The Girl in the Pale Blue Overall Shorts

Origin of the Storm

For all the other kids exiting the front doors of the private school into the cool spring weather of Los Angeles, it's three o'clock. When she let's down her wavy hair as the flats at the bottom of her long, skirt-crowned legs tap along the mosaic stone pathway, it's two minutes to midnight.

She walks with her best friend Allie to the sidewalk and they stop to say goodbye to each other before her father drives her home. 

"Well," she says with a smile. "See ya later, Alligator."

Allie thinks she's so cool; there's no other students with hair like hers and she looks just like Jane Levy.

She opens the door to her father's car. "See ya tomorrow," Allie says.

She watches Allie get in and close the door. The window makes an electronic winding noise as the man in the driver's seat leans over to peek out at her. She leans on the passenger side window and folds her elbows so her hands lay on top of each other.

"Looking for a good time, Jer?" she says. She ignores the gun that sits in the holster at his thigh; they get along just fine.

"Easy there, girl," he says back. "I've got handcuffs and I'm not afraid to use them."

She smiles. "I'll take that as a yes." She steps back from the window. "See ya, guys. Drive fast and take lots of chances."

Allie does a shoulder check for her father as he looks in the driver's side mirror and she walks away.

She follows the music that's blasting out of an old white 1984 Pontiac Fire Bird Trans Am—which just so happens to be the next car up—to greet the guy who leans on the hood.

He wears ripped blue jeans, has a leather jacket with tassels, and has calm brown eyes beneath his slicked back hair. His Puerto Recan accent is filled with a sort of low end that could make any woman fall to their knees, but she's not attracted to him; she's in his gang and he's the leader.

"Hey there, chicken pot pie," he says, warmly.

She looks up to him very much. "Hey, Carlos," she says, cutely.

"You ready to roll off into the sunset?"

She smiles at him. "As long as we get to fourth gear before we get there."

He smirks. "Deal."

He stops the car perfectly alongside the curb. He hates her house more than the detective he parked in front of; he hates rich people.

She smiles as she breaths in and out; she just finished a ride on the best rollercoaster in the world. "The day this car shits the bed, I'm holding a funeral for it while it gets crushed for parts."

He laughs. "This car won't ever die. I've been through too much shit with her."

"I should get going. You know what mom and dad are like. They'll call the cops if they don't like the way someone walks by the property."

He looks at her and smiles. "All right, baby girl. Same time tomorrow. You know the drill."

She unclips her seatbelt and goes to exit the car. "Keep it real," she says.

He watches as she closes the door and walks towards her front steps and smiles to himself. She's the daughter he never had; he'd only keep secrets from her if it were absolutely necessary.

There's a scream from the house and he whips his head around. He turns the car off and runs as fast as his brain will allow him to. He knows something is horribly wrong; she's not afraid of anything.

Entering the house, he stops immediately. She's kneeling there on the floor begging her mother to come back to life as she lies in a puddle of her own blood. He looks and sees her father lying face down on the blood soaked stairs and he goes to kneel down beside his artificial daughter. Her mother's hair is full on one side but cut in half on the other.

He takes a phone out of his pocket but doesn't dial 911. "Jerry? Are you busy? It's important. He's back, Jerry. Goldilocks is back in town."