by Angel Lawson
This is all for her. Emory hadn’t come out and said as much, but he didn’t need to. It should have been obvious from the moment he mentioned it. Only one thing would make Emory willing to ask me to be part of something so unbelievably risky. And here she is, sticking her fucking nose in it, just like old times.
I open the refrigerator. If it weren’t for the three cartons of rank leftover Thai, a bottle of wine, and a bag of apples, it’d be completely empty. My father has clearly forgotten that there’s now a growing boy in this house—one who needs protein and a caloric intake befitting someone currently engaged in required team athletics. Unless I count the sad protein bar I’d had before the game—stolen from Ben’s locker—I haven’t actually eaten since lunch. With a deep sigh, I grab an apple and take an aggressive bite. Deciding it could be worse, I carry a spare apple with me and climb the stairs to the second floor. The first thing I do when I walk in my room is check the window. Like every other time I’ve looked out, Vandy’s curtains are tightly closed. It’s kind of fucked, if I’m being honest, this way she has of closing me out of her world while simultaneously trying to nose into mine.
I shuck off my shirt before emptying the pockets of my jeans. There’s a crisp five-dollar bill, liberated from the jacket pocket belonging to someone on our second string. A pair of dice my neighbor had been playing with in Chemistry. A little pickle-shaped button the girl beside me in History had pinned to her bookbag proclaiming ‘Dill with it’.
A bit of a disappointing haul.
I dump it all into the bottom drawer of my dresser with the rest of the things I’ve taken since being back. I push off my jeans and flop onto the bed in my boxers, chomping on the apple. The night had been a rollercoaster. First there was the game, which was aces. I fucking killed it. Emory and I clicked back together like pieces in a puzzle. Usually, other teams struggle with a good passing game, but us? We’re like magic.
Then, I relented and went to Devil’s Tower. What happened there was entirely unexpected. Worst case, I figured I was in for some kind of Red Devil hazing from the football team, and the thought was amusing. Best case, some girl wanted to be my welcome wagon, which worked out perfectly for me, considering that my molecular makeup at the moment must be something like fifty percent raging horniness and fifty percent crippling indecision.
It was neither of those.
When Carlton opened the door, I’d expected to go up the tower, because where else would we go? Instead, he’d taken a hard left toward an old wooden door. I didn’t even remember it being there, but that’s fair. It’d been a long time since I’d been to that place—the last time being accompanied by one very athletic Sheri Brown, the first semester of freshman year. It was the first time I’d successfully gotten under a girl’s bra. Naturally, that’s the only thing I remember about the place.
Behind the wooden door was a staircase that led down, winding under the one that led up to the bell. Carlton used a flashlight to light the way, and again, I wondered if I was about to get my ass beat in some good old-fashioned, Preston Prep hazing. I spent the whole way fighting a laugh, because seriously. As if whatever these spoiled little rich boys had in store could hold a candle to the hazing I’d endured at Mountain Point. Nevertheless, fight or flight began to kick in. My heart hammered, instinct driving me to look for an escape, and then toward fight when none could be found. I could take Carlton in a fight—no doubt about that. I was fast and strong. I was still plotting my preemptive attack when we reached the bottom of the stairs.
We came to another door, this one circular.
“What the hell is this?” I asked, frowning at the strange entryway. Carlton grinned and rapped a knock on the door. A moment later, it swung open, the hinges old and creaking. On the other side was a long room with a low ceiling. The walls and floor were made of concrete and it smelled a little musty, like old, dry dirt. Over a metal desk were some decorations—red felt Preston pennants, black and white photos, trophies. It was like the twisted basement version of Preston’s main hall, with all the display cases. It was dark, only lit by a few flickering camping lanterns. Emory stood in the middle of the room, slightly hunched, arms open wide. A few other guys I recognized as part of the defunct Devils stood behind him.
“What’s going on?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t about to get outright murdered. Kids at Mountain Point might be harder, more vicious, but I tend to forget that rich kids like these have a tendency toward the batshit insane.
“History, my friend,” Emory said, all dramatic and weird. “We’re making history and here’s your chance to get in on it.”
Over the next hour and a case of room-temperature beer, Emory explained that what he wanted to do was to reestablish a straight-up, elitist secret society. Apparently, the Devils didn’t start off as a bunch of jocks terrorizing underclassmen and scratching notches in the beam above the bell tower. It started a hundred years before the current incarnation; a group of high-powered individuals, male and female, who dominated the school academically, athletically, and socially. They had a strict initiation that went beyond drinking a gallon of vodka and screwing virgins. They had rituals, rites of passage, and—if Emory is to be believed—a civility lost on the current group of students.
How did Emory find out about this long-lost Preston Prep lore? Well, like he said, the Devils’ roots run deep. Alumni, current faculty, probably even some administration were in on it. When they heard about the current group getting disbanded, they stepped up, reaching out to the strongest Devil, and suggested he lead the remaining members a new direction—or really, an old direction. They showed him the bunker under the tower, gave him the book of Devil’s history, and ultimately gave him permission to restart the group.
I’d looked into the eye of his friends tonight—Carlton, Ben, and a few others I didn’t know—and I saw the gleam of power in their eyes. They wanted this. The cred. The legacy. The power that had been yanked from them last year. Them I understood, but Emory already had all that. I couldn’t figure out his angle, his motive.
But now I know for certain.
That’s why I snapped when I saw Baby V skulking around the yard, eavesdropping on me and her brother. She’ll blow this before Emory ever gets it off the ground. I’ll get tossed out of Preston before that.
From the dark, fearful look in her eyes, she’s probably already hoping I fail.
I turn the light off, slamming my fist into my pillow before rolling onto my side. I’m walking a tightrope here. One foot on the wire, holding myself above the fray. The other dangling, one bad move could send me tumbling. I do know one thing for certain; Vandy Hall is not going to be involved.
My body wakes like clockwork, still attuned after years of early morning PT even after having been here a while. Every day, I’m still up at the ass-crack of dawn. I feel like hell, my body sore from the game the night before. Sore, but also good, and sort of proud. We kicked ass on the field. Me and Emory make a good team. We always have.
I try to train myself to sleep a little longer, at least until the birds are awake, but it’s futile. Even if I could go back to sleep, my body craves a strong dose of caffeine and I feel the headache coming.
It’s obvious the moment I walk into the kitchen that my father has been here. Seemingly, not alone.
Apparently, making up for being married to my mom all these years includes a lot of sleeping around. Not that he was loyal back then or anything. It’s hard to tell with the way my parents always kept shit so tight behind closed doors, but if I had to guess, I’d say their biggest troubles started after the wreck. It was impossible not to notice the tension when they came to Mountain Point for visits. The strain on my mother’s face and the twenty pounds she gained, most likely from binge-drinking wine, were glaringly obvious. For my father, this was a perfect excuse to fuck around with one or more of the recent college graduates that worked in his office. The weight gain and affairs ultimately led her to the personal trainer, who apparently thought working out in
bed would be appropriate exercise. The night of the crash was like knocking over a domino, everything tipping over until there was nothing in this family left standing.
A bottle of wine is uncorked, ninety percent empty, on the counter along with two empty wine glasses. A black leather purse sits on the kitchen table—the table that, once upon a time, we sat at as a functional family.
The contents are painfully dull. Chapstick, tissues, keys, wallet, driver’s license. Tammy Killian, same birth month as me, but seven years older, one hundred and thirty pounds, five-seven, brown eyes, brown hair, not an organ donor.
She has a crisp fifty-dollar bill in her billfold. Like, obviously that’s…
Mine now.
I put it all away, eventually hearing the stirrings of an awkward morning-after occurring in the master bedroom down the hall. I snap alert and move to the counter, searching for the coffee. I didn’t drink coffee when I left home. I was fourteen. My prime sources of energy back then were candy, soda, and masturbation. But six a.m. mandatory runs at school had made coffee an integral part of my diet. I open cabinet after cabinet, increasingly aware that at least half the dishes and glasses and everything else is gone. Did my mom come here and split everything down the middle? Did that include the fucking coffee? I go to the pantry and stare at the empty shelves. Where the fuck is it?
“Check the freezer.”
Tension rolls up my spine, settling at the base of my neck. I close the pantry door and turn around. My father’s opening a cabinet, pulling out a bottle of pain meds. From the look on his face, I’m confident in calling it a hangover. His hair is disheveled—a darker shade than mine—a scattering of gray at the temples. I guess he’s what you’d call distinguished, although I can tell he’s had some work done on his face since I saw him a few months ago. The fine lines around his eyes are smoothed, as well as the deep lines on his forehead that developed after I got sent away. He’s fit, from hours spent at the gym or running. I get my athleticism from him—probably the lack of impulse control, too.
I go to the freezer and sure enough, among the mostly empty shelves is a container of coffee grounds. The frigid air feels good on my face, waking me up and cooling me off.
My dad sighs. “Shut the door, Reyn, it’s not a goddamn air conditioner.”
A heartbeat later, I ease the door shut and start making the coffee.
“You had a good game last night,” he says, suddenly.
“You were there?” He wasn’t out front with the other parents when we walked out of the locker rooms.
“For the first three quarters.” He elaborates, opening another cupboard for coffee cups. “I had to leave early for a date, but you guys had a solid lead by then.”
Ah, the date. The one I assume is upstairs sleeping off the bottle of wine and a night of gymnastics with my father.
“We had a few fumbles back on defense, but nothing we can’t work out. A few of the guys need to work on their cardio,” I say, rambling. I have no idea what to say to this man. We don’t have a relationship. My mother is gone. There’s a strange chick upstairs. I rake a hand through my hair.
He walks around me to set down three mugs, eyes sliding to Tammy’s purse. There’s a stretch of tense silence before he mutters, “Christ. Put it back.” His voice sounds even more tired than he looks.
I give him my most convincing innocent look. “Put what back?”
He narrows his eyes. “Whatever you took from the poor girl’s purse. Don’t play with me, Reyn. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit this morning.”
Yeah, I stopped being able to pull one over on my dad in about fifth grade.
I roll my eyes, pulling the fifty from my pocket and flinging it toward the purse. “Well since I don’t have any money and you don’t seem interested in the boring parts of being a parent like—oh, say, grocery shopping—does that mean my new mommy upstairs is going to find some breakfast?”
His nostrils flare angrily, but my dad doesn’t respond. Instead, he stalks out of the kitchen and returns with his own wallet, plucking a credit card from it. “You know, you could try asking some time.”
I take the credit card, feeling almost bored by it. Where’s the thrill in asking? Where’s the risk? Where’s the satisfaction from getting away with it, taking it home, stashing it away? “Wasn’t aware I needed to ask for food, my bad.”
“You’re eighteen, not eight.”
I’ve also spent three years having every meal—as awful as they were—provided to me. The guys at school act like the lunch is some cruel form of institutional punishment, but the shit we ate at Mountain Point makes Preston lunch food look like gourmet dining. So, yeah. I’m not picky. I’m also fucking clueless where cooking is concerned.
“That card has a limit, Reyn. Essentials only,” my dad continues. “There’s a grocery delivery service, so order what you want on my account.”
Thankfully the sounds of coffee brewing comes to a stop, and I have something to do with my hands besides pull out my own hair.
“Listen,” he says as I start toward the hall, mug in hand, “I’ll be gone for a few days this week. Conference in New Orleans. The maid comes on Tuesday. I told her to change your sheets.”
I swallow the black, bitter coffee. “Got it.”
He holds up the two cups and gives me a tight smile. “Guess I should take these up to Tammy.”
Ah, Tammy. I roll the name around my brain a few times. Doesn’t feel like the name of my new step-mommy. I won’t get attached.
We go up the stairs, one after the other. Him back to Tammy. Me, back…alone. At the top of the staircase he pauses and says, “I expect you to be on good behavior while I’m gone. Leaving you alone right now isn’t ideal but,” his eyes dart to his bedroom door, “I have a life to live, and work to do, despite your return. No drugs. No stealing. No illegal behavior. Is that clear?”
I hold his eye for a long beat, wanting to tell him to fuck off, but I swallow it back and tell him what he wants to hear, “Crystal.”
7
Vandy
I’m already in the massage chair, feet soaking in hot water, when Sydney strolls into the nail salon. Her dark hair is twisted in a messy bun, like she didn’t get a chance to brush it. Sunglasses cover her eyes and she carries a cup from The Nerd—The Northridge Diner—in her hand. She walks over to the wall and picks out a bottle of polish before climbing into the seat next to mine. It’s only then that she pushes the glasses up and I see her red, exhausted eyes.
“Wow, late night?” I ask.
She programs the massage controller and leans back into the padded seat. “Be glad you aren’t into the party scene, V.”
I take a moment to chew on my lip before asking, “Why?” I already know this is going to be a thinly-veiled humblebrag, but maybe there’s something there. Something that’s so dreadful that my night at home, all alone, will seem less pathetic and lame.
“Because it starts out fun,” she explains, eyes sliding closed, “like there’s a million opportunities, you know? Boys. Booze. A hot tub. It’s like anything can happen, yet every single time, nothing new happens.” She exhales dramatically. “Just the same old hook-ups. The same fights. The same crappy alcohol that leaves a pounding headache.”
Yep.
Just a humblebrag.
“I’m sorry?” I say, not really holding back my eye-roll. “I mean, you know what they say about repeating the same behavior over and over, and expecting a different outcome.”
She glares at my insensitivity and shuts her eyes as the chair begins kneading her back. I look down at my feet, the water in the tub swirling around. This is the closest I’ve ever been to a hot tub. I’ve never been to a party. Never been invited. There’s just this assumption that poor little Vandy Hall—Baby V—would never do something like that.
I lean back and let the massager pound into the tense muscles in my own back. I’m not even sure how the reputation of me being some virginal, angelic goody-goody even came from, b
ut it follows me around like toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe. I mean, for the most part, I really am a good kid. I don’t seek out trouble like Emory. I don’t go out of my way to flaunt myself like Syd. I don’t steal like…other people. Truthfully, I’m a fan of the path of least resistance. That just so happens to mean not causing trouble.
But there’s no doubt that it’s all about the wreck. That’s when my status was elevated from ‘good girl’ to ‘tragic victim’. The only thing a group of school-kids loves to do more than rally behind a classmate after something terrible happens is to belittle them as subtly as possible. It didn’t help that Emory went into overdrive as the protective older brother. He’s gone way beyond the cliché. Even if a guy were interested in me—he wouldn’t be—or if my parents let me go on a date—they super wouldn’t—there’s no way my brother would allow it to happen. His best friends were on the highest rung of the social ladder. If they weren’t interested in me, no one was. And none of them would dare.
That’s where the Oxy made things a little easier. I know it’s wrong, and bad for me, and unhealthy, and is causing me more trouble now that I’d like to admit, but at least it’s mine. With the pills, I can create my own world—one that’s void of pain or sharp, harsh emotions. A world where I’m always okay and comfortable, and even if it can’t give me happiness or the thrill of late Friday nights and their regretful morning-afters, it can at least dull the deep, aching sense of disappointment.
It’s just really hard to care about being left out when you’re high as a kite.
That being said, a few invites, even if I said no to them, would have been nice. Especially from my best friend.
“Hey,” I say, tapping Syd on the arm. “Was Emory at that party last night?”
She cracks one eye. “No. Unfortunately. That would have made the night way more interesting.” Her mouth pulls into a loose pout. “Why?”