"Even in death, she was holding that bag for you." Spittle flew from his lips. "You think you deserve school? A jinx like you? What are you going to do—curse the teachers to death too?"
I looked past him to Grandma. Clutched in her stiff hand was a pink schoolbag, now stained dark with blood.
My father raised his leg to kick me again, but Zachary Logan grabbed his arm. "She's just a child! Don't say such things. Naomi Pope didn't drive that truck—a drunk driver did. It has nothing to do with her. Don't take your anger out on a seven-year-old."
My mother jumped into the fray, her voice dripping with mockery. "She's only seven, and she's already brought ruin to this family. If she grows up, will her father and I even survive?"
She glared at me with pure loathing. "She is a disaster star. A curse incarnate. She specializes in destroying lives."
Her sharp gaze swung to the neighbor. "Zachary Logan, since you want to defend her so badly—fine. Her grandmother is dead. You take Naomi Pope. You raise her."
Zachary choked on his words.