“You look hung over.” Derek squats next to me. “I’d probably tie one on, too, if I had to talk to Stephen Valley in class. Was he bothering you again last night? I saw that little fucker at the game.”
“What are you talking about?” God, how my head aches. My mom is sleeping with Coach Mason. The thought tumbles around, making me sicker by the second.
“Saw that little punk at the game and Catlin caught him walking down your street afterwards. He doesn’t have any reason to be there.”
His words break through the fog my mother’s affair has cast over me. Had Catlin seen Stephen kissing me? Oh shit...
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I say.
“No worries. Me and some of the guys took care of him.” Derek touches the bruise above his eye. “He won’t walk down your street again.”
Oh god.
“What do you mean? What did you do?”
“Nothing major. Just kicked his ass a little. Like I said, he won’t bother you again.” Derek stands and offers his hand. “C’mon. I’ll buy you some breakfast.”
Stephen. What did he do to Stephen?
“I gotta go,” I say, standing up and then easing away from Derek. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
I hurry away and pretend to head back to my neighborhood, but once he is out of sight, I circle around the downtown area and hide behind the grocery story, trying to catch my breath.
What do I think about first? My mom or Stephen? The answer comes easily. Anything is better than thinking about Mom and Coach Mason.
Did Derek know I’d kissed Stephen? Is that why he hurt him?
Guilt tears at my soul. Oh, god. They hurt him because of me. I need to see him, need to see the damage for myself.
****
The rundown houses in Stephen’s part of town are sad. It’s like someone put them together with wood and super glue and maybe just a pinch of hope. Shutters swing haphazardly in front of windows and many of the wood fences are rotted and falling down. Lawns are tall and unkempt like everyone in the neighborhood pledged not to mow. In the front of one of the driveways are the spray painted words #JudeValleyRotsInHell. This is Stephen’s house. Out of all the homes on this street, it’s the only one without the “Never Forget” sign.
I hate those signs. I hid the one my parents put out. How are we supposed to move on with that crap in the yard?
My knock on the front door echoes. After a moment, I hear someone shuffling behind it.
“Stephen?” I call. “It’s Monica.”
There is a long pause.
“What do you want?” he asks, not opening the door.
“I ran into Derek this morning. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m peachy. Go away.”
“Open the door. Let me see you.”
“No. Go away.” His words sound far off as if he’s backing away from the door. “Leave me alone.”
Nope. He can’t get rid of me that easily.
I go around the side of the house. The fence is falling apart and it’s easy enough to get into Stephen’s backyard. The weeds are tall here, too, brushing against my ankles and legs as I wade through them to the back porch. Taking a chance, I tug on the glass door leading inside.
To my surprise, it slides open.
No lights are on in the living room or kitchen area, but the scent of coffee hangs in the air. There is a picture of Jude and Stephen on the wall of the breakfast nook and a small ray of light from the glass door illuminates it. Jude’s green eyes stare knowingly at me and just seeing him frozen in time makes my heart race.
This is where the Rattler lived. This is where he plotted to kill Simone.
“Stephen?” I step forward, ignoring the stray thought, but unable to fight the chill it creates. “I need to talk to you.”
Maybe his mom is home. That coffee smell could be from a cup she just made. There wasn’t a car out front, but that didn’t mean anything. What is she going to think if she finds me in her house? Will she call the cops since I have basically just broken in?
“Stephen?” A noise in the hall leading away from the living room startles me. “I really need to talk to you.”
Peering down the dim hallway, I make out several closed doors, but one has light coming out of the bottom. Jack pot. He’s in there.
Heading down the hall, which is lined with pictures on the walls, I pass a closed door and wonder if it’s Jude. Is it locked up tight like Simone’s? A shrine to what once was?
“Stephen?” I tap on the door with the light shining out the bottom. When he doesn’t answer, I turn the knob.
Ugh. What a messy room. Boyish and dirty. The smell of old sweat is everywhere. An unmade bed is shoved against one wall with clothes littering the floor. A foil covered window blocks outside light and along the walls are carefully placed posters for angry looking metal bands. The bookcase bordering his desk is full of books.
He is a reader!
“What the hell are you doing here?” Stephen is just sitting down at the desk as I come in. He wears jeans and a tattered black t-shirt. His back is to me, but his shoulders are rigid with tension. “I told you to go away.”
“Are you okay?” I ask, concerned that he won’t make eye contact. “Derek made it sound like—“
“I’m fine. Just go.”
“Look at me,” I order. “What did he do to you?”
Defiance in his posture, he turns. A mix of swollen black and purple bruises lines his jaw. One of his eyes is crusted shut while the other is bloodshot and angry. Stephen is almost unrecognizable.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, moving towards him. “You need to go to a doctor.”
“No. I don’t.” He shoves away from his desk and stands, leaning slightly to the side, obviously in pain. Is his face even the worst of the damage? “I just need to be left alone. You got what you wanted.”
What I wanted? No. I would never want him hurt like this.
Fighting back tears, I choke out, “This isn’t what I wanted.”
“You probably called Derek the second I left.”
“No! He said he saw you walking down the street.”
“Really?” His sarcasm is loud. “Is that what good old Derek told you? And when was this? During breakfast this morning? Did you both have a good laugh?”
“You should go to the police. Tell them what he did.”
“Because that would do so much good.”
“It might.”
“You know what would be better? If I just stayed off your street. If I just stayed away from you.”
“But—”
“But nothing!” He shouts the words, his mangled face turning redder. “I made a mistake. I should have followed my instincts and shouldn’t have trusted you, shouldn’t have allowed us to...you set me up!”
He comes towards me, his good eye flashing wildly as he puts his hands on my shoulders, squeezing tightly. I’m afraid, afraid of the rage I see, afraid at what he might do.
“Get out of my house!” Rough, he turns me so I’m facing the door. “I don’t want to see you. You’re just a spoiled little bitch!”
No one has ever treated me like this. No one outside of my family has ever yelled at me or made me feel so small. I’m the girl people like to hang out with. I don’t rock the boat. I don’t make trouble. No one ever has a reason to scream at me like this boy is doing.
I’ve always considered crying in front of a boy a sort of girlish tactic, but I can’t help myself. Everything that has happened this morning bubbles up. Images of my mother and coach, of Stephen’s mangled face blur together as I start bawling. I try to steady myself by grabbing the door, but it swings away. Like a dork, I stumble and end up on the floor face first.
I wipe at the tears and snot, knowing I’m a disgusting mess.
“Stephen, please believe me.” I try to catch my breath, try to pull myself up off the ground. Why did I have to fall? Being below him is dis
concerting. “I didn’t have any kind of plan to set you up. I can’t stand Derek. I was shocked when he told me what he’d done. What I said last night was true. I… I like you, Stephen.”
“You know what? It’s not true.” His glare is withering. “You’re messed up in the head, Monica. You probably have that Stockholm syndrome thing, the one where the victim falls for the bad guy that kidnapped them. This is classic college textbook psychology.”
No. I refuse to believe that. I admit some of my feelings are tied up in Simone’s death, but they didn’t start that way. Seventh grade science, frog dissection—it started then. Not because of our siblings and they’re doomed love life.
“You’re not the bad guy,” I whisper. “And I liked you before Jude…did what he did. It began when we were lab partners all the way back in seventh grade. You just never noticed me like that.”
“You liked me before…seventh grade?” His voice trails off, the disbelief almost palpable. Stephen studies me, his bruised face contorted with pain and confusion. Slowly, he holds out his hand. Hesitant, I grasp it and he pulls me up. Yanking free, I’m about to turn and walk away, but he won’t let go. I try not to flinch, try not to be afraid, but I’m scared. I can’t forget the rage in his eyes or the sting of his words.
Slowly, he pulls me towards him. I hold my breath as his arms wrap around my body in a hug that feels so warm, so comforting. That explosive, rigid anger has gone. For some reason, I cry harder and say, “I’m so sorry, Stephen. You’re hurt because of me.”
“I’m fine,” he whispers, his voice light in my hair. “I didn’t mean to yell. I...I...have a little trouble with anger sometimes.”
“It’s been a messed up morning.” I gently untangle myself from his embrace, worried that I’m unintentionally hurting bruises I can’t see on his body. “Why did I get out of bed? Stupid Derek. What an asshole.”
Concern and anxiety makes his forehead wrinkle.
“Did Derek do something to you?” he asks. The heated energy of his anger fires up again and I hurry to smother it.
“No, no. I mean, yeah. He pissed me off by beating you up.”
He studies me. “But there’s more. Something else happened.”
“I saw something I shouldn’t have.” The stupid tears come again. “I was walking by the motel. My mom came out of one of the rooms with someone other than my dad.”
Stephen doesn’t get it. “What do you mean? Was she meeting someone or something?”
“Sure. She was meeting someone there all night.”
“Oh.” Now he gets it and shifts uncomfortably. “You can’t be sure of that.”
“I saw them kiss. And it wasn’t an affectionate kiss on the cheek.” I blush. “It was different. Very different.”
“Ah…” Stephen winces as he sits on the edge of the rumpled bed. “That...that sucks.”
“I don’t know what to do.” I plop down next to him, wiping at my face. “The whole thing is messed up.”
“Well, why should you do anything?”
“I have to tell my dad.”
“Why?”
“Because he should know! He should know what my mother is really doing!”
“Maybe.” Stephen stares at the floor, silent.“Monica, you should get the whole story. If there’s one thing I’m learning from us, it’s that there are two sides to every story. Talk to her before you talk to your dad.”
Talk to her? And did he say “us?”
“I mean, what is your parent’s marriage like anyway? Are they close?” he probes.
They’re my parents. I don’t keep tabs on them. True, they aren’t always the most affectionate couple, but mostly that’s because Mom doesn’t seem to ever want anything to mess up her hair.
But I didn’t think she was ever in the habit of sleeping somewhere else. I mean, this is blatant. She had to know Daddy would find out.
“They’ve been different…the last few months,” I whisper.
“Since Simone.” Stephen nods, the tight tension back in shoulders.
“They weren’t the most in love couple prior to all that.” As I say it, I realize how true it is. Stella and Simon Monroe may have been an “It” couple in Rockingham, but they rarely touched it other, rarely spent time together. Had they always been that way?
“But what happened didn’t make things better,” Stephen says.
“My mother is grown woman,” I say. “She should know better.”
“You should stay out of it.”
Stay out of it. I don’t know if I can. Now that my eyes are open, I’m not sure I can close them again. I want to. I really want to. Just six months ago I was a naive kid whose biggest worry was whether or not I would be cast as the lead in our eighth grade production of The Wizard of Oz. The thought of losing a sister, of having parents at odds with each other—that wasn’t my life. I never would have guessed my childhood would have ended so soon.
“Stephen?” A woman’s voice echoes down the hall. “I need to talk to you.”
Like a shot, Stephen is up, but he isn’t fast enough to get to the door before his mother enters the room. She looks older than when I last saw her, tired.
She stares at me, shocked. Maybe she is processing a girl is in her son’s room or that the girl is me. Does she know who I am? It takes her a full ten seconds to register the condition of Stephen’s face.
“Jesus!” She rushes to him, touching the bruises with tender hands. “What happened?”
“It’s nothing.” Stephen jerks away. “Just a fight.”
“Nothing? This looks like more than nothing!” Anger suffuses her face. “Who did this to you?”
“No one.”
“No one? I suppose you just ran your face into a wall or something?”
“Mom, I’ve got company. Take it down a notch.”
Mrs. Valley turns, disdain on her face now. She looks me over, clearly not liking what she sees.
“What are you doing here?” she hisses.
“Mom, this is—”
“I know who she is!” She crosses her arms. “What I don’t know is what she’s doing in my house. We don’t need any more trouble over Jude! Just leave us in peace!”
“I’m sorry.” I fight back tears. For the second time this morning, someone is yelling at me. “I’ll go.”
“No!” Stephen grabs my arm. “Monica hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“Stephen, this isn’t a good idea.” Mrs. Valley’s eyes narrow. “It’s time for her to leave.”
“She’s right. I’m out.” I nod to Stephen. “See you Monday.”
I grab the blue Sharpie on his desk. There’s no paper so I hastily write down my cell phone number on the back of his hand.
“Call me,” I say.
I hurry down the hall and to the front door, unable to miss the sounds of the two of them starting to argue. Outside, the sun is disorienting and tears blind me again, but I don’t let them fall. Instead, I will them away and head back towards my own side of town.
Back to my own problems.
CHAPTER SEVEN
STEPHEN
My room fills with the energy of Mom’s anger. The gray walls practically pulse in time to the beat of her frustration. I move to the side of the bed and calmly turn over my pillow, hoping she won’t notice there is blood on it and the blue sheets.
“What the hell was she doing here?” Mom’s face is pale, her blue eyes sharp like lasers. “Is she why your face looks like that?”
“No!” I snap, trying to ignore the dull thud of pain in my side. “I got into some trouble after the game last night. These assholes jumped me on the way home.”
“Who? Who was it?” She comes closer, almost pinning me against the closet door as she tries to touch my face. “Who were they?”
“It doesn’t matter.” I dodge her touch, brushing past. “I had it coming.”
“Did you get smart mouthed with them?”
I grip
the edge of the desk and freeze. Smart mouthed? Is she kidding? Does she really not get it?
“Mom, my last name is Valley!” Dizzy, I turn slightly. “I’m Jude the Rattler’s little brother! I lived in the same house as him. I breathed the same air! That’s enough for anyone to take out their anger on me!”
She recoils, taking a step back as if she doesn’t want to hear.
“I told you to get me out of here. Jude has ruined everything!” I limp back towards her. Now she’s the one pinned in. “But no. You couldn’t listen. All you see is yourself! You don’t give a shit about me! If you did, we would be out of this fucking miserable town!”
“Stephen—“ Mom holds up her hands like she used to do with Jude, as if she can ward me away, as if I’m him. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m channeling the explosive tantrums he used to release on her. I can’t stop. I don’t want to. “Please…calm down.”
“And as for my face.” I’m so close to her now, so close her own face is just inches from mine, inches from the ugly collection of bruises. Fear flickers in her eyes, and God help me, it spurs me on. “As long as I stay here, this will keep happening! Don’t fucking fool yourself, Mom. People will never be able to separate me from my brother. I might as well be Jude.”
She slaps me. The sound of her hand against my already bruised skin jars both of us.
“Don’t you ever say that! You are not him!” She stares, horror and disgust on her face. “And you don’t get to talk to me that way!”
She shoves past and leaves the room, slamming the door behind her.
I am already consumed with remorse.
I am a bad son. She’s been through enough with my brother and I don’t just mean the shootings. There was plenty going on before that. The countless arguments, the threats, the actual assaults—Jude was the bad guy. Not me. But the fear in her eyes when I came towards her...to know I caused that... It was bad enough when I saw the same fear in Monica earlier.
What is wrong with me? I would never hurt either of them. I am not Jude.
Or am I? We share the same DNA. What if his darkness is in me? It’s the thought that has kept me up at night, the fear that I might somehow be evil, too.
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