My alarm shrieked, startling me so badly I actually jumped and spun around.

Man, my nightmares were making me jumpy.

I hit the off button. Time for school. Ugh. School was so my least favorite part of the day. My past inability to experience emotions had kept me detached from everyone and everything, which resulted in my current life being a friendless one. This had been fine when I couldn’t feel, because I’d had no idea what I was missing out on. But now…well, let’s just say that for someone who has no friends going to school is like dangling a piece of bacon in front of a dog’s face—pure and utter torture. I hated watching everyone walk around in their little cliques while I stood on the sidelines alone.

I tossed my blanket on the bed and threw on a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. I ran a brush through my long, tangled brown hair and pulled it back into a ponytail. Then I went over to the full length mirror on the back of my bedroom door and did a quick glance over. My legs were way too long, my skin far too pale, and my eyes…they were violet. Yes weird, I know. But it fit right in with everything else that had to do with me.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Marco and Sophia—my grandparents who insist I call them by their first names—were already there. Sophia stood over the oven, pans hissing, as the smell of bacon filled the air. Marco sat at the table, the morning newspaper opened up in front of him.

The room was small and brightly lit, making the yellow walls nearly blinding. Add that to the teal cupboards—which Sophia insisted were sky blue, but who was she trying to kid—and the room had this sort of funhouse effect going on.

I grabbed a bowl from the cupboard and took a seat at the kitchen table.

Marco peered over the newspaper at me, his black oval rimmed glasses sliding down the brim of his slightly crooked nose.  “Gemma,” he mumbled with a subtle nod.

I strained a smile.

I’ve lived with Marco and Sophia since I was one, after my parent’s passed away in a tragic car accident. That’s all I know about my parents—how they died. I’d asked Marco and Sophia about them a few weeks ago after the crazy prickle thing had traced its way down my neck. To say they’d freaked out was putting it mildly.  They’d gone full on ballistic, yelling that I was never to ask about my parents again. And when I’d shed tears and screamed back, things got even worse. Finally, I ended up storming off to my room. Ever since then, our already strained relationship worsened. We barely talked to each other, which I guess isn’t that big of a change since we’d barely talked before.

Over the last few weeks, I’d been trying to make some sense out of why they refused to speak about my parents. All I could come up with was that maybe talking about my parents was too painful for them. Either that or they didn’t like me.

And it wasn’t just my asking about my parents that had Marco and Sophia acting crazy. Every time I was near them, I could sense them cringing, and the atmosphere would weigh down like the air taken on an abrupt case of humidity.  One day I’d come down to breakfast smiling, and when Sophia saw me, she dropped a cup. Marco had stormed off outside, slamming the back door behind him. Evidently, they preferred the old hollow me. I don’t know why, though. I didn’t. They never even asked me about my sudden ability to feel either. I mean, if you had a child that had been an emotionless zombie for most of her life, then suddenly she did a complete 180 in the emotional department, wouldn’t you celebrate and talk about it instead of getting pissed off.

I know I would.

But since Marco and Sophia chose to say nothing about it, I opted to keep the prickly sensation to myself. Besides, I had a gut wrenching feeling that if I did mention it to them, I’d be buying myself a one-way a ticket to the Psych Ward.

“Do you want some bacon?” Sophia’s voice yanked me out of my thoughts.

The bacon sizzled as she tapped her foot on the tile floor. She reminded me a lot of one of those women in a 1950’s TV series; her auburn hair pulled back into a bun, a crisp white apron tied over her floral dress.

“Sure,” I said, starting to get to my feet. I wish we could be closer. Yes, I knew I should be grateful that I had grandparents who fed me and put a roof over my head.  And don’t get me wrong, I am. But it would have been nice if they’d at least talk to me more than what was required. Or maybe give me a smile once and a while. Was that too much to ask? “But I have to go start my car first.”

“Marco already did for you,” she said curtly.

“Oh.”   I turned to Marco. “Then—”

The sound of the chair grinding against the tile floor cut me off.  Marco rose to his feet, all tall and mighty like. He folded his newspaper and tucked it under his arm. “I’m going to um…” He trailed off and hurried out of the kitchen.

He did that a lot—mumbling to himself or walking away mid-sentence. He was a retired salesman, but it was so hard to picture since he couldn’t carry on a conversation for more than a minute.

The spatula clanked as Sophia tossed it on the counter. “Go get a plate and come get some then.”  Her nippy tone was my signal to hurry up and get out of her hair.

So I did, rushing over and piling a few pieces of bacon on a plate, along with some eggs. Then I ate my food so quickly that I nearly choked twice.

Once I finished choking my food down, I trampled through the snowy driveway, climbed in my faded blue Mitsubishi Mirage that made a loud clanking noise every time I pushed on the gas pedal, and headed off to school.

Marco and Sophia had given me the car six months ago when they’d decided that they were tired of driving me to and from the bus stop, which was about a ten mile drive each way.

See, I lived in this very small, very spread out town called Afton and driving anywhere always took some time. The town was known for two things: its infamous elk horn arch made of real elk antlers, and its talent for accumulating snow nine months out of the year. Now, I was in no way, shape, or form a fan of either the snow or the cold, so living here was like a polar bear trying to live in Hawaii—unbearable and very unpractical.

When I graduate here in a few months, I am so packing my bags and moving to some place warm and one-hundred percent mountain free.

Today, the normally poor road conditions were even worse due to the temp being five below and freezing everything in sight. Yep, five below, I’m not kidding. Forced to drive at the pace of a snail, I managed to play through almost the entire CD of Taking Back Sunday—one of my all time favorite bands—before arriving at school. I parked my car right as the bell shrilled from inside the school and reverberating its way outside. I grabbed my bag, scrambled out of the car, and barreled across the ice-skating-of-a-rink parking lot. I wouldn’t have cared so much about being late, but over the last month I’d managed to run up a near record breaking amount of tardies.

As I reached the sidewalk, about ready to take off in a full-on sprint, I had to stop because the prickling sensation made an unannounced appearance on the back of my neck, poking at my skin like a tattoo needle.  I held my breath and waited. Each experience was like opening up a present. I never knew what feeling was going to consume me. Or whether I’d like the feeling or want to exchange it for something else.

A few seconds ticked by, but no new feelings came.  Well, except for the feeling that I wasn’t alone. Which I wasn’t. There were a few people lurking out by their cars, and a girl in a neon pink coat was sprinting like mad for the glass entrance doors of the school. Obviously, she was trying not to be late, which was what I should have been doing. But I couldn’t get my stupid feet to budge, as if the soles of my pink and black DC shoes had melted their way to the sidewalk. And then, suddenly, I saw him; a guy, ambling across the parking lot as if he had all the time in the world.