I crack the door to listen while I get dressed, but can only pick out the words like “family” and “bastard.” So not much different from any other night.
I’ve got one leg in my fleece leggings with a bunny on the hip when something shatters downstairs. Everything comes into sharp focus. The books on the floor, the white canopy suspended over my bed, the piles of clothes bursting from my closet. Yanking on my leggings, I stumble to my door.
Mom’s crying downstairs.
Dad’s voice booms through the house as I reach the hallway. “This is not a negotiation! I’ve already made up my mind!”
My pulse roars in my head. I knew he was mad, but I didn’t know he was this mad. I back into my room and am closing the door when the front door slams. A high-pitched keening sound drifts up the stairs but I can’t move.
I can’t breathe.
What did he decide?
I take the stairs two at a time but stop short when I reach the bottom. Mom’s crumpled in the middle of the floor, her head in her hands. The base of one of those squat glasses Dad drinks Scotch from lies on its side against a wall, the top shattered. Broken glass reflects the light from the chandelier and amber liquid pools against the baseboard. But that’s not what stops my heart. In my almost seventeen years, the only time I’ve seen Mom on the floor was for yoga or a family portrait.
Never like this.
It’s like whatever Dad said sucked the life out of her and all that’s left is her deflated shell.
“Mom?”
She shifts so she’s sitting cross-legged but doesn’t respond.
I move closer, unsure what to do. Miranda Vines prides herself on always being in control and projecting an image of superiority, “even when you’re not feeling it.” Imitating her is how I became the head Snow Bunny and the most popular girl in school.
Correction: formerly most popular.
Whatever happened with Dad has broken her.
“Mom,” I say again, a little louder this time.
She takes a shuddering breath, like the effort is too much. “Your father left.”
Obviously. But he leaves all the time, especially after they argue—not fight, “argue.” Because “civilized people don’t fight.” Besides, you don’t run one of the biggest craft breweries in Boulder without spending a lot of time there, even when it’s inconvenient for your family. “Yeah, so?”
She looks up at me and my insides twist. Her normally perfect makeup is smudged beneath her bloodshot eyes and tears stream down her face, dampening her formerly crisp blouse. “No. He left.” The energy she puts into the last word makes her sink farther inside herself.
“Left?” Alarm bells clang that Something is Wrong! Something is Wrong! but my brain refuses to catch up. “To go to Mischief.” It’s a statement, not a question. His brewery is open late so he’s always there at odd hours. Because if what she’s saying is true—
“Brianna, your father has left us.”
My alarm wakes me from a dream that I was back in that jail cell and every classmate I’ve ever tormented leered at me through the bars, throwing ugly necklaces at my face and taunting that this is all my fault. Last night, Mom didn’t say anything else about Dad, but she did find the strength to tell me I’m grounded for the rest of my life.
There’s absolutely no way I can go to school. It was hard enough after I lost Homecoming Queen to that weird girl with purple hair in my Ethics class. I managed to hold my head high after Kenzie usurped me as head Snow Bunny and banished me from the group that had been mine since middle school, but too much has happened in the past twenty-four hours.
My second alarm blares and I turn it off. I have no idea where Mom’s head is, but maybe she’ll take pity on me. I text her.
Can I please stay home?
Her reply immediate. Fine.
That’s good enough for me. I drag the covers back over my head and close my eyes, but sleep won’t come. I keep replaying the moment when the storeowner, a graying, wrinkled woman with arms like a praying mantis, grabbed my shoulder. My stomach dropped before she said a word.
My phone buzzes next to me. You’ll make yourself useful today. Clear the dead flowers outside and put the empty pots in the garage.
I type That’s why we have a gardener, then remember she fired him over the summer. Sure, the dead flowers are embarrassing, but my chores usually involve cleaning up after myself and putting the groceries away. Yard work is hired out.
But I’m in no position to argue. I type Ok and climb out of bed.
Maybe a latte will help.
*****
Four hours and three lattes later, my back feels like it belongs to an eighty-year old and I can barely grip my phone. Not that anyone has texted to check on me. There was a time when they’d send a search party if I didn’t show up to school—which made skipping class a bit more difficult—but now it’s like I don’t exist.
I shove the final ceramic pot next to the others in the corner of the garage and stretch. I’m no stranger to exercise, but this manual labor crap is degrading. Everything aches, and not in a I-just-had-a-killer-workout way. My neck pops as I tilt it from side to side, and I rub my shoulder before I remember my dirt-stained fingers. “Crap.” I brush dirt from my clothes, but it’s pointless.
I’ve still got a couple hours before Mom will be home from her fancy-pants job as a buyer at a big-name tea company, and it feels like my last moments of freedom. They didn’t take my car keys or phone, and I’m tempted to hop on the highway and just drive. Maybe hike a nearby trail for a couple hours. Anything’s better than being trapped inside the house.
After Mom’s declaration that Dad left, I expected there to be a shift in the universe, some seismic schism marking a clear line between the two parts of our lives.
Before and After.
If he really means it—if he’s really leaving us—that decision will forever be tangled with my arrest. I’m not stupid enough to think my lapse in judgment made him leave, and it’s unlikely to have any real effect on how he remembers last night, but I’m not sure Mom will be able to separate the two. Nothing is ever her fault and it’s only a matter of time until she blames me for him leaving.
I skip the road trip and head upstairs to shower, careful not to leave a trail of dirt along the way. Petra, our housekeeper, is technically still employed, though I don’t think she’s been around in weeks. For a while I thought Mischief wasn’t doing well and money had become an issue, but Mom’s made a few comments about Petra’s attitude so it must be nearly time for a new face. It’s like the changing of the guards—Mom slowly builds resentment toward whoever’s tasked with keeping our lives running smoothly, then fires them in a burst of anger and complains for the next several weeks until she hires a replacement.
After my shower, I flip through movies on my laptop until I find a mindless rom-com to distract me. I could do homework, but I’m already planning to stay home tomorrow so I’ll have all weekend to catch up. My chest tightens at the thought of being alone for three more days, but it’s not like anyone talks to me at school. At least this way I can wallow in private.
When the front door opens, I snap my laptop closed and sit up. My arms feel heavy and the lattes churn in my stomach. Mom may have fallen apart last night, but she’s had a day to pull herself together, which means whatever was left unsaid after Dad walked out is about to be hurled in my face.
My door’s open, and when she appears, we lock eyes.
She crosses her arms and looks down her nose at my messy room. “Is this all you’ve done today?”
I straighten my back. “Did you not notice the flower boxes?”
She glances at the window as if she can see down to the first floor. Her steely bravado wavers, but her back remains ramrod straight. “No.”
I cock my head. Miranda Vines is a stickler for detail. How did she not see the work I did? I hold up my aching hands. “Dead plants are gone. Pots are in the garage.” My voice is emotionless, but ins
ide I’m a swirling mess. On the surface she looks like her usual polished self, but it’s as if the fire that burns in her eyes has been snuffed out. “Are you okay?” I ask. We don’t do emotions here, but maybe enough has happened…
She clenches her jaw. “I’m fine.”
I almost say “seems like it” but catch the words before they escape my mouth. My lack of filter is usually a point of pride for me, but not when I’m facing the woman who taught me everything I know. She can rip me to shreds with only a handful of words.
“Can I stay home tomorrow?” I’m careful to sound bored. If she knows how terrified I am to face everyone she’ll force me to go to “build character.” Never mind that I’ve got enough character for half the junior class.
She sighs and leans against the doorjamb. The stoic resolve falters, revealing tired eyes and a disappointed frown. That’s the closest to a concession as I’m gonna get.
“Thank you.”
“But just tomorrow. After this weekend, you go to school.” She closes her eyes and I want to know what she’s thinking. Is she disgusted with me? Ashamed? Embarrassed? Or am I barely a blip in her thoughts? When she opens them, her mask is back. “Your father will be here for dinner, so please be dressed.” Then she turns on her heel and walks down the hall.
The childish part of me that hides in the corner of my mind clings to the hope that last night was a mistake. That he isn’t really leaving. They’ll scream it out, then make up like they always do.
But the cynical part, the side that dominates my world these days, points out that she didn’t say he’d be home, just that he was coming for dinner. As if he’s an invited—if not unwelcome—guest.
*****
Dad arrives with take-out from the Mediterranean place down the street from Mischief, and for a moment, everything is normal. Silent and tense, but normal. But halfway through the Kalamata chicken, Dad points his knife at me and I drop my fork.
Here it comes.
“Your hearing is Monday. I called in a few favors and you’ve got a judge I’ve been assured is lenient, which should mean community service. But no guarantees on clearing your record.” He cuts into his chicken and takes another bite while the room crashes around me.
Blood roars in my ears and my vision blurs. This is real. I was really arrested and put in a police car and locked in jail. His words ping-pong through my head.
Hearing.
Judge.
Record.
As in the permanent record you’re warned about as a child, but by the time you reach high school is nothing more than a joke. But this isn’t a school record that gets thrown in a closet after you graduate. This could follow me for the rest of my life.
I rest my elbow on the table and drop my face in my hand.
“Elbows off the table,” Mom says.
I lower my arm and temper the glare that comes naturally. I’m in no position to argue.
“The hearing’s at eleven. Your mother will meet you there.”
Mom glances at him, and there’s a flash of uncertainty in her eyes.
It’s like someone flipped the table and I’m picking apart everything that’s been left unsaid. Dad being here now, talking about Monday like he won’t be here the rest of the weekend. Him passing the responsibility of their delinquent daughter to his wife, when legal matters and anything resembling a negotiation has always fallen on his shoulders. The subtle tremor that keeps Mom from saying anything more than she has to.
“What else is going on here?” I ask.
Dad closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, like he’d rather be anywhere else.
I know how he feels.
“What’s going on here is I’m putting my neck on the line for my daughter who doesn’t seem to grasp the severity of this situation. What’s going on here,” his voice grows louder and I wish I could curl inside myself. “Is I’m being forced to clean up your mess while you hide in your room.”
Mom catches my eye but there’s no apology in her gaze. Some kids have an alliance with one parent against the other, but my darling mother has always made it clear that she stands by her husband and his decisions. She may be the one who let me stay home from school, but it’s him I must answer to.
“Do you understand how it looks to my associates when my daughter is arrested?” Dad shouts. “People will start to question my ability to run a business if I can’t keep order at home.”
“Is that why you’re leaving?” I don’t mean to say the words out loud, and based on how quickly his face turns fuchsia, he didn’t expect it. “I mean—”
He silences me with a hand in the air. “I wasn’t going to do this today, but since you asked.” He smiles at me, but it’s cruel and calculating and anything but fatherly. Then he looks at Mom. “My apologies for doing this with an audience, but we’re a family, right?” He emphasizes “we’re a family” like he’s repeating her words from an earlier argument. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest—his power position. “As I told your mother last night, I’m moving out. My lawyer is finalizing the divorce documents and I expect this to be settled promptly.”
He got the divorce papers without warning Mom? I know he’s cold-hearted, but that’s low even for him. But it also keeps her from striking first.
“The part I didn’t share last night is my future plans.”
Mom’s watching him like a deer in headlights. Clearly she thought the divorce was the worst of it.
“I’ll be staying across town in Broomfield.”
Her nose crinkles. “Broomfield? But you hate it there. You drive out of your way to avoid it.”
Everything moves in slow motion. It’s like when you’re watching a movie and the bad guy’s about to reveal how he pulled off the crime but you figure it out two seconds before everyone else. Except this is my father and the people he’s deceived are his family.
I clench my jaw, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
Edge Rule #2: Don’t let your emotions get the best of you.
“I’ll be living with a woman named Susan. She and her daughter have become rather important to me.” He drops his gaze for half a second—all the remorse we’ll get from him.
“How long have you been seeing her?!” Mom slaps a hand on the polished table, her normally level voice a shriek.
Dad puts on a show of counting in his head. “Piper will be seven next spring,” he meets Mom’s gaze. “So roughly eight years.”
If it’s possible to hate someone in an instant, I do.
The color drains from her face and her hands drop beneath the table. She catches my eye and we reach the same conclusion in the same breath.
He has another child.
He pushes away from the table. “I hate to eat and run, but I’ve got to get home to my family.” The slap of his shoes echoes through the foyer, and as the door opens and closes, it feels like he’s walking out of our lives forever.
Disbelief and shock suck the air from the room as our food grows cold, the tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hall counting the interminable seconds. Mom stares at her hands, which grip the edge of the table. I feel like I should say something, but acknowledging this will make it real and as long as we sit in this bubble, the truth will hover over us like a storm cloud waiting to unleash the rain.
The minute we breathe, it’ll all come crashing down.
But I can’t hold my breath forever.
I push my plate away. Mom looks up at the sound, but it’s like she doesn’t see me.
The same thought repeats in my head, punctuated with each tick of the clock:
I have a sister.
Monday morning, Mom’s waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, and based on the way her eyes narrow, she doesn’t approve of my appearance. Skinny jeans, kitten heels, and a high-necked flowy blouse felt appropriate, but her eyebrow is cemented to the middle of her forehead.
“You’re not wearing that to see the judge.”
/> My stomach turns. It’s not that I forgot that my hearing is today, but every time that worry worked itself to the front of my brain, I swatted it away like an annoying underclassman.
“And your hair needs work.”
My hand flutters to my hair, which I painstakingly straightened. Whining won’t help me. I need to present a solution, even if it’s not what she wants. “What if I bring a jacket to wear to court, and pull my hair back before I get there?” I smooth a hand over the front of my shirt. “If I show up at school dressed for court, people will suspect something.”
Her eyebrow lowers. Appearances are everything—that’s what she’s always taught me—so playing to those sensibilities are my best chance. “Fine. Your black blazer with the ruffled lapel. And be sure you have a hair tie.”
My Business Meeting Blazer. The one she makes me wear whenever we join Dad’s partners for dinner.
I sprint up the stairs in my heels—a skill I mastered the summer before freshman year—and grab my BMB from the back of my closet. Mom’s taste in fashion is more conservative than mine, and the ruffly “bit of flair” is about as risky as she gets.
Her scowl softens when I return. “Leave school at ten. Not a minute later.”
We walk side by side through the garage to our cars, back out together, and I’m following her out of the drive when it strikes me that it’s just us now. This is my family. Panic grips my chest at all the unknowns, especially this daughter Dad so casually mentioned in the middle of dinner—my sister. How could he drop that on us like he’s talking about the weather?
Mom turns the opposite way of my school and beeps her goodbye.
I wave, even though it’s still dark out and she can’t see me, then shake my head. Dad can’t occupy my head-space today. I need to prepare for the kids at school and whatever torment they’ve prepared for my latest fall from grace. Over the years, I’ve perfected my queen bitch persona to the point that anyone but my friends are terrified to speak to me, and until a month ago, it’s served me well. But since things have started falling apart—with Mom and Dad fighting more often, then the shoplifting and losing Homecoming Queen, something I’ve dreamed about from the moment I knew it was a thing—even my friends have stopped talking to me. The kids I’ve treated like maggots will no doubt return the favor when word gets out that I was arrested.
The Edge Rules (The Rules Series Book 3) Page 2