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330 pages, Kindle Edition
Published June 7, 2016
“I think it was meant as a compliment, but in my opinion I am too strange to be pretty. Nothing like the blond models smiling from every magazine cover. I’m narrow and straight, not at all voluptuous. And then, in the middle of all my long, spare lines, I have black eyebrows that swoop in high arches and cheekbones that slide down and then swing back up, which has always made people speculate about my “ethnicity”, when in truth I am as plain, pale white as they come."
“Everyone I know hates reading Chaucer, but I am strangely pulled to his cryptic words.”
“Half of my nails were wet with pale gold polish because I needed to distract myself and try to slow down my heart after its constant racing all day.”
“.. my breathing regular as I painted stripe by careful stripe..”
“I bent so far over my lines that my hair made a black veil to hide the way my lips refused to relax.”
“I took one breath, felt the stage air pulse through my lungs like power, soaked up the lights like a plant reaching up for the sun and jumped into the scene. I didn’t have a single thought in my head until Alicia finished the last line and awareness ran back up my spine like a current that had been cut and restored.”
“Maybe we had both found our voices.”
THE ESSENTIAL FACTS:
My name is Megan Riddick.
I am a junior in high school.
I killed a man when I was two years old.
It all started with a stuffed monkey and a butterfly.
I don't want to tell this story.
I don't remember the sirens or the screams from that terrible morning. I can't recall my mother's panic or the pain of my skinned knees. Not even Bryon Exby's strangely calm face when he looked up at the people who raced to him first. We found out his name that night when the hospital called and told us he hadn't made it. I learned all of that from other people, snatches of old news reports and witness accounts in the newspapers, and turned them into a memory that is mostly artificial. But I do remember the strange orange butterfly - bright as a drop of sun, brief as the gold light of a struck match. One flap of color that rippled and wrinkled all the fabric of fate and led me to the street where I would kill a man before I even knew my last name. And to this day the impossibly beautiful insect looks like nothing but death to me.
Charlotte looked out across the empty auditorium and breathed in the power of the stage. I watched it happen as her shoulders relaxed and she leaned into one leg, comfortable, at home. "Maybe I don't hate her. She's the last thing of him that I have left. The last thing he did."