Copyright © 2018 Meagan Brandy
All rights reserved. This book, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No copyright infringement intended. No claims have been made over songs and/or lyrics written. All credit goes to original owner.
Edited by: Ellie McLove, My Brother's Editor
Proofread by: Virginia Tesi Carey
Cover Designer: Jay Aheer, Simply Defined Art
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Copyright © 2018 Meagan Brandy
Dedication:
Synopsis
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Quick note from the author:
Stay Connected:
More from Meagan Brandy:
Playlist:
Acknowledgments:
About the Author:
Dedication:
To the one waiting for your time to fly, be strong.
The sun will come.
Synopsis:
“Girls like you aren’t exactly welcomed at a place like this, so keep your head down and look the other way.”
Those were the exact words of my social worker when she dropped me in my newest hellhole, a place for “troubled teens.”
I didn’t listen, and now I’m on their radar.
They expect me to play along in their games of hierarchy, to fall in line in the social order they’ve deemed me fit.
Too bad for them, I don’t follow rules.
Too bad for me, they're determined to make sure I do.
Inconceivably attractive and treated like kings...these are the boys of Brayshaw High.
And I’m the girl who got in their way.
Walk away.
Move your feet, exit this piece of shit cafeteria, and go get high. Chill out.
Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.
I keep walking, and I’m almost free and clear, almost through the door and away from the trouble I surely don’t need but can’t seem to escape.
But of course, nothing in my life is simple and just before my left foot joins my right, the final step through the open door, the bitch decides she’s not done and runs her mouth. Again.
“Maybe if she wasn’t such a slut her whore mom wouldn’t have kicked her out for sleeping with her new man.”
The laughter echoes, growing louder until it wraps around my throat like my mother’s hands when in a fit, choking me until I lose focus.
I stop where I stand.
My eyes haze, rage winning over the calm bravado I attempted to force myself into.
“Trailer trash, bitch.”
More laughs.
And there it is, the push.
Why do they always push?
Before anyone can stop me, not that there’s anyone who would give a shit to, I snatch the closest tray off the nearest table and in one swift move, one hard, full swing, smash it across the side of her face.
The cheap red plastic breaks against her head and screams ring around me.
Blood pours from the big mouthed bitch’s forehead and she shrieks, her horrified gaze flying to mine. I wait until our stares connect, then quickly kick her chair sideways. Panic grows in her eyes as she crashes to the floor.
There’s no time to escape, not that I have anywhere to go.
People scream, but no one dares to step closer to me. The lunch lady calls for help and everyone rushes to the asshole on the floors side because she’s ‘the victim.’ Sure, I got physical first, but she started it. What did she expect?
If you can’t take it, don’t dish it.
And, yeah, the spat wasn’t a lie, my mother is a whore. The dirtiest of dirty. Straight trailer trash at its finest, I’ll admit it all day.
But she doesn’t get to say it.
And I sure as shit couldn’t let her get away with disrespecting me the way she did, publicly.
Not sure how she managed it, but my mother, the failure she is, taught me one thing - to keep my pride above all else.
Apparently, that’s all a girl like me can control.
So disrespect me not.
“My office! Now!” Principal Folk screeches. He doesn’t call me by name, doesn’t look my way, but why would he? Here I stand, caught red-handed - literally still holding half of the tray in my hand - as always.
He probably knew it was me the second someone called for help, before even walking in here.
I toss the tray to the floor and head straight to my home away from home - the cheap wooden chair with a ripped-up burgundy center that sits directly across from the principal’s desk.
Monday was, as he warned, my “last strike,” but yesterday I got caught smoking behind the gym, and I’m still here. Today’s Thursday.
Wonder if he’s in another forgiving mood?
I’m guessing not when forty-five minutes later he charges in and slams himself into the seat, glaring at me through his little nerd glasses.
His anger probably has something to do with the loud mouth girl – who very well may still be bleeding all over the stark white cafeteria floor – being his niece.
My fucking bad.
His eyes narrow as he judges me and my too-tight top and ripped-up jeans.
So I smirk, taunt him a bit.
Because there’s nothing this guy could say or do that could possibly be as fucked as every other day in my reality.
I grab the edge of the chair and lean forward. “Give it to me, Mr. Folk.”
His eyes widen a fraction of an inch and as if he can’t help himself, quickly cut to my top.
Men, they have no self-control.
Well look at that, another thing learned from my mother.
“Clearly you don’t want to be here, Ms. Carver. Every time I issue a warning you come back twice as hard.”
When a slow grin stretches across my face, he clears his throat and looks away.
“This is your third high school in eighteen months and honestly, you’re lucky you lasted here so long.”
“Am I... Mr. Folk?” I drop back against the seat. “You sure you’re not—”
“Stop.” He glares before sighing. “This is serious. You’ve got the entire school’s attention now. I can’t make this go away.”
&n
bsp; I roll my eyes. “Just get on with it already. Where to next?”
He eyes me a moment before folding his hands and leaning forward against the desk. “I made a call.”
My eyes slice to his.
“Your social worker—”
“I don’t have a social worker.”
“Apparently you do. She contacted me a few months back and—”
“Months?”
“Raven, listen—”
Right then, the secretary ushers in some dark-haired lady wearing slacks and a button-down. She reaches over the desk to shake the principal’s hand.
“Mr. Folk, I’m Maria Vega.”
“Ms. Vega, I appreciate you coming so quickly.” He turns to me as does she.
“Hey there.” She gives a fake hello, her roaming eyes and tight-lipped smile more curious than anything. “Do you mind if we talk for a bit?”
I don’t bother speaking. No matter what I do or don’t say here, she’s already got me figured out as far as she’s concerned.
“Mr. Folk and I have been in contact over the last semester. He’s briefed me on your home situation and past issues, and at this time, we think it’s best you be removed from your mother’s care.”
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. ‘My mother’s care’ she says. Please.
The woman stares at me for a moment before sighing. She’s quick to lose the sweet, caring woman act. “Look, I get it. You don’t care what I have to say, fine. But we are removing you from the home. I’ll take you to grab your things and then it’s a day’s trip to your new housing. It’s a bit different, you being as old as you are, but we have a safe place for you.”
“Yeah? They make cookies and tuck you in at bedtime? Or is that job left to the man there who creeps into the little girls’ rooms at night?”
The woman’s eyes narrow and Mr. Folk sighs. “Is there something you need to tell me, Ms. Carver?”
“Nothing you’d care about.”
Her eyes jump to the small, fading cut below my left eye. “Try me.”
“Pass.” I hop to my feet, stepping close to her. “I’ll be waiting out front.”
“You’ll wait right here if you want to avoid that girl’s parents who are standing a few feet outside this door.”
“You’re mistaking me for someone who gives a shit.” With that, I shove past the woman and walk toward the front of the student office, toward the loving mother and father of the little bitch who ran her mouth. I look from the girl to her parents, finding all their glares on me, their body language showing exactly what they think of me.
Dirty.
Used.
Worthless.
And they’re not wrong.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I mumble to myself as I scan the yard.
Ms. Vega shifts toward me. “You’ll get used to it.”
“What the fuck is this place?”
“This is the Bray house.”
“Looks like Michael Myer’s house.”
She laughs lightly, then looks again, a frown taking over her face. “Well shit, it does. I never noticed before.”
The porch is dipping at the center, likely from wood rot, the white paint chipping like large splinters. It’s a perfect square, two small windows on each side of the door mirroring the two on the upper story, a creepy, awning beneath them.
“It seems small, but it widens toward the back.”
Small is a trailer with only enough space for a personal size fridge, one-sided sink, and two outlets for hot plates or a toaster oven.
“Anyway, this is a home for kids getting ready to age out, and a few younger ones who had issues with standard style parenting. It’s for the kids who are more ... challenging.”
“So there’s a bunch of punks living here?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “There’s a bunch of punks at the high school. This place is cake compared.”
“Sounds fantastic,” I deadpan.
With a resigned sigh, Ms. Vega says, “Let’s go.”
She drags the duffle bag she loaned me behind her as she walks up, and I force my feet to follow.
When we showed up at my trailer the day before yesterday, my mother laughed and welcomed us inside. She sat there smoking a joint – of my weed – in front of the social worker and offered to help me pack. I thought for sure she’d flip, try to beat my ass or let her flavor of the week do it, as she always has when I’d get suspended or kicked out of places. She knew if social services stepped in it meant no more welfare for her, and no more welfare meant no more “free” cocaine – she’d have to put in extra time on her back without it. And that was a problem because the prime prostitute from Gateway Trailer park has expensive taste in powder.
I knew it wasn’t because the worker was there, she didn’t give a shit about that. Shit, she talked with the lady like she’d known her all her life – shitty and hateful with a nasty smile on her face. The worst that would happen if she was reported would be a few days in jail, and that meant nothing to her, they already knew her well. According to my mom, it’s almost easier to score a sack in county than it is out here – and there, her trades are welcomed. She doesn’t discriminate against gender. A women’s money is worth just the same, she’d say.
No, I knew by her nonchalant attitude she’d gotten herself a new supplier, be it a new dealer willing to take a trick for a trade or client who stuck, who knows.
Who fucking cares.
“You must be Ms. Vega?” I follow the voice to find an older woman with deep wrinkles and dark frizzy hair. Her tone isn’t exactly welcoming toward Ms. Vega, more quizzical if anything.
“Yes, ma’am.” Ms. Vega hesitates for a second before stepping forward to shake the woman’s hand. “Ms. Maybell, this is Raven Carver, seventeen, out of Stockton California.”
When the woman turns my way, the roughness framing her eyes smooths.
“You had a small journey, huh, Raven?” the woman asks.
“It’s Rae.”
The woman smiles and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it looked genuine. And hell, maybe it is, another bastard’s kid means more green in her pocket.
I’m aware I could be judging unfairly, but ... are there still people who choose to house fucked up rejects for fun?
“Rae.” She smiles a little. “You’ll be in room seven. There are two bunks per room, but the last two who were in there were sisters, so both left together last week. You’ll have it to yourself for a bit, but that don’t mean funny business will be any easier for you. Not sure if you were told, but this is a girls only home, the boys are there.” She points across the lot to another white house about two court spaces away. “There’s no drugs, no sex, no stealing, and absolutely no fighting amongst the other girls. Other than those few things, it’s a nice deal here. Hurry on, put your things away and we’ll get you to the high school. They’re expecting you.”
With a sigh, I make my way to the door, pausing when she calls out again.
“Oh, and Rae?”
I glance over my shoulder with an eyebrow raised.
“Behind the house is off-limits. You can go as far as the swing set there but beyond that, the dirt road? It’s not for walking down. This whole front part, though, is yours to roam.”
“Sure,” I respond and face forward, taking in the mental institution style housing. Plain white walls with random couches against them make up the room, a single TV hanging high in one corner and bolted into the wall – preventing it from being easily stolen, I’m guessing. A card game left mid-play lays on the coffee table and an ashtray sits beside it.
“What the hell is this place?” I mumble to myself, jumping slightly when an unexpected voice answers.
“It’s four walls to stuff the runaways and problem children ‘til nobody is forced to pretend to care anymore.” When I lock eyes with the girl, she decides that means I want the full breakdown and keeps talking. “All the kids here are shipped to the local high school
as part of some poor kid program. It’s quite a place. Nothing but a bunch of ritzy privileged assholes with the exception of us few fuck-ups, and a handful of others from the low-income housing track down the road. But it’s not divided like you’d think, more one big system. You either tuck your tail and go about your day without being seen or heard, they allow that, or you’re in the middle of it all and your every move is measured. Step outside the unit and you’re treated like the trash they already see.”
“Sounds like a nightmare.”
She pops a shoulder. “It can be. Ran by some real gems.”
“Ran by?”
“You think they’d let us all walk on their marble floors without having a leg up on us?” She shakes her head. “They’re smarter than that. They offer us something we don’t have back home, we stay in line. Tit for tat all the way.”
“And people buy into that shit?”
This time her eyes skim my unhealthily thin frame from head to toe. “You’ll understand soon enough.” And then she’s gone.
“Ookay.” I frown, and turn to my things, making quick work of tossing my clothes into the dresser labeled with my name and walk back out front.
I toss my social worker – who popped out of fucking nowhere - her bag and she frowns.
“I told you to keep this.”
“I don’t want your pity shit.”
“I have no pity.”
“Then I don’t want your shit.”
“Get in the car, Raven,” she tells me with an exasperated sigh.
Maybell walks toward me with a smile. “Ms. Vega was nice enough to send over everything I needed yesterday, so I was able to pre-register you. Go straight to the office when you get there, it’s the first door on the left when you walk in. They’ll give you your schedule.”
With a nod, I walk away, but Maybell calls out again before I step into the car.
“There’ll be a group of kids walking this way after school. A good lot are headed here if you’d like to join ‘em. It’s a little over a mile down the road, city bus works just fine too if you can pay for it. Stops right here.” She points to the stop sitting at the edge of the sidewalk just in front of what she pointed out as the boys’ home.
I don’t respond and slam the door behind me.
Ms. Vega gets behind the wheel with a huff. “Look, Raven—”
Boys of Brayshaw High Page 1