Cracked Kingdom

by Erin Watt

  “Don’t be mad,” she says.

  I nearly bite my tongue off in an effort to not respond. The minute she hits the brakes in front of our house, I shoot out the door. She shouts something behind me, but I don’t care enough to decipher it. If they want to push me out of the family, they’re doing a damn good job.

  I haul ass upstairs to my closet. I press a button under the center shelf and wait the long ten seconds for the false panel at the back to raise. Once the safe is revealed, I punch in the code and grab my cash. It’s not a lot—only five grand, but I should be able to find a poker game in town to win a little more. I stuff my LV cabin bag with some underwear, a change of clothes, my stupid fucking Astor Park uniform, and toiletries.

  Once that’s done, I make a call to Pash, one of the few decent people I know. Day or night, the guy is always on his phone. Predictably, he answers after the second ring.

  “What’s going on, man? I’m in the middle of something.” He sounds strained.

  “I need a ride.”

  “What happened to your truck?”

  “It’s getting serviced.”

  “Don’t you have a fleet of cars there? Oh shit—right there, baby.”

  I roll my eyes. Of course, Pash is still answering his phone in the middle of a lay. “My old man is piss-his-pants scared another kid is going to end up in the hospital. None of us are allowed to drive except Ella.”

  This time Pash’s groan is nonsexual. Ella’s reputation for driving no faster than thirty-five miles per hour is a well-known phenomenon at Astor Park.

  “Dude, I’m so sorry. Can you give me…Hold on, babe.” He pauses, apparently trying to calculate how long it’s going to take to finish.

  “Forget it.” I’m not so hard up that I’m going to interrupt a friend’s happy time. “I’ll call for a car.”

  “Thank God,” he says in relief. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “No. This won’t last long. Ouch. Damn. No, I’m going down on you. I told you I would. Shit,” he says into the phone. “I gotta go.”

  I swallow a laugh, feeling a little more normal. My world is screwed up, but everyone else’s is operating as usual.

  I step outside so that Ella and I don’t piss each other off even more. I walk down the long drive to the entrance gate. While I wait for the car, I pull up my texts to Hart. She still hasn’t read them. That makes me mad and sad and frustrated. Why in the hell is she hanging out with Bran? Does she remember him but not me? That thought makes me want to chuck my already broken phone on the asphalt until it’s nothing but a pile of tiny metal pieces. Of course, if my phone is destroyed and Hart tries to text me, I’ll miss it.

  What is Bran doing? Is he fucking with her head like Felicity? Is he trying to get in her pants now that she’s vulnerable? What kind of sketchy asshole behavior is that? I scroll through my contacts. I have him in here. I’m sure of it.

  “Gotcha,” I say when I come across his entry. I shoot him a text.

  Me: Don’t fuck with my girl.

  He responds immediately. I’m looking out for her.

  Me: That’s not your job.

  Bran: You’re not around.

  The hell I’m not, I type in but before I press send, the accuracy of his accusation sets in. He’s right, that fucker. I’m not at school. He is. As long as I’m playing watchdog for Seb at the hospital, Hartley is on her own over there at Astor Park.

  I shove my phone back in my pocket without responding to Bran. I’m letting this go for now, because as pissed as I am that he’s treading on my territory, Mathis is a good guy. He’ll—I clench my teeth and my fists—he’ll look out for Hartley at school. She needs that.

  But he better stay the fuck out of her pants.

  “You’re going to the east end? Is that right?” my driver asks ten minutes later, after I slide into the backseat. He’s a thin male with a nose two sizes too big for his face. He taps his screen as if he’s sure that it’s malfunctioning.

  “Yup.”

  “You work here?” he asks, jerking his head toward the house.

  “Something like that.” I slip a pair of headphones over my head, and the driver takes the hint by shutting up. The place I’m going is a far cry from the one I’m leaving, but it’s the only place I can think to go.

  She’s not there, but it’s her home. And mine now, too.

  Chapter 17

  Hartley

  I'm not so sure that I was sent away so much as I ran away, I decide later that evening. The Wright household is a nightmare. My dad is glued to his phone twenty-four/seven. My little sister, who I remember being moody, has turned into a full-fledged demon seed who’s likely to kill me off in my sleep some night. My oldest sister hasn’t been to the house since my first day home. My mom talks constantly about what a certain Mrs. Carrington is doing. This week Mrs. Carrington is doing a soup cleanse.

  “We should try it,” she suggests to Dad as he devours his pot roast and sweet potatoes.

  He doesn’t look up from his phone.

  “It’s very nourishing. We could do plant-based or bone-based broths. Mrs. Carrington read this article to us about a company out of Los Angeles that sells a month-long program. It’s very reasonable, but if you don’t think we should pay for the food I’m sure I could come up with a few recipes of my own.”

  “Can you believe this shit?” Dad answers, shaking his phone at us. “Callum Royal is getting nominated for another philanthropic award. Can’t anyone in Bayview see through his carpetbaggin’ nonsense? He’s just buying everyone off so they can’t see what a corrupt son of a bitch he is.”

  “Callum Royal’s family has been here for about five generations,” Mom chirps. “I wouldn’t call him a carpetbagger.”

  Dad slams his hand on the table. We all jump. “You’d stick up for Jack the Ripper if he had enough money.”

  Mom pales and Dylan looks like she wants to slide under the table.

  “That’s not true, John. You know I don’t like the Royals either.” She pushes the potato dish into my hand and gestures with her chin to give Dad another helping. He’s already had two. Maybe she thinks he can be put into a carb coma and he’ll stop being mad at her.

  In the short time I’ve been home from the hospital, I’ve learned we all give my dad a wide berth. He has a temper and a sharp tongue, which, I suppose, serves him well in the courtroom. His phone rings and he takes the call right there at the dinner table.

  No one is surprised, so I act like it’s normal, too, even though I think this is weird. Why not get up and go to his office? Why not wait until we’re done eating?

  “How was school today?” Mom asks to distract me.

  It works. I swing my attention away from my father.

  “It was good,” I lie. Or maybe it’s not a lie but rather hope. I’m speaking the future I want into existence.

  Across from me, Dylan snorts. She hasn’t been in a good mood since I returned from the hospital.

  I set my spoon down and gather up my patience. "What is it now?" I ask. "Am I eating wrong again?"

  Last night, my baby sister told me the way I chewed my food made her want to hurl. She made gagging sounds at the table until Dad yelled at her to go to her room.

  "Everything about you is wrong. You shouldn't be here."

  "I know. You've told me that a million times since I got back from the hospital." I emphasize the last word, but the little shit doesn't care. In fact, if she could get away with it, I think she'd put me back there.

  "You're gross."

  "Thank you for your unasked opinion."

  "I wish you'd stayed in New York."

  "I heard you the first dozen times you said it.”

  "You're gross."

  "You already said that, too.”

  "But you're still sitting here, exposing me to your grossness." Dylan turns to Mom. "Why is she back? I thought Dad said he never wanted to see her again."

  "Hush," Mom c
hastises and flicks a guilty look in my direction.

  Dad never wanted to see me again? I twist to stare at him, but he’s still occupied with his phone call. “There’s going to be a lot of press involved,” he’s saying. He sounds excited about this.

  "You said she was going to ruin everything and that she had to be punished for that," my sister presses.

  "You need to hush up, Dylan. Now finish your dinner." Mom's lips thin. “And you, Hartley, go put your uniform in the dryer so it smells nice for tomorrow.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I rise ungracefully and knock the table with my hips, sending Dylan’s nearly full milk glass spilling over.

  “God, you are such a clumsy bitch,” she snarls.

  “That’s enough!” bellows Dad.

  The three of us jump in surprise. I hadn’t realized he’d hung up the phone. By Dylan’s shocked face, she didn’t either or she never would’ve cursed.

  “That’s enough,” he repeats with a sneer. “I'm tired of your garbage mouth. Are you taking your medication?" His hand is curled into a fist.

  I shrink back. Across from me, a shaft of fear skips across Dylan's face.

  "Y-y-yes," she stutters, but the lie is so obvious that I wince in sympathy.

  "Why isn't she taking her goddamned medicine?" Dad bellows at Mom.

  She wrings the napkin between her fingers. "I give them to her every morning."

  "If you did, she wouldn't be acting like a little bitch, would she?" He abruptly pushes away from the table, sending everything tottering.

  Dylan's eyes well up. "I'll take it," she mumbles. "I missed it just today."

  Dad's not listening. He's in the kitchen, jerking open a drawer and pulling out a pill bottle. With the amber container clutched in his hand, he marches back and slams it down on the table. "Take it," he orders.

  My sister stares at the medicine as if it's poison. Slowly, her arm raises from her lap, but she doesn't move fast enough for Dad.

  "I'm tired of your bullshit." He sweeps the bottle out of her reach, wrenches it open and pours what seems like half the pills into his palm. "You're a moody little shit who cusses like the only thing she has in her mouth is trash. I'm not going to stand for this. Do you hear me?" He squeezes her mouth in his hands until it opens.

  "Stop! I'll take it!" Dylan cries. Tears are running down her face.

  "Dad, please," I say, reaching across the table as if I can somehow stop this. This is crazy. He's using too much pressure. The skin of Dylan's jaw is turning white where his fingers are pressing into her face.

  "You sit down. I told you she was a bad influence on Dylan. She should’ve never been allowed back in this house." He shoves two pills into Dylan's mouth, seemingly oblivious to the tears that are dripping onto his hand. "Swallow it, girl. Do you hear me? You swallow it right now." He pushes her mouth shut, covers her nose and lips with his big hand until she swallows.

  I glance to Mom for help, but she's not even looking at us. Her gaze is pinned on the back wall as if by pretending she can't see this insanity, it doesn't exist.

  "You done?" he demands.

  Dylan nods miserably, but Dad still doesn't let her go. He forcibly opens her jaw again and runs his finger inside her mouth, even to the back of her throat until she gags. Finally, when he's satisfied, he releases her and sits down, calmly wiping his hands on the napkin, and then picks up his phone.

  "May I be excused?" Dylan says stiffly.

  "Of course, dear," Mom answers as if nothing out of the ordinary just took place.

  Dylan flees from the table. I stare after her.

  "I..." How do you tell your parents that you disagree with their parenting? That this is all wrong. That they shouldn’t be treating their children like this.

  "I can see you're upset, Hartley,” Mom adds, “but your sister really needs this medication and sometimes when she doesn't take them, she hurts herself. Your father is simply trying to protect her."

  "It doesn't seem like that.” Without another word, I flee the dining room, running after Dylan.

  She’s locked herself in her bedroom. I can hear the muffled cries. My own jaw aches in sympathy. “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Go away,” she snarls. “I was fine until you came along.”

  “Please, I just want to help.”

  “Then go away!” she screams. “I wish you died in that accident. Go away and never come back.”

  I back away. She’s upset. Super upset and who wouldn’t be? If Dad grabbed my face and poured pills down my throat, I’d be crying in my room, too. But Dylan’s words feel personal—as if she’s angry at something I did. My vow to forget about the past is idiotic. I can’t move forward, not while everyone else’s reaction to me is based on their memories. I wish I could remember this. If I’m only allowed to recover one thing, let it be why my relationship with Dylan is so screwed up.

  I drop my forehead against her door. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I don’t remember, but I’m sorry.”

  She responds with silence, which is a thousand times worse than her insults.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’m sorry.” I slide down until my ass hits the floor. “I’m sorry.” I repeat the words on loop until my throat grows sore and my butt is numb. And still there’s no sound in return.

  “Hartley, come away from your sister’s door,” Mom’s voice urges from above.

  I twist around to see her climbing the stairs. She stops halfway up and motions for me to meet her. I shake my head because I don’t have the energy.

  “Your sister has issues, don’t you remember?”

  I shake my head. My last memories of Dylan are of her as a child—a moody one, but a child nonetheless. This young thirteen-year-old girl going on twenty-five is new to me.

  “She gets in these moods because she doesn’t take her medication.” Mom twists her fingers. “And then your father gets angry.” She waves her hand in agitation. “It’s a vicious cycle. Don’t take it personally.”

  I nod, welcoming the absolution even if I don’t deserve it.

  “Come away from there now.” She waves again, this time for me to come to her.

  I move slowly toward the stairs, sliding my butt down one step at a time like I did when I was a baby.

  Mom presses money into my hand. “Take the car and go see your friends. There must be a place that you can hang out at for a while. Just until your father calms down.”

  I don’t want to leave. I want to crawl into my bed and pull the covers way up over my head and sleep long enough for this nightmare to be over.

  “Where would I go?” I ask hoarsely.

  A flash of annoyance skips over her face. “Go and meet with your friends. It’s barely eight. They must be out doing things.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Don’t think. Just go.”

  And somehow that’s how I find myself sitting behind the wheel of my mom’s Acura staring at the lights at the intersection of West and 86th Street, not sure what direction to go. Not sure where I belong in this world. Not sure if I can take another day of this without completely falling apart.

  Chapter 18

  Easton

  “Pash, you are the man,” I crow as I dump the contents of the paper bag I ripped out of his hands five seconds ago. “Was your girl too mad?”

  “I promised to buy her a Birkin, so I could run over her dog and she’d still keep my place warm. This is…interesting,” he comments, looking around the apartment. “Are you doing some kind of social experiment for Ethics like Barnaby Pome did last year?”

  “What? No.” I kiss the two bottles of Ciroc and line them up on the counter next to two glasses and the bag of ice I discovered at the convenience store on the corner. Who knew ice came in bags? “Pome’s an idiot. Didn’t he get worms or something fucked up like that? I don’t even take Ethics.”

  Ethical Lifestyles is a whacked-out class at Astor Park. The intentions may have been good when the class was conc
eived, but we Astor kids know how to fuck up anything. One guy almost burned down the school trying to smoke his classmate’s hemp-only clothes. Another girl got sent to the hospital after trying to live in a tree for a month. The worst was Barnaby Pome who decided to be a fruitarian and would only eat fruit. As the semester progressed, he said he would only eat fruit that was grown on its own roots, which is apparently super hard in this day and age of biologically cultivated foods. He took to scavenging on the Bayview shore and in the woods over on the golf course. It was only a matter of time before he was going to get sick. Rumor has it they found a foot-long tapeworm in his stomach from something he’d eaten off the forest floor.

  “Then what’s all this?”

  I glance up from sorting through the goodies Pash brought me to see him standing in the middle of the apartment, turning in a slow circle. “It’s an apartment.”

  “I know that, dumbass, but what are you doing here?”

  “It’s Hart’s apartment,” I say simply. That should explain everything.

  But Pash doesn’t get it because he keeps asking questions. “Then where’s Hartley?”

  “At her parents’ house.”

  “There isn’t anything here.”

  “Gold star for you, Captain Obvious.” I stare at the pile I sorted. There’s a vape, e-juice, a couple bags of chips, a small baggie of weed and some papers. Where’s the good stuff?

  “Are you sleeping on the floor of this hellhole because you’re hoping that Hartley remembers where you guys had sex and comes running back here?”

  I stiffen and shoot Pash a glare. “First, you don’t talk about Hart like that. Ever.” I stare steadily at him until his eyes drop to the floor. “Second, there’s nothing wrong with this place. It’s cozy.”

  “Fine, but you do realize you’re looking like a nutless wonder waiting for the headcase to remember she’s in love with you.”

  Pash’s bravery stems from a friendship that started when we were young enough to think that eating dirt was the bomb, but I warned him once. I cross the distance in two strides and have his collar in my fist in the next one, driving him straight into the wall.