Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 128893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
I’d asked her again and again to call me Megan or at least Meg but she seemed to think I was still six instead of sixteen. She started off into the crowd, pulling me along behind her.
“Aunt Delliee…” The key around my neck felt heavy and the heat made me dizzy. I stumbled and nearly fell but my aunt dragged me up by the arm.
“Are you all right?” She dropped her voice, scanning the busy booths of the flea market around us. “Are you on your cycle, Meggie?” she asked, her green eyes concerned.
“No,” I hissed back in a horrified whisper. I had always been what people call “mature for my age.” If asked, I would have said that I was well past the age where everything an adult said was mortally embarrassing. But though I can deal with my aunt’s weird religion, loud clothes, and kitten bag, this topic was beyond the pale.
“All right then, sorry.” Aunt Delliee patted my arm. “I just thought that might be why you were looking so peaky.”
“It’s the heat. And this necklace.” I reached for the black chain again and dropped my hand to my side when I remembered the consequences of yanking on it.
“Yup, it’s a scorcher.” Aunt Delliee looked up into the remorseless blue sky and shrugged. “Better get used to it, honey. Now that you’re gonna be living here, I mean.”
My heart sank down into my shoes and for a minute I forgot all about the necklace. Living here—I was going to be living here.
I was going to be stuck.
And not even stuck in Tampa which was at least a decent sized city. I was going back with Aunt Delliee to Frostproof.
Frostproof was a tiny town right in the middle of central Florida. At the last census, it had less than three thousand residents. Which meant my old high school in Seattle had more students than my new hometown had people. Great.
It was located right between two lakes—Lake Clinch to the west and Reedy Lake to the east—and the main industry was the orange groves that surround it. According to the Wikipedia article I read, that was how it got its name. The town fathers were trying to lure citrus growers there by promising the weather would never get cold enough to ruin their crops—hence the name “Frostproof.”
So I was pretty sure it would probably be hot there all year round, which I was going to hate.
The only interesting thing I had found when researching my new home was the cultural make-up of the town. It was mostly White and African American and Hispanic—which came as no surprise—with some Pacific Islander, Asian, and Native American thrown in for flavor. Which was great—being from a big city I craved diversity. But 14.35% of the residents listed themselves as other.
I could be wrong, but that seemed like a large percentage of the population that claimed to be different in such a small town. I couldn’t help wondering what nationality they were. What exactly did other mean? And what would I find when I finally reached my destination, the freaky little town of Frostproof?
Well, if Google Earth was any indication, mostly just a lot of orange trees.
“Yup, looks like we’re stuck together for the next couple years,” my aunt said, mirroring my thoughts in that uncanny way she had sometimes. “Come on, let’s get back to the car and crank up the AC. Now that you found something nice to wear on the first day of school, I need to be getting back home.”
I followed her, picking my way through the milling crowd, my arms crossed tight across my chest. The key sat like a lump of ice in the hollow of my throat but it wasn’t going to be there for long. The minute we got back to Aunt Delliee’s house, I was going to find some pliers and cut the damn thing off.
There was no way in hell I was wearing the weird key necklace to my new school or anywhere else.
2
The pliers broke.
I sat there on the faded blue bedspread of the room Aunt Delliee had designated as mine and stared at them in horrified fascination. There was a huge notch carved out of the rusty metal, as though I had tried to cut a diamond instead of the thin, fine-linked chain. And these weren’t dainty jewelry making pliers either—they were heavy duty. I had found them in the tool shed out behind the drafty old antebellum mansion which Aunt Delliee called home. My home too now, I guessed.
What the hell was going on here?
I lifted the pliers to try again but the necklace chose that moment to tighten warningly. I put the pliers down and it loosened, the key settling in the hollow of my throat like an unwanted lump of ice.