The Perfect Family

by Robyn Harding

  “Thank you. I’ll be there by then. I promise.” But she had already hung up.

  The store was in a retail park, surrounded by other big-box stores. I parked my car in the massive lot and practically jogged inside. My mouth was dry while my palms felt clammy, but I knew what I had to do. This was necessary. This was right. I walked directly to the back of the store where a large sign read: GUNS AND AMMUNITION. A heavyset man stood behind the counter, fiddling with the till. I approached him.

  “I need to buy a handgun,” I said.

  Eli

  ON SUNDAYS, MY dad barbecued if the weather was decent. Our family usually ate really healthy food, but when my dad was manning the grill, we had burgers, sausages, or steaks. Tarryn wouldn’t eat any of it, of course, so my mom always made a big salad to go along with it. I wasn’t sure my sister would even join us for dinner. She still seemed pretty angry with my dad. And disgusted by him. Although Tarryn’s default personality was angry and disgusted, so maybe she was already over it.

  My parents were trying to act like everything was normal, going about their usual routines, but things were far from normal. Someone was seriously out to get us. It could be the Worbey guys, but I bet it had something to do with my dad. His confession and my run-in with Arianna had reinforced what I already knew in my heart. My father wasn’t a good person. He was shady and shallow and maybe even abusive. He had provoked someone into breaking into our house, leaving a gory message for him. I felt sorry for my mom. She was determined to stand by him even though it was tearing her apart.

  I found her in the kitchen making tabbouleh, one of my favorites. It required a lot of chopping, which seemed to be a release for her. She was slamming the blade onto the wooden cutting board with excessive force. It was just parsley, not rocks. Her eyes looked far away, and her forehead was crinkled with the exertion. If her finger got in the way, it would be a goner.

  Muting my earbuds, I asked, “Do you need any help?”

  She paused, looking up at me. For a moment, it seemed she didn’t know where she was. Then she gave me a weak smile. “Can you take the meat out to your father?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks, honey.” She resumed her attack on the parsley.

  I carried the plate of steaks to the backyard. My dad was scraping the grill, a beer in his other hand. Unlike Mom, he seemed to be handling the stress quite well. If anyone should be buckling under the strain, it was him. But he didn’t seem to care that his family was falling apart.

  “Thanks, pal.” His words were too loud, too upbeat. He felt the hostility of my presence, the weight of my gaze. “Go help your mom with the salad.”

  “She doesn’t need help.”

  “Okay.” He took a swig of beer, then peeled the bloodied plastic wrap off the meat. “Can you put this in the outdoor trash? I don’t want it stinking up the kitchen.”

  Clearly, he didn’t want me around. The effort of being jovial was too much. I didn’t want to be around him either. I took the wet plastic, felt the blood on my fingers.

  Our trash can and recycling bins were behind the garage. It was a pain when I had to roll them out to the street for collection, but my parents wanted to keep them out of view. Hide the garbage, any signs of ugliness. With my music blasting in my ears, I strolled to the back of our substantial yard. My stomach was already growling, and I was looking forward to a good steak and some pulverized tabbouleh.

  Maybe I would have heard something if I hadn’t been wearing my earbuds. There must have been some sort of noise emanating from the green plastic bin. But I had no warning, no sense of dread as I opened the lid to toss the soggy wrapping inside. And then, they were on me, a hot black swarm, a hundred needles stabbing into me all at once. I screamed, my voice barely audible over the loud music in my ears. My arms flailed to protect myself, but it just made the attack fiercer.

  Dizzy with pain, I turned and staggered blindly toward the house.

  Viv

  MY SON HAD thirteen angry red wasp stings on his arms, neck, and face. He looked swollen, almost monstrous, and I’d wanted to take him to the ER, but Eli insisted he was fine. I had bathed the stings with soapy water and then applied ice to reduce the swelling—though it had done little good. He wasn’t in pain anymore, but he’d been stung close to his left eye. It was already closing, giving him the look of a boxer after a bad match.

  Thomas had received three stings while dealing with the wasps’ nest that had been planted in our garbage bin. He’d found a can of insecticide in the garage, then opened the lid of the plastic container and sprayed the poison into it. Most of the angry insects had already escaped when Eli attempted to deposit the bloody plastic wrap, but a few still trapped inside had taken the opportunity to attack Thomas. The rest had been killed by the insecticide.

  When the wasps were gone, Thomas removed their papery hive. It had not been built in the can by the insects; it was not attached to the sides or the lid. Someone had planted it; there was no doubt. But when? And how? Wouldn’t one need significant protective clothing to transport a live wasps’ nest? How had we missed someone in beekeeper’s garb walking down our driveway? Of course, if a kid was brave enough, he could capture the hive in a garbage bag. The cameras showed nothing. Our attackers were wise to them now, skirting past them or avoiding them altogether. Perhaps they’d come through the backyard? We had motion-sensor lights and a camera over the French doors at the back porch and the basement entrance, but they could have gained access to the bins without detection. Christ… now we needed surveillance of our garbage.

  The morning after the wasp attack, I had an appointment at Dolly’s house. I’d considered canceling, but Eli said I was being ridiculous. I checked on him before I left. He was covered in red welts and, as predicted, his eye was swollen shut. He looked horrifying, but he insisted he was just a bit itchy now. “I’ll text work,” he said, “tell them I can’t go in.”

  “Good idea.” I squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry about this.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I know, but…” My throat closed and my cheeks got hot. “We’re your parents. We should protect you.”

  “Mom, don’t.” He rolled over, embarrassed by my show of emotion.

  * * *

  AS I DROVE down the I-5, I felt rattled and weary, but I had to drop off fabric swatches for Dolly’s new sofa, and paint chips for her to mull over. The Fourth of July holiday was approaching, and Dolly was taking her family to California. Thomas and I had considered a brief family getaway, but we were afraid to leave our home unprotected. The hooligans would be out in full force, fueled by beer, hot dogs, and fireworks. These youths clearly delighted in their vandalism, thrilled by the devastation. Boys will be boys, people said, as if being a cruel, destructive monster was a rite of passage. Society was meant to be shifting away from its acceptance of toxic masculinity, yet these kids harassed us with impunity, enabled by indulgent parents, a harried police force, and a school quick to pass the buck. And now my son lay in bed covered in horrible welts. What if he’d been allergic? He would have been killed. Our attackers didn’t know, and they didn’t care.

  I didn’t even realize I was crying until I reached the highway exit and could barely read the sign. There was a tissue in my purse, and I fished for it with a hand still on the wheel. I dabbed at my eyes and blew my nose, pulling myself together. It was highly unprofessional to show up to a meeting in tears. And Dolly was going through worse. So much worse. They’d been run out of their neighborhood by a drug lord, an actual gangster who had nearly beaten their son to death. A few wasp stings were minor in comparison.

  In Dolly’s driveway, I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. My mascara had miraculously stayed put, but tears had left pale streaks down my cheeks. I smudged at my blush with my fingers, but it didn’t help. At least this would be a quick meeting. Maybe Dolly wouldn’t notice my disheveled state.

  With the fabric and paint samples in a manila envelope, I approa
ched the door and rang the bell. I would take Dolly through my top choices, the costing for each option, but the decision was ultimately hers. I would suggest she mull it over during her vacation. I’d be in and out in under half an hour—before Dolly noticed my fragile demeanor. And I was eager to get back to Eli.

  The door opened, answered by a teenage boy. He was a big kid, almost Eli’s height, but with a less athletic build. His hair could only be described as beige, his complexion was sallow, and his eyes were a washed-out shade of gray. The only color on his entire face came from the angry red pimples on his forehead and chin. It came to me then: this was Nate, Dolly’s troubled son. He’d been such a cute little boy, with a smattering of freckles across his nose, a twinkle in his lively eyes. Was this what the drugs had done to him? Or was it the stress and the fear of crossing his supplier?

  “Hi, Nate,” I said brightly. “I’m Viv Adler, Eli’s mom.”

  “Yeah,” he snarled. “I know who you are.”

  I was taken aback by the hatred in his voice. I hadn’t seen Nate in nearly ten years. And even when he was a child, I hadn’t known him well. Had he ever come to our house for a playdate with Eli? If he had, I couldn’t recall. True, I had redecorated his bedroom in his old house, but he had always been at school, and his mother had made all the decisions. His anger couldn’t be about that.

  “Y-your mom has hired me to do some redecorating,” I stammered. “Is she home?”

  “You shouldn’t fucking be here.”

  Dolly suddenly appeared next to her son. The look of horror on her face made it clear she’d overheard his hostile greeting.

  “Viv, hi… come in.” She turned to the boy, still glowering at me. “Apologize to Mrs. Adler right now.”

  “No. Why should I?”

  It felt like a slap. Even a punch. I was already so brittle, so vulnerable.

  Dolly’s face crumpled “Just… go to your room, Nate. Please.”

  The boy obliged, storming off. “Don’t let her near me. Or my room.” He stabbed a finger toward me. “Or any of my fucking stuff.”

  Dolly closed her eyes for a moment, as if she was willing him to disappear. “I’m so sorry,” she said, opening them again. “Please. Come in.”

  But I couldn’t. Nate Barber scared me. “I just wanted to drop these off,” I said, thrusting the envelope into her hands. “For the sofa and the feature wall.”

  “Thank you.” She ushered me onto the front steps and closed the door behind her. “Nate should never have spoken to you that way. I apologize for him.”

  “I don’t understand. Does he have some issue with Eli?”

  “No… I mean, just the usual stuff.”

  “The usual stuff?”

  “Eli was so popular. Nate never was. I suppose there was a little resentment there, but it was nothing, really.”

  “So then, what is it?

  “He’s not himself,” she said, her voice thick with sadness. “We’re afraid he might be using again. Although I don’t know how. We’ve basically got him on house arrest. We don’t let him use our cars. And he’s been passing his home drug tests. But… addicts will find a way.”

  It was intrusive to ask, but I needed to know. “What kind of drugs was he taking? And selling?”

  “Fake oxy,” she said, her voice low. “I didn’t even know such a thing existed before all this. The pills almost look like the real thing, but they’re dull and rough, made in some underground lab. They’re toxic and dangerous.”

  Jesus Christ.

  “I really have to go,” I croaked.

  “Of course.” Dolly held up the envelope. “Thanks for bringing these by.”

  But I was already hurrying away, already approaching my car. “Have a nice holiday,” I called as I jumped into the front seat. Slamming the door on her reply, I tore out of the driveway.

  Tarryn

  AFTER OUR HOUSE was broken into, my parents insisted I sleep upstairs in my mom’s office. At least I was allowed to keep my clothes, books, and devices in the basement. There wasn’t space for them upstairs anyway. My mom had a computer desk and a worktable cluttered with design books, paint chips, and bits of fabric. My childhood bed was pressed against one wall. When I climbed into the twin, I felt like a little kid again, all of us sleeping upstairs with no space and no privacy. It had made me feel safe then. But not now.

  This relocation had put an end to my camming career. There was no way I could go online in the middle of the night with my parents and brother just down the hall. And when I checked my online messages, I realized that Natalia was done. Over. She’d been too much work, too unstable and unpredictable. Camming was all about the fantasy, not dealing with messy reality. I’d been angry at first, and then sad. But now I had a new strategy. And I was excited about it.

  When these kids stopped attacking us and I could move back downstairs, I would start over. I’d create a new camming persona, under a new name, on a new platform like OnlyFans. I’d wear a different wig—maybe blond this time, or jet black. I’d buy some new lingerie, not lacy and pretty but sleek and sexy, a little dangerous. It would take time to build up my community. But it would take even longer for Bryce Ralston to find me online.

  The school had promised that our exam marks would be e-mailed to us within a week. I wasn’t eager to get them. I already knew I’d done poorly. It was a bit difficult to study when you were being stalked and you’d just discovered your dad might be a violent pervert. But with luck, I’d passed. I didn’t care if I couldn’t get into a good college, but I sure as hell didn’t want to spend any more time in high school.

  On Tuesday, I checked my e-mail. There were no exam results, but there was an e-mail from Mr. McLaughlin.

  Hi Tarryn,

  I’d like to talk to you. Could you come to my classroom this afternoon? I’ll be there between 1 and 3.

  Thank you.

  Mr. McLaughlin

  Oh shit.

  Clearly, this was not about my English exam. I was pretty sure I’d passed that one, at least. I’d probably pulled off a C, would have gotten an A under normal circumstances. But nothing had been normal lately. In addition to the mess at home, Luke and Georgia hadn’t spoken to me since Bryce’s party. Not even a Snapchat. Not even a text. Had they watched my camming meltdown with all the popular kids? Now that I was sure Bryce was behind the creepy messages, I figured the whole school was probably laughing at me. The thought made me feel ill.

  The hallways of Centennial High were quiet, a few other low-achievers wandering morosely to meet with teachers. In my English classroom, I found Mr. McLaughlin at his desk, his head bent over a ream of papers. As I entered, he looked up, his expression tense.

  “Thanks for coming in, Tarryn,” he said, pushing the stack of papers to the side. “Have a seat.”

  I grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the opposite side of his desk. My face felt like it was on fire.

  “Ms. Harris will be joining us momentarily.”

  “I don’t need to talk to the counselor,” I said quickly. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re clearly not.” He leaned forward. “What was that all about the other night?”

  “Look, I’m sorry I went to your house,” I said, my voice hoarse with shame. “I was drunk. It was stupid.”

  “It’s obvious that something’s going on with you,” he said, his face troubled. “Ms. Harris and I just want to help.”

  “But this has nothing to do with school,” I cried. “You guys can’t meddle in my private life!”

  Mr. McLaughlin steepled his fingers together. “You mentioned that you were being harassed online.… The school has resources. There are support systems that can help you.”

  I wasn’t going to stick around for pamphlets and pep talks. I stood. “Honestly, everything’s fine. Really. I just have to go.”

  I hurried out of the classroom. At the other end of the hall, I saw Ms. Harris headed my way, a clutch of reading materials in her hand. Without looking back, I jogged
to the exit and burst out of the school. My teacher and counselor could not fix the mess I was in. Only I could do that.

  Thomas

  WITHIN A COUPLE of days my background check had cleared, and I was able to pick up my gun. It was a secondhand revolver, a .38 Smith & Wesson in perfect condition. The store clerk had given me brief instructions on how to use it, and then he’d tried to sell me a gun vault.

  “It’s the best way to keep the weapon safe but accessible in case of an emergency.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. Because I could hide a gun from Viv, but I couldn’t hide a vault.

  My wife was anti-firearms. I suppose I had been too until someone had come into my home and left a gory message next to the poached chicken. Until my house was set on fire and my son was attacked by wasps. I’d never thought I’d be capable of shooting someone, until now. The police would not protect my family, so I would do it myself.

  This wasn’t the work of kids anymore. The eggs, the rocks, the graffiti… that was kid stuff, but the attacks had turned sinister. They had moved beyond paint-filled balloons, fruit attacks, and smoke bombs. Children did not break into homes with mutilated rodents. They didn’t have the capacity to plant a wasp nest in a trash can. And they wouldn’t try to burn us in our beds. The assaults had taken a deadly turn. And I finally knew who was behind them.

  Unbeknownst to Viv, I had messaged my blackmailer.

  Harassing my family is not going to make me pay for something I didn’t do. I advise you to stop before you get hurt. I will do what is necessary to protect my family.

  And I would. I considered myself a nonviolent person, but if I had to, I would shoot. And I would kill. If Chanel—or more likely, her henchman—tried to hurt Viv, or Tarryn, or Eli, I would do what was necessary.

  Chanel’s response came quickly and briefly.