Read Crossroads (Crossroads Academy #1) Page 12


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  Saturday morning I finally get a break from Crossroads. I wake up early and drink until my stomach is full to the brim. When I’m satisfied that not one more drop will fit, I know I’m ready to go. It’s important that I manage my hunger today since I’ll be away from the campus and won’t have ready access to fresh blood.

  I feel better than I’ve felt all week. Stronger. Charged. I can hardly contain my excitement when I get to the garage and see my car again. Well, Aldo’s car. I know that I can’t really open her up until I get outside the gates, but I still get a rush sliding in behind the wheel.

  After easing the car across campus and out onto Route 7, I head north, jamming the accelerator to the floor. It’s early, and the roads are clear. I can safely test the Audi’s limits and my reflexes, without worrying about giving some unsuspecting senior citizen a coronary. The car handles like a dream, hugging the winding roads and hurtling me toward civilization.

  I drive with the windows down and allow the cool morning air to invigorate my spirits, the wind whipping across my face and tousling my hair. I’m glad Aldo chose a school in the United States. Romania is wonderful, but I feel much more comfortable here. Even though I’ve never been to Vermont before it feels more familiar, more real, to me. Well, real and quaint. There certainly weren’t any covered bridges where I come from.

  “Welcome to Rutland,” I read aloud, breezing past the visitors sign on the outskirts of town. It’s a good reminder to cut my speed and avoid drawing too much attention to myself. I’m pretty sure the car will draw enough curious stares on its own.

  There probably aren’t a lot of teenage girls driving forty thousand dollar sports cars in a small town like this. Hell, there probably aren’t a lot of sports cars period. Not that practical living in the mountains. Most of the vehicles I pass are SUV’s or trucks made for towing boats and hauling outdoor equipment. Another upside to Vermont: there’s an endless list of outdoor activities to choose from, with the mountains and lakes surrounding the school.

  The tourist season is over and the streets are quiet this morning. I find a parking spot close to the center of town and decide to hoof it for the rest of the day. I don’t really have any plans. I just want to stretch my legs and forget about school for a while.

  It quickly becomes obvious that I haven’t thought this through very well. It’s only 9 a.m., and most of the stores located downtown aren’t open yet. I stop at the local coffee shop and let the barista talk me into a mocha latte. I’m not really in the mood for it, but figure it will help me blend in a little better. What could be more natural than a girl and her coffee? Turns out it’s surprisingly good.

  I’m relaxed as I take in all that Rutland has to offer. I feel like I’ve stepped back in time. It’s a nice town; the kind where local kids can’t wait to get out and spend their weekends skiing, sailing and drinking. The people are friendly, and I’m greeted warmly, as I browse at the farmers’ market. No one pressures me to buy anything, and I’m allowed to handle the merchandise without hassle.

  I end up buying a handmade bracelet and some fresh flowers for my dorm. Oriental Lilies. Perhaps the last thing I’d expect to find in New England, but they’re bright and fragrant, and I’m thrilled to have the last bunch from the florists’ booth. I’ve gotten flowers before, but never lilies, so I’m even more excited when the florist offers me a discount.

  I exit the farmers’ market and stumble across an old theater, The Palace, on Center Street. The theater has been restored to its original glory which is pretty cool. It might be fun to come back some night and catch a show.

  I hit a few more shops downtown and decide Amy’s Book Stop is my favorite. They have a great selection, and, like the folks at the farmers’ market, the owner is a nice guy who actually knows something about the merchandise he’s selling. He doesn’t try to push me into the best sellers and instead engages me in a conversation about my favorite author and my school. It seems the locals don’t know much about Crossroads, but speculation about the privileged student body abounds. I politely humor him and excuse myself thinking it might be best to head back to campus.

  On my way to the car I make one last stop. Again, unplanned. This time less pleasant. But I can’t help myself. The angel draws me in. Wings spread, palms exposed, eyes cast skyward. The pillar at the base of the statue explains its purpose. The Angel of Hope. It’s a memorial for parents who’ve lost a child.

  The monument hits me like a fist in the chest. I lower myself onto one of the stone benches and try to hold myself together mentally. The feeling of loss, of grief, of pain is nearly overwhelming. It descends upon me without warning, bringing with it unwanted ghosts of the past. I’m reminded yet again how cruel and unfair the world really is.

  I wrench myself from the bench. I must get back to the Audi. I walk down Main Street putting one foot in front of the other, not really seeing anything but that angel.