The Black Girl Survives in This One: "Foxhunt" by Charlotte Nicole Davis

It wasn’t just Flex’s classmates, the seniors of Arbor Hill High—the boys with their faces painted crimson and gold, the girls with their jerseys tied off above their midriffs.

Tiny, almost translucently pale, with wispy white-blond hair that frizzed as if from her own frenetic energy.

“I keep telling you, Flex, I’m not short, I’m aerodynamic. Corn dog?”

Amadea presents with a near-constant but unspecified dread that appears to interfere with almost every aspect of her life.

She is incredibly resistant to evaluation and assumes malicious intent, as she reportedly does for all authority figures other than her sister.

Outpatient treatment in the form of supportive therapy is recommended, but “Flex” will need to be monitored closely for any further warning signs of aggression or deviance.

Even Kirsten had started avoiding her the past couple of days, quickly growing flustered when she saw Flex in the hallway.

Did she have any reason to say no other than the hum of premonition building at the base of her skull?

She’d even started strategizing about what to wear to stay warm for a night in the woods.

Flex, reclusive and reserved; Amarantha, bubbly and boisterous.

The flashlight might only aggravate it.

Her voice was high and thin, with an edge of hysteria to it.

Exposed tree roots, sliding rocks, little pits and ditches just the right size for turning an ankle—it would have been hard going even in the daytime, but Kirsten remained adamant that the light stay off, and the moonlight only grew fainter the deeper into the woods they went.

But Kirsten didn’t respond with one of her typical witticisms.

He let out a strangled cry and dropped the gun, scrabbling desperately to pull her arm away.