by A. R. Breck
"No need to complain. I don't care. Move your ass, now." He barks.
I look around, and see that almost every student that is still lingering outside is staring at us, and I even see a few from the windows of the school.
I huff, get back into my car and flick him off before starting up my clunker and rolling over to a spot at the far end of the parking lot.
CHAPTER TWO
Rose
Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win. – Stephen King
Who the hell do these people think they are?
Hopping out, I grab my bag and mumble to myself about my plans for payback when someone walks right in front of me, halting me in my tracks.
"Jesus, shit! People here need to seriously stop getting in people's faces." I grumble to myself.
The petite girl in front of me grows wide-eyed at my anger and while she looks like a badass she does cower a bit. I take a breath to calm down and drop the scowl that covers my face.
"Sorry." She grimaces and takes another step back.
"No, my bad." I'm being a bitch, and obviously this girl hasn't done anything to me. I better play nice with some people here, otherwise I will only have enemies. "Rose Strauss."
"Cara Aarons. Nice to meet you. You've got some balls for parking in that spot." She swings her thumb over her shoulder, indicating to the spot where I would have parked.
I scowl. "Yeah, well, those boys apparently have balls too, because they decided to mess with the wrong person."
A flash of fear crosses Cara's face. "Yeah... I wouldn't do that. They're nothing but trouble and not someone that you want to mess with."
I guffaw.
Seriously? What the hell kind of school did I come to?
"And why the hell not?"
"Because, they are in control. They own this school – no, they own this town. Once you are on their shit list, you are pretty much better off dead." She has such a serious face on, almost like she is telling the best scary story around the campfire, I can really only do one thing.
I crack up.
Tears spring to my eyes and I have to wipe them away as I bend over, laughing so hard a snort breaks free.
When my laughter dissipates, I look back up to an apprehensive Cara. She looks alarmed, and a little scared.
"Okay, then, humor me. Why should I bow down to a couple of high school boys? How can two kids even own a town?"
"Their parents are some high rollers or something. Involved in gangs or some undergrown shit. No one knows for sure. All I do know, is that anyone who gets in their way, either disappears or shows up injured. Like – seriously injured."
I roll my eyes. "So, you're telling me that some stupid high school bullies get pissy about people and then they beat them up? Or scare them away to a different school or something? Sounds like a ton of petty douche bags."
"No. I once heard that someone who worked for Easton's dad started trying to leak some private information and-" she takes a gulp, looking around to make sure that no one is listening in before leaning in to whisper in my ear, "Easton's dad apparently found the guy and cut off his fingers. But then – then after the guy was pleading for mercy, his dad kills him. Throws him in the Mississippi alive with a weight around his ankles. He can't very much untie the weights, can he? No fingers." She wiggles her fingers at me exaggeratedly. Apprehension builds in me. Okay, that sounds a little intimidating. Definitely want to keep my fingers. And my life.
"And this is the blonde guy that was giving me trouble?"
She chuckles. "Oh, no. That's Logan. He is actually the nice one of the group, if you can believe it. Easton hasn't shown up for school this week. Word is that he's been training for his match tonight."
"Match?"
"There is an underground fighting ring. Easton never loses. I'm actually planning to go tonight. Want to come with?" She looks up at me with sparkling eyes.
I think about what I have planned for tonight. Sitting at home with drunkie? Or going to a fighting ring with a bunch of half-naked guys, and seeing what all this apparent fuss is about? No contest.
"Sure, I can meet you down there."
"Awesome! This is great. I always get too nervous and never end up going. Don't want to show up alone, you know?"
I nod my head, giving her a head to toe assessment as her bright smile beams towards me.
She's a cute little thing. Petite - so short actually, that I almost don't believe she should be in high school. Her brown mousy hair is pulled in a lazy pony at the back of her head. She's wearing boyfriend jeans with converse and a black tank top with a plaid long sleeve thrown over it. She looks pretty cool in it, although she would be shunned if she were to ever walk into my old town in that outfit.
"Well, I better get to class, but take my number and text me when you get there tonight. Doors open around seven. I would try to get there by then, or else we will never get a good spot to see the fight." She rambles off her phone number and the address to where the fight is at. I program everything into my phone, letting her know that I will text her when I get there.
She gives me a wave and walks into school, while I stand there for a few moments and let the big groups of people make it into the school. While I don't want to be the last one into class, I also don't want to be the first one.
Once most of the students have dissipated, I grab my things and walk into the school, cringing at the graffiti that's painted on the picnic tables out front and even some painted on the side of the school.
What's worse than starting at a new school in the middle of the school year is starting at a new school in the middle the school week. I seriously had to start school on a fucking Wednesday.
This blows, to put it lightly.
I keep my chin high and don't make eye contact with anyone. I'm not going to be one of those pathetic trembling new students that have a fear of being hated by your new peers.
If no one wants to be my friend? Fine. Fuck them. I'm not here to be anyone's friend.
I go to my assigned locker and frown at the chipped paint. Turning the combination lock, I have to use a little extra force to pull the locker open.
Shivers and disgust roll through my body. Why the hell is my locker sticking? It's almost like some sort of substance or grime was left on my locker.
This school is deplorable.
I shove some of my things in my dusty, rusted locker and use my foot to close it. Grabbing my hand sanitizer from my purse and blobbing on a hefty dollop into my palm, I aggressively scrub my hands to rid the one too many germs I'm sure I picked up within the minute of being in this school.
The scent of dirty gym socks and body odor does nothing to help it's case either.
I feel my mind closing in on itself, almost as if I'm creating a barrier where I don't have to deal with the mounting anxiety of being in this different world.
This place, these people, this isn't home. This is some weird place where people go to, what? Learn?
Do these teachers even have a teaching degree?
I scoff, feeling like my nerves are building enough to burn me alive.
Is that what is happening to me? Will I burst into flames?
I almost, almost fucking hope so.
Then I wouldn't have to deal with this shit anymore.
See – I act tough, I mean, how can I not? My once pampered life has been ripped apart, leaving in its wake a meaningless, hopeless shell of a human. A barely-there human.
But I will survive. I will persevere.
Because this is not the life for me. I will not succumb to the pitiful life my mother has built for herself, relying on another human to help her survive. She is a pathetic, useless excuse of a woman. If I was enough of a bitch, I would tell her that too.
But, at the end of the day, I have to love her. She gave me life, and she gives me love. She is about the only person in the world that has loved me unconditionally. And for that, I will always be grateful for he
r on some level. Batting these personal feelings away, I build up that stone wall once again, place my resting bitch face on, and walk to first period.
◆◆◆
"Mom, I'm home." Tossing my keys on the end table inside the front door, I walk inside the Shack and look for mother dearest.
"Hey, honey. How was your first day of school?" Her words are slurred. I halt in my tracks and glance down at my phone to look at the time. Drinking at three thirty? Shit, this is a new low.
"First day was okay… are you okay?" I ask hesitantly.
Looking over at her, she's dressed up like she still lives in our old town: expensive pearls, Prada heels, fancy perfume. It just looks completely out of place when she is sitting on our less than perfect sofa with a glass of wine balanced in her hand.
"No, I'm not okay!" She suddenly bursts out crying, making me jump about a foot in the air. "I went from the perfect life to sitting in this hideous home, sitting on this hideous furniture, working at the front desk at a dental office answering phones! My friends won't even talk to me anymore." She leans her head back on the couch, closing her eyes and massaging the bridge of her nose.
She is so fucking dramatic.
"So… that's why you're drinking at three in the afternoon?" She must have gotten off of work early because she already looks a few glasses in.
"I'm drinking at three in the afternoon because I'm a God damn adult and I can do what ever the hell I want." She's looking at me like I'm equal parts crazy and annoying, but in all honesty, she is the one that looks like she belongs in psych.
I stare at her as if she's a stranger. She has never been this out of control before. It makes me wonder – is it really the stress and finances that is making her like this? Or has she always been a raging, penniless woman covered up by designer shoes and oversized purses?
I stare at her for a moment longer, just blinking. Then, without a word, I turn around and stalk back to my room.
I can't even bare to look at her anymore. I'm not sure what happened to my mother, but that is not her.
◆◆◆
A few hours later, I stumble out of my room, looking for some dinner before I head out for the fight. Glancing at mom, I notice she is in the same position as before, although her wine glass has been placed on the edge of the table – thank God – otherwise I'm sure it would be all over our carpet.
And what is my mom doing?
Sleeping, of course.
Rolling my eyes, I don't even attempt to wake her up this evening. We will have to talk about her drinking soon, but tonight is not the night. This shit can't go on much longer.
I grab some frozen waffles from the freezer and pop them in the toaster, glancing around our box sized kitchen. It's much smaller than our chef sized kitchen from our old house, with its huge island and all the top-notch appliances. Now, I have a counter in front of me and I can walk two steps behind me to get to the other counter, which are made of the cheapest, off-white laminate with small chips in the corners. It's as if someone has such little care of taking care of their home that bumping into it with who the hell knows what has been the least of their worries.
With the pop of the toaster, my hot waffles are ready. I grab a plate and douse them in syrup, walking back to my room without a glance at the sad human behind me.
I scarf down my dinner, frowning at my still hungry stomach when my plate is empty. I'm not used to eating like this. At our old house, all of our meals would be home cooked by our lovely cook, Marcia. She was like a second mother to me. I'm glad she was able to retire once we moved. I would have hated if she was without a job because of our personal problems.
I decide to keep my jeans on from school but switch out my booties for high heels. I also change my shirt and put on a lace tank that molds to my every curve.
I'm not sure what the dress code is going to be, I really should have asked Cara when I was with her earlier. But you can never go wrong with looking hot. I just hope that what I'm wearing doesn't come across as rich bitch and instead comes across as sexy AF bitch.
I guess at the end of the day, rich bitch won't really offend me either. I would rather come across as rich bitch than broke bitch.
Once I'm dressed, I walk into our cubicle sized bathroom to touch up on my makeup and straighten out my dark, long black hair. The curls from earlier fell limp from lying on my bed most of the afternoon.
When I'm done straightening my hair and it lays in a curtain down the small of my back, I grab my phone, wristlet, car keys, and head out.
Passing my mom – who is still passed out – I write her a short note letting her know I went out with some new friends and will be back later.
When she's sober, she's loving. And if she wakes up sober, I know she will worry about where I am.
It's when she has been drinking, her caring meter takes a dive right out the window.
I go grab the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch and drape it over her, giving her a kiss and walk out the door before feelings start clawing their way out.
Hopping into my car, I type the address into my GPS and see that it's about a twenty-minute drive to the warehouse where the fight will be. It looks like it is down in Saint Paul by the Mississippi River – which makes me pause.
Shit, I hope this isn't where dead homeboy got thrown in the river.
After a nerve wrecking drive, my GPS dings, alerting me of my arrival. I see various cars parked along the streets, but where the little dot shows me the destination is supposed to be, it is just a big warehouse with an empty parking lot. There is a dim, overhead light on over one of the doors creating a dirty, dingy yellow to light up a big massive hulk of a man standing outside the door. I suppose they need the parking lot to look empty to not attract unwanted visitors, mostly if this shit is illegal.
I pull into one of the open parking spots on the street and just sit in my car.
I've never really done anything illegal before. I was always the good girl and got everything I ever wanted. Nothing was ever necessary enough to commit a crime for.
I asked, I received.
But now that our net worth has so sharply declined, I suppose I need to shed that old skin along with the money. It's not like I'm going to get in a ring and fight, I'm just going to watch.
I'm going to have a good time. I can't let my previously sheltered life keep me from living my new life. I'm not going to wallow in my pity and cry about a situation that I can't even change. I refuse.
With newfound determination, I turn off my car and grab my wristlet. I make sure my car is locked about five times.
Can never be too sure in this neighborhood.
As I approach the door with Mr. Steroid guarding it, I listen to the clack, clack, clack of my heels on the uneven, potholed pavement. I can tell the moment that he hears me, because his head snaps up and a scowl takes over his face. He gets into position, spreading his legs wide and crossing his arms over his chest.
Wow, dude. Overdoing it, much?
He is much bigger than I initially thought, definitely over three hundred pounds, and that's being generous.
I grab my phone and shoot a text to Cara as I'm about to reach the door.
Rose: I'm outside… I think. There is some beefed up dude standing out here looking like he should be in prison for homicide. Is this the right place?
Cara: Haha! OMG! That is Jerry. He's cool. Say you're a friend of Cara and he will let you right in.
Rose: K.
"Can I help you?" His voice is gruff and raspy, like he has been smoking for the past hundred years. His bald head shines from the overhead light, which is only flickering now from the bugs down here that keep eagerly searching for the source of light.
"I'm here for the fight. Meeting Cara inside." I'm proud of myself. I kept my voice strong and steady. Maybe I'm made for this hood life after all.
Ha ha, kidding. Gross.
His shoulders drop from their intimidating pose and a smile falls across his fac
e. "Friend of Cara's, huh?" Come on in." He turns around and gestures for me to enter as he pulls the heavy steel door open. As the heavy door creaks from the weight and rust, the sound of yelling, shouts, music, and excitement flow out of the warehouse.
I give Jerry a small wave and a thank you, and walk in.
CHAPTER THREE
Rose
The real world is where the monsters are. – Rich Riordan
My heels echo in the large empty hall as the noise of the chaos grows louder and louder. I'm following the lights up ahead that I can see shining through a small window in the door. A door that separates me from the loud thundering of music and people, which is my only other indication that this is the direction I should be going. As I grow closer, the door opens and there appears my new friend, Cara.
"Sup, girl? Come on, we need to hurry and shove our way to the front before it starts." She reaches out and grabs my wrist, yanking me and pulling me through a mosh of people as she tries to make her way up to the front. A lot of people look like they are moments away from pulling out their knives and stabbing me in the kidney for pushing and shoving them, even though it's not my fault. I attempt to give them an excuse me every time I bump into someone, but apparently no one wants to hear that shit. They would prefer to give me mean mugs that would make half the people in my old town wet their pants.
Once we get front and center, Cara takes a huge breath and looks me over, letting out a whistle of appreciation. "Damn, girl. You look smoking tonight." She gets to my shoes and grimaces. "Not the best shoes for here, though. Flats, always wear flats. They are always best in case the police come and we need to run. Next time just throw on a pair of tennis shoes."
I laugh. "Tennis shoes? Um, pass." Tennis shoes? I don't think I've owned a pair since elementary school.
Cara snorts, giving me a side-eye. "Okay, Princess. Have fun twisting your ankle if the police come. I sure as hell ain't carrying your ass out of here." She looks back towards the pit where a few people are getting two sides of the ring ready. I still don't see any fighters, though.