Riot Rules

by Callie Hart

  “Sure. Of course. No problem.” My voice is flat. The voice of someone who has lost the ability to give a flying fuck about anything. Harcourt’s oblivious to my caustic tone. She takes me at face value, somehow tuning out how unhappy I sound.

  “Good. Thank you. I knew I could count on you, Carina. And I did explain that changing rooms would involve extra responsibilities earlier in the year.”

  And boy, oh boy, hasn’t she taken advantage of that at every turn. I shoot her another brittle smile. “You did.”

  “Wonderful. If you could be sure to show her around, bring her to the office for her schedule, that kind of thing, that would be greatly appreciated.”

  “Of course.”

  Principal Harcourt looks like she wants to say something else. She opens her mouth, but then thinks better of it. “Okay. I’ll leave you to it, then. Let me know if you need anything.”

  35

  DASH

  As a staunch atheist (much to my mother’s despair), I haven’t given much real thought to heaven or hell. I’ve always known that neither existed, so I’ve spent very little time imagining the very best or the very worst of places that a soul might languish for all of eternity. However, I’ve discovered recently that I might have been wrong. Maybe heaven and hell do exist. After all, I’ve been living in purgatory since last July, caught in this in-between world where I experience the sweet relief of seeing the girl I love every day, only to be punished by the unbearable sting of not being able to speak to her, touch her, or even fucking look at her at the same time.

  I’ve learned a lot about how far the exquisite depths of pain can go. At first, I figured I would have to hit the bottom of the well at some point, but after sinking deeper and deeper, week after week, down into this pitch-black pit of despair, I understood that I was wrong. The void inside me could keep on hurting—could and would—and the only thing for me to do was learn how to bear it without cracking.

  I hate myself.

  HATE.

  But the story Alderman told me checked out. After he dropped me back at the house, still bleeding profusely all over myself, I pulled out my laptop and typed Hannah Rose Ashford, Grove Hill, into the search engine. The information that spun up on the screen was terrifying. A range of local newspapers called the little girl unhinged. Deranged. Unstable. Others claimed she was a savant, mature for her eleven years, and suggested there had been some malign intent on her part. They indicated that the murder of Kevin Winthrope had been planned ahead of time and discussed the possibility that the girl’s mother had been in on the wicked plot to end the man’s life, too.

  Not one single article or account spoke of abuse or domestic violence. No one said anything about sexual assault or proposed that the little girl fled the scene of the crime because she was scared. In their eyes, the girl would have stayed if she was innocent. What reason would she have had to run if she’d acted in self-defense?

  I’d stayed up that night, pacing up and down in my bedroom, trying to concoct a way to deal with the new information that I’d learned from Carrie’s guardian that wouldn’t involve breaking her heart. But no matter what convoluted, half-cocked, hair-brained design I came up with, the risks were just always too unacceptable.

  So long as Carrie was anywhere near me, she would also be in the vicinity of Wren and Pax, and the cops were not done grilling us over Mara back then. They were using her as an excuse; with Mara’s letter placing her somewhere in California, the cops knew she was fine. Mara was a great excuse to grill us over our lifestyle here at the house, though—the drug use, the parties, the underaged drinking, and what they referred to as hazing, which seriously offended Wren. When Wren told us what the cops had said to him in his interview, days prior to Alderman’s midnight visit to me, I was all too aware that we were going to be living under a microscope for a long time.

  And to be fooling around with Carrie while all of that was going on? To put her at risk, should someone recognize her somehow, or start asking questions, picking at little details that didn’t quite make sense…

  I couldn’t do that to her. I’d have killed myself before endangering her. It just wasn’t worth it. So, I did what Alderman asked of me, and I arranged something so heinous and awful that I knew Carina would never forgive me.

  It wasn’t what it looked like from Carrie’s perspective. Amalie was all too willing to suck my dick for real, but I reminded her of the deal and paid her an extra hundred to keep her grubby little mitts to herself. I marked it all out. Did the math. Measured the angles. I triangulated the perfect spot to stand and taped it out on the floor like I was nothing more than an extra in a shitty horror movie. I knew that, from where she was standing in the entrance to the observatory, Carina would see Amalie on her knees, going down on me. I lowered my pants down over my hips, leaving my waistband at my mid-thigh, exposing enough skin to make the whole scene look believable.

  What Carrie didn’t see from her vantage point in the doorway was how pathetic my flaccid dick looked hanging there between my legs. How Amalie couldn’t look back at Carrie like she was supposed to, like I fucking paid her to, because she was having such a hard time stifling her laughter.

  “God, this is so dumb. She’s never gonna believe this is how I give head, dude. Everyone knows you’re supposed to deepthroat a cock and then massage with your tongue—”

  Amalie did actually blow me once, at one of the very first Riot House parties. I’d gotten so drunk, I kind of recalled her doing this to me, and me thinking that it was a really weird way to give someone head. She’d wanted me to fuck her after I’d failed to come in her mouth at the party. Had wanted me to fuck her at the observatory, too. Once our little rouse was over and Carrie fled, Amalie tumbled back onto her ass in fits of laughter.

  “Oh my god, that was hilarious. Poor little perfect Carina Mendoza. Not so perfect now, is she? Hey, why don’t you come down here and play a while. Really show her who’s boss?”

  I did go down there. I crouched beside her, cold rage snaking through my veins as I grabbed her by the chin and dug my fingers into her cheeks. “I’d better never hear her name in your mouth again, bitch.”

  She’d pouted. Still playing with me. Still thinking that it was a game. “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll cut out your fucking tongue and feed it to the wolves.” She heard the malice in my tone, then, saw the hatred in my eyes, and whimpered out loud. I hated myself in that moment. I was so angry at myself, and at her, and the audaciously shitty position I’d placed myself in, that I’d actually wanted to take my frustration out on her. I hadn’t, of course. I’m a piece of shit, but if there’s one thing I can be counted on to not do, it’s hit a girl. I stormed out of the observatory, burning up on the inside. The look on Carrie’s face when she saw me…

  I could live to be a hundred and never forget the look on her face. I see her anguish in my dreams. When I pass her in the halls now, arm linked through Presley’s, her face is so blank and distant, barely even flickering with recognition when our eyes accidentally meet, that it’s strange to remember such pain and shock on her face.

  To her credit, she recovered quickly. It was only a matter of days after the incident at the observatory that I saw her laughing and joking with Presley in the dining hall. Her laughter was like a punch to the gut. She’d sounded so carefree and light, actually happy, like she’d completely recovered and already moved on after seeing me fooling around with another girl. It had stung, hearing her laugh like that. Stupid, right? I shit all over the trust I built with her. For good reason, but still. I hurt her, I know I fucking did. And then I have the gall to be upset when she recovers from that hurt?

  “Come on, asshole. We’re going to be late.” Pax elbows me in the ribs.

  “I needed to find my glasses.”

  “Shouldn’t have bothered.”

  “They help me see.”

  “They make you look like a dick.”

  I’m sure he’s right, but fuck it. I look like a dick.
The girls still stare. The girls still whisper. Carrie doesn’t do either, so my appearance is irrelevant.

  Pax holds the door open for me—a literal first—and offers out an arm. “Lemme know if you need a hand. Y’know. If you’re that blind.”

  I contemplate giving him a dead arm, but things have been a little easier between us of late. We still bicker like little kids. Still rough house and fight when one of us has had enough and snaps, but there’s a kind of accord between us now, too. A fragile understanding. I’d prefer not to scrap with him today.

  I still snarl a little as I follow him into the academy. “Fucking English. We should just do all of our assignments ahead of time and finish the block early. It’s getting harder and harder not to beat the tar out of that motherfucker every time I lay eyes on him.”

  The motherfucker I’m referring to is Fitz, of course. The moment the cops disappeared, the bastard’s mask slipped back down, hiding his true face, and he was once again our relaxed, smiling, too-cool English professor. He’s never brought up the fact that he threatened us. Hasn’t spoken to me outside of a classroom setting at all since that day outside the dining hall. The knowledge is still there though—he has Wren’s little box of goodies from the night of the party, and as long as he has the drugs, he’s still capable of causing an immense amount of trouble for us if he feels like it.

  Pax laughs sinisterly. “I’m down to pay him a visit in Mountain Lakes. I know where he lives. Perhaps we can recover our property while we’re down there.”

  I’ve already thought about this. “You know he’s too smart to keep it at his place. He probably buried the box in the woods or something.”

  Wren’s inside the den when Pax and I arrive. He’s right where I expect him to be, lounging on the leather sofa, dressed all in black. He's been wearing the same clothes since before Christmas—a punishment for some dumb bet he made with Pax and then gave up on. He wouldn’t run with us this morning; I chalked his salty mood up to the fact that Mercy, who Wren hasn’t spoken with for months now, has been reaching out more and more, trying to reconcile. She left Wolf Hall last year to study at some fancy school in Switzerland, but I happen to know that she wants to come back. If Wren’s learned of his sister’s plans, then it’s no wonder he’s in such a sour mood. He’s lying on the couch with his arm over his eyes as usual; he barely even grunts when Pax digs him in the ribs as we walk by.

  “Bastard,” he growls.

  “Asshole,” Pax fires back.

  I sit myself down under the window, and Pax joins me. It’s been a long ass time since he sat by himself at the old Victorian writing desk he used to favor. Sometimes, I think he sits beside me just so he can annoy the shit out of me. Mostly, I think he’s just content to be sitting next to a friend. Not that he would ever admit to such a thing.

  I grab my notepad and laptop, dragging both out of my bag.

  “Well, well, well. What’s this?”

  I look up, not really interested in whatever has caught Pax’s attention, but then I see Carrie walking toward us, her eyes already fixed on the ugly floral sofa that she normally sits on. She looks fucking beautiful. Her hair is a confusion of curls, loose around her face. As usual, the only makeup she’s wearing is a hint of mascara and a swipe of lip gloss. Her skin is flawless, pale and perfect, like alabaster. My hands ache at the memory of what that skin felt like, cool and soft as silk. I nearly have a heart attack when I realize that she’s wearing one of her NASA t-shirts under her bright yellow bomber jacket. She hasn’t worn that shirt since the night she caught me with Amalie. She hasn’t been back to the observatory, either. I check on the sign-in sheet sometimes and her name never graces its pages.

  I regret that. Breaking her heart had to be done, but I should have chosen a different venue to accomplish the task. I knew what I was doing; I picked the observatory on purpose, because it was our place and we’d shared so much there. I knew the whole thing would hurt so much more because of that. I’d forgotten that before the observatory was our place, it was her place, though. She lost more than me that night back in July. She lost her passion for astronomy. I stole her fucking stars.

  “God, what I wouldn’t give to have those lips wrapped around my cock,” Pax groans.

  I nearly kill him. My hand balls into a fist, ready to swing, but then I see the girl behind Carrie—a pretty little blonde thing with huge doe eyes and a wary look on her face—and I realize he’s not talking about my girl. He’s talking about this new creature.

  Pax, being Pax, sticks his foot out as Carrie and this girl pass, and Carrie does something that shocks the hell out of me. She kicks Pax’s foot out of the way, baring her teeth at him.

  Whoa-ho-ho! Girl’s got some fire in her these days.

  As soon as they’ve have passed us, Pax takes out his phone and pulls up the Wolf Hall student portal. “Stupid fucking…how the hell does this thing work? Yo, you ever used this?” He shows me his phone’s screen, which is displaying the site’s log-in.

  “Your student ID is your username. Your—urgh, just give it to me.” I plug my credentials into his phone, not caring if the bastard rifles through my shit. I hand him back the phone. “Now leave me the hell alone. I’m getting a headache.”

  “Jesus. We’re not married. I’m not trying to fuck you.”

  I pull a face at him, and then close my eyes. I have to. I don’t trust myself not to stare at Carrie. “What are you doing, anyway?”

  “They have profiles of the new kids on the news page,” he explains. “Huh. Elodie Stillwater. Army brat. Jesus Christ, look at the photo.” He shoves me, trying to hand me back the phone, but I keep my eyes closed, sighing heavily down my nose. “Alright, fucker. You’re missing out. She’s asking your ex about us right now. You should see the look on her face. Her cheeks are red as hell.”

  My chest hurts. “She’s not my ex.”

  “Whatever.” Pax yawns. “Fuck you, you boring piece of shit. I’m gonna go over there and fuck with her.”

  My eyes snap open. “Do not!” It’s already too late. He’s already on his feet and heading across the room. “Motherfucker!”

  “—lovely little Elodie Stillwater the lay of the land.” He’s already started speaking to her. It’s too late to grab him by the scruff of his neck and force him back over to our side of the room.

  The new girl stares up at Pax like he’s an apparition. Carina, on the other hand, looks at him with a face full of unbridled hate. “Go fuck yourself, Pax.”

  Nope. This has to stop, right here and now. If she pisses him off, Pax will likely say something he shouldn’t. I groan as I get to my feet. Fuck knows what I’m going to say. I’ll lose my shit if Pax upsets Carrie, though. I suppose it’s time to don my game face. “Sorry, ladies. Pax doesn’t know how to behave himself around such beauty. He drank a little too much coffee this morning. You’ll have to understand if he’s acting out a little.”

  The hate on Carrie’s face deepens. She looks off to the right, focusing on one of the bookshelves. I am a sick, sick fucker. Now that I’m over here and I’m speaking to her for the very first time in nearly six months. I can’t bear the fact that she’s not looking at me. I feign a polite voice and clear my throat. “Carrie? You’re not going to introduce us to your new friend?”

  She doesn’t look at me. Instead, the new girl jumps in with a haughty tone to her voice that really rankles. “You already know who I am. Wolf Hall isn’t exactly a big place. Plus, he just called me by my name.” Her eyes flicker over in Pax’s direction. “I’m Elodie Stillwater. I transferred in from Tel Aviv. Father’s an army man. Mother’s dead. I’m into painting, music, and photography. I’m allergic to pineapple. I’m an only child. I’m terrified of thunderstorms, and I love flea markets. There. That enough information for you?”

  Well. I can safely say that I do not like this one. Not one bit.

  I give her a perfectly pleasant smile. “Pleased to meet you, Elodie Stillwater. It’s always nice to make a new friend. Ma
ybe you’d like to come over to Riot House some time? We’d love to extend our hospitality to you.”

  No sooner are the words out of my mouth, than Carina’s eyes snap back to me, full of shock. “She can’t!”

  This isn’t the most surprising thing that happens, though. At the same time, Wren calls out behind me, “Not happening, Dash.” I had no idea Wren was even awake, let alone awake and paying attention to what was being said over here.

  Carrie’s beautiful, liquid brown eyes look up at me, and the ground shifts beneath my fucking feet. For one heartbeat, it feels like I’m holding her in my arms and I’m about to thrust my dick inside her for the very first time. “You know she’ll get in trouble if Harcourt finds out,” she whispers.

  Jacobi follows this up with a growled, “She’s not invited.”

  I’m laying it on really thick now, but I’m transfixed by the way Carrie’s staring at me, like I’m trying to hit on this new blonde, unimportant thing sitting next to her. Doesn’t she know me? Have I screwed with her so effectively that she can’t feel how badly I want her from three feet away? I sigh dramatically, like I really give a shit that this new person won’t be hanging out at the house any time soon. “Don’t worry, Stillwater. Jacobi changes his mind like he changes his socks. His current state of attire notwithstanding, of course. He’s usually very good about changing his socks. I think that’s the thing I like most about him.”

  “All right, class! Asses on a flat surface! Move, move, move!”

  The sound of Fitz’s voice from the front of the class jars me back to reality. Pax glowers as he heads back to our spot beneath the window. It requires monumental effort to make myself turn away from Carina and follow after him.

  The rest of the class drags on into infinity.

  Fitz calls Wren out for turning our last assignment into an excuse to write Victorian porn. Damiana and Wren joust from across the room. Fitz oversees the whole thing like he’s just a normal English teacher and not an evil cunt with a predilection for blackmail. And the whole time I focus on my breathing, only my breathing, following the air in and out of my lungs, and try not to run from the room.