The Forever Crew

by Stunich, C. M.

  “Yeah, except that Jenica wasn’t his biological kid,” Ranger says, and I pause. Pretty sure the other boys are just as shocked as I am by that statement. Flicking my attention over to Church, I catch a brief flare of hurt in his eyes before he shuts it down. “You know my mom was married to my dad’s brother first, right? He died in a plane crash when Jenica was like, five, and Mom, in some like grief-induced haze married his kid brother that she’d never really liked.”

  “So you and Jenica are cousins and siblings?” Spencer asks, and Ranger gives him a look that could curdle milk. He very quickly holds up his hands in surrender.

  “Don’t make it weird. It’s not like there was incest or anything. Chill out.” Ranger turns back to his cake, focusing in on piping some frosting lace along the edges. He’s doing it again, baking out all his frustrations. It’s a pretty healthy outlet though, if you ask me. “I’m just saying, my dad’s a petty, pathetic asshole. So maybe he figured he’d sell Jenica down the river?”

  “But not recruit you into the Fellowship?” Micah asks, and the room goes quiet again. After a moment, Church comes over to where I’m standing, removes a small blue book from his pocket, and sets it on the counter next to me.

  When I reach out to grab it, I see that it’s a passport—with my name and picture on the inside.

  My eye twitches.

  “I see that when you asked me to stand against the white wall in our room, so you could get a headshot to sketch for art class, you were totally full of shit.”

  “Full of shit,” Church agrees with a brisk nod. “So, pack your bags: you’re going with us to London—whether Headmaster Carson likes it or not.”

  The way that Dad looks at me, I’m sure I’ve done it now. This is literally the last straw in our relationship, the lynchpin being pulled, the coup de grâce if you will.

  “You are not going to London,” he says, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “To stay at Eric Warren’s house? Absolutely not.” My face pales because I most definitely did not say anything about Eric Warren’s house. We figured since dad’s admission that he knows at least something about the cult which means he might also know about Eric’s possible involvement. Instead, we spun some almost-lie about staying in Church’s parents’ flat in Hyde Park—that’s one of the rich people parts of London—for the week.

  “I’ve never been out of the country,” I plead, folding my hands together like I’m six years old all over again. Yes, we’re going to see Eric Warren née Woodruff (he changed his last name to his mother’s following a political scandal) as part of our investigation, but … it’s more than that. This is a chance for me to see another part of the world, a place I never thought I’d be able to go. “Hell, until we moved here, I’d never been out of California. This is the chance of a lifetime for me.”

  With a sigh, Dad puts his glasses aside and then pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning back in his chair like he’s tired. And I don’t just mean from the day, it looks like he’s feeling his exhaustion bone-deep.

  “Charlotte, do you think I want you to suffer?” he asks, dropping his hands in his lap and studying my face.

  “Um, yes?”

  “Charlotte Farren,” he groans, looking like he’d rather take a long walk off a short pier than keep talking to me right now. “Eric Warren is a dangerous man, and you have no business traveling to a foreign country with a bunch of boys that you barely know—”

  “I’ve known them for over a year,” I correct, “and we’ve been through a lot together. We almost died in those tunnels; we all grieved Spencer together. They took me to Disneyland. Why can’t you just accept that they’re in my life and they probably will be for a long, long time.”

  “Regardless of your relationship with these boys, I won’t have you going to see Eric Warren.”

  “Because you know he’s involved with the Fellowship of the Divine.”

  Silence.

  You could hear a pin drop.

  Speaking of pins, Dad sort of looks like he wants to shove one into my eye right now.

  “Where did you hear that name?” he asks, and I grimace. Would giving Mr. Murphy away do me any good right now? Or would I just get him in trouble? Because I don’t want that. He’s a good person, even if he is a coward. He did care about Jenica, and he tried to protect me, too, in his own way.

  “That doesn’t matter right now,” I say as Dad stands up and comes around the front of his desk, eyebrow twitching. I back up because I know at this point that I’m in pretty deep shit here. “The point is: I do know the name. And I know that you confirmed what I already thought: that someone’s trying to kill me.”

  “Charlotte,” he says, but there isn’t a lot of heat in his voice anymore. For a second there, he just looks like a frazzled, middle-aged man who needs a vacation. “You are a child.”

  “Young adult, eighteen in a month,” I murmur, but he isn’t listening to me anymore than usual.

  “It’s not your job to search for the answers. Your job is to go to school and listen to what I tell you. I’m not making things up just to make your life miserable. There are people looking into this, but those people are not you.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks at me, really looks at me. “When I came to Adamson, I’ll admit, I was ignorant. I didn’t know what was going on, and maybe I didn’t want to. But you’re going to graduate at the end of the year, leave this place behind, and start a future. Until then, you have to abide by my rules. Don’t you believe that I’d do anything to protect you?”

  “Nothing will happen to me in London, Dad. The guys will be there, and really, it has to be safer than here, right?”

  “Eric Warren is a leader in this ‘cult’ you’re so fond of discussing, Charlotte. You’re not going to his home—that’s the end of this discussion.”

  “But—”

  “But what?!” he screams, and I have to blink several times to make sense of what I’m seeing here. Dad. Breaking down. Turning purple. Losing control. “Do you want to wind up at the end of a noose like Eugene Mathers? Charlotte, I’m trying to protect you!”

  My eyes water, but I’m not exactly sure why in that moment. So many emotions are tumbling through me that they seem impossible to make sense of. It’s a storm inside of me, with a little bit of rain, some clouds, but some sunshine, too.

  Dad cares. He just isn’t good at showing it. He won’t let me go to London. He’s afraid for me.

  I bite my lower lip.

  “This is a very dangerous organization with centuries of history, influence, and power. You need to stay here, on this campus, where Ian and Nathan can watch you.”

  “Ian and Nathan?” I ask, giving my dad a look. “The librarian and the shitty security guard who smells like Mountain Dew?”

  “Charlotte, I have a migraine, and I need to lie down. Please. Go back to the dorm and stay in your room. Between that write-up for bursting into my home, and the one you got for missing your room check on Halloween, you’re creeping into dangerous academic territory here.” Dad fails to mention that pretty much every student in the school got a write-up for missing curfew on Halloween, but thus is his way. “You’re safest here. If I’d known what I know now, I never would’ve sent you to California.”

  “The boys can hire private security for me,” I start, but Dad’s not listening. We had a moment, but that moment’s over. He walks away from me, out the door of his office, pausing just briefly to survey the five boys standing in his kitchen.

  “Sir,” Church begins carefully, but that shiny glitter that used to fill my father’s eyes at the sight of our school’s best student has faded away to a steely irritation known by any teen who’s ever had an overprotective parent. It’s this well-meaning stubbornness that sometimes defies logic and reality. “If it’s Eric Warren that makes you uncomfortable, then perhaps we truly could stay at my parents’ place.”

  “Son,” Dad begins, and I know then that he’s getting deadly serious. The word son usually only comes out o
f Headmaster Carson’s mouth when he’s in full disciplinary mode. Church is in trouble. “You put a ring on my daughter’s finger without asking my permission—we are not friends.”

  “Oh my god, you’re such a boomer!” I choke out, falling back into old patterns. With a deep breath, I settle myself and try to resist the flinty glare my father’s just turned on me. “It’s not 1605 anymore. I’m not your possession, and Church doesn’t have to ask you. The only person he had to ask was me.”

  “Well, when’s the wedding?” Dad asks, trying a different tactic as he turns on me. The twins, Spencer, and Ranger stand back, unsure where to interfere in this verbal tussle. At least I know that if Dad tries to grab me again, that they will step in. “Because at least when all this is over, you’ll be forced to admit to your lies.” He heads out the door, breezing past the boys and heading for the stairs as I stumble after him. “And by the way, you can’t leave the country without a passport.”

  “I have a passport,” I admit, pulling it from my pocket as dad pauses with one foot on the bottom step. He looks over his shoulder with a mix of helplessness and fear. More than likely he’s realizing that Church Montague’s gotten me a passport without consulting him. Somehow, that means Church managed to get a hold of all the required documentation on his own. Admittedly, that’s equal parts fascinating and terrifying to me, too. “What if I stayed with the Montagues? What if … I promised not to see Eric Warren or go anywhere near him?”

  Before Archie can respond, there’s a knock on the screen door.

  “Hello? Is anyone home? It’s okay, I’ll come in. I’m coming in.”

  The door swings wide, opening in for a magnanimous woman with blond hair and blue eyes.

  “Mother,” Church starts, blinking rapidly in a rare moment of surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  “To see you, silly,” she says, planting a lavender kiss on both of Church’s cheeks and leaving lipstick stains. The twins and Spencer snicker until she turns her attention to them, ruffling hair, and kissing faces. Even Ranger isn’t exempt. Even I’m not exempt. “My future daughter-in-law!” she says, eyes tearing up as she yanks me close for a floral-scented hug, and then cups my face to kiss both my cheeks and my forehead.

  Church's mom is impossible to miss, this radiant woman in a floppy white sunhat, gloves, and a dress that hugs her lithe form. She stands out like a sunbeam in the dark, sometimes dreary atmosphere of Adamson Academy.

  “Mrs. Montague,” Dad says, giving me a thunderous look. To be fair, I had no idea she’d be showing up here today. I hold my palms up and out in apologetic surrender. “How may I help you? The academy encourages parents to call before stopping by for a visit or a tour.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she says, waving her gloved hand around dismissively, a garment bag draped over her other arm. “I was in Nutmeg to work on a little business project and thought I’d come up to give Charlotte a present. Was is this I hear about staying with us? Charlotte is always welcome in our family.”

  “Mother, you were eavesdropping?” Church chastises, but she waves him away.

  “The children,” Dad begins, emphasizing that awful word in a way that only he could, “were discussing a trip to London over fall break. As you can imagine—”

  “London? Oh, yes, we have a flat in Hyde Park. That sounds like a lovely way to spend break.”

  I realize two things in that moment: Church’s mother is beyond nice, and she’s also beyond privileged. She doesn’t know the meaning of the word no.

  “While I’m not opposed to Charlotte exploring the world one day, now just isn’t the right time,” Archie explains, finally turning and coming down the rest of the stairs to stand next to Mrs. Montague.

  “If it’s supervision you’re worried about, David and I are more than happy to go with them. Charlotte will be well-taken care of. Now, look what I’ve brought for you.” She drags the zipper down on the garment bag and whips out a white dress, flashing it for the whole room to see.

  “What … is it?” I ask, feeling my throat close up on a ball of raw emotion. I know perfectly well what that is.

  “It’s your wedding dress!” Mrs. Montague says, draping it across her arms and holding it out to me. “It’s the same one I wore when I was seventeen years old.” She sighs and looks up at the ceiling, like she’s already caught up in a vivid daydream of David Montague as a young man.

  “It’s bad luck for a groom to see the dress before the wedding,” Church says, looking slightly paler than usual. Elizabeth Montague waves his concerns away.

  “That’s ridiculous. Your father and I picked this dress out together. We eloped to Paris with it.” She sighs again and fans her face. “Do you think you two might want to get hitched in London? We could borrow the abbey!”

  “The … abbey?” I ask, noticing that Church is giving his mom a look similar to the ones I give my dad when he’s being completely over the top. Just, his mom goes over the top in a whole different way.

  “Westminster Abbey,” she says, like duh. I choke on my own spit, forcing Spencer to rub and pat my back to help me clear my throat.

  “I thought only royalty could get married there?” I manage to get out as Dad stands dumbfounded and speechless near the staircase.

  “We have friends in high places,” Elizabeth says, and then she chuckles like it’s no big deal.

  “Mother, that isn’t even a remotely realistic option,” Church begins, but she quiets him with a click of her tongue.

  “Oh shush, Church. Here you go, darling. What do you think?”

  She hands the dress over, and I take it reverently, staring down at the beaded bodice and then looking back up at her face. I’m dating her son, sure, but … I’m also dating four other boys. What the hell am I doing here?! Elizabeth looks so excited about the prospect of her son marrying me in this dress; she believes in old-school, love at first sight stuff. What happens if this doesn’t work out?

  “Mrs. Montague …” Dad starts, looking at the offending dress like he’d rather burn it than watch me get married in it.

  “Try it on,” she encourages, flapping gloved hands at me, and then reaching up to adjust her hat.

  “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” Church says softly. I lift my gaze up to him, and then pan it across the rest of the boys. They’re all just … staring at me. Everyone’s staring at me. Someone’s trying to kill me. How did I even get here?

  “Of course she wants to,” Elizabeth says as I shuffle in the direction of the downstairs bathroom in a daze. Voices start up behind me as I slip into the restroom and close the door behind me, putting my back up against it. I flick the fan on, so I don’t have to hear what they’re saying.

  “What am I doing?” I wonder, looking down at the admittedly beautiful sweetheart neckline of the dress. It’s white, sure, but when I tilt it into the light, there’s the faintest pink sheen to the shimmery fabric. It looks old, too, and not just Church’s mom old, but like an antique. If both her and my engagement ring came from the antique store, then did this, too?

  Slipping out of my school uniform, I drop the dress over my head and stand staring at myself in the full-length mirror near the door.

  The dress is fitted at the waist, with straps that start wide on the shoulders and taper in near the bodice. The beadwork on the top is delicate, twisting into floral motifs that swirl together across the front and sides, toward the back and the loose ribbons that hold the corseted back together. While the bodice is form-fitting, the skirt is full, a satin top layer over several layers of tulle.

  Looking at my reflection is like looking at a stranger.

  Where’s the bronze-skinned surfer girl? How about the dorky boy in glasses?

  Instead, I find myself looking at someone completely different. And it’s not just the dress, is it? It’s just life, catching up to me.

  Slowly, I push open the door and shuffle into the foyer.

  Elizabeth slaps her hands over her mouth wh
ile my dad turns a shade of red that hasn’t yet been identified in nature. He looks like a vat of cranberry sauce.

  “Charlotte,” Spencer breathes, his jaw tightening as he looks me over. “You’re beautiful.”

  “So cute,” Ranger murmurs, closing his eyes against the sight, a slight pink color tinging his skin.

  “You look … good, Chuck,” the twins say, blinking in surprise, like they’re not quite sure how to react.

  The only one who stays silent is Church.

  “Well, son, don’t you have something to say to your bride?” his mother chastises, giving him a very pointed look.

  Those amber eyes are locked on my face, but I’m having trouble discerning what, exactly, it is that Church might be thinking. Is he disappointed in me? Do I look like the bride he’s always wanted? Why am I feeling so freaking self-conscious all of a sudden? Slowly, carefully, he opens his mouth to speak.

  I cut him off.

  “I … need to grab something,” I say, and Church pauses, giving me a curious sort of look.

  “Grab something?” Spencer echoes as I move over to the door and slip my feet into a pair of rainboots. “What do you mean grab something? From where?”

  “Just … from my room,” I say, fully aware that I’m not quite thinking clearly. If you’ve ever seen the movie The Proposal with Ryan Reynolds and Sandra Bullock in it, you’ll get it. They have a fake engagement, and she runs. And she runs because she … loves him. That, and she doesn’t want to hurt his family.

  “Charlotte Farren,” Dad warns, but I’m already pushing open the screen door and hiking the skirts up as high as I can get them. “What on earth are you doing?”

  I start to run down the path, the wind blowing blond curls around my face.

  “I’m Sandra Bullocking!” I shout as I zip past a cluster of other students, working on a mycology project—that’s fancy talk for mushrooms—and heading straight for the dorms. It’s midday, and there are people everywhere, so I’m not all that concerned about the stupid cult or their blood initiation.