“Yeah, yeah.” Susan hummed a show tune as she danced into Amy’s room and exited seconds later with Amy’s favorite hairbrush.
“Hey!”
The washroom door slammed on another high-pitched giggle. Their mother banged on the adjoining wall for quiet. Erica Evans worked the graveyard shift at 7-Eleven and went to bed at the same time the girls woke up.
“Shh,” Amy hissed. “Mom’s trying to sleep.”
“Okay!” Susan said, just as loudly as before.
Amy opened her closet and threw her head back on a moan of despair. What was she going to wear? She and her mom each worked thirty hours a week. They scraped together enough cash to pay the bills and spent what little was left over on groceries. There was never a cent to spare on new clothes. Even outfits off the clearance rack at Walmart were out of their price range. Amy had three pairs of jeans, a few old T-shirts, and four tops that were barely presentable enough to see the light of day. Her outfit options filled a third of her tiny closet. She had been too tired to do laundry after work last night, and now she was paying the price. A single lonely T-shirt hung in a barren expanse of empty wardrobe. She dug some jeans out of her hamper. “Guess I’m wearing these again.”
“What?” Susan shrieked from the depths of the washroom.
“Nothing.”
“What?” Susan said at greater volume still.
Their mother pounded on the wall. Amy strode across the hall and kicked the bathroom door to get her sister’s attention. “Susan, be quiet!”
“Sorry,” she replied in as close to a whisper as she ever got.
The girls trotted downstairs for breakfast. Their dimly lit living room was shrouded in foreboding clouds of doom that reeked of cigarettes and booze. Rex Kastel, their mom’s latest deadbeat boyfriend, lay sprawled on their overstuffed sofa. Rex had a wide, pudgy face and an enormous beer belly. His receding graying hair accentuated his prominent forehead, and his watery blue eyes were beady like an insect’s. He slept fully dressed in drab brown cargo pants and a canary yellow shirt stained with sweat. His muddy boots dangled off the end of the sofa, and a thin dribble of drool leaked out of the corner of his drooping mouth. Amy screwed up her face. No wonder her mother refused to let Rex join her in bed.
The girls tiptoed past the sofa and slipped into the kitchen. Amy eased shut the pocket door and theatrically pinched her nose. “Good God!”
Susan pretended to retch into her hands. “That dude gets smellier by the day. Did you see his gross, sweaty T-shirt?”
“Did you see the drool?” She and Susan mocked their mother’s steady parade of boyfriends to avoid thinking about how uncomfortable they made them.
Susan took a seat at the kitchen island to finish some last-minute homework. The average-size counter consumed most of the tiny room, leaving nothing but a three-foot-wide stretch of floor around the kitchen’s perimeter. The limited space made it difficult for more than one person to move about, so the girls had jokingly termed it a “one-butt kitchen.”
Despite its diminutive size, the kitchen was Amy’s favorite room in the house. It had periwinkle walls and a large window overlooking a busy Toronto street. The honking horns and rumbling trucks formed a cacophony of background noise in the summer when they had to open the window or die of heatstroke. But this morning, they had no need for the chilly November air and resided in peaceful, brightly lit silence.
Amy prepared Susan’s less than gourmet meal of cereal and toast but skipped breakfast herself. It made her day even worse whenever PTSD-induced morning sickness had her puking between first and second period. Guilt knotted in her stomach as the terrifying question nagged at her subconscious. Had it been her fault? She took a deep breath and blocked out the memories. Freshman year had happened a long time ago. Never eating breakfast again was a small price to pay to avoid thinking about that summer.
Susan’s brows dipped together in concern. “Amy, you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Amy forced a smile. Her little sister missed nothing. She slid toast onto Susan’s plate and plastered it with honey.
“Hey, hey! I’m not going to drink my toast.”
Amy dropped the bottle with a dull plastic plunk. “Sorry. I’m tired, thanks to you. Why the big hurry today?” She changed the subject with practiced ease.
Susan took an enormous bite of toast and mumbled something through her mouthful.
Amy laughed. “I didn’t catch that.”
Susan leaned in and stage-whispered in her ear. “Chris and I are going to get detention today.”
Amy raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “Say what now?”
Susan licked honey off her fingers. “Chris says his brother is in detention all the time, and he thinks it’ll be super fun!”
Amy rolled her eyes. “Sue.”
Susan’s gaze flitted to the clock on the microwave. “Amy, we should—”
“Detention isn’t fun. It’s a punishment.”
“Sure it’s fun! Chris says—”
“Sue, just because Chris’s brother thinks detention is cool, that doesn’t make it true.”
Susan puffed out her cheeks, then blew out the breath. She darted another look at the clock. “Amy, don’t you think—”
Amy slapped the table, her frayed patience wearing thin. “Susan, I mean it. Stay out of detention.”
“Amy, the time!”
“Why aren’t you listening?”
“Because,” Susan drew the word into three frustrated syllables, “our bus leaves in less than two minutes!”
Amy sprang to her feet, toppling her stool to the floor with a tumbling wooden clatter. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried. You were too busy lecturing to listen.” Susan ran to the closet to fetch her coat.
“Come on! We have to hurry!” Amy snatched her jacket off the living room floor and galloped past the still-snoozing Rex.
“Amy!” Susan panted as they flew down their front steps.
“What now?” she said, already halfway down their driveway.
“You’re working tonight, right? What about your uniform?”
“Crap! I’ll meet you at the bus.” Amy tore past her sister, her boots skidding on the icy asphalt.
“You’ll never make it!” Susan shrieked with more drama than an actress in a Broadway musical.
Amy crashed headlong through the door and tore up the stairs to her bedroom. She snatched her unflattering orange uniform off a shelf in her closet and crammed it into her backpack in a bunched-up, wrinkled mess. She careened back downstairs, nearly tripping in her haste.
Rex bellowed like a foghorn from his place on the sofa. “Shut the hell up!”
“Enjoy sleeping it off.” Rex drank almost as much as her dear alcoholic mother.
She and Susan only made the bus because a frantic blond boy chased it down. Susan waved an exuberant greeting to Frank, their friendly bus driver, and the two chattered happily as the bus merged with rush hour traffic. Amy stared out the window and fought to keep her eyes open. Once upon a time, she had been as positive and sunny as her little sister. Then she grew up.
Amy and Susan disembarked with a herd of little kids in tow. Her mother had entrusted her with getting Susan to school safely, so Amy had taken responsibility for the others as well. She had assumed the unofficial position of crossing guard, shepherding groups of tiny kindergartners through the busy intersection every morning.
Susan’s school, Parsons Elementary, had a lush, sprawling lawn and wide, welcoming front doors. A secure chain-link fence wrapped around its entire perimeter, and two majestic oak trees framed the gate onto school grounds. Scores of happy children played on a large jungle gym, monkey bars, and swing set.
Susan hugged Amy goodbye and raced to join her friends on the swings. The rest of her charges dispersed, except for little Bobby Price, a particularly shy kindergartner.
The sweet-faced five-year-old clung to Amy’s hand and gazed up at her with his big blue eyes. “Don’t go. Com
e to class with me.”
She gently patted his shiny black hair. “I’m too big for kindergarten. You’ll have more fun with your friends.”
He dropped his gaze and scuffed the ground with the toe of his sneaker. “I don’t have friends.”
Amy placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. When she was five years old, she had had millions of friends, but one of her closest playmates had been quieter than Bobby. “Hey, Cole!” She waved another little boy over.
The Hispanic first grader glanced up from playing in the sandbox, smiled at her, and scampered to her side. “What’s up, Amy?”
“Do you know Bobby? Want to show him what you’re building in the sandbox?”
“I’m making train tracks!” Cole flashed a proud smile. He was missing a front tooth. “Wanna come see?”
The boys trotted to the sandbox just as their first bell rang. Amy winced. She was going to be late for class again. She sprinted for the gate against a tide of children heading the other way.
She dashed across the street on a green light, disregarding every last warning she had ever given to children. She acknowledged the horns with her middle finger, rushed into school, and made it to homeroom seconds before the last bell. She dropped into a spot in the back-left row and blocked out the world.
Three
ZACK DONNELLSON AWOKE to an obnoxious ringing. “Stop it. It’s too early,” he mumbled into his pillow and pulled his blankets over his head to muffle the earsplitting noise.
“It’s your phone,” a far-off voice said.
“Hello?” he croaked.
“Still ringing, bro. Swipe to answer.”
Zack poked his head out of his blankets and blinked blurrily at his nine-year-old brother. Chris was standing in his doorway, clad in jeans and a navy T-shirt depicting Superman. His blond hair was slicked back exactly like Zack wore his. Zack grimaced. Why did his brother insist on swiping his gel?
“Like my hairdo?” Chris’s sky blue eyes sparkled with mischief.
“How are you so awake this early?” Zack fumbled for his phone and accepted the call.
Chris rolled his eyes. “I’m not hung over.”
“Hey honey!” His girlfriend’s loud, chipper voice made his head throb.
He winced and put her on speaker to increase the distance between her shrill tones and his ear. “Chelsea? Why are you calling me so—” He groped for his alarm clock, forgetting to check the time on his phone. He accidentally sent the clock careening across his room. The back popped off, and batteries rolled across his hardwood floor. One collided with a dirty sock. The other vanished beneath his bed. Zack gave it up for lost, far too tired to go searching for it. He instead steadied the precarious stack of sports magazines and comic books that cluttered his table.
“Hello?”
Zack scrunched up his face. Chelsea desperately needed a mute button. He settled for adjusting the volume on his phone. “Chelsea, what time is it?” His voice had a grumpy, sleep-deprived edge to it.
“Are you still in bed?” she asked, annoyance etching her falsely cheerful voice.
“Yeah, why …” Chris switched on the light. “Ouch, stop it!” Zack squeezed his eyes shut against the excruciating glare.
“Stop what?” Chelsea demanded.
“Just a sec. Chris?” He dragged himself and most of his blankets out of bed.
“What?” Chris said from the hall.
“What time is it?”
“Six.”
Zack’s eyes bulged. “Six a.m.?”
“Yep.” Chris giggled, rudely amused at his brother’s plight.
Zack snatched his phone. “Chelsea, why the hell are you calling me at six a.m.?”
“Honey.” She drew out the word into three whiny syllables. “You promised you’d drive me to school early so I could get Jessie to finish my homework.”
Chelsea’s best friend, Jessie Davis, had a sunny disposition and loved to help others a little too much. Jessie did more of Chelsea’s homework than Chelsea herself.
“Right.” Zack sighed wearily and cradled his aching head. “When do I have to pick you up?”
“Ten minutes. You promised.” He hated her smug tone.
“Relax, I’ll be there.”
“Thanks babe!” She abruptly ended the call.
Zack grabbed jeans, a T-shirt, and a hoodie off his floor, the first semiclean clothes he stumbled upon in his disaster of a bedroom. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on his closet door and laughed out loud. Zack was a solid six foot two with just the right amount of freckles and an unruly mop of copper-colored hair. Girls swooned at the sight of him with his chiseled features and bright crystal blue eyes. He usually dressed casually in sport shirts, jeans, sneakers and liked to painstakingly slick back his messy hair with gel. This morning he had dull eyes, wild hair, and wore a sickly grimace, compliments of his killer hangover. THS’s student population was finally about to experience an unattractive version of their star quarterback.
He staggered across the hall to the bathroom and put in his contacts in a hungover haze. Zack stared at his silhouette in the glass door to the shower stall. He squinted longingly at the pristine white tiled interior. A hot shower was just what he needed to bring him back to life. Damn his too-hot-to-refuse girlfriend. He at least had to brush his teeth. He squeezed out too much toothpaste and slimed the marble countertop. Zack shoved the toothbrush into his mouth and sprinted from the bathroom. He stumbled down the spiral staircase, still brushing his teeth.
The Donnellsons’ sprawling, three-story home had cream-colored paneling and polished oak floors. Family portraits adorned the walls with special emphasis placed on a row of baby pictures in the entrance hall. The photos were interspersed with expensive paintings and other works of art. His parents had a tendency to combine the extravagant with the sentimental.
His mother, Tatiana Donnellson, was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and her laptop. She was dressed for work in a starched white blouse, pleated black skirt, and heels. Her wavy blonde hair was pulled neatly into a bun, and her pretty face was artfully made up with painstaking precision. Her ocean blue eyes gazed sympathetically at him as he staggered into the kitchen in extreme disarray. Early morning perkiness ran in his family, but Zack had missed out on those genes.
“Morning, honey.” His mother smiled softly.
He frowned. Why did all the women in his life insist on calling him honey? “Hey,” he gargled around his toothbrush as he rummaged through the fridge for something to grab and go.
“Your dad and I are leaving for our business trip this afternoon,” she reminded him for what had to be the twentieth time. “You’ll have to fetch Chris from school, and he’s having a friend over.”
Zack spat his toothpaste in the kitchen sink, tossed his toothbrush onto the counter, and sprinted from the kitchen. “Got it!” The door slammed on his shout. He’d receive a lecture later for not saying a proper goodbye but after being out of town for a week, she’d forget to be upset. He burned rubber as he sped down his street. His bad-tempered girlfriend was not as forgiving.
He rubbed sleep out of his eyes as he pulled into Chelsea’s driveway. She was waiting on her front porch, a bad sign. She stalked toward his car in black heels, figure-hugging jeans, and a preppy cashmere cardigan.
Chelsea Brookes was the hottest girl in school, head cheerleader, and future Beverly Hills trophy wife. She was model fit with a thick mane of cascading honey blonde hair and a flawless, creamy complexion other girls would kill for. She had a sexy rosebud mouth and pouty red lips he could kiss all day. Her lively green eyes twinkled merrily when she lied.
“You’re late. I’ve been waiting for, like, five minutes.” He bit his tongue and glared at her. “And you look terrible.” She tossed her bag into the back seat and settled herself in the front.
He pressed his lips into a thin line. Would it kill her to show some gratitude? He reversed out of her driveway and cruised toward THS.
Zack pulled into the school’s mostly empty parking lot and waved a sleepy hello to Jessie. Chelsea flounced from his car without so much as a thank-you. Zack leaned against the steering wheel and accidentally on purpose blared the horn.
He slouched into school and flopped on the floor in front of his locker. The tile was cold and hard, but he was too dead inside to care. He woke to hushed voices discussing whether or not to wake him up. He opened his eyes, and a group of freshman girls scattered.
“Hey man.” His best friend, Ken Richards, was ambling toward him through the flock of giggling girls.
Ken was lean and athletic with naturally tanned skin, an open, smiling face, and perfect bleached blond hair. He wore a cherry red leather jacket over a white muscle shirt and black jeans.
“Late night?” Ken quirked an eyebrow at Zack’s disheveled appearance.
“Yeah. I got home around two in the morning, and I had to drive Chelsea here early.”
Ken chuckled. “But you still made it to school in all your messy-haired glory. Bet you had no clue what you were in for when you started going out with that chick.”
“You have no idea.” Zack stood to stretch his legs. “Does Jessie give you a hard time too?”
Ken was dating Chelsea’s drop-dead gorgeous best friend, a brilliantly smart cheerleader whom everyone loved. This union had cemented the four teens’ standing as the social powerhouse of their grade. Jessie offset Chelsea’s bitchiness and the jocks’ entitlement with genuine, caring charm. She let sad freshmen cry on her shoulder at the state of their nonexistent romantic lives and gently let down the hopelessly smitten nerds who fell prey to her beauty and brains. There wasn’t a soul at THS who hated her. People envied her, sure, but disliked her? Never.
“Nah, she’s great!” Ken smiled dreamily.
Zack grimaced. Jessie was always great. Ken had been seeing her for two months. Two long, agonizing months for Zack. He loved Jessie like a sister, but he wanted his best friends back to normal. Ken claimed Zack and Chelsea had a different type of relationship. Zack agreed. Ken and Jessie’s relationship was equivalent to high school marriage.
Blood Moon's Fury: A Young Adult Fantasy Thriller (Curse of the Blood Moon Book 1) Page 2