Raven by V. C. Andrews Page A

her leave the house, and it was all very quiet again.
I took a deep breath and went to the window. It was still gray and dismal outside. Jennifer had guessed correctly. I wouldn't tell Uncle Reuben. Why would he believe me? I'd keep her little secret. For now.
And then I saw someone on the corner standing under a sprawling maple tree. She wore a raincoat and a bandana over her hair just the way my mother often did.
"Mama?" I called, my eyes filling with tears.
The woman turned and disappeared down the next street.
I shot out of the room and rushed to the door. Then I ran down the walk and up the street to the corner, but by the time I got there, there was no one in sight. I stood there looking. Had I imagined it?
"Mama!" I screamed. My voice died in the wind, and no one appeared.
But what if it had been Mama? I thought. In my heart of hearts, I wished it had been, just so I knew she was thinking about me, just so I knew she did care a little, even if she hadn't come back for me.
Maybe, I thought, looking down the long, empty street with barely a car moving along it, maybe I wanted it so much that I simply imagined it.
Just like everything good I wanted for myself, this was only to be a dream, an illusion, another hope tied to a bubble that would burst, leaving me as lost and as forgotten as ever.
I turned and went back to the hell I had to call home.

8 Innocence Lost
    The guidance counselor at my old school, Mr. Martin, once told me it's harder to look at yourself than it is to look at others. Some of my teachers had been complaining to him about me, and when I had my meeting with him and he read off the list of cornplaints, I had an excuse for everything. I was so good at dodging that he finally sat back, looked at me, and laughed.
    "You don't believe half of what you're telling me, Raven," he said, "and you realize that when you walk out of here, you will walk out of here knowing that I don't believe you, either. The truth is, you have been irresponsible, neglectful, wasteful, and to a large extent self-destructive. You want to know what I think?" he asked, leaning forward and clasping his hands on the desk.
    He had rust-colored hair and eyes as green as emeralds. Tiny freckles spilled from his forehead, down his temples to the crests of his cheeks. He always had a friendly hello for anyone. I never saw him lose his temper, but he had a way of making a troubled student feel bad about himself or herself. He spoke softly, sincerely, and acted as if he was everyone's big brother, taking each disappointment personally and asking questions that forced you to be honest.
    My heart seemed to cower in my chest as I waited for him to drop his bombshell. I had to look down. His eyes were too penetrating, his gaze too demanding.
    "No," I finally said, "but I guess you're going to tell me anyway."
"Yes, I am, Raven. I think you're a very angry young woman, angry about your life, and you think you're going to hurt someone if you do poorly and behave poorly--However, the only one you're really hurting is you."
I turned to look past him, to look out the office window, because I could feel the tears welling under my lids. Few people were ever able to penetrate the wall I had built around my true feelings, and whenever anyone did, I always felt a little naked and as helpless as a child.
"Your mother doesn't respond to any of my calls or letters. She's never been available to meet with your teachers."
"I don't care if she comes here or not," I snapped.
"Yes, you do," he said softly. He sat back again. "Sometimes, actually most of the time, we can't do much about the hand we've been dealt. We've got to make the most of it and get into the game. It doesn't do any good whining about it, right? You know that"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Martin. I failed some tests, big deal. My teachers are always picking on me because I'm an easy target. Other kids talk and pass notes and forget their books and stuff and don't get into half as