The first time she sat next to you at lunch, you thought you were dreaming. Ever since you transferred to this school, you'd been alone. No friends, no lab partner, no lunchmate. It'd been so long since you spoken to anyone, you thought you'd lost your voice. Your foster family has refused to acknowledge you since your 17th birthday.
You've gotten used to doing homework at the lunch table. The more you get done at school, the more you can work after school. On the days when you can afford lunch, you eat while you work. It's almost nice to have a whole table to yourself.
The first day she sat next to you, you got nothing done. You spent the entire lunch period staring at your notebook wondering if someone was playing a trick on you.
You didn't say a word. What if you say something they can use against you? She never says anything either. She just eats her lunch and reads her book. The Second Sex – Simone de Beauvoir. You saw it in English class. You sit next to her. You've never even made eye contact with her.
When the bell rings, she gets her things together and leaves.
You've known her since you were five. You've known of her since you were five. Your life in the system kept you moving around, but you've never moved so far that you've had to change schools. Small blessings.
You don't really know her. You know things about her. She's rich. She's smart. She's beautiful. She has always been kind to you. When her friends were awful, she was kind.
You don't see her for a week. She isn't in class. She's never been absent before. When she comes back, she gets a lot of attention. Her father had passed.
She sits with you at lunch. You have no food. The restaurant fired you for punching a man who touched your butt. You haven't eaten lunch all week.
As you do homework, you watch her from the corner of your eye. She doesn't take a single bite. Finally, she sighs and picks up her sandwich. You expect her to eat it, but instead, she puts it on your notebook.
You stare at it. It looks so good. Real bread, real meat. You reach for it, but hesitate. This is her sandwich, don't eat it. You look at her, but her seat is empty. She's left the rest of her lunch sits there, calling to you. You eat every bite.
You have no lunch again. Another job hired you and fired you. You'd worn long sleeves the first week. When you arrive at the shop in a tank top, arms bare, you were fired. They don't hire people like you. You needed to save money for graduation. You'd be unable to hide it for long.
The past couple of weeks hadn't been entirely awful. Every 2nd period, English, there was an apple turnover on your desk. It was incredible. The first day, you thought someone had left it from the class before, but you were so hungry, you didn't care.
She still wasn't talking to you. She sat next to you every day at lunch, but never spoke. After a month of lunches, her friends had noticed. You wonder what she told them.
One day, you didn't make it to lunch. The quarterback had made a pass at you. You punched him. His friends beat you up. When you got to 5th period, Science, there was a slice of pizza, the kind the cafeteria sells, on your table. You look around, trying to figure out who left it. When you see her, she is looking back at you. It's the first time you've seen her deep, dark eyes.
Another month, and it's the week before winter break. You've saved enough money to buy food for a week. If you eat every other day, you can almost make it to the end.
She sits next to you at lunch. You don't see a book today. You don't see a lunch box. Instead, she's bought lunch. A salad and a slice of pizza. She lifts the plate of pizza and places it next to your notebook.
You look at her. She's making eye contact. She takes a deep breath and licks her lips.
"This is nice. Sitting here quietly." She winces. "Sorry to ruin it now. I just wanted to say it." She looks back at her tray.
Her voice is like molasses. Dark and sweet. Thoughtful! You want her to read you sonnets. She'd be good at that. She loves English.
You look at her. You want to thank her for her companionship. For feeding you. Now for talking to you. You open your mouth.
"I like you." You face heats up and you mentally smack yourself. "I mean, as a person. I mean-"
"I know." She smiles at you. "I've always thought you were really cool."
You can't believe it. Honestly cannot believe it. What could you have possibly done to make her think you were cool? All you do is sit by yourself and do homework. Sometimes you read, or write, or draw. Mostly you just sit. You look at her and realize that she's waiting for a response.
"Um," you stutter, "You're obviously the coolest person ever, so that means a lot."
She laughs. A full body laugh and you think you've died and gone to heaven. Her laugh is a blanket you want to wrap around your body. You could live safe in a laugh like that. She quiets.
"I don't think I'm that cool. I just read a lot. Most people think quiet is mysterious and cool. Honestly, I just don't always want to talk to people." She makes eye contact and smiles softly. "You get beat up a lot."
You flinch, not expecting that. You're not sure what to say to her. You nod.
She lifts the sleeve of her coat. She always wears a coat. The only skin you've seen on her is her neck, face, and hands. Once in gym, she'd stretched her arms up and you caught a glimpse of stomach.
The forearm she'd bared is bruised. A black smudge marring her perfect skin. Your stomach clenches in anger. These marks are not what you are expecting, but they are familiar to you. How many people had marked your skin before it was marked forever? You meet her gaze as she covers her arm again.
"My mother." She answers your unspoken question. She glances at her expensive phone. Lunch is almost over. She picks up her tray and stands before hesitating. She looks down at you. "I have a job for you. For winter break. If you want it. It's mostly housework. Handyman stuff. It's 35 dollars an hour. My mother is out of town and left me the money to hire someone. You could stay at my house over break. My mother will be out of town." She blushes. "I said that already."
You smile despite your confusion. She wants you to stay at her house. That's the message you're getting. She wants you to stay at her house for two weeks to do housework. Housework that pays 35 dollars an hour. 35 dollars an hour. You shoot up out of your chair, startling her.
"35 dollars an hour? But that's so much!"
She moves a hand to push hair behind her ear. Dark, thick black hair that gleams in the light. "Yeah, um, that's what my mom said. It's not too complicated, if that's what you're worried about."
You close your eyes and think about what you could do with two weeks worth of 35 dollars an hour. You could be food and clothing. You could save money. You open your eyes.
"I'll do it!"
You stand in front of her house, one hand on your bike and one hand clutching the last science assignment of the first semester. She'd given you her address in class yesterday. The teacher had shuffled science partners and she'd asked to be yours. She'd be yours for the rest of the school year.
You stare up at the iron gate, the tiled, gable roofing, the immaculate, white front porch. You have never stood this close to this much money before. You swallow and hoist your duffle bag higher onto your shoulder.
Her front gate is intimidating. You have to enter a code to get in and the first time you try, your hands are shaking so badly that the gate buzzes at you in anger. The second time you get it right. When the bars swing open, there's a long driveway. She stands at the front door, welcoming and friendly. You walk toward her, taking her in.
She's dressed more casually than you've ever seen her. Instead of her usual business casual, she's wearing jeans. Her shoulders are bare in the sun and the bruises are clear as day. Your stomach clenches again, but she's smiling and you can't stop yourself from smiling back. Her hair is tied up, her usual blow out nowhere to be seen.
You look the same. The only difference is your smile; it takes up half your face. You think you must look like her.
"Hello!" She hugs you when you get close enough. "You can leave your bike out here. I didn't know you had one! We could ride to the park one evening!"
You nod, unable to stop smiling. You kick out your kickstand and follow her inside, leaving your shoes in the entryway. She compliments your weird socks. They are hand-me-downs.
Her house is giant and amazing. Once, when you lived in New York City, you skipped school to go to an art museum. This house looked like that.
She lists details like they mean nothing. You soak them all in. Gold crown molding, pearly ceramic end tables. The carpet in the hallway feels like clouds. You couldn't imagine being a child in a house like this.
She leads you into a bedroom. There's a large, dark red bed. Two tall bookshelves stuffed with novels were against the wall. You recognize some of them. You've never read them, of course, but you know enough to know they're impressive. Art hangs above an amazing oak desk. This must be her room.
"You'll be staying here. It's not great, but it's the closest guest room to me." She smiles at you and extends a hand. "I'll put your coat in the closet."
You hand it to her, shocked. You're staying here? The bed is bigger than any you'd ever seen. You run a hand over the cover; it feels like heaven.
You look up to see her looking worried. You realize you're crying and wipe your eyes. She's going to kick you out now. No one likes a cry baby.
"What's wrong?" She steps closer. "Are you ok?"
You get tense as she gets closer. "The bed is really nice."
She freezes and realization crosses her face. You want to slap yourself. This wasn't the time to point that your home life is awful. You don't know what to do.
She stands in front of you awkwardly. Her eyes dart around the room as if seeing it for the first time. She opens her mouth to say something and closes it again.
You speak.
"What am I supposed to be doing?"
Her eyes snap back to you and she remembers why you're there. Her relief is palpable. "Oh, well, it's Saturday, so I thought we could just hang out. My mom made a list of tasks. It's on the fridge. You can look at it on Monday." She smiles. "Would you like to go swimming?"
The break passes incredibly quickly. When she announces her mother's imminent return, you realize it's time for you to leave. You will never experience another 2 weeks like these again in your life.
You had spent the last two weeks glued together. When you worked, she always sat with you. She tanned as you cleaned the pool. A perk to Florida living. When it was clean, and your work day was done, she jumped in. You will never forget her carefree smile or the fading bruises on her back.
You fixed the shower in the 3rd guestroom while she read Heart of Darkness aloud. This will be the only time you have ever done assigned reading.
Despite your guestroom, you often spent the night in her room. She lent you matching pumpkin pajamas and told you all of her secrets.
Now, you have one night left. You're in her bed, lying face to face with her. She tells you her biggest secret. She had magic. Not the fun Harry Potter kind. The kind that controlled death. The forbidden kind. Her mother's trip had a purpose – to find her a husband who could take her away.
She cries into her pillow. If she was found out, she tells you, she would be killed. This world does not look kindly on magic.
You look at her across the bed. Her fluffy, dark blankets cover you both. You know how this magic works. On the day of her 17th birthday, she will wake up with the Permanent Mark. A black arrow on her forearm, the tail at her inner elbow and the point in the palm of her hand.
She looks at you, her eyes red and her hair wild. "Please," she begs you, "please don't hate me."
For once in your life, you feel able to comfort. To help someone. You sit up, aware that her eyes are on you. You begin to unbutton your shirt. Pulling it off, you reveal a threadbare sports bra, but her keep your right hand hidden away. You meet her eyes.
"Regina. I could never hate you." You look at your hidden arm. "I know why we were so drawn to each other. I have dark magic, too."
You finally show her your arm. The dark arrow glimmers. It still hurts. She looks at it for a long time, remembering your jokes about swimming in a long sleeve shirt. Your light remarks on always being cold. She reaches out to touch, but hesitates, looking up at you for permission. You nod.
She traces her fingers over it. Everywhere she touches feels like fire. Her fingers leave a gold trace over the arrow, like a boat through water.
"Emma," Regina says, her still-red eyes brimming with tears, "will everything be ok? Will I survive? Will you?"
You shrug, sighing. "We can only hope."