First Kill
A Holly Lin Novella
Robert Swartwood
RMS Press
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The Holly Lin Series
No Shelter
Bullet Rain
First Kill
The Devil You Know
Hollow Point
One
I’m seventeen years old and eight hours away from the moment that will forever change my life.
It’s nine o’clock, and I’m in the bathroom that connects my bedroom with my parents’ bedroom. There’s only one bathroom in this condo, which I’m not happy about, but at least we’re not on the base, so that’s something.
I’m standing in the bathroom, the overhead lights bright and harsh, staring at myself in the mirror. Little seventeen-year-old me, wearing short-shorts and a T-shirt and flip-flops. I’m not one to usually look at myself in a mirror for more than five seconds, but here I am, checking my makeup, checking my hair, making sure my look says “sexy,” not “easy.”
God do I hate myself at this moment.
A soft tapping sounds at the door on my parents’ side.
“Holly, are you in there?” my mother asks.
I freeze, not sure what to say.
Another soft tap. “Holly?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Tina’s on the phone. Would you like to talk to her?”
I pause. Tina? Why would my sister be on the phone? We couldn’t be farther apart. She’s in D.C. and I’m in Oahu, a five-hour time difference. Which means if it’s nine o’clock at night here, it’s two o’clock in the morning there.
I open the door just a crack, hiding my outfit from my mother’s scrutiny. I grab the phone from her hand and say, “Thanks, Mom,” and shut the door.
I stand motionless for a moment, waiting for another soft tap, but there’s silence. My mother stands on the other side of the door for several long seconds—I can sense her there on the other side of the wood, a worrisome ball of nerves—and then she shuffles away, no doubt out into the living room where she’ll plant herself on the couch and watch old movies and wait until my father comes home.
I place the phone to my ear. “What’s up, slut?”
Tina yawns. “I don’t understand why Mom doesn’t grasp the concept of time zones yet.”
“I’ve tried telling her.”
“It’s two o’clock in the morning here.”
“I know.”
“You’ve been out there now three weeks. I figured after the first week, Mom would catch on.”
“You’d think. Why’d you answer the phone, anyway?”
“I was already up.”
“It’s Friday night. What could you possibly be doing past two o’clock Friday night?”
There’s a teasing tone to my voice. It’s not the first time I’ve made it known I don’t believe Tina has any social life. It’s not true, of course (she has more of a social life than me), but it’s still fun to tease her.
Tina says, “I was on a date, if you must know.”
“What’s her name?”
“Ha ha,” Tina says dryly. “His name is Ryan. He’s a junior.”
“He sounds white. I bet he’s white.”
“And what if he is?”
“You’ll break Mom’s heart, that’s what. You know her dream is for you to marry a nice Asian boy.”
Our mother is Japanese American, our father Chinese American. Tina and I have never gotten the full story about how our parents ended up together, or why there’s an eleven-year difference between their ages (our mother older than our father).
“Speaking of Mom,” I say, “she’s such a fucking bitch.”
A moment of stunned silence on Tina’s end. “Um, what was that?”
“Sorry, just wanted to make sure she’s not eavesdropping.”
“Why would she eavesdrop?”
“I have a date tonight,” I murmur.
Silence on Tina’s end.
“Tina, are you there?”
“Sorry,” she says. “I was just checking the weather to see if Hell had frozen over.”
“Ha ha,” I say just as dryly as my sister had a minute ago.
Tina says, “Since when do you like boys?”
“I’ve always liked boys.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ve had boyfriends.”
“No, you’ve had boys who are friends. There’s a difference.”
Tina’s always been the pretty one. The friendly one. The one who all the boys want to flirt with. Me, well, the boys want to flirt with me too, but I’m more of a tomboy. A troublemaker. Someone who constantly has an “attitude problem.” I got suspended earlier this year for punching a senior in the face, breaking his nose. In my defense, he had grabbed my ass in the hallway, so I’d felt my response was warranted.
But when it comes to dating, well, I’d rather be hanging out with my guy friends than on some awkward date where all the guy wants to do is feel me up.
Except out here I don’t have any friends. All I have is my mom and my dad, and my dad is working half the time. Or no, I guess if I’m being honest, he’s working all the time.
“So,” Tina says, “what’s his name?”
“I’d rather not tell you.”
“Why not?”
I say nothing.
“Come on, Holly, you can’t leave me hanging like this. Dish.”
I know it’s a terrible idea, but I blurt out the name anyway.
“Chazz.”
A beat of silence on Tina’s end. “Say that again?”
“You heard me.”
“And is that with one Z or two?”
I sigh.
Tina giggles. “You’re joking, right? Oh no, of course you’re not joking. Chazz.” She bursts out laughing. “Mom is going to love that.”
“Good thing Mom’s never going to find out.”
Tina giggles again. “Oh yes, she is.”
“I hate you.”
“Where’d you meet this Chazz anyway?”
“On the beach.”
“Oh God. Don’t tell me he’s a surfer.”
I say nothing.
“No!” Tina mock-yells. “You are such a cliché, Holly Lin.”
“And you are such a bitch, Tina Lin.”
“He doesn’t have long hair, does he?”
I say nothing.
Tina sighs. “Please tell me he at least doesn’t wear his hair in a ponytail.”
I say nothing.
Tina snorts laughter. “You sure know how to pick them.”
“Says the girl who just had a date with some guy named Ryan.”
“At least Ryan’s a normal name.”
“You going to see him again?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. He plays lacrosse, and you know how I’m not into guys who play sports.”
I’m not sure if that’s true, but I don’t have time to discuss the point with my sister right now.
“Listen, I should get going. I’m supposed to meet”—I hesitate, about to say his name, but decide to skip it—“my date in a half hour. I better hurry. When are you coming out to visit, anyway?”
“Semester’s over in two weeks.”
“I just want to let you know I’ve farted on your pillow every night since we’ve been here.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“I’ll talk to you later, Tina.”
“I’ll talk to you later, Holly. Have fun and be safe. And by safe, I mean make sure C
hazz wears a condom.”
“Goodbye,” I say and disconnect the call.
I set the phone on the counter and look at myself in the mirror one last time.
Seven hours forty-five minutes to go.
Two
Just as I expected, my mother has planted herself on the couch in front of the TV watching an old movie. It’s in color, not black and white, but I’m pretty sure most of the cast could be found in retirement homes today if they’re not already dead.
“Can I take the car?”
Her gaze glued to her movie, she says, “May you take the car?”
“I’m seventeen. Haven’t we, like, moved past that phase?”
Still not looking at me: “As long as you continue using poor grammar, I guess not.”
Okay, so that’s how it’s going to be.
“You do realize it’s two o’clock in the morning in Georgetown, right?”
This gets my mother’s attention. Her face tilts toward me, and she squints at me as if seeing me for the first time.
“Is it?”
“This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation, Mom.”
“But Tina”—she shakes her head slowly, trying to fathom this new information—“Tina was awake.”
“Yeah, because you woke her up when you called.”
My mother doesn’t need to know about Tina’s date. Speaking of which …
“So can I use the car?”
Now her attention focuses on my outfit: sweatpants and hoodie. “Where are you going?”
“To meet a friend.”
“Who is this friend?”
“Her name is Diane.”
“Diane what?”
“I don’t know,” I say, shrugging, because of course I’m making this up as I go. “I met her when I was down at the beach. She’s on vacation with her parents.”
“Where are you going?”
“Honolulu.”
“That’s forty-five minutes away.”
“If I drive the speed limit it is, yeah.”
Judging by the look on her face, my mother isn’t in the joking mood.
“Kidding,” I say. “Of course I’ll do the speed limit.”
“When will you be home?”
“Um … midnight?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“That depends on whether or not I need to negotiate my curfew.”
My mother frowns. “Where are you going exactly?”
“There’s an all-night gym Diane wants to check out. I forget the name.”
“You’re going to a gym?”
“Yes.”
“In flip-flops?”
Shit.
“I have an extra pair of sneakers in the car,” I say, not sure whether or not this is true but hoping my mother doesn’t press the issue. To ensure this doesn’t happen, I decide to switch gears.
“When will Dad be home?”
This makes her pause. In fact, after looking into her eyes, I want to kick myself for bringing up the fact my dad hasn’t spent much time with us in the past three weeks. Then again, my question has caused her to focus back on the TV, so at least there’s that.
“He should be home soon,” she murmurs.
Soon, I’ve learned, is code for I have no idea when.
“So the car,” I prompt.
She waves a hand. “Go, go. Have fun. Be safe.”
My mother looks so sad, so despondent, that I want to rush over to her and give her a hug, but at the same time, I don’t want to jinx myself.
“Thanks, Mom.” I turn away and grab the keys on the counter, adding a quick “Love you” before slipping out the door.
Seven hours thirty minutes to go.
Three
Here’s the thing: I’m not what you would call a beach bunny.
It’s not that I dislike the beach, but I’m not one of those girls who’s crazy about the beach, either. Maybe it’s because my first beach experience was in New Jersey, a couple miles away from Toms River. I was six years old. My parents had taken Tina and me there because at the time my dad was stationed at Fort Dix. For the weekend, my parents wanted to do something nice so they drove us to the ocean, and the trash littering the sand along with the stink has stayed with me ever since.
But now having come to Oahu, well, my resentment toward beaches has changed. Mostly because the beaches here are beautiful. And clean.
The first week my mother and I headed north up the highway until we came to Waimea Bay Beach Park. And we laid our towels on the sand and watched the surfers for a while. It was nice. After a couple days, though, my mother decided she’d had enough of the beach and decided to stay home at the condo watching old movies. Me, I took the car and returned to the beach and lay on a towel watching the surfers.
That’s how I met Chazz.
It was maybe a week ago when I first noticed him. He was just another surfer riding the waves. When he came out of the water, some girls gathered around him, and he chatted them up as he made his way across the sand toward where he’d parked, and as he passed by where I lay on my towel, he smiled down at me.
That was it—just a smile.
The next day I saw Chazz again. Riding the waves, and then the girls swooning again as he carried his board across the sand. I watched him, sunglasses covering my eyes, trying not to be too conspicuous. He scanned the beach, looking for someone. Then he spotted me and veered in my direction, leaving the swooning girls behind.
“Nice day,” he said to me.
I nodded but said nothing, for some reason too nervous to utter a word.
“I’m Chazz.”
“Holly.”
“You on vacation?”
I wasn’t technically, but I nodded anyway.
“Awesome,” he said, and then that was it. He looked out at the water, looked up toward the parking lot, and then said, “Well, see you around.”
And then he was gone, leaving me speechless, wondering just what the hell that was about. Did he expect me to flirt with him, swoon over him like those other girls?
The next morning, I returned to the beach, rolled out my towel, lay down to get some sun. With the sunglasses propped on my face, I scanned the surfers out in the water. I didn’t see Chazz anywhere. I waited two hours, but he didn’t appear, and so I went home. Wasn’t sure I would return the next day, but I did. And there he was, surfing just like the first time I saw him, and then finally calling it a day, carrying his board across the sand, talking to a few of the girls. I watched him, not sure whether I should get up and make the first move. But then he spotted me. Veered toward me again, his long hair dripping ocean water, and smiled down at me.
“So,” he said, “you want to hang out or what?”
And now here I am, driving north on the highway, to meet up with Chazz. Not the kind of thing I would normally do. But this is Hawaii—paradise, as my mother is now fond of calling it—and maybe it’s just being on the island, over four thousand miles away from home, that’s caused me to break out of my usual shell. Because when a hot guy asks you if you want to hang out or what, just what exactly are you supposed to say?
I press down on the gas, the speedometer needle rising and rising.
Almost seven hours to go.
Four
And so then I reach Waimea Bay Beach Park with five minutes to spare and Chazz is nowhere in sight. Not necessarily a problem. I’m just early. Though the more I think about it, does showing up first make me look desperate? The guy’s supposed to wait for the girl, not the other way around.
No big deal.
I park facing the water and shut the engine off, the windows down, the cool island breeze drifting in. I take a deep breath. Definitely helps beat away the memory of that rank New Jersey beach when I was a kid.
The dashboard clock goes from 9:55 to 9:56.
Four minutes until ten.
I sit behind the wheel and watch the beach and the water and try to ignore the dashboard clock as it ticks clo
ser to ten o’clock. Then try even harder to ignore it as it goes to 10:05 and then 10:10.
I’m not the only one in the parking lot. A handful of other cars are here too. I don’t see anyone out on the sand—the beach officially closes at sundown—so who knows where everybody else may be. As far as I can tell, I’m the only loser sitting here watching the water waiting for someone who I now realize is not coming after all.
I don’t have a phone on me, and even if I did, I don’t have Chazz’s number. All he said was to meet him here tonight at ten o’clock, and now it’s closing in on 10:15 and he’s nowhere in sight.
Screw it.
I start the engine, let it idle for a couple seconds, and then put the car in reverse. As I start to back out, headlights veer off the road and splash me.
The car coasts through the parking lot, its driver glancing this way and that at the few cars scattered around the lot.
It’s a convertible. As the car nears, I can tell immediately it’s Chazz. At the same moment, he spots me and accelerates forward and parks the car right beside me.
But before I can even lift my foot off the brake, Chazz jumps out of the car and rushes over, holding his hands up in appeasement.
“I’m sorry,” he says, leaning down to watch me through the passenger-side window. “I’m such an asshole, I know, but I was getting gas and there was a problem with the pump and then I had to sort it out with the clerk inside, and then once I got back in my car I rushed over here as quickly as I could—shit, I thought I would get pulled over—and I was kicking myself because I didn’t want to miss you, and now it looks like you’re totally pissed at me, which is understandable, because like I said I’m such an asshole, so if you want to take off, I completely understand, but I’m begging you, please give me a second chance, I promise you won’t regret it.”
He leans back, lifting his arms in surrender, his face full of disappointment.
I hesitate. The car’s still in reverse. All I need to do is lift my foot off the brake, let it coast back, and then I’ll be on my way.
Holly Lin | Novella | First Kill Page 1