Free OUTCAST: A Stepbrother Romance by Ora Wilde Page A

this ?” I asked, shocked. I had an inkling... but I didn’t want to believe it. It was almost impossible anyway. I didn’t want to be disappointed.

    “ A re you blind , girl?” my dad replied. “It’s a key.”

    “ I know it’s a key ,” I said. “But for what?”

    “ W hy don’t you check outside, Sweetie,” Aunt Susan encouraged, fueling my suspicion - as well as my excitement - even more.

    S kittishly , I darted out the door, towards the driveway... then I saw it...

    T he model wasn’t new , not by a long shot. The paint job needed some work. There were noticeable scratches on the tint of the windows. The left side of the rear bumper was smashed, a testament to the driving prowess - or the lack thereof - of the previous owner.

    L ime green and radiant under the morning sun, it wasn’t the most beautiful car in the world.

    B ut for me , it was perfect.

    I looked at my folks , and they were still smiling at me. I smiled back and thanked them profusely.

    “ A Ford Focus , 2006 model,” my dad proudly exclaimed, unmindful of the fact that it was manufactured more than nine years ago.

    “ D ad ... we... we can’t afford this,” I told him worryingly. “How could we... how could we even pay for this?”

    “ D on’t worry about it , Pumpkin,” he calmly said. “I’ve taken care of it. It’s not like we have to pay for it every month for God knows how many years.”

    “ O kay ... but how?” I continued to ask. “How were you able to afford this?”

    “ D on’t concern yourself withsmall matters like that,” he responded. “What matters most is that my little girl is going to college in a few months, and she’ll need a car.”

    “ I ’ll need a car ?” I was baffled by his statement. Why would I need a car when I don’t even know what university I will attend for college. What if I get accepted in a school at the other end of the country... like Pennsylvania or Ohio...

    B efore my dad could answer , an elderly man garbed in a light brown polo shirt and a dark brown pair of pants, carrying a satchel that looked empty at first glance, approached us. It was Mr. Peniski, the mailman who serviced our neighborhood.

    “ H ey Alfred ,” my dad greeted him. “What brings you to our street, my friend?”

    “ H ey Jim ,” he greeted back, “long time no see. Darn internet. No one sends real mails anymore except billing companies.”

    “ T hat’s true ,” my dad chuckled. “So what have you got for us? Some bills? I just paid this month’s dues last week.”

    “ N o ,” Alfred answered. “I have an envelope here, but it doesn’t look like a bill,” he continued as he opened his satchel and grabbed what seemed like the only content inside - a large, brown envelope wrapped in plastic.

    S o , he was in the neighborhood because he was going to deliver a mail.

    T hat got me thinking .

    T he mailman never delivers on a Saturday. So what brought him to our place? Somehow, his presence on our driveway made me feel something different... something thrilling in an uncanny sort of way...

    H e put on his glasses , narrowed his eyes, scrunched his nose and read the recipient of the package.

    “ A ndrea Higgins ,” he uttered. “It’s for Andrea Higgins.”

    M y eyes widened . A mail? For me? On a Saturday?

    I snatched the envelope from his hands and started to run back to the house. It took me a few steps to realize how rude that may have seemed for kindly Alfred who has always been a fixture in our street since I was a toddler.

    “ T hank you !” I yelled at him as I looked back. Then I continued to dart towards the stairs, towards my room, towards my bed.

    I threw myself on the mattress and started to rip the plastic that covered the package. I drew out the envelope and opened it. Inside was a letter.

    A letter from UCLA .

    I took my time reading it.

    A statement of my name . The usual salutation. A summary of the application procedure I have undertaken. And a