But it’s cool. I can handle it. I can and have dealt with a lot worse. In fact, I’m used to being the outcast. I’ve been one since I moved in with my uncle, aunt, and their daughter, Dixie May.

Dixie fucking May. Though she’s my cousin and is the same age as me, we have no other similarities. If I’m a reincarnated raven, then Dixie May is probably a hawk, which I once read are supposed to be predators to ravens and can represent danger. Honestly, from what I’ve read, ravens can usually only fend off a hawk if there’s a group of them, also known as a conspiracy. I like the name conspiracy better, probably because I mentally conspire all the time to take Dixie May down. But I’ve never had any real friends, at least not long-lasting ones so, more than likely, that’s not going to happen. Not that I just let her walk all over me. I don’t at all.

Still, Dixie May is the most manipulative, fake, and devious person I’ve ever crossed paths with. She’s also very pretty and charming when she needs to be, except at home where she acts like a spoiled brat. She also has ammunition against me—knows the reason I came to live with her and her family all those years ago. And when she told everyone at our old school about it, I instantly became labeled the freak that people not only despised but feared.

“Oh my God, I’m so sick of these damn boxes,” Dixie May complains from her bedroom across the hall from mine. “I can’t find anything. And my favorite pair of shoes are missing. I bet the movers stole them.”

I roll my eyes. The movers were two big dudes who seemed nice enough, and in no way, shape, or form seemed like the kind of people who’d steal designer shoes. Not to mention, one single pair of shoes.

“I’ll call and make a complaint,” my aunt calls out to her.

“What’s a freakin’ complaint going to do?” Dixie May whines. “It won’t get me my shoes back. And they were my favorite pair.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” my aunt tells her. “If you want, we can drive over to the city this weekend and go shopping.”

“Fine. But you better buy me a couple of extra pairs in case this happens again,” Dixie May warns.

“Of course,” my aunt says. “I’ll even buy you a few new outfits if you want.”

I’d roll my eyes again, but at this point, I’m starting to worry that they’ll get stuck in my head. For reals, though. Dixie May has so many clothes that my aunt and uncle had to add an extra closet to her room before we could move into this house.

Then there’s me. My entire wardrobe fits into a bag and mostly consists of secondhand items that I purchased with money I saved up from jobs I worked here and there. But I like my clothes. They fit my personality, and when I wear them, I like to imagine who they used to belong to and what kind of life they had while they wore them.