by Paula Stokes
DEDICATION
—to DK
for Einstein, for Odd, and for
being so nice to my mom
CONTENTS
Dedication
The Middle Is the Beginning of the End
The Beginning
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
The End
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Back Ads
About the Author
Books by Paula Stokes
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
THE MIDDLE
IS
THE BEGINNING
OF
THE END
December 6th
I DON’T MAKE TO-DO LISTS, but if I did, today’s would have gone something like this: 1. get drunk, 2. get laid, 3. go surfing (not necessarily in that order). Noticeably absent from the list: get arrested. And yet here I am, spending my eighteenth birthday with my back against the wall of the Colonel’s hunting cabin, two FBI agents prowling the dark with their guns drawn, both trying to get me to confess to the murder of my friend Preston DeWitt.
“It’s all right, Max,” one of them says. “We just want to talk.” It’s the nice agent, McGhee.
“How’d you guys find me?” I ask, stalling for time. I push my long bangs out of my eyes with the hand that isn’t clutching a gun. To my left, I can just barely make out a razor-thin beam of gray light creeping in under the back door. I debate making a run for it, but it’s too far away. By the time I get there and undo the bolt, both agents will be on top of me.
“Colonel Amos tipped us off,” Gonzalez says. That’s the other agent. He’s kind of a dick. “Your little girlfriend ain’t as smart as she thinks she is.”
My girlfriend, Parvati. The Colonel’s daughter. I knew hiding out here was a bad idea.
“Where’s Preston?” McGhee again.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you kill him?” Gonzalez sounds like he’s already made up his mind.
“No. Of course not.”
The blackness ripples in front of me. One of the agents is moving. I can hear him inching his way across the floor. Slowly, methodically, like I’m a rabid raccoon and he’s a guy from animal control.
“Don’t come any closer.” I wave the handgun back and forth in front of me. “I don’t want to shoot anybody.”
They probably don’t think I’ll do it. They’re right. I’ve never shot a gun before. I’m not even sure if I know how. But if there’s one thing I learned from spending a year on the streets, it’s that people are afraid of weapons.
“Everything is going to be okay, Max.” Soothing voice. Another quiet scuff. They’re closing in. I have to do something. I point the gun at the ceiling and pull the trigger. Nothing happens. Apparently I don’t know how. I swear under my breath. Then I remember what Parvati told me. You just slide the lever and pull the trigger. I fumble with the little lever on the side of the gun and feel the bullet enter the chamber. I shoot at the ceiling again. Fire erupts from the muzzle. The light fixture explodes and glittering shards of glass rain down on my shoulders. The gun shudders violently, but I manage not to drop it.
The agents mutter four-letter words as they duck and cover. It’s all the distraction I need. With my ears still ringing, I lunge for the back door. As soon as I open it they’ll be able to see me, but all I have to do is make it to the woods. I can lose them in the trees.
As I throw open the door, I hear shouts. Hoping the feds won’t shoot me in the back, I cover the distance between the cabin and the edge of the tree line in just a few strides. It’s as black in the forest as it was in the house, but I’m not afraid of the dark or what hides within its shadows. To me, Mother Nature isn’t nearly as scary as human nature.
I plunge through the shrubbery, branches clawing at my face and arms. I hear McGhee and Gonzalez behind me, crashing through the brush like angry bears. Lengthening my stride, I propel myself forward. I know these woods. I know where I’m going. The river. These guys aren’t superhero TV FBI agents. They won’t go over the cliff.
But I will.
I’ve done it loads of times. Never while being chased, but still, it’s easy. Run. Push off. Fall. Sink. Emerge.
Breathe.
The moon shucks off a veil of clouds, illuminating the widening path in front of me. I can see where the trail dead-ends at a sheer drop-off. Water roars, just out of sight. My tennis shoes crunch gravel as I accelerate. Blood pounds in my ears. Where’s Preston DeWitt? I don’t know. That’s the truth. Not the whole truth, because it’s too late for that. Even if I told the feds everything, they wouldn’t believe me.
My left foot lands at the edge of the cliff. I push off with all my might, rocketing my body out toward the middle of the river, far away from the jagged rocks below. As I plummet through the crisp night air, I think about whether things might have been different if I had just told the truth from the beginning.
THE BEGINNING
ONE
October 21st
About six weeks earlier . . .
THE TRUTH IS, IT ALL started the day I tried to get detention. I tended to be late a lot and occasionally fell asleep in class, so I usually got it without much effort. Not that week, though. It was Friday, fourth period, when my girlfriend, Parvati Amos, strutted by my desk in a shiny black-and-red dress that looked like a sexy superhero costume.
“I didn’t see your name on the list for tomorrow,” she murmured, just loud enough for me to hear. Parvati was an office assistant during third period. Between that and writing for the school newspaper, the girl knew everything about everyone.
“Working on it.” I had already tried being late to algebra and swearing in Spanish class. For some reason, all my teachers were in a charitable mood that week. Or else they were just too lazy to fill out the paperwork for a detention.
Parvati leaned in as she slid into the chair behind me, just close enough for me to catch a whiff of her vanilla perfume. “Work harder.” She was wearing a scarf made out of a bright orange-and-red fabric with gold embroidery. I wondered if she’d taken scissors to one of her fancy saris. She liked pushing the limits with her parents.
I glanced around the room, as if the solution to my problem might lie between the row of pastel file cabinets and the bulletin board featuring cartoon drawings of famous figures from American literature. If I didn’t get assigned Saturday hours, my parents would assign me an even crueler punishment—babysitting my three younger sisters. Not only would I end up covered in glitter pen and strained peas, I’d miss my weekly rendezvous with Parvati.
Her dad had forbidden her to see me, but we quickly figured out a way around that. Every Saturday I went to detention and she went to newspaper club. What our parent
s didn’t know was that these activities only took two hours, instead of four. That gave Parvati and me two uninterrupted hours of alone time every weekend. Two hours that I didn’t want to miss.
The tinny chorus of Boyz Be Bad’s unfortunate hit, “Doll Baby,” interrupted my train of thought.
My English teacher, Ms. Erickson, glared at the class over the tops of her pointy glasses. “Whose cell phone is that? Please bring it to my desk.”
“It’s mine,” I blurted out. Around the room, I heard snickers and giggles. There was no way I, Max Cantrell, boy voted most likely to drop out of school and become a roadie for the all-girl hard-core band Kittens of Mass Destruction, had a Boyz Be Bad ringtone. But Ms. Erickson didn’t know that.
I slid out of my seat and started making my way to the front. My eyes skimmed across the rows of students, trying to figure out who it was that owed me big-time.
“Max. Now.” Erickson gave me the evil eye. She held out her hand, wiggled her crimson fingernails.
“Coming,” I muttered, shuffling the rest of the way up to her desk. I slipped my cell phone out of the center pocket of my hoodie, double-checked to make sure it was turned off, and slid it in the general direction of Erickson’s outstretched talons.
She grabbed my phone and made a big show of depositing it into the top drawer of her desk. “You can come get it after school,” she said. “You can pick up your detention slip then as well.”
Score. I gave her what I hoped was a look of apathy tinged with frustration and then headed back to my desk.
Parvati tapped me on the shoulder. “Smooth,” she whispered.
I peeked back at her. “You have no idea.”
She winked. “Oh, but I do.”
Resting my head on my desk, I let Erickson’s nasal voice fade into the background. I played with the shark’s tooth pendant I wore on a leather cord around my neck, poking the sharp point into the fleshy pad of my fingertip. The necklace was a gift from my real dad. It wasn’t really my style, but it was all I had left from him and I only took it off to shower and surf. He had been an oceanography professor at UCLA and found the tooth when he was scuba diving during a research trip.
Hands went up around me—Erickson must have asked a question. I focused my eyes on the sleeve of my shirt. She called on Parvati, who rattled off the definition of “irony.” What was ironic was that I had to get in trouble to have the thing I wanted most in the world—time with my girlfriend.
I didn’t blame her parents for wanting her to stay away from me. She was smart and rich and pretty, and I was none of those things. We both joked that she had only started dating me to piss them off, but sometimes I wondered if it was true. I was decent-looking, tall and thin, with messy brown hair that managed to look cool even right when I rolled out of bed, but I wasn’t the kind of guy that girls drew hearts around in the yearbook.
Parvati was gorgeous, though, with skin the color of almonds and eyes so dark that her irises receded into her pupils. She had hacked her waist-length, inky black hair to just above her shoulders at the end of the summer. Sometimes I pretended to miss it—I mean, long hair is totally hot—but the shorter cut fit her feisty personality. She refused to be the half-Indian Barbie her mother wanted her to be.
I imagined burying my face in what was left of her hair, tracing her pillowy lips with my fingers, inhaling the scent of her vanilla perfume. My brain wanted to take things further. Parvati and I hadn’t had sex in almost a month, since the Colonel caught us in the family hot tub, called me a despicable little shit, and told me if I ever came back he would kill me. Slowly.
The bell rang and I sat up with a start. Lunch. Parvati was deep in conversation with the girl sitting next to her. “Newspaper stuff,” she mouthed, scribbling something in the sticker-covered mini-notebook she carried everywhere with her.
“I’ll save you a chair,” I said. It was our little joke. Half the school would have killed for our seats in the cafeteria, but no one ever took them. You needed an invitation to sit with the Vista Palisades All-Stars, at the long table right in the middle of the caf. We sat there because we were friends with the school MVP, the football team’s star running back—Preston DeWitt.
I grabbed my books and headed for the hallway. I had barely made it out the door when I felt a hand clamp down on my arm. I looked down. Red fingernails. I turned, expecting to see Ms. Erickson, thinking maybe somehow she had figured out I lied about my phone. But it was Cassie Rhodes, first-team all-American breaststroke champion. (At least that’s what her T-shirt said.)
I pulled loose from Cassie’s formidable grip and gave her a look. I didn’t think she’d ever spoken to me before.
“Max, right?” she said.
“Yeah. So?” I looked down at her arm again. She had the muscles of a marine. I knew swimming was good exercise, but damn.
“How much do you want?”
I glanced up, thinking maybe I could figure out what she was talking about by her expression. No luck. “What do you mean?”
“For taking my detention.”
Oh. That. I imagined Parvati and me parked at the beach overlook, our hands all over each other. If Cassie only knew.
She pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of her purse and slipped it into my fingers. “I would have missed our semifinal meet. You totally saved us. I never would have guessed you were a girls’ swimming fan.”
“Yeah, well, go team, you know?” I slid the folded bill into the pocket of my hoodie. “Thanks.” I hadn’t given a surfing lesson since September, so money was tight. Besides, Cassie could afford it.
She leaned over and gave me a half hug. She smelled like a whole freaking garden of flowers. I hoped Parvati wasn’t lingering nearby watching this. She could be a little jealous sometimes.
“Talk to you later.” I sneezed. Pretty sure I’m allergic to flowers.
“For sure.” Cassie flashed a smile that could’ve been the “after” picture in a tooth whitening commercial. The fluorescent lights reflected off her shiny lip gloss, the whole effect nearly blinding me.
I turned away and strolled down to the cafeteria, thinking about the best way to spend twenty bucks. Grabbing the least toxic-looking things from the hot lunch line—a chicken sandwich, a basket of limp french fries, and a chocolate chip cookie—I headed toward my seat.
Parvati and Preston were already at the table. So were a few guys from the football team, some guy from the tennis team who’d won a couple matches at Junior Wimbledon, and pom-pom captain, Astrid Covington, and her friends. None of them even looked up when I sat down. They were used to having me there, Preston’s outcast playmate. They probably thought I was his drug dealer or something.
I actually met him the way I meet most people—through surfing. He’d signed up for a lesson at my parents’ boardwalk shop. When he showed up on the beach, wearing high-end surfing clothes and carrying a thousand-dollar board, I planned on hating him. Obviously he was just another rich kid padding his extracurricular résumé. He’d take one lesson, check surfing off his badass to-do list, and then run back to the country club.
But Preston was legit. We stayed out for five hours on our first day. He went from struggling to pop up on his board to going after his own waves. A few lessons later, Pres was almost as good as me, and we’d hung out together ever since.
“So you and Swimfan. What was that about?” Parvati’s voice was light, but her eyes were slitty. She had obviously seen me with Cassie.
Preston sat at the head of the table where he could see everyone and be part of the All-Stars’ conversations when he so desired. “Yeah, what was that about, Maximus?” He swiped at his phone with one finger and then angled it in my direction. Pres had an obsession with recording people. At school. At parties. In the football locker room. He definitely had some boundary issues. “The lovers are fighting,” he intoned. “Let’s hear what the guilty party has to say.”
“Get that thing out of my face.” I grabbed for Preston’s phone. He didn’t
even know what had happened. He was just trying to stir up shit as usual. With his shiny blond hair and green V-neck sweater, he looked more like a golf pro than a shit-disturber, but looks could be deceiving.
“Is this your first fight?” He turned the phone toward Parvati. “You guys might want this moment captured for posterity.”
Parvati faked like she was going to karate chop Pres in the throat. Still grinning, he slipped his phone back into his pocket.
She turned back to me. “Let me guess. That was Cassie’s phone playing Boyz Be Crap.”
“Yep. Apparently the fate of the Vista Palisades girls’ swim team has now been secured, since yours truly took her detention.”
“Ah,” Parvati said, nodding. “What’s the opposite of collateral damage?”
“Collateral benefits?” Preston suggested. He was half listening to us and half listening to one of the football players talk about next week’s game.
I pulled the twenty out of my pocket and snapped it open in front of them. “Speaking of benefits.”
“No way. She paid you?” Parvati’s eyes widened. “Who knew lying could be so lucrative?”
“Lawyers,” Preston said.
Parvati smirked. Her mom was a defense attorney. “And politicians,” she shot back. Preston’s dad was a U.S. senator.
Sometimes hanging out with them felt like being miscast in a prime-time teen drama—one where everyone else was rich. My parents, Darla and Ben, owned a souvenir shop called The Triple S. Sun, sand, and surf. Mostly we sold hermit crabs and five-dollar T-shirts.
I peeled the bun from the top of my chicken sandwich and squirted a couple packets of mayonnaise on top of a translucent tomato slice that had seen better days. Even smothered in goo, the sandwich still managed to be dry enough to make me gag.
Parvati’s eyes scanned the caf, a pen poised over the mini-notebook balanced on her lap. She wrote a gossip column for the Vista Palisades High Gazette and was always jotting down seemingly random observations.
“Maybe you should join the twenty-first century,” Preston said. “Use a tablet or a laptop like a legit reporter.”