The Trail Rules

by Melanie Hooyenga

  My shoes click on the tiled floor, echoing through the oddly silent house. I’m tempted to race up the stairs and hide in my room for the next year, but Mom’s voice calls out, stopping me.

  “Brianna, come to the den.”

  Not the living room or family room, the den. I adore our house and brag about it to anyone who will listen, but sometimes it feels like we rotate which room we sit in just to say we use all the rooms. I step through the open door and pause. Bookcases line three walls and overstuffed leather chairs form a seating area in the center of the room. They’re sitting across from each other, waiting for me.

  Mom smooths a piece of her shoulder-length blond hair and crosses her legs. She’s still in a suit, and based on the lack of drink in front of either of them, she hasn’t been home long. “What—” her voice is clipped, “—were you thinking?”

  I sink into the leather chair facing the door. Escape is futile, but seeing the exit makes me feel a little less trapped. The leather begs for me to curl up, but I sit straight with my hands folded in my lap. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  I take a deep breath. “What do you want me to say?”

  She narrows her gaze at me. Between the two of them, it’s no wonder I mastered that look by junior high. “I’d like to know why our daughter, who has been provided everything she has ever asked for and more,” she points a manicured finger at me, “found it necessary to steal cheap trinkets from a store—”

  “Just one,” I whisper, and immediately regret it. Arguing semantics never goes well, plus it’s not true. One peek in my top drawer and they’ll realize the necklace is just the tip of the cheap trinket iceberg. I glance at Dad, expecting a lecture on talking back, but I don’t think he’s breathed since I sat down. I get that he’s upset, but he’s a businessman to his core and he never lets anger control his emotions.

  Something more must be going on.

  But Mom’s not finished. “Tomorrow you will go back to that store and apologize to the woman. Tell her you didn’t realize you had the necklace.”

  I squirm beneath her glare.

  “What?” she asks.

  “It’s just that…” I feel like I’m ten yards down a black diamond when I meant to take the blue. It’s too late to turn around and it’s only going to get worse. “I already offered her money to ignore it.”

  “Then offer her more.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think that’ll work with her. She’s more of a hard-ass than the others—” The look on her face stops me. Cursing isn’t permitted in the Vine household, at least not by me, but that wasn’t my biggest mistake.

  “What. Others?” Her words are crisp and staccato, like she’s giving a lesson in enunciation.

  I hang my head.

  “Brianna, answer your mother.”

  I can’t look up. It’s one thing to lie to yourself—to say I can stop whenever I want and that I’m not hurting anyone—but admitting it to my parents is like letting out every awful secret I’ve buried deep inside.

  Mom’s voice is almost a whisper, but it drips with venom. She leans toward me and I fight the urge to burrow into the chair. “How many times have you done this?”

  Stolen or been caught? I go with option two. “Only a couple times.”

  “Two,” Dad says. “So one other time.”

  “Two other times,” I say.

  A red flush creeps up his neck until the tips of his ears burn bright. The same thing happens to me when I’m mad and for the millionth time I curse whoever’s in charge of picking which genes to give to children. Mom’s face only gets red when she’s been in the sun too long.

  “I can’t look at you any longer,” he says.

  I start to stand, but wait for Mom’s nod. Dad may be the tyrant, but walking away from Miranda Vines before she’s said her piece can be equally devastating.

  “We’ll finish this later. Consider yourself grounded for the foreseeable future.”

  I hurry away before they change their minds. My social life is already over so the only punishment they have left is taking away my physical things. Please don’t be my 4Runner. Or my skis. The season’s just starting and I live for skiing, to be outside, gliding over the mountain with the sky stretching overhead.

  The only saving grace from this punishment is they don’t know that grounding me won’t make a difference because I no longer have any friends.

  *****

  I flip the page of my History book but I may as well be reading Egyptian hieroglyphics for as much as I’m understanding. I don’t have any tests tomorrow—thank goodness—but even reading is proving to be impossible. I turn back to the previous page and don’t remember any of it. This is pointless. I give it a nudge toward the edge of my bed and it slides over the white duvet and lands on the floor with a satisfying thud.

  My fingers itch to text someone, but there’s no one left. Kenzie made sure of that. Mike might reply, but she’s somehow found a backbone lately and I’m not in the mood for attitude. At the beginning of the school year, half the student body would be thrilled to hear from me, but after I lost out to Homecoming Queen, it’s like my world started crumbling around me.

  I roll onto my back, right onto my Ethics book. Ironic laughter escapes me. Somehow I’m doing well in that class, but Miss Simpson will have a field day when she finds out what I did.

  What I’ve been doing.

  How could I be so stupid? Of all the things I’ve taken, the necklace is the most unlike anything I’d ever wear. The leather and bronze bracelets are at least trendy—this is a bunch of plated gold hearts dangling from an equally cheap chain. As if I’d ever be caught dead wearing hearts.

  I yank the book out from beneath me and open it to the assigned chapter, but the words swim in front of me.

  I was in jail. Jail.

  And I was arrested. Like really arrested, not some stupid rent-a-cop thing where they put you in an office until your parents come get you. An overwhelming sense of disgust washes over me. I changed clothes when I came upstairs, but I still feel dirty all over.

  I toss the book on the floor—there’s something about that thud that makes me feel a tiny bit better—and pad across the thick carpet to the bathroom that’s attached to my room. Once the water’s as hot as I can stand it, I step into the shower.

  I’m drying off when shouts carry from downstairs. They’ve been fighting a lot lately—which I keep telling myself is better than the usual silence because at least they’re talking to each other—but this time is different because it’s about me. At school I show no fear. If someone even breathes the wrong way in my direction I tear them down with a withering glare, but at home I try my best to fly under the radar.

  I crack the door to listen while I get dressed, but I 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. I freeze, and it’s like 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 pants, I stumble to my door. Mom’s crying downstairs. I step into the hallway when my father’s voice booms through the house.

  “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 my door when the front door slams. A high-pitched keening sounds drifts up the stairs but I can’t move.

  I can’t breathe.

  What did he decide?

  I hurry down the stairs but stop short when I reach the bottom. Mom’s crumpled in the middle of the floor, her head in her hands. The bottom 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 th
e 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 sit 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 before me is her deflated shell.

  “Mom?”

  She shifts so she’s sitting cross-legged but doesn’t respond.

  I move closer, not sure what I’m supposed to do. Miranda Vines prides herself on always being in control and projecting an image of superiority, “even when you’re not feeling it.” It’s where I learned how to be the head Snow Bunny and most popular girl in school.

  Formerly 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.”

  I already knew that. 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.”

  “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. Because if what she’s saying is true—

  “Brianna, you’re father has left us.”

  Acknowledgements

  The more books I write, the more grateful I am for the people in my life who make it possible. From coworkers who smile and nod while I go on and on about my characters’ latest adventures, to my writing friends who hold my (virtual) hand when I get stuck, to my husband who didn’t fully know what he signed on for when he said ‘I Do’ to a writer.

  To Laura Holmes, writer, athlete, and marketer extraordinaire, who let me pick her brain about all things mountain biking. Without you Mica and his friends wouldn’t be half as interesting, and the biking scenes would feel like a ride down the sidewalk on a tricycle.

  To my online writing groups for weighing in on everything from blurbs to covers, and being there to lament the struggles of the writing life.

  To my beta readers Bridgid Gallagher, Patrick Hodges, Tammy Ruch, and Judy Hooyenga (yes, my mom), for helping this story shine.

  To Nancy Matuszak for always pushing me to go deeper and find the bigger conflict. I hope I’ve done you proud.

  To Nadine Nettman and Sara Carlson for reading countless scenes, helping me brainstorm, and being better best friends than I could ever hope for. Now would one of you please invent a teleportation machine?

  And finally, to my husband Jeremy for being my everything. From not caring when the house is a disaster, to taking on bathing the dog (something we all hate) and cooking our meals, to being my support system when life falls apart around me. I never for a second take for granted what we have.

  About the Author

  Melanie Hooyenga is the author of THE SLOPE RULES, a YA sports romance that’s Grease meets Mean Girls with downhill skiing. Her YA trilogy, The Flicker Effect, is about a teen who uses sunlight to travel back to yesterday. The first book, FLICKER, won first place for Middle Grade/Young Adult in the Writer’s Digest 2015 Self-Published eBook awards. When not at her day job as Communications Director at a local nonprofit, you can find her wrangling her Miniature Schnauzer Owen and playing every sport imaginable with her husband Jeremy.

  Connect with Melanie online:

  www.melaniehoo.com

  MelanieHooyenga@gmail.com

  Facebook/MelanieHooyenga

  Twitter & Instagram @melaniehoo

  (she tried SnapChat and just doesn’t get it)

  Or if you prefer pen and paper:

  Melanie Hooyenga

  PO Box 554

  Grand Haven, MI 49417