The Forever Crew

by Stunich, C. M.

  “Get off of you?” Ranger asks, his voice this cloud of darkness that makes me shiver. “You just attacked our girlfriend, and you want me to get the hell off of you?”

  “It was a practical joke,” Mark sneers, as if he’s got the moral high ground here. I remember that day we went into his room to check the ceiling; he told me, quite easily I might add, that Eugene was in Cancun. But if he’s involved in the cult then surely, he knew his best friend was dead. Yet the lie came that easily to him, like it meant nothing. “You have no right to keep me here. I’ll start screaming, man.”

  “Why are you in London, chasing after Charlotte, Mr. Grandam?” Church asks, circling around the pair with murder in his eyes. He’s smart enough not to mention the cult. Because if we do, then they’ll know that we’re aware of their existence. Part of me feels relieved, like maybe I’m seeing the end of this nightmare. What are you planning on doing with Mark though? Killing him? Tying him up and throwing him into a basement until we can get the rest of this mystery sorted out?

  I realize than that we haven’t accomplished anything here—except, you know, for stopping my kidnapping.

  “I said get off of me!” Mark screams, just as a pair of schoolgirls comes around the corner, pausing as they see the scene in front of them. To be fair, Mark is bleeding from the head, and Ranger is lording over him like he might very well strangle him to death.

  Seeing no choice in the matter, Ranger stands up with a scowl, gritting his teeth hard as he curls his hands into fists.

  “We knew you were guilty,” the twins say together, standing on either side of me and Spencer, ready to move in if needed. They exchange a look and then nod, turning back to point at Mark. “You killed Eugene.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Mark asks, stumbling over to the sidewalk and swiping blood from his lip. He pulls out his phone and dials a number, putting it to his ear as it rings and watching us warily.

  We’ve literally caught him red-handed and there’s nothing we can do about it right now.

  It’s serious freaking torture.

  “Yeah, come get me. I’m still at the cemetery.” He hangs up as the six of us stand there, watching him like the monster he is. “What? Stop fucking staring at me. Sorry you can’t take a damn joke.”

  “You killed your best friend,” Spencer says, his turquoise eyes narrowing. “Or you know who did.”

  “Seriously, shut the hell up,” Mark snaps, and I can see the boys are doing it on purpose to egg him on. “We only came up here because you guys are freaks, and your girlfriend is a freak, and nobody at the fucking academy likes you.”

  “Nobody believes you followed us up here to play a practical joke,” Church says, but Mark’s already turning away and marching down the hill. “Who were your friends, by the way? We’d love to know who else was in on this little jest.”

  A taxi pulls up and Mark gets in, sliding into the backseat without another word, and slamming the door behind him.

  “I’m not surprised,” Church says, looking back at me, Spencer, and the twins. “But I am intrigued. What does this move mean, exactly?”

  “That they’re on a timeline?” I suggest, breathing hard, the adrenaline finally fading from my limbs. That was close, closer than last time. What happens next? I’m afraid to find out.

  “Let’s see if the attacks coordinate with anything in particular,” Church says as Ranger looks up the hill behind us, eyes narrowing slightly.

  “And who the hell do you think was in that limo?” Spencer wonders as he pulls me close, and the sky opens up into a torrent of freezing rain.

  The Montague’s ‘flat’ (that’s like, a condo for us ‘Muricans) is this sprawling mini-mansion contained within the smooth white walls of some fancy building in a neighborhood called Hyde Park. I don’t know much about London, but I hear it’s pretty swanky.

  I almost choked on my soda when I first walked in here last week.

  “My dad’ll be here in a half hour,” Ranger says, checking his phone and then cursing under his breath. For the last four days, he’s been staying at Church’s place with the rest of us, but his dad’s just come back into town after a business trip, and he’s picking Ranger up today.

  I’m not the only one with reservations about him going over there.

  Church looks away in frustration; he’s tried talking his friend out of it, but Woodruff is nothing if not stubborn.

  “You sure you’re not gonna die over there?” Spencer asks, putting his hands on his hips and looking Ranger over with a sharp frown. “Your dad is actually in this cult, like without a doubt. Jenica was scared of him.”

  “Exactly,” Ranger snaps, putting his fingers in his black hair. “And she’s dead. So I have to go, if only to find out what happened to her.”

  “There are other ways,” Church says softly, moving over to sit next to Ranger. “We’ll explore the tunnels when we get back, find their hidden church. If Jack could sleuth around without getting caught, we’ll figure it out.”

  “And you’re assuming you’ll find anything of worth while you’re there,” Tobias starts, and Micah finishes the thought for them.

  “Why would your dad keep anything incriminating around? This is pointless.”

  “I’m going to talk to him,” Ranger says, lifting his head up, azure eyes burning. “I’ll be careful about it, but yeah, I’m going to ask some hard questions.”

  Church huffs out a sigh.

  “You’re impossible,” he says as Ranger gets up and impulsively finds his way into the kitchen, unloading some staple items onto the counter. Looks like he’s going for a classic brownie recipe. “Tell me what you expect to come out of this with.”

  Ranger looks around for an apron, and finally scores one in the cabinet on the far end of the room. It’s one of those white French maid type ones, and he looks amazing when he slips it on, diving into his brownie-making cooldown while we all watch and wait for him to respond.

  “Maybe I don’t expect to come out with anything,” he admits, stirring the batter with hard, fast movements. “I just want to look him in the eye and know that he did it. I want to see what that feels like.”

  “Trust me,” Spencer says, and I wonder if he’s thinking about Jack or someone else. “You don’t want to see someone you loved after you know the truth. It hurts too much. Let him go.”

  “I’ve never loved that man,” Ranger says, but that’s clearly a lie. The doorbell rings, and he shoves the brownies aside, slamming his hand against the oven to set the temperature as he storms past and heads for the front door. “Don’t overcook those fucking brownies. I expect thick, fudgy goodness out of that batter.”

  He tears the door open as I move closer to see what Eric Warren looks like, curiosity keeping me brave.

  The man looks just like his social media picture, like Ranger might in thirty years, but with an unkind streak that isn’t present in either his son, or his deceased daughter. She looks just like him, too, and I have to make myself remember that technically, she was his niece.

  “Eric,” Ranger says as his father looks him over with a displeased sort of glint in his eyes.

  “Hello, Ranger,” the man replies carefully, his eyes sliding over to the rest of us for a brief moment. That’s when I notice it, his split lower lip. My gaze widens, but I’m clearly not the only one who sees it.

  Eric is wearing the same injury that I gave the man in the limo.

  Ranger’s shoulders tighten, and his mouth flattens out.

  “How are you?” Eric asks, but not like he particularly cares. More like he has no soul.

  “Just fine, Dad,” Ranger replies, tossing his apron aside and stepping out the door.

  Let’s just say, I don’t sleep very well those next few nights.

  The Adamson All-Boys Academy sign is lying on the grass near the edge of the road, and the new one, the one that simply says Adamson Academy is being put up in its stead.

  “When are they supposed to show u
p?” Spencer asks, watching the road with a frown fixed firmly in place. Since today is the first day of the quarter, it’s time to introduce my new female classmates to the population. Dad has specifically chosen me for this task, and much as I’d like to bail on this, I feel like I owe him a bit.

  When I got back from London, I didn’t know what to say to him, so I didn’t say anything at all. Does he really need to know about the attack? Or Mark? I don’t want anything to happen to him either.

  “Soon,” I say, checking my phone and sighing. My eyes swing over to Ranger, standing there with one arm across his chest, his gaze fixed to the woods. He, of course, didn’t find any evidence as to his father’s involvement with the Fellowship, but that split lip was enough to confirm that he is, in fact, still working with them. “Do we know how we’re planning on dealing with the Student Council elections? We still don’t have a plan.”

  “We’re not going to win,” the twins say together, dropping their shoulders in a dramatic sigh. “Why bother?” They hold their hands up and out on either side, effectively giving up. “Besides,” Tobias continues, smiling softly at me as the wind tousles his hair around his face. “We have more important things to worry about: like you.”

  “You can’t just give up the Student Council that easily,” I say, knowing that it means a lot to them. “We can come up with something.”

  The sound of the car coming up the frozen gravel drive makes my already chilly skin pebble with goose bumps. There’s snow on the ground, and it’s freezing cold up here all the damn time. I swear to you, my blood is thinner than everyone else’s, and I need a whole two scarves and three jackets to stay warm.

  Once the car’s parked, the girls climb out and I greet them with a small wave. There’ll be an assembly later, but Dad wanted to give them the chance to start their morning off with a normal routine.

  “Hello, Charlotte,” Aster says, beaming brightly as she eyes me and Ranger together. “Church, I hope you know that your girl here’s got a side thing going with this one.”

  “We’re a polyamorous group, thank you for noticing,” he says, but the words might as well be fuck you and the horse you rode in on. “It’s not like the thing you’ve got going, slinking around and screwing Mark behind Selena’s back.”

  The quip works and Aster’s face flames before she marches around us, crunching through the snow with the other two Everly transfer students behind her.

  “That was … reasonably harsh,” I say as the twins grin.

  “We put condoms in her locker, too.” They each grab one of my arms and turn us back toward the main building.

  “We figured she might think Selena put them there,” Tobias adds.

  “Oh, and also, we hate her,” Micah adds as we move through the double wide doors at the front of the school. “You know, for running against us when senior year’s supposed to be a piece of cake.”

  “Frankly, between the cult and elections, I’m pissed,” Spencer adds, grinning. “So how do we take her down? And what the fuck do we do about Mark?”

  “Part of me thinks we should try to win the elections through fair play,” Church begins, glancing up at the curved stone ceilings above us. “The rest of me knows that if Mark is involved with the Fellowship, then I’d rather die than hand him my school.”

  “So, let’s do this, our way,” Spencer says, sliding his phone from his pocket. “I have an idea.”

  Showing the girls around on Monday isn’t exactly a pleasant task, particularly since one of my boyfriends called Aster out for having an affair with Selena’s boyfriend, two of my other boyfriends stuffed her locker with contraceptives, and the silver-haired one is actively plotting against her behind the scenes.

  The fifth and final boyfriend decides to wait until our Culinary Club meeting on Tuesday to piss her off.

  “You’re not coming in my kitchen,” Ranger says, standing in the doorway to the classroom with his apron on, arms crossed in front of his chest. His lip is raised in a snarl as he stares down the home ec teacher, Mr. Johansen. Technically, Mr. Johansen’s supposed to be our supporting staff member, but I’ve only ever seen him come by our meetings in passing. At least he gives us all high marks—even I got an A both semesters last year.

  “Mr. Woodruff,” Mr. Johansen scolds, reaching up to adjust his glasses. “I’m appalled by your behavior. The Culinary Club does not belong to you or the Student Council, much as you might wish it did. Now, move aside and make Aster feel at home here.”

  With a muscle ticking in his jaw, Ranger moves aside and lets Aster Hayes into the room. She’s beaming, red hair frothing around her face in frizzy curls. She even has a light dusting of freckles over her button nose. Thinking of her as a murderer is … difficult.

  “I don’t like this,” Spencer murmurs, eyes tracking her movement through the classroom. Mr. Johansen quickly makes an excuse and disappears down the hall to read his erotica novels. He’s always leaving his Kindle on, and always at a questionable scene of dubious character. Old perv.

  “Me neither,” I hedge as Aster spins, holding her bookbag in front of her, and beaming like a crazy person.

  “I was in the Baking Club at Everly,” she explains, looking around the room at our glares, frowns, and—in the case of the twins—stuck out tongues. “This is sort of my thing. Thank you so much for having me.”

  “You know we don’t like you,” Spencer says as Ranger starts to anger-bake in a whirlwind. “So why the hell are you here?”

  “I know it must be tough to have true competition in the elections, but isn’t that what politics are all about? Fierce competition, honesty, and integrity?” Aster’s green eyes scan the classroom, taking in our cozy reading nook with the alphabetized cookbooks (my work), the gleaming counters, and the fully-stocked refrigerator and pantry. This is our home away from home, y’know? Having her in it feels like a violation.

  “Uh, do you follow American politics at all? Because that’s pretty much the opposite of how it works.” Spencer rolls his eyes and exchanges a long, studying look with the twins. Surely, they’re up to no good, but there’s also a very good chance that Aster Hayes is guilty, so … fair is fair.

  “What are we making today?” she asks, moving over to the cabinets and looking through them. When she goes for the one with the aprons in it, I step in front of her and cut her off.

  “This is a private cabinet,” I say as Ranger watches stiffly from behind her.

  “This classroom is for everyone,” she argues, still smiling at me. “But if you don’t want me to look in there, I won’t. I’d rather we didn’t fight. I’m here to be a part of this club.”

  “Sure thing,” Spencer says, but he’s not convinced. None us are.

  Instead of our usual joking and playing around, the room is silent while we each work on our own recipes. Sometimes, we work individually, other times we make things together. But with Aster here, everybody stays in their own lane.

  “She seems like the type to get us written up, if we were to, say, crack an egg down her back,” Tobias whispers, looking across the room at her. I noticed Ranger cringing when she started making substitutions in a recipe from one of the old cookbooks. “You know, that’s one of the things we liked so much about you, Chuck.”

  “Cracking eggs down my back?” I ask, thinking of the plastic spider from the cemetery and narrowing my eyes.

  “No, silly, the fact that you didn’t get us written up for acting like twat-faces.” Micah pops the electric mixer into his bowl as I grin.

  “Twat-face. That’s a new one, but I like it.” I stir my healthy banana-chocolate-oat pancake mix together as I think about that. It never really occurred to me that I could get the guys written up for the things they did to me. That’s just not my thing. After all, I’ve had a headmaster for a father my entire life and believe me, running to him and tattling never did me any good.

  Sometimes, we have to face our own problems. And sometimes, those problems turn into blessings.


  Toward the end of the day, Spencer finishes his cupcakes and goes about piping fox faces onto them with red icing. He sets the tray down on the island where Aster’s working, but even though she looks up, there’s no reaction.

  “If I didn’t think it might get me killed, I’d have put that ugly symbol on all of them,” he says, watching the small, short girl put blackberries on the top of her cake.

  So, for the rest of the day, we leave Aster alone.

  But she isn’t going to stick around and ruin Culinary Club for us for the rest of the year.

  No fucking way.

  The Student Council debates are held in the large auditorium in the rear portion of the main building, this stuffy old theater with enough neoclassical features in its architecture to choke a horse. Since I'm not actually on the Student Council—the assistant position is assigned by the members and not up for election—I sit in the front row to watch the debates, not onstage with the boys.

  It's doubtful anybody would show up at these things without being mandated, but, of course, when Archibald Carson has his way, things are bound to get boring. The whole school is in attendance, slumped and groaning in their seats.

  “Nice of you to show up,” Dad says, pausing next to my seat and looking down at me like I'm the biggest disappointment of his entire life. “I'd almost forgotten that you attended this school.”

  “That's on you,” I quip back, crossing my arms over my unbound chest, and shrugging. “You're the one that said you didn't want to treat me like a daughter anymore.”

  “That's not what I said,” he bites out and then sighs, pausing to run his hand over his thinning hair. “You're misinterpreting my words for your own gain, behavior that’s rather childish, especially for a woman who’s engaged and planning to marry.”

  I roll my eyes, but Dad doesn't notice, moving over to the steps on the side of the stage and climbing up to take his position at the podium. As he's hefting his iPad from his briefcase to look at his speech notes (the iPad with the PAW Patrol cover, by the way), Aster and her friends appear from behind the curtain, taking their seats on the opposite side of the stage from the boys.