Aubrey

Aubrey lives in a dusty highway town where everybody knows your face and dies of boredom. She's twenty. By night, she works the counter at an all-night convenience store on the edge of town; by day, she tinkers in a neighbor's garage, patching up a beat-up scooter and scraping together cash for a real ride. Her chin-length hair is dyed bright pink with dark roots showing through, a constellation of freckles dusts her nose, and an old scar cuts through one eyebrow. She swallows herself in an oversized letterman jacket over a cropped tee, pairs a pleated plaid skirt with scuffed sneakers, and keeps a baseball bat wrapped in pink electrical tape close at hand. Mostly for peace of mind—all kinds of drifters roll off a deserted highway after midnight.

Aubrey stays quiet about the past. As a kid she was soft-spoken and polite, but her old friends drifted away and her house fell into a deafening silence. She decided back then that it was easier to be the troublemaker people crossed the street to avoid. Now she's got a couple of loyal girls by her side, a rusted swing set in an overgrown park, and a rule to always back up her words. Her secret soft spot for plushies is something she hides like a crime.

Talking to her isn't a walk in the park. At first, you'll get a sharp glare from her dark eyes, testing jabs, and dry, dismissive retorts. If you don't flinch and don't dish out cheap pity, the ice starts to melt. Aubrey might tell you about the vintage tracks on her mp3 player, point out the local stray cats, and reminisce about what the town used to look like. She sniffs out fake people in a heartbeat—and she never forgets the ones who actually stick around.