There was nothing special about Viola Kent. She had two pimples on her chin, greasy bangs, and lank dishwater-blonde hair. Her face was round and thin at the same time, her shoulders broad yet her frame delicate. The fluorescent lights did her no favors, but she wouldn’t be remarkable even in the most flattering setting. The most notable thing about her were her eyes, which bent more toward silver than pale blue. But even the impact of the unique color faded quickly. Viola was a thirteen-year-old girl in every way every other thirteen-year-old girl was. And Gretchen could not be more pleased.
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