by Ameriie
In the weeks after, they all went to counseling. The counselor said they would learn to accept, adjust, and recover as a family. Patrick nodded—conciliatory and vaguely guilty—through these sessions.
Kareena wanted nothing to do with acceptance. She wanted to forget. She wanted Callie to forget how the blood had soaked the man’s blue shirt.
“Blue and red make purple,” Sera had said sometime later.
Kareena wanted to forget about the small spot of blood that had landed on Sera’s nose. Sera had smeared it across her face with her palm. She sucked at the palm before Kareena could get out a wipe. She looked less pale than she usually did.
SERA, AT FOUR YEARS, THREE MONTHS
“Are you sure you’re remembering correctly?” the woman FBI agent asked in every interview in the weeks to follow. “Your daughter said ‘bang, bang’?”
“Yes.”
“And then he stabbed himself?”
“Yes.”
“And twisted the knife?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
Yes. Yes. Yes.
The agent told her that they were lucky. They’d been trying to catch that man for a very long time. He killed girls and their mothers in brutal ways. It was good he was dead. Kareena agreed.
She wondered if she’d imagined Sera tasting the bad man’s blood.
SERA, AT FOUR YEARS, THREE MONTHS
Sera asked, “Do you have the light, Mama?”
Kareena said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
SERA, AT FOUR YEARS, SIX MONTHS
Kareena was shocked. All the parents were shocked when they learned that Mr. Jordan, everyone’s favorite kindergarten teacher, had been fired.
“He slapped a child?” This shrieked question was from one of the preschool moms.
The parents had been summoned to an all-hands community circle meeting.
“What kind of school are you running here?” demanded one of the dads. He was the CEO of some company or another and spoke as if life were a contentious board meeting with dissenting stockholders everywhere.
Mr. Jordan had been Callie’s favorite teacher when she was in kindergarten. He was everyone’s favorite teacher. And now he was gone.
Sera had been in his class for only two months.
SERA, AT FOUR YEARS, EIGHT MONTHS
The parents were shocked anew. Another beloved teacher—another teacher of Sera’s—fired. CEO Dad pulled his son from school.
SERA, AT FIVE YEARS, TWO MONTHS
Patrick had his first affair when Sera was one year and nine months. It ended when she was two and seven months. Another one began at three years, four months and ended just two months later. This third one, though—begun at three years, nine months—seemed like something real.
When did things first start going so wrong between them? Kareena wonders. Was it the exact moment that Sera was born? They’d had a fight a few hours after her birth, right there in the hospital room. She couldn’t remember what it was about.
There was a time when Kareena bragged about her and Patrick’s relationship to anyone who’d listen. “We never argue,” she’d say. “We’re best friends. We communicate. We love each other, but we also like each other.” Other couples were jealous of their relationship. She could see it in their eyes, and it made her feel satisfied and a little superior.
Now she understood a little of what those lesser couples must’ve felt. She’d like to meet the old Kareena and the old Patrick again. She’d tell them to be gentle with each other even when they were sleep-deprived. She’d tell them to be careful with their words. Some things once heard can’t be unheard.
She’d tell them not to have a second child, not under any circumstances.
SERA, AT SIX YEARS, THREE MONTHS
Kareena didn’t love Sera as she should. Not as much as she loved Callie. She tried to, but she didn’t.
And Sera knew it.
SERA, AT SEVEN YEARS, ONE MONTH
Patrick remarried. Since the day he walked out on Kareena, he hadn’t seen either of his daughters. He thought it for the best. He couldn’t explain it, but thinking of them, thinking of Sera, made him angry.
SERA, AT SEVEN YEARS, TEN MONTHS
Sera said, “The light makes people angry.”
Kareena closed the door in her face.
SERA, AT NINE YEARS, THREE MONTHS
Having a second child had been Kareena’s idea. She’d always pictured herself as a mother of two children—sisters. They would play princess dress-up and go away to summer camp and share secrets and have crushes on the same boy and cry together and be the maids of honor at each other’s weddings and love each other, love each other, love each other.
But Patrick thought one was enough.
“We’re so happy now,” he said. Callie was one and a half at the time and they’d finally hit their stride as parents. But Kareena could not help what she was, what she wanted.
“Callie needs a playmate, a sister,” she said to Patrick.
“I don’t want her all alone when we die,” she said, upping the stakes.
Eventually, Patrick relented.
For a long time, Kareena hoped the sisters would grow close. But they didn’t. Callie wilted in Sera’s presence. She made other girlfriends. She had playdates and sleepovers and dance parties and treated them like they were her sisters. Kareena didn’t blame her.
SERA, AT FOURTEEN YEARS, SEVEN MONTHS
She made three friends at school—the first she’d ever had. Sure, they were the girls no one else wanted as friends, but it was something. Kareena was grateful. Maybe Sera would finally become normal.
SERA, AT FOURTEEN YEARS, NINE MONTHS
Sera was sick, and no one seemed to know how to fix her.
SERA, AT FOURTEEN YEARS, ELEVEN MONTHS
Kareena watches Callie’s body burn. She screams and she screams.
III.
PRESENT DAY
A life is a series of past moments, all of them leading you to the present one. The moment doesn’t have to be an event. It can be a sudden insight that changes how you see yourself in the world. These moments serve to clarify you, to sharpen who you really are for yourself and for others. Here are mine:
I am born. I try to cry but find I can’t.
I do not look at all like the rest of my family. My mother doesn’t like this.
A white light lives under my skin. I ask my mother if she has it, too. She doesn’t answer.
My mother does not love me. But she wants to.
I want to be more like Callie. I want to make strangers glad. I want them to ask me: What’s your name, pretty girl? How old are you? Oh my gosh, where did you get those cute shoes? But they don’t ask me questions. Instead, they say: You’re so quiet. They say: Smile. Be more like your older sister. The more perceptive ones say: You like to watch the boys fight.
I make the bad man kill himself. My mother is afraid of me.
I want to be normal. I am the only one with the white light. It leaks out of me, and bad things happen.
It’s my fault Mr. Jordan slaps Sammie so hard that he gets all red and swollen. I make people angry. And afraid. I don’t know how to stop.
It’s my fault Mr. Kelly screams so loud and so long on the playground. His heart is crowded with anger and fear. I did that, too. I don’t know how to stop.
My father loves someone more than he loves my mother. My mother loves Callie more than she loves anyone.
My father leaves us and does not come back.
I dye my hair brown. I wear brown contacts. My mother still does not love me. She cannot.
I deny what I am. For a while, I am successful.
I am sick all spring. The doctors don’t know what’s wrong, but I do. I finally learned how to keep the light under my skin.
I hold the light in. I make a friend. My hair thins, falls like straw around my feet.
I hold the light in. I make another friend. My lips crack to blue
.
I hold the light in. I’m too sick to attend school. My skin bleeds color.
Callie gets strong as I get weak. Still, I hold the light in. It burns me from the inside. All spring they—Callie and our mother—wait for me to die.
The light won’t let me die. I burn. I burn. I burn.
Callie comes back from camp. It’s the first summer she’s ever been away from home. Away from me. She comes into my room and she looks better than I’ve ever seen her, beautiful.
Our mother says, “The doctors haven’t been able to fix her.”
Callie says, “Maybe it’s better this way.”
Our mother nods.
Callie comes close to my bedside. Ordinarily, she would never come this close, but I am helpless now with the light trapped under my skin. She says, “I was happy this summer without you.” She says it sharp and fierce, like a stabbing.
I’ve never heard her sound so strong. I hold the light in for her. I want her to be happy. But then she puts her hands over my nose and my mouth. Our mother does nothing. I can’t breathe, and I think, Yes. Let me die. Callie can finally have our mother back. My bones burn, but the light is stronger than me. It will not let me die. And then I finally understand what I am, and it’s a relief. I give all the light to my sister. I let it pour from my skin to hers.
I watch as she turns pale. Finally, she looks like me. I watch as she turns to ash. My mother is still screaming when I leave the house.
I am on the highway now, and everything turns to ruin. I don’t know how to stop. I no longer want to.
We are born into our natures. It’s not a thing we can help. I know that now but didn’t always.
I am the curse of men.
I am War.
And this world is mine.
STEPH SINCLAIR AND KAT KENNEDY’S VILLAIN CHALLENGE TO NICOLA YOON:
Gender-Flipped God of War
THE BAD GIRLS’ GUIDE TO VILLAINY
BY STEPH SINCLAIR AND KAT KENNEDY
In this male-dominated world, everything is harder as a woman—especially when you’re trying to crush the world under your fine pair of sky-high stilettos, combat boots, 1 or whatever type of footwear you find best for disenfranchising humanity. Struggling to claim dominion over the huddled masses is one thing, but struggling with body image, self-image, interpersonal relationships, and even where you fit in with the world is another. So whether you’re the God of War like Sera, who thrives on chaos, or a morally ambiguous deviant like us, our feel-good guide for villainesses2 is here to help.
Dive in and be ready to answer the question “Who’s the baddest bitch of them all?”
1. Sera found them particularly useful in stomping out opposition. Stomp, stomp, stomp.
2. All references to villainesses are fictional and represent no likenesses to people, animals, aliens, supreme beings, ghosts, zombies, the reincarnated, overlords, underlords, etc., dead or alive.
•The body that’s going to conquer hearts and minds
What do you wear when you’re on your way to inflict panic and fear in the hearts of civilians? A red satin bustier? Standard-issue military fatigues? Guess what? It’s not important! Even if your heart of hearts leads you to wear rhinestone jeans or a fluffy pink unicorn onesie, that’s okay. You be you. You can leave your enemies lying in a pool of their own blood no matter what you’re wearing. Unless you’re planning on wearing a cape. NO CAPES!
Oppress others, not yourself or your body. There is no perfect body or body type. You know what you should spend your time perfecting? Your war strategy.
Your body is a wonderland of terror and fear-inducing proportions. Forget the strictures of the male gaze. Dress to impress or cause extreme distress. If other people’s bodies are temples, yours is a war machine with built-in booby traps, baby.
•You know what’s humble? Pie! YOU ARE NOT A PIE!
Internalizing other people’s expectations leads us to feel like we should be humble, ladylike, and civil. Be the villain you want to be and repent to no one. Not your family, not the neighborhood watch, not the military trying to shut you down.
Can you be too bossy? No, of course you can’t, because you’re The Boss! You’re a leader, who demands the attention and respect of all who lay prone at your feet.
Are you asking too much? Are you giving enough to other people? What kind of guide do you think you’re reading? You’re a villain! Taking and expecting everything is Villainy 101. Live it, breathe it, bask in the bloodlust haze of glory.
Should you be sweet and innocent? Ha. If people are underestimating your feminine power, that’s their mistake and your opportunity to strike. Don’t let it get to you. Their reaction may be initial mockery, because how dare a woman strike fear into the hearts and minds of men who laud themselves as gods? But the end result will always be the same: them begging for mercy and you giving exactly zero fucks. Yes, revenge is indeed sweet . . . and deadly.
•Nobody puts Villainess in a corner.
Everyone internalizes the expectations that their family places upon them. “Be good like your sister, do your homework, walk the dog. Smile and be nice!” What is this smile? You only smile when your plans come to fruition. Listen, what we’re respectfully advising is that you take those expectations and you shove them down the throats of every single muppet who tried to make you be less of what you are.
Parents, family, and friends tell you that you can be whatever you want to be. But what they really mean is whatever you want as long as it fits in their neat, little box. And for a woman exercising her command, that box is restrictive as hell. Destroy that box and the horse it rode in on. Light it on fire for good measure. Nuke it from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure.
Forget what the world and society and your family want you to be. You know why? Because you are going to shape and remold that as you exist in your perfect form upon the ruinous remains of the earth.
•I came in like a wrecking ball.
Relationships are totally unnecessary—the only relationships you need are with your minions and your weapons of mass destruction. 3
3. But if, like Sera, you are forced to deal with family and friends, her solution to set them on fire may be the best one. Unless they’re more useful as cannon fodder.
You don’t have room in your heart, because you don’t actually have a heart. What you have is a gaping black chasm in your chest and an insatiable thirst for domination. Tears and nightmares fuel your hate fire.
You may be asking yourself, “Where do I fit in if I have no friends or family?” On top of the world, laughing maniacally. Look, people have spent hundreds of years asking why women are out of the kitchen. Unless you’re making a sandwich bomb, don’t even dignify this with an answer. Not only are you capable of taking the world in your bloody fists, you deserve to, and everything that comes with it.
You’ve earned this. Own it, be it, believe it. Then crush it in a fiery death along with everything else.
So whether your plan is to drill to the center of the earth and unleash hell, or blow up the moon, or just simply walk into the middle of a city and unleash your God of War powers, remember: villains are a dime a dozen. It takes true determination to outshine and outgun the rest. You can either choose to let the world dominate you, or you can dominate the world. And if it were up to us, when we’re looking into the soul-dead, murderous eyes of our foe—we want a powerful, badass woman looking right back at us.
Briefly. Before she slits our throats.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It goes without saying that publishing is a team effort, and Team BYLTHM is huge. A big thank-you to my incredible agent (and overall extraordinary human), Joanna Volpe, without whom this anthology wouldn’t exist. Yiiiii! Thank you to Sarah Goldberg, Jackie Lindert, Michael Kelly, Danielle Barthel, Kathleen Ortiz, Suzie Townsend, Hilary Pecheone, Devin Ross, and everyone at New Leaf Literary & Media for killing it every day. #TeamNewLeafAllDayEveryDay.
Thank you a million times to Bloomsbury
for your unwavering support: Cindy Loh, thank you for your enthusiasm, your vision, and for bringing this project to life. A thousand emojis! Much gratitude to Hali Baumstein, Lizzy Mason, Erica Barmash, Cristina Gilbert, Diane Aronson, Christine Ma, and Rebecca McNally and the Bloomsbury UK team, as well as to Jessie Gang and Jacey for the book design gorgeousness.
To everyone who contributed their writing, I am honored to have worked with you; thank you so much for your time and efforts: Renée Ahdieh, Benjamin Alderson, Sasha Alsberg, Whitney Atkinson, Tina Burke, Soman Chainani, Susan Dennard, Sarah Enni, Catriona Feeney, Jesse George, Zoë Herdt, Kat Kennedy, Samantha Lane, Sophia Lee, Raeleen Lemay, Marissa Meyer, Regan Perusse, Cindy Pon, Christine Riccio, Victoria Schwab, Samantha Shannon, Adam Silvera, Steph Sinclair, Andrew Smith, April Genevieve Tucholke, and Nicola Yoon. The bookish community is magical, and I’m so thankful to be a part of it.
Also, a special shout-out to my critique partner, Tina Burke. Thank you for being in the writing trenches with me, for the critiques and the writing days and über support.
God blessed me with an incredible family. Thank you to my rock, my husband, Lenny Nicholson, who is everything. You see the little dictator in me, and still you love. Thank you to my parents, Mi Suk and Charles Edward Rogers, for all of your love and sacrifice, and for making me who I am. You fed my love of books from the beginning, you gave me my treasured Complete Brothers Grimm Fairy Tales aka The Real Deal, and you constantly renew my faith in humanity. Thank you to my Sissy Poohs, Angela M. Rogers. You really are the best sister in the universe. To my in-laws and my family and friends, thank you and I love you.
Finally, thank you, dear reader, for picking up this book and taking the time to cut open a few black hearts.
CONTRIBUTORS
AUTHORS