Last Christmas, Grant had bought Sam a gold necklace with a small heart shape pendant inscribed with the letters, SP and GT always! Sam had cried while I’d watched them exchange gifts on the doorstep, sneaking a peek at their tear-jerking moment from my bedroom window. As far as I know, she had never taken it off, not since that moment. She always wore it, even when they were arguing. I, of course, explain this to Mr Simpson, who merely smiles tightly over the touching anecdote, clearly finding the whole narrative both uncomfortable and unnecessary.
“Have you seen it since?”
“No,” I reply truthfully, “I didn’t realize she didn’t have it anymore.”
“Miss Phillips claims her assailant ripped it from her neck during the attack and has not seen it since,” he explains matter of factly.
I watch Mr Simpson penning his last few notes, specifically studying his expressionless face, all the while carefully considering that this is all in a day’s work for him. Nothing unusual or outstanding at all. What a life to lead; to be so desensitized to those of us caught inside of this living nightmare for Sam, all our parents, my brother, me, even Bowie. Not an ounce of empathy reaches his icy blue eyes, just a hard, cold exterior.
Mr Simpson suddenly clears his throat, breaking me from my intense study of his soulless persona, only to inform me that Grant’s court case should be coming up within the next month. He explains that he is pushing for things to take place as swiftly as possible, so to prepare myself should I need to take the stand. He then informs me that under such circumstances, Grant would usually be given bail with some form of house arrest. However, my brother has not been afforded this option and is therefore not privy to any form of release.
“Why not?” I ask with confusion and clear agitation in my voice.
“Because your parents have refused to pay it,” he replies bluntly, then begins shuffling his papers around as if embarrassed by my parents’ decision. No wonder they’ve hired the services of such a cold-hearted individual like Mr Simpson, they’re even less human than he is.
That night, my parents caused a shock by joining me for dinner, though it’s a silent affair with a huge elephant in the room. An empty chair sits opposite me and I glance at it frequently, just in case this has all been a horrendous dream and Grant is sitting there, messaging his long-term girlfriend as usual.
“How was school?” Mom asks me with a fake, cheesy smile on her face.
It dawns on me, for the first time in a long while, the woman no longer knows how to talk to me. The last time she did, I was still very much a child, but now I’m on the verge of turning into an adult and she cannot acknowledge me without the presence of a nervous grin. Even on the night of Grant’s arrest, she only dropped the anxious laugh when she promised to cut back on work. I wonder if she even plans on doing that now that one of her children has been carted away by the police. It’s not a great look for a corporate lawyer like herself.
Her initial question has me dropping my fork to my plate with a purposefully loud clatter, looking at her like she’s grown an extra head because she doesn’t even know I was meeting with her son’s attorney today.
“I didn’t go,” I say to her like she’s an idiot, “I had a meeting with Grant’s lawyer, remember?” She blushes under my cold, hard stare, before quickly looking away and continuing to eat her food, which I can tell she no longer wants. “By the way, why have you decided not to pay his bail?”
“Damage control,” my father replies without even looking up from his plate. “If your brother is convicted, we need to be seen to distance ourselves from both him and his vile behavior.”
“What?!” I practically spit, letting my hormones make me look like nothing more than an over-dramatic teenager. “He’s not even been convicted yet and you’re already condemning him!”
“Your mother and I have heard the facts Amelia, and I’m afraid it’s not looking too good for your brother,” he replies with a casual shrug of his shoulders, finally gracing me with a pitiful expression. It’s one he and Mr Simpson must have taken their time perfecting, given they’re both as heartless as one another. Mom covers my hand with her own but offers nothing more than a sympathetic furrowing of her brow, complete with that ludicrous smile still plastered across her face.
“He’s your son!” I gasp at them both.
My two parents, who haven’t visibly uttered a word to one another in years, now exchange a loaded look. It’s one silently agreeing to tell me whatever bullshit they can to try and convince me that whatever their nonsensical reasons are, what they have decided to do, or not do, is somehow right. Of course, I possess a brain and know this is nothing more than a way to maintain both their reputations and to save themselves the hassle of actually having to care for one of their children when they’re in need.
“Amelia, we think you’re mature enough to hear what has already transpired following your brother’s arrest,” he swallows his wine lazily, making me hate him even more so than before this little tete a tete began. “Samantha has identified your brother as the attacker, she saw his face, she knows it was him. His semen was on both her skin and the dress she was wearing, and she had his DNA under her fingernails from where she had tried to fight him off. After he had finished attacking her, she reports that he had cried and called out your name, Amelia. Who else would have done such a thing?”
“Look, that’s all very scientific and logical Daddy dearest, but has anyone considered that there may have been other reasons for all of those nice, neat, itemized facts?!” I narrow my eyes at him, talking both slowly and with a condescending tone. “Such as the fact he and Sam have been mating like bunnies for at least six months now, hence why his semen would have been on both her and her clothes. And trust me, from what I heard, the girl liked it rough, hence the fingernails!”
“Amelia, please, think rationally about this. Even you know they had fought before the attack, and by all intents and purposes, it was a pretty vocal argument, giving him probable cause. Besides, you cannot ‘reason’ away from the fact that she has identified his face as the attacker, can you?”
I look away, not wanting to consider this for fear it will cast doubt in my mind, but then I remember something about the argument in question. I quickly grab for my phone and begin looking up whatever information I can find, desperately trying to prove Grant’s innocence as though this is his real court case and not just a fight with my shitty parents.
“Sweetheart, it may have been a moment of insanity, but it looks like your brother violated his girlfriend without consent-” my mother begins to argue, trying to make what they’re saying a little softer around the edges. Something to sweep neatly under the carpet and forget about.
“No, wait!” I cut her off, holding my phone up as though it’s giving out the meaning of life. “Look, it says here that drinking before using weed can intensify its effects, one of which is paranoia, plus when mixed some people can suffer from hallucinations. Even on alcohol alone, your mental capacity can be impaired. Surely her identification can’t be a basis to convict him, it’s not reliable evidence!”
“Yes, and Mr Simpson argued this, but even with that taken out, with everything else stacked against him, it’s still not looking good. Especially since…” my father looks at my mother and she drops her head down guiltily towards the floor beneath her.
“Since what?! For Christ’s sake, you deem me old enough to stay here by myself and to go and be interviewed by a lawyer on my own, so you can damn well tell me what else is being thrown at him!”
I would never have talked back to my parents like this before now, but I’m beyond all reason given the current state of my life. Besides, I will do anything to protect my brother while I believe he’s innocent.
“There is more evidence, Amelia,” Mom says softly as she tries to soothe my temper.
“Like what?!” I practically scream in frustration.
“We found her necklace,” my father replies quietly, “your mother went into
his room this afternoon. She found it under his pillow. It was snapped as if someone had ripped it from her neck.” He pauses and the dams finally burst. I begin to shake my head in a stunned, manic episode. “Amelia, if he is found guilty, he will be sentenced to a custodial sentence and we will need to continue as normal. The only way to do that in the lifestyle we have become accustomed to is to disown Grant and to publicly denounce his actions.”
His words break me from my meltdown, causing me to whip my eyes over to meet his hard, stony ones. My mouth drops open in horror as I now stare at the pair of cowards sat before me.
“So, what you’re saying is you’re both going to turn your backs on your flesh and blood?” I stand so suddenly and so aggressively, the chair behind me flips over. “But wait a minute!” I slap my forehead theatrically, “Silly me, you’ve been doing that for years anyway!”
“Amelia!” my father shouts while mom continues to look pathetically upset by the argument brewing in front of her, actively choosing to stay silent instead of getting involved in any kind of meaningful way. Why am I not surprised?!
I turn my back on both of them, running to the safety of my bedroom where I can bolt under the duvet. Once there, I physically tremble with tears flowing over my face and soaking the sheets beneath me. I cry so hard, I can’t even manage to get enough breath into my lungs without hyperventilating, blurring my vision and making my mouth swell up. All the while my head is trying to contemplate what this all means. If even my own parents believe he is guilty, if no one else can even see a hint of his innocence apart from a teenager now crying in her bedroom, then Grant isn’t getting out!
Chapter 7
Bowie, 15
I am being a totally selfish jerk on purpose, but what else is new? Sam is leaving, I don’t want her to, so I’m giving her the sullen, silent treatment while she tries her best to get me to snap out of it. It lasts all of five minutes before I give into her wide eyes and come to slump on the sofa next to her. The parentals have nipped out to get some last-minute essentials, so this is my last chance to say goodbye to her, being just the two of us.
“So, how are you really doing Sam?” I nudge her with my knee.
We’re both staring at the same empty glass I still haven’t bothered to take out to the kitchen in the last hour. She shrugs, sighs, and tries not to cry, a routine she’s perfected since Grant fucking Thomas destroyed her last Friday. I pull her into me and hold her close, trying to offer her the comfort she so desperately needs right now.
“I’m sorry I’m bailing on you, Bowie,” she croaks through her tears, “I just can’t bear it around here. Everything reminds me of Grant, not to mention our joint friends, his parents, even-”
“Amelia?” I growl. “I can easily take care of her Sam. The girl will be begging to be transferred somewhere else by the time I’m through with her.” Sam slaps me upside my head and scowls at me. “Ow, what the fuck?!”
“Leave Amelia alone, Bowie!” She points at me like she’s mom catching me sneaking out past curfew on a weeknight. “I don’t know what your beef is with her, but I really care about that girl, even if I do need space away from all things ‘Thomas’. She doesn’t deserve any of your wrath, so keep your distance!”
“Why the hell should a Thomas get to walk around freely while you, the victim, has to run away? It’s not fucking right, Sam!”
“I’m not running away! I just need time away-” I immediately scoff because it pretty much sounds like running away to me. “Shut up Bowie!”
“Ok, fine!” I finally relent, knowing she needs my support, not my teenage strop. That and the fact she’s going to be leaving soon and the last thing I want to do is see her off on an argument. Sam and I will just have to agree to disagree. “Come here sis, you need to promise to let me know the minute you’re ready for your little brother to come and visit you. It’s going to really suck living with Mom and Dad without you.”
“I know,” she sighs softly, “but try not to be too much of a little shit for them!”
She grins, then cuddles into me for a few minutes, just before our parents walk in with bags and bags of crap for her to take with her to college. She’s just going a little earlier than she was supposed to.
I keep my final goodbye to a minimum. I can’t be doing the whole tears and hugs thing; I’d be ripped to shreds if anyone found out I acted that way at school. I’ve had the same reputation since middle school, and after years of trying to fight it, I’ve finally made my peace with it. Besides, as luck would have it, it has served me well in high school. I’m now the fucking king, whereas Amelia Thomas will be forever under my shoe, where I will squash her in my own good time.
As I watch the car pull out of the driveway, I cast my final wave before letting my temper get the better of me, destroying my room, which I’ll only have to put straight later on. Who cares though? Right now, it’s making me feel good. The force of throwing things across the room, smashing my glass against the floor, and listening to its obliteration all releases my pent-up fury as I mentally recall the moment Sam broke down and told me everything.
Before I finally calm down, I spot the only thing which is going to make me feel happy this week, Millie Thomas’ diary. The damn thing is bound in scrappy black card, watermarked, wrinkled at the edges, and with lazy handwriting inside. Everything about it screams Amelia Thomas, and the temptation to rip it to shreds has me gripping it with white knuckle force. With great willpower, I make myself calm the fuck down, and only because I know this little book is going to prove much more valuable than simply giving into my short-term need to destroy.
Regardless of what I promised Sam, I’m going to get Little Miss Bambi with her wide eyes and naïve, ‘save me’ face. She will pay for who she is and for what her brother did to my sister, and I’m going to enjoy watching her fall.
Amelia, 15
Thump! Thump! Thump!
I clutch my pillow a little tighter when I hear the relentless banging on the door, silently willing whoever it is to do one and leave me in my pit of misery so I can go back to the sweet release of sleep. Realistically, who’s going to care whether or not I get to school today?
To my pleasant surprise, the knocking ceases, and I almost smile over the sudden silence…almost. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve smiled since Grant was taken away. I’ve cried, I’ve shouted, frowned, sighed, and growled a lot, but it would seem all my smiles got taken away with him.
God, I miss him already!
“Wake up sleepy head!” a chirpy voice fills the space all around my room and has me bolting up straight in bed. My hands clutch at the sheet, pulling it up to my chin as though it will somehow protect me from whatever is about to attack while in my vulnerable state of bedhead and a mild case of disorientation. However, instead of finding the angel of death, or some creepy serial killer in a ski mask, I see the happy, beaming face of my best friend…who is a boy. In my room!
“What the hell, Matt?!” I shout, straddling the line of feeling ok and angry with him for invading my space without permission. Not to mention scaring the bejesus out of me.
“Sorry!” he replies, finding my irritated expression extremely laughable but at least putting his hands up in defense. “But I knew after yesterday you’d try and bunk, so I decided to take matters into my own hands. Get up, get dressed, I’m walking you to school!”
“How’d you even get in?” I huff as I throw back the cover, being glad I put on my PJ bottoms last night, together with a baggy t-shirt that covers me nicely.
I saunter over to the bathroom where I look in the mirror, only to sneer at my reflection, which is all wild hair and dark sallow eyes from hours of yet more crying last night. I then begin to brush my teeth because my mouth feels like cotton wool with the added bonus of bed breath to complete the gorgeousness that is me this morning.
“Your family is so cliché,” Matt chuckles as he unapologetically looks around my personal space, “the old key under the doormat? You might
want to rethink that one, Mils.”
I wipe my face and begin picking out clothes for the day, all the while he has more of a thorough nose around my bedroom. He continues to pick up pots of cream to sniff, wipes his finger along my dressing gown, and generally indulges in all things girly.
“Hey, Matt!” I finally decide to throw my towel at him when I catch him picking through my sanitary products. He smiles guiltily and I shake my head over his antics, just before I point rigidly towards the door, “I’m not changing in front of you, doofus; go wait downstairs!”
“Really?” he whines with a pained expression, “When you’re in such a playful mood?”
He grins cheekily, so I narrow my eyes just as playfully before pointing more assertively towards the door. His naughty smile turns into a laugh but takes heed and walks back into the hallway.
“Last chance?” he calls out before walking away altogether.
“Out!” I shout but with a giggle at the same time.
“Can’t blame a guy for trying!” I hear him holler back as he makes his way towards the staircase. At that moment, it occurs to me this has been the first time someone has made me laugh in days.
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