Jared sucked.
What the hell was he trying to tell me?
Oh, I knew what he was trying to tell me. I wasn’t an idiot. Sometimes I was a dipshit, but I definitely wasn’t an idiot.
I mean, did Jax really have the pull to get my community service transferred from one state to the other? And then Jared suggested that Jax got my placement at the high school, too?
I shook my head, my eyes wandering as I tossed his words around in my head.
Yeah. No. For one, Jax didn’t have that kind of power. Two, Jax wouldn’t care. And three?
Jared sucked.
And Jax sucked, too. They both acted as if they had the whole damn world figured out, and everyone else was clueless.
“Okay,” I thought out loud, letting out a sigh and ignoring the whistles from cars passing by.
“Jax could’ve suggested me to Principal Masters when he heard I was coming back to town. But …” I paused, mumbling to myself, as Fuel’s “Hemorrhage” played through my earbuds. “Jax wouldn’t have known I enjoyed writing. In fact, I’d be a hell of a lot happier picking up garbage on the side of the road,” I grumbled.
“Hey, baby!” a male voice yelled out the passenger window of a car passing by.
I flipped him off without looking up.
I didn’t know why guys thought cattle-calling was sexy. It wasn’t as if I was dressed to impress or anything.
Even though all the other tutors dressed casually, I’d stuck to my skirts or dress shorts and nice blouses, hoping to at least look as though I hadn’t been forced by the state to be there.
And even though I hadn’t seen my mother, I knew she’d be disappointed if she saw me dressing unprofessionally in a professional situation.
But I had taken one risk.
Tate left behind some purple Chucks that went well with the white shorts and lavender peasant blouse I’d worn today, so I took a chance.
“And also,” I continued out loud, talking to myself, “I definitely don’t enjoy tutoring. No one that knew me would think I had the temperament to teach, and Jax had to know that much about me.”
“Those kids don’t need an attitude adjustment. You do.”
I stuck my hands in my pockets, narrowing my eyes.
Kids. Those kids. Guilt crept up on me. I might have been only three years older than them, but technically speaking, I was the adult. They were youths needing direction, inspiration, and encouragement.
And I was failing them.
I walked and walked, thinking about Jax’s words, thinking about Tate telling me to get wild, thinking about all the things I could’ve done differently the past two weeks in tutoring.
I walked up streets I’d only ever driven through and down lanes where I’d seen the seasons change so beautifully growing up. It was funny how much I enjoyed walking now. Even though I was sweating, and my hair, flatironed and shiny this morning, was now stuffed into a high, messy bun, my head felt clear.
And I’d finally come to a conclusion.
“Juliet? You could serve God, serve your country, or serve the ones you love, but to find true happiness you must always serve someone or something other than yourself.”
My dad. He told me that one day when he was still in the hospital, on a rare occasion he didn’t think I was my sister. One of the last times anyone other than Shane called me Juliet.
Walking past Tate’s house, past Jax’s house where I noticed Madoc’s GTO parked, I continued the few blocks until I reached my house. My house that had never felt like a home once my dad left.
Looking up at the two-story redbrick Colonial, I clenched the fists in my pockets as my chest flooded with heat.
My mother wasn’t going to be happy.
I reached for the door handle but pulled back, wondering if I was supposed to knock. Swallowing the sudden rush of saliva in my mouth, I fisted the handle and gritted my teeth.
And pushed through the unlocked door.
“Mother?” I called out, stepping calmly into the foyer.
The scent of lemon furniture polish hit me, and my nose started to sting. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the light hardwood floors were soaked in it. Everything shone, from my left to my right. Up the sterile white walls of the staircase to the glimmering tabletops in the dining and living rooms.
Glancing up the wall along the stairs, I saw the same pictures of my sister and me that had been there forever. But the pictures never portrayed us as siblings but instead as a single child growing up. My sister’s photos hung on the wall showing her growth until her death when she was five, and then photos of me after age five took over as if K.C.’s life continued.
All photos of K. C. Carter, a sister I never met. Not one photo of me as Juliet.
I had looked it up on the Internet once. A child conceived to replace another is called a ghost child.
Me.
I heard footfalls above me and looked up, my heart starting to pound double time.
“K.C.?” My mother’s voice preceded her as she rounded the staircase and stopped at the top to peer down at me.
I peered back up, absentmindedly tapping my fingers on my leg from inside the pockets.
My mother looked like Mary Poppins. She always did. Thin and beautiful. Creamy skin that looked fantastic with red lipstick. And black hair always done up in some kind of twist or bun. Her clothes, even the casual ones she wore around the house, were always clean and pressed.
Today, she wore a yellow, flared, knee-length skirt and a white button-up cardigan. Lightweight, from the looks of it, but it still had to be hot as hell if she stepped outside.
“Take your hands out of your pockets,” she instructed in a calm voice.
I obeyed, suddenly feeling as though I should’ve showered and cleaned up before I came here.
“Hello, Mother.”
“It’s nice to see you. I’ve been calling. And texting.” She sounded annoyed as she clasped her hands in front of her.
I hadn’t returned her calls, and I knew that would piss her off. That wasn’t my intention. I just didn’t want to talk to her.
Licking my lips, I clasped my hands in front of my body as well. “I apologize. Tutoring has kept me busy.”
She nodded and began stepping down the stairs. “Now is a bad time. You should have called before showing up at someone’s house unannounced. You know better.”
Someone’s house?
There was a time when my mother was a little warmer with me. Before my father started losing control. But she had always worried about appearances, and I wondered why. Her brother—the doctor—was very much like her as well. Clean and unemotional. But her sister—Shane’s mother—was very loving. What was my mother like as a child? Did she laugh? Did she make messes? Did she make mistakes?
As she came closer, I straightened my back. “I was in the neighborhood, Mother.”
“No, you wanted something.”
I ran my hands down my shirt, noticing how wrinkly the linen was. I had thought I looked cute this morning, but now I felt uncomfortable. I looked ridiculous in this outfit. What was I thinking?
“I wanted to … I’d like … ,” I stuttered, looking away from her gaze raking over my body, taking in my appearance.
“Do not speak until you are prepared, K.C.” She spoke to me as if I were five.
I let out a breath and steadied my body, squeezing my interlocked fingers so tight the skin was stretched.
“May I please retrieve my journals? I’d like to use them in my tutoring lessons.” And I evened out my expression to appear confident even though it took an effort to keep my knees locked.
Her bangs didn’t even move as she cocked her head and regarded me.
“That sounds reasonable,” she answered finally. “But first you need to shower.”
“I’ll take a shower at home,” I said, and started to walk around her toward the stairs, but she grabbed my arm, causing me to wince.
“You are home,” she said sternly.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s time to come home.”
I swallowed. Come home? Dread filled my stomach and spread through my system, slowly eating away at me.
“Why?” I could hear the crack in my own voice. I didn’t want to come home now.
She raised her eyebrows as if I’d just asked a stupid question. “Because it’s my responsibility to watch over you.”
And it wasn’t two weeks ago? When I needed her?
My jaw tightened. “Why now?” I accused.
And she slapped me.
My head flew to the side, tears sprang to my eyes, and I grabbed my face, trying to soothe the burn. I should’ve known that was coming. I was never supposed to mouth off.
“Now go shower,” she ordered, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “Do your hair and your makeup, and then you’ll join me and a few friends for dinner tonight.”
I closed my eyes, feeling a tear run down my cheek as she walked around to my back and unwrapped my hair from its ratty nest.
No, no, no … I was twenty years old. I didn’t need her to groom me anymore.
But everything needed to be in its place with her. Everything needed to look pristine on the outside, even as the dirt festered on the inside. Why did she worry about appearances so much? Did it make her feel so much better after the heartache of losing my sister—and my father, too, for that matter—for everyone to see us as perfect when we still felt like shit?
I heard her sigh, displeased. “Your hair needs to be trimmed. We’ll give you bangs like me. But …” She walked back around to my front and grabbed my hand from my cheek. “There’s no time for a manicure. We’ll make sure you get fixed up good as new before the luncheon next week.”
Gutless and helpless.
My mother continued on and on about waxing and coloring, but Jax’s words were the only ones I latched on to.
“What’s your favorite color? Your favorite band? When was the last time you ate chocolate?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, my scalp aching as my mother pulled and scanned my hair more closely, probably looking for loose ends.
I rubbed my hands together, remembering Jax’s gritty, greasy hand in mine last week. Loving the way it felt. Wanting that feeling again.
“I wanted to dirty you up.”
Gutless and helpless.
Gutless and helpless.
Gutless and helpless.
“Stop!” I yelled, feeling my mother jerk back and gasp at the exclamation.
Spinning around, I yanked open the door and jumped outside, sucking in lungfuls of air as I raced through the yard.
My mother didn’t yell after me. She would never make a spectacle in front of the neighbors.
CHAPTER 8
K.C.
Shane watched me pace Tate’s living room like a caged animal. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I huffed, rubbing my thumbs across my fingertips and sucking in air that was getting me more worked up than calmed down.
“Obviously.”
I stopped and turned to her. “My journals,” I shot out, my chest shaking with … I didn’t know what. Fear. Nerves. Anger. “You have to go to my mother’s house and get my journals,” I ordered her, and began pacing again.
“No, you need to go to your house and get your journals. You know your mother makes me twitch.”
I barely heard her grumbles. Now I knew why I never wanted to come home. It wasn’t my past behavior. It wasn’t my mother.
It was me.
I let the abuse happen even long after I could’ve stopped it. I let her talk to me that way. I let her judge me.
I let it all happen. I hated her. I hated my father. I hated that house. I hated the grooming and the classes I was forced to take.
I hated my sister.
Sudden tears overtook me, and I stopped, breathing hard and my face aching with sadness. My five-year-old sister, who never knew me and wasn’t perfect. She would’ve made mistakes, and she would’ve been hit. I hated her for escaping.
And I hated myself for thinking that.
She hadn’t escaped. Not really. She’d died. I had the chance to live, and I was jealous of a sister simply because she no longer had to exist.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I wiped the tears from my cheeks before Shane could notice. Was I so scared to live? To take chances? To be anything other than gutless and helpless?
“I was actually upset when she wouldn’t welcome me home,” I told Shane, choking through the few tears I’d shed. “Now I feel nauseated that I was even in that house.”
“Juliet, seriously.” The concern in her eyes was true. “You need to confront her. You need to wig out. Get in her face. Scream. Throw shit. She deserves that and more.”
There was no love lost between my mother and her sister’s kid. In fact, my mother barely communicated with her sister and husband, since Sandra Carter was a closet racist. She’d hated that her sister had married someone nonwhite, and even though she never admitted it, she kept her distance and looked down on Shane’s family. It didn’t matter that her dad was a doctor, or that he’d attended Stanford. My bitch of a mother barely tolerated Shane.
Feeling the roll of nausea clench my insides, I began pacing again, slowing my breathing in an effort to calm myself.
It wasn’t working.
The last thing I wanted to do was think about that woman, much less lay eyes on her again.
“I want my journals,” I whispered, but it sounded like a prayer. As if they were going to magically fall into my lap.
“Then go get them,” she urged, her voice stronger this time.
I shook my head. No. I couldn’t. I’d rather stick my fingers in shit and make snowballs.
“Oh, of course.”
I shot my eyes to Shane. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re a wimp, Ju-li-et.” She dragged out my true name, making her point.
And I glared at her, curling my toes into the hardwood floors. “Piss off,” I ordered.
And I flipped her off before spinning around to stomp upstairs.
I stared at Liam’s Facebook page, and I could see why he’d never unfriended me. I would have unfriended him, but I had abandoned all my social networking lately.
There were pictures of him and Megan. Out at the Loop last weekend, selfies of them kissing, and a picture he posted recently of them at a Christmas party. A Christmas party last year, while we were still together.
He’d wanted me to see all this, and I bit my bottom lip to keep from giving in to the tears.
“How could he?” I whispered, realizing just how long he’d been going behind my back. And then I saw the post about how I’d gone off at him at the club, how I was mad that we’d broken up, and how I was arrested and carried from the club kicking and screaming.
Which was a lie. I was picked up outside the club on my way home.
And then I did what we should never, ever do on the Internet. I read the comments.
I realized that Tate and Shane were the only people I really had. Everyone else thought I was a joke.
I just stared at the computer, not noticing that I’d been digging my nails into Tate’s wooden desk. Until I heard the scratching and looked down to see I’d left four abrasions where I’d dragged my nails across the wood.
And I slammed the laptop closed, hearing Jax’s music pounding the foundations of the house again.
“Asshole.”
Jared on the phone.
Liam in the Internet.
Mom in my head.
And Jaxon Trent in my ears!
Swinging open Tate’s doors, I squeezed the railing as I hollered over the side. “Hey, hello?” I shouted to the people in his backyard. “Turn down the music!” I bellowed.
A few of the guys looked up from their worktable that had engines or some such shit and then turned back to their work, ignoring my request.
“Hey!” I holle
red again, and a couple of girls looked up and started giggling.
Barreling back into the bedroom, I grabbed my cell and dialed the police. Again.
I’d already called twice. Once, an hour ago after Shane had left—probably to go to the party next door—and again forty-five minutes ago when the music, coincidentally, got louder.
“Yeah, hi. Me again,” I chirped through my fake smile. “The music next door is so loud that I think my dead grandmother just shit her pants.”
The lady paused, and I barely heard her babble as Pop Evil’s
“Deal with the Devil” pounded and thundered out of the speakers next door.
Jesus. It was as if he knew every time I reported him!
I could feel the music in my chest, and I only knew the song because Tate had put it on the iPod.
Good song. But I needed quiet right now.
“What?” I jerked my attention back to the phone. “Um, yeah, I watched my language the first two times I called. I’ve listed my complaints. In English. You speak English, right?”
But then I heard a click.
“Hello?” I shouted into the phone. “Hello?”
Throwing my phone on Tate’s bed, I didn’t even watch where it bounced to.
“Jax wants music,” I gritted out, exhaling. “Fine.”
Darting around the room, I yanked Tate’s surround-sound speakers off all four walls and dragged them, along with their thin gray cords, to the open French doors.
One down on the floor peeking out of the corner of the rails. Two and three down in the middle, and four down at the other corner.
All facing Asshole’s house.
Stomping over to Tate’s iPod dock in my red-and-white-pin-striped pajama shorts and red T-shirt, I curled my bare toes into the rug and punched buttons, looking for Katy Perry’s “Firework.”
The light tinkling started, and I smiled, jacking up the volume full fucking blast.
Bobbing my head, I scowled through the doors, seeking my revenge and hoping that my tunes were drowning out his. Peering over the railing, I gritted my teeth, smiling viciously hard at the wide eyes and looks of disgust.
Take that, asswipes.
Katy’s voice rooted in my stomach and filled my chest, crowding the room like a thousand firecrackers in my heart.
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