirt that’s making me feel more awkward than usual. I found it deep in my closet this morning. It makes my icy eyes look larger, much different from my typical black or gray t-shirt from Goodwill.
Running my sweaty hands down the sides of my jeans, I stick my pinky in one of the frayed holes. Looking down, I see that my worn, black Converse are also developing a tattered hole. New shoes are in my future, which sucks since I loathe shopping.
My long hair hangs limp down my back. I push a thick strand of black hair out of my eyes and stare at the dark circles beneath them. Sleep is a rare commodity these days, since I’ve started having nightmares.
The bathroom door swings open and a little blonde freshman smiles as she walks by me to the closest stall.
What’s with these new people and all their creepy smiles?
Snatching up my book bag, I practically run out of the bathroom and head to my next class. Gym class—my arch enemy. The act of running around like an idiot with no purpose doesn’t appeal to me. Ducking and weaving through a hallway full of people who pretend I don’t exist is enough exercise. Maneuvering my small frame around gigantic football players can be a serious workout sometimes.
The huge gymnasium, covered in green and gold, is already full and, as usual, loud and obnoxious. I make my new home for the next hour on an unoccupied set of bleachers.
I never dress out for gym, I never participate, yet somehow I keep managing to pass. I refuse to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I just go with the flow.
I pull out my notebook and open it to an empty page. I start writing a mix of words to occupy my time.
Let the lonely voice be the loudest, let the worm kill the bird.
Wind blow away all indecent thoughts, let them go unheard.
The little girl that cries alone will cry no more today.
The thoughtless thoughts they think of me will turn the other way.
A loud noise from across the gym catches my attention. Searching the crowd, it seems that no one else even notices the strange commotion. I hear it once more before my eyes are directed to the culprit. A now familiar face comes into sight.
With her back against the wall, Bernie covers her face with her hands as three girls stand in front of her and pummel her with a big red kick ball. They laugh when the ball bounces off of her and she lets out a little hissing noise.
“Stop it!” Bernie yells back. “What are you…five?”
“Are you a freak, too? Everyone saw you with the weird girl today at lunch,” I hear one girl say as she bends down to grab the ball.
Word gets around fast…poor Bernie.
“The gym is the best place for you, fat ass!” another girl says with a laugh.
The ball smacks against Bernie’s leg, causing her to fall to one knee.
Disgusted, I stare helplessly, knowing that this is because of me. As far as they’re concerned she’s a traitor to the normal people.
Just seeing the backs of the three bullies, I know who they are. I don’t need to see their almost perfect faces. Brandy Phillips, Michelle Sedgwick, and Wendy Baker—The Three Bitchkateers.
All three are fake blondes with tanning bed tans and acrylic nails. I guess they could be considered as pretty—at least on the outside; inside they’re wretched heathens.
I run ideas through my head on how to stop their torment. Before doing anything, I look back up and meet Bernie’s eyes staring back at me with a look of pain on her face.
Please look away!
No way am I doing anything with her staring at me. It would give everything about me away. Not that it matters if she thinks I’m a freak; everyone else does. I just don’t want to go around flashing to the world that they’re right about me.
Finally, she looks away to block the ball. I take advantage of that moment, and I shoot my vision to the big red kick ball. I follow it as it bounces off of Bernie and back into the hands of her tormentors. I let my anger build until I can almost feel the red hotness of my fury burning behind my eyes.
Never taking my eyes from the ball, I begin to feel its vibrations inside of me. Every time it bounces from one surface to the other, I feel it; even from across the room.
My anger reaches its limits, and I know that I’m now in control of the ball. With one final bounce off of Bernie, I push and add speed behind the ball. Instead of catching it with her hands, the ball flies directly into Brandy’s face. The sound of the red rubber smashing into her ec
hoes through the gym.
“What the hell!” Brandy screams as she covers her face with her hands.
From between her fingers, blood starts to seep. Immediately, I feel awful for pushing the ball too hard. The last thing I wanted to do was break her nose.
Looking back at Bernie, I see her staring back at me with a stunned look on her face.
I put my head down as I sit back in my seat. I start to write again as if nothing happened.
From afar I can still hear Brandy’s cries as the coach stuffs tissues into her hands and takes her from the gym. I get relief from Bernie’s accusing eyes when she goes to the nurse for a skinned knee.
I spend the rest of gym class mentally kicking myself for breaking Brandy’s nose. I can never seem to get it right. Either it’s too much, or not enough. In all seriousness, she deserved what she got, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling like shit.
When the bell rings, I snatch up my stuff and head to my last class of the day, South Carolina History.
I see Adam in the hallway, and for the second time today, I get a glimpse of jade eyes when he looks me. Twice in one day, that rarely happens.
Chapter 2
You Are My Sunshine
I always sit in the back of the class. It’s my favorite place to sit because there’s no one behind me breathing down the back of my neck.
Tossing my book bag carelessly on the floor, I drop into my desk. I place my chin in my hand and proceed to stare out the window until class starts.
It’s gloomy out. Dark clouds ripple across the sky warning everyone of the impending rain. Basically, it’s good sleeping weather.
I don’t mind the rain, but I loathe the daunting drizzle that comes when I’m sad. I’ll never forget that first time it happened. Mainly because it was the first time I saw Adam.
It was second grade, and an aggravating boy named Nicholas thought it would be hilarious to tease me during recess. The things he said were so juvenile and dim-witted that I’d laugh about it now, but at seven-years-old they were the most awful things he could’ve said to me.
Wicked Fate (The Wicked Trilogy) Page 1