Free OCDaniel by Wesley King Page B

speaking through me. I felt it in the nape of my neck and into my toes.
    â€œIs there anything else that makes you a Star Child?”
    She turned back to the street. “I won’t get into the full details. Essentially there is a special strain of DNA passed down from ancient history. Every once in a while it results in a Star Child—a person of special intelligence and a pure heart. They can also be a bit . . . eccentric. Like me.”
    I hesitated. “What is . . . I mean . . . is there something wrong with you? Medically?” I flushed. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just, the TA and the not talking, and you seem normal now—”
    â€œIt’s okay,” she said. “I have general anxiety disorder, bipolar disorder, mild schizophrenia, and depression.” She shrugged. “That’s what they’ve diagnosed, anyway.”
    Sara stopped and looked at me.
    â€œSo I am certifiably nuts, and I take five pills a night. But I seem normal now because I am. For what we are.”
    We turned onto my street, and I led her to my house, thinking that I was going to have to introduce her to my mom. This was not going to be good.
    â€œWhy do they call them Star Children?” I asked.
    â€œBecause that DNA is alien,” she said. “You’re not totally human, Daniel Leigh.”
    I looked at her, frowning, and then opened my door. My mom came around the corner and stopped.
    â€œOh,” she said. “Hello.”
    â€œHey,” I replied. “Umm . . . this is my . . .”
    Sara looked at me pointedly.
    â€œFriend from school,” I said. “We are working on a project together.”
    Sara narrowed her eyes, but then smiled at my mom and nodded. Obviously she wasn’t speaking again. My mom looked dubious, but she gestured for us to come in.
    â€œNice to meet you,” she said. “Can I get you guys anything?”
    â€œNo,” I replied. “We’ll just be upstairs.”
    My mom raised her eyebrows, and I sighed. She always fought with Steve about keeping his bedroom door open when his girlfriend came over. “I’ll keep the door open.”
    We hurried upstairs, and Sara giggled quietly behind me. “Did she think we were going to make out or something?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “I guess.”
    â€œYou wish.”
    Frowning, I led her into my bedroom and gestured for her to sit down at the desk. She walked right by and plunked down on my bed. Then she patted the spot next to her.
    â€œChop, chop,” she ordered. “I have to be home by five.” I gingerly sat down next to her, and she opened her bag. “Now, let me catch you up on a few things.” She took out a photo of a heavyset man with short black hair. He had a warm smile. I recognized the eyes, though—green and strangely misty.
    â€œThis is my father,” she said. “Thomas Malvern. Municipal waste specialist.”
    â€œHe was a garbageman?” I asked.
    She glared at me. “Municipal waste specialist. Now, he disappeared thirteen months ago.” Sara withdrew a letter written in black pen. “He left this in my bedroom.”
    I took the note.
    Dear Sara,
    I am so sorry to leave without saying good-bye. It was too painful to tell you in person. . . . I hope you’ll forgive me. I simply had to leave; things are not great with your mother, and it’s time to go. I don’t know where I am going, and I don’t know if you’ll be able to contact me there. I will try to write. I was never the best father, but I tried. You were the most important thing in the world to me, and I love you very much. Don’t look for me, darling Sara. Take care of your mother.
    Love,
    Dad
    I looked at Sara. “I’m sorry.”
    She took the letter and laid it out on the bed. “No time for tears.”
    â€œThis seems kind