by Ashley Gee
I don’t want your forgiveness, just your silence.
That’s a lie, of course. Maybe not the first part. I have no doubts that the last thing on Vin’s mind is reconciling even the smallest piece of our past. But he doesn’t really want my silence. There is something very specific that he wants to spill from my lips, and I have spent the last ten years refusing to give it to him.
Which is why he decided I don’t get to speak at all.
But secrets are like a cancer, eating away at you. In more fanciful moments, I tell myself that all the things I refuse to say have settled like acid on my vocal cords, burning them into dust.
At this point, I don’t know what I would say if given the chance to speak freely.
It’s easy to slip into melancholy, spend way too much time thinking about how things might have been. Who would I be if I’d been given the chance to grow up in the before, instead of the after. My family would still be poor, and I’d still live in the Gulch, but maybe I wouldn’t exist in perpetual isolation. Maybe I’d go out at night like other girls, even have a boyfriend.
The Milbournes have been here longer than the town limits. By rights, Zion and I should be running with the Vice Lords, not set up on the other side of this battle.
Like always, I wake up early in the morning to help get Grandpa situated. I don’t remember the name of the disease that does it, but the same thing that messes with his memory makes his hands shake so he can’t feed himself properly or stand too long on his own. His doctor wants him in a wheelchair full time, but that isn’t something we can afford. Instead, he leans on me when he needs to get from one place to the other, and he doesn’t get up at all when no one is around to help him.
Grandpa spends most of his days and all of his nights posted up in the old armchair by the window in our living room. He only leaves that spot when I take him on short walks around the house to keep his blood flowing and prevent bedsores.
I help him eat breakfast before I go to school. Meals on Wheels comes twice a week with a handful of trays I can stick in the freezer and then reheat for him, so at least he isn’t in danger of starving to death.
As I spoon watery cream of wheat into his toothless mouth, I want to ask him for the dozenth time what happened to bring us here: to the Gulch, to the bottom of society, to a place where nobody cares what happens to us. But his memories of the past aren’t much more than ramblings at this point, and I’ve never been able to get a straight answer out of him.
My mother always said that Grandpa’s father made a business deal that went bad, but she didn’t know much more than that. Although, everything she has ever said should be taken with a grain of salt the size of a sugar cube.
In contrast to our sorry state of affairs, Vin’s family is one of the richest in the central valley. The Cortlands own more land than all the other founding families combined. He sits on a throne made of his family’s legacy like an over-indulged prince.
It must be nice to have a future drenched in gold.
But there are some things in his past that vaguely resemble the tragedy of mine, not that anybody would figure that out by looking at him.
His real mother died in childbirth, and his father remarried so quickly that a whole year might not have passed before he had a stepmother. Giselle Cortland can’t trace her lineage back to our town’s founding, but she always seems happy to play like the queen of everything the light touches.
Vin should have thought of her as his mother — babies latch on to whatever maternal figure is available. But it never seemed to work out that way. As a kid, I could never figure out if the lack of bonding was his fault or hers. It didn’t take long for me to understand that a darkness creeps over the majestic grounds of Cortland Manor.
A darkness that infects everything it touches.
Before I go to school, I take the money that Vin left on my desk and put it in the shoebox under my bed. I have several hundred dollars here, with no idea what to do with it. Even when there isn’t any food in the house and my stomach aches from hunger, I still don’t touch this cash.
I’m being paid for services rendered, just like mother was. That’s all the Milbournes have ever been good for.
Vin is like a drug dealer who offers a first taste for free because he wants to get you hooked.
With the first dollar of this money I spend, he will own me.
Sometimes I dream about running away, escaping Deception and this broken existence. But five hundred dollars isn’t enough for a new life, and I can’t leave Grandpa to fend for himself. Zion would probably let him starve to death before remembering the man is stuck in his armchair.
Just like everything else in Deception, this money is tainted with the past, so dirty I still feel it on my skin even once I’ve put it away. There was one time that I tried giving it back to Vin, throwing it in his face. He just laughed and pinned me on the bed until I stopped struggling. When I woke up the next morning, the shoebox was back where it belonged and filled to the brim with cash.
Someday, I’ll have enough strength to burn it.
And imagining what it might be like to douse Vin Cortland in gasoline and light a match is the happy thought that lets me fly away like Peter Pan into a dreamless sleep.
I march into Deception High with a new purpose. With the help of the recycled Hello Kitty calendar on my bedroom wall, I’ve calculated the exact number of days left until graduation when I can put this place and all the people here in my rearview mirror.
72 days and counting.
The day I leave this town, whether it’s by bus or train or walking barefoot down the dusty highway, will be the best one of my life.
Sophia steps up behind me for the metal detectors with a group of other girls falling into line behind her like ducklings after a demented Mother Goose. She likes to fancy herself the queen bee of Deception High, but the Vice Lords are the only ones really in charge here. The founding families have always ruled this town, and it’s hard to imagine that ever changing. Even though her father owns the largest dental practice in town and she has a beautiful house up on the Bluffs.
Money and power are like conjoined twins that would die if they ever got separated, but that doesn’t make one the same as the other.
She might have her mindless little followers, but everyone knows who sits on the throne.
We all have our delusions. I don’t begrudge Sophia her own, if that’s what makes living through another day seem worth it.
Most days, the disdainful treatment she subjects me to isn’t anything worse than what everyone else on the bottom of the social hierarchy gets. That happens to be one of the few positive aspects of being totally silent — sometimes people forget I’m here at all. There are always new targets for someone bent on teenage sociopathy. Her need to ensure the social pecking order stays intact almost makes some sort of twisted sense.
For someone to be on top, someone else has to be on the bottom.
Reinforcing the natural order of things by planting her flag at the mountain summit is all that keeps her from tumbling down to earth with the rest of us.
Sometimes I wonder if there might be at least a little misplaced jealousy there. Sophia doesn’t know for certain what goes on between Vin and I, but she has to sense that what lies between us isn’t fit for polite conversation. The true irony is that I would gladly switch places with her in a heartbeat, even if she’ll never know it.
We have English together, and I’ve seen her notebooks. She writes Mrs. Sophia Cortland on them over and over again to practice her cursive.
“Did I tell you guys what happened after the party last weekend?” Her voice is high-pitched with the forced volume of someone who desperately wants to be overheard. “Vin and I were getting hot and heavy in his bedroom, and then I woke up the next day with all these curly hairs stuck in my teeth.”
Another girl lets out a choked laugh, but I don’t look back to see who it is. “That is so gross.”
I put my bag on the litt
le conveyer belt as I wait for the people ahead of me to slowly make their way through the metal detector. The guy ahead of me is being forced to remove every metal piercing in his body, including the ones that are covered by his clothes. I can only hope that the belly button ring is the southernmost piece as I wait for him to finish.
“I love the manly types, but I have to get him onboard with manscaping.” Sophia laughs, the sound vaguely reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard. “It actually kind of reminded me of Zaya’s little nappy hairs. Shaving her head would be better than whatever is going on there.”
Sophia won’t talk directly to me, even when the conversation is clearly meant for my ears. For all her bravado, she knows better than to do that. But she clearly has no problem talking about me loudly enough that anyone within twenty yards can hear her.
I tell myself that nothing these girls can think to say will bother me. The obvious ways that I’m different from them will always be a target for ridicule. If my hair looked like something out of a shampoo commercial, they’d still find a way to turn that into a negative.
Unfortunately for me, there aren’t enough hot tools or styling products in the world that can make my messy riot of kinks and curls conform into anything like the perfect blonde waves framing Sophia’s face.
I accepted who I am a long time ago. The only other choice was to curl up into a ball and die. My nappy hair. My unfashionably dark skin that dries out in unsightly white patches if I forget to moisturize. Full lips that Sophia likes to spitefully whisper are only good for sucking dick since I never speak. At least she didn’t stoop to calling my mother a coonhound, a favorite insult among the smaller-minded residents of Deception in the last few years.
My gaze flicks over Sophia’s face as I wait for my bag to slide into the X-ray machine. Our gazes meet, and the desperation in her eyes is obvious from a mile away to anyone looking for it. She needs all of our attention to distract herself from whatever is going on inside her head. No girl who chases after a guy like Vin Cortland is capable of loving herself.
If I can sympathize with anything, it’s self-hatred.
For a moment, I wonder if a version of reality exists where we could have been friends.
“It’s always a shame when good bloodlines end with mutts.” Sophia stares into my face as she says it.
Yeah, friends will probably never be an option. Not mortal enemies might even be a bridge too far.
I pass through the metal detector and grab my bag without looking back at the girls behind me. In a different sort of life, I would have made a snarky comeback or tried to put them in their place. But they aren’t worth it, not given the potential consequences.
In the past, I’ve risked Vin’s wrath to give the bitches at school as good as I got. It didn’t take long for me to realize that depriving them of any entertainment from my reaction is a far better strategy. After a while, my silence gets boring. Mocking me just isn’t fun anymore.
Maybe it’s maturity, or maybe I just don’t want to give Vin another excuse to come after me.
It isn’t until I look up again that I notice Elliot Spencer standing on the opposite side of the metal detector, arms crossed over his chest as he lounges against the wall. Elliot doesn’t hold a candle to Vin when it comes to the danger factor, but his reputation as a brawler is well earned. He hangs around the Gulch sometimes when he’s in the mood for a fight, something that can always be found in my neighborhood. Back in the days when Deception was just a mining settlement, his family's property was adjacent to mine.
Because of his size, he has a tendency to go after the bullies. Although if anyone is dumb enough to thank him for coming to their defense, he has no problem beating on the little guys, too.
Our gazes meet for a brief second before he looks past me.
“Hey, Soph,” he says conversationally, light-green eyes glittering with menace. “What was it you were saying about Vin’s hairy dick. I want to make sure I get it right when I tell him about it later.”
Sophia makes a choking noise, her mouth moving like a fish that just got pulled out of the water. “I was just talking about Zaya’s hair.”
“I heard what you said.” He taps his knuckles against the fullness of his lower lip. Leather creaks as he pushes off from the wall and stands to his full height. Elliot’s style is full-on Rebel Without a Cause meets Rodeo Drive: black motorcycle jacket made of Italian leather, fitted jeans that have been tailored, and a white designer t-shirt that costs as much as some people’s car payments. “Maybe you should take a page from Zaya’s book. Hasn’t anybody ever told you that silence is golden? It keeps our mouths from writing checks that our lily white asses can’t cash.”
Sophia isn’t quite smart enough to keep the defiance out of her voice. “Why are you defending her, anyway? I thought all you Vice Lords had a hard-on for messing with her.”
“I don’t make the rules,” Elliot replies with a careless shrug. “But Zaya is Founding, you should remember that.”
He stalks away without sparing any of us another glance.
Elliot isn’t exactly a white knight. The lesson is as much for me as it is for Sophia. Just because Vin has decided I have to suffer doesn’t mean he is always willing to share the privilege. But if I’d spoken a word in my own defense, whatever the Vice Lords did to me would make Sophia Taylor look like a preschool teacher.
Like always, I’m on my own.
Seven
Jake Tully finally works up the nerve to talk to me again while I’m hiding out in the library during lunch.
I want to be impressed with his persistence, then I remember he just moved here and doesn’t understand the forces that are set up against him. It isn’t the same thing as bravery when you’re just too stupid to realize how afraid you should be.
Ignorance is bliss, I guess.
I notice him as soon as I walk in, because usually the librarian and I are the only ones who ever come here. Deception High isn’t exactly at the forefront of technological innovations, so the computers are so ancient they might as well be bricks, and most of the books are moth-eaten or missing pages. Most students don’t even bother trying to use the limited resources and opt for a drive out to the county library.
But Jake is here. He sits at a table in the very center of the rectangular room, an iPad with an attached keyboard set up in front of him. That cements for me he has to be living on the better side of town. No one from the Gulch would dare flash a piece of tech that expensive, assuming they could get their hands on it in the first place.
The sharp division between the haves and the have-nots makes Deception what it is. Anybody who wants to study the long-term of income inequality and economic stagnation should pay us a visit. Million-dollar mansions on the Bluffs are balanced by families living exclusively on food stamps in dilapidated trailers around the Gulch. The town’s history made some of this inevitable — the children of the migrants brought in to work the mines or clean houses never climb out of the poverty trap. Social mobility is little more than a fantasy here — anybody who betters themselves does it by getting the hell out.
It’s hard to imagine what this place must look like to an outsider.
I finally choose a spot as far from Jake as I can get, close to the reference section and a large bay window letting in dreary light from the overcast sky. Setting my bag on the table, I make a point of slowly removing each item I need from my bag one by one: textbook, binder, pencil, pen, calculator.
Too bad they don’t allow pepper spray on campus.
When I finally look up, I’m not exactly surprised to see Jake hovering over the chair across from me, obviously trying to decide if he should sit down or not. I don’t help him make the decision, simply staring up at him silently as he awkwardly stands there.
No one in this world has ever made things easy for me. I don’t have a problem with paying that forward just a little bit.
“Hey,” Jake murmurs, finally taking a seat.
A sharp rapp
ing from the main desk silences whatever he might say next. The librarian, Mrs. Markel, glares at us over a pair of bifocals. Her wrinkled lips are pursed in extreme displeasure as she brings a withered finger to her lips.
Despite the general shabbiness, this is what I love most about the school library. Silence isn’t only acceptable, but encouraged practically on pain of death. Mrs. Markel has a reputation for eating disobedient students alive and then lecturing the remains about decorum. Even the Vice Lords know better than to tempt fate by getting on her bad side.
But Jake isn’t that easily deterred. He reaches across the table and snags a page from my open binder, the ripping sound of paper echoing off the low ceiling as Mrs. Markel continues to glare.
If she ever figures out how to force choke like Darth Vader, we’re all dead.
When he catches me watching, a slight smile curls his lips as he scrawls something with his pen before shoving the paper towards me so it skids across the table.
I glance down at it, because I can’t help myself.
Will you go with me to the Founder’s Ball?
Once a year, the Cortlands open up their magnificent home to the riffraff in celebration of our town’s founding. It’s a little bit debutante ball and a whole lot of showing off for the people in town trying and failing to keep up with the first family of Deception.
It’s been years since I went to a Founder’s Ball, and I hadn’t planned on breaking that winning streak anytime soon. Zion will likely make an appearance, if just for the free booze, and stay exactly long enough to convince one of the girls from the Bluffs to slum it with him for the night before cutting out early.
Then I think about the look on Vin’s face if he saw me walking into his house, his domain, on the arm of Jake Tully. That was almost enough to make whatever came next seem worth it.
I take the paper and hunch over it, hiding what I’m writing. Jake tries to peek, and I shift my arm up to block his view.