The Bird That Couldn't Sing (GBFF)

Chapter 3 - Sang

I slip on the shirt and pajama pants, but find that they're both much too big on me. The shirt hangs long and loose, and I have to roll up the bottom of the pants so I won't trip over them. Kota is taller than me by at least a head, and his legs are a lot longer, too. But I'm also about 5'1", so that isn't saying much. Just about everyone is taller than me.

I tiptoe back into his bedroom with the pencil and paper in hand, his bed looking soft and inviting. But I don't want to intrude, so I opt for sitting on the window seat. Looking out of the window with big rain splatters landing on it, I contemplate the turn of events I'd endured this day. Kota doesn't seem like what my stepmother described men to be like. He's nice and compassionate. He even invited me inside to help me and make me some hot chocolate.

"So, I guess you're staying," his voice suddenly brings me out of my thoughts, a slight edge to it that makes him sound relieved. But he couldn't possibly be. No one would willing want to be in my presence, would they? Of course not. I'm not special.

I turn around on the window seat to face him, my eyes still unbelieving at what stands in front of me. He really is handsome, and he smells great, too--like something warm and spicy. Marie would see him and immediately label him as 'nerdy', but I don't think so--more like charming. He's wearing a clean white t-shirt and a pair of green pajama bottoms. His brown hair is combed away from his eyes, a navy blue mug in each of his hands, both steaming. "I hope you like marshmallows."

I nod with a thoughtful smile. Everyone loves marshmallows.

"Scoot over," he orders softly and I do, moving toward the window and tucking my knees into my chest, my back presses against the wall. The pencil and paper are sat down next to me within reach. Kota hands me the warm mug before sitting on the other side of the window seat, his back pressed against the opposite wall.

I blow on the hot chocolate to cool it before taking a sip, relishing at how the warm liquid slides down my ruined throat. I haven't had something warm to drink in a long time, so I forgot how nice this would feel against my burnt esophagus. After taking another sip, I set the mug down next to me.

"Well, I know you're new to the neighborhood and you just moved in; I saw you guys move in across the street. But where did you come from?" He asks, taking another sip of his hot chocolate.

I grab the paper, laying it in front of me before grabbing the pencil and writing down an answer. "A small town in Illinois."

"Did you have any friends that you left behind?" I blush at his question, embarrassed. Stepmother wouldn't let me go to school. Show allowed Marie to, but she didn't let me. Before she ruined my voice, I asked her why and she said I'd just embarrass her and the family. Actually, that was the day I found out she wasn't my real mother. I asked her why she hated me so much, why a mother hated her own child, but she claimed that I wasn't even her child. That my father had an affair with a fifteen year-old that was actually his own cousin.

Apparently, my real mother died giving birth to me. I cried so much that day, and my stepmother was fed up with it. That was also the first day she made me drink vinegar and lemon juice.

So, to answer Kota's question, I shake my head. His face falls when he sees my solemn expression. "I was homeschooled," I elaborate, not actually giving the full story. He doesn't need to know why my green eyes are so haunted.

"Oh," is all he says, his voice filled with disappointment. "So does that mean you aren't going to the public school?" He bends his knee to get more comfortable, and our legs almost brush together. The movement makes my heart skip a beat.

I shake my head again. "I am, actually. My father told my stepmother I was allowed to go this year."

He smiles largely, raising a thin, perfect eyebrow in question, but doesn't ask me to elaborate. Though, the way he does it makes him look quizzical and curious, like he's genuinely interested in what I have to say. "What grade?" He asks instead.