It’s not right.
When I get out of the shower, I spot a shirt on the counter that is a double xl. Thankfully my bra and underwear were spared from damage today. I slip the shirt over my head, and it literally goes past my knees. Well, good thing, because there is no way I was going to put my pants back on.
I stuff my clothes inside a plastic bag and walk out of the bathroom.
“You feeling better?” Ms. Nancy, the nurse, asks.
“Much.”
“Come sit.” She pats a stool, so I walk over and take a seat.
Ms. Nancy might be the only kind person in my life right now. She starts brushing my hair and puts it into two French braids for me.
Since Cassie cut my hair when we were thirteen, it’s grown out. I looked horrible with short hair. Part of me is worried Cassie will try it again, but we’re too old for her lie of “we were playing hairdresser and I accidentally cut it” to work. We weren’t playing hairdresser. I wouldn’t let Cassie within fifty feet of my hair if I could help it. Or of me in general.
“Why don’t you go home?” Ms. Nancy asks, when she finished my hair. “I’ll say you were running a fever.”
But how would I get home?
I smile, thinking of how I have the spare key to the car in my bag.
Cassie has a bad habit of locking her keys in the car, so Dad gave me the spare, despite Cassie’s protests.
Cassie is three months older than me, so she’s the only one allowed to drive the car. Let’s just forget the fact that Cassie can’t drive—she failed her written test five times, failed the driving part seven times, and she’s gotten into three accidents since we got the car—all of them were her fault too. And yet I’m the bad driver? I passed all my tests the first time.
“That’s a good idea. Thank you, Ms. Nancy.” I smile at her, hoping that someday I can repay her kindness to me.
I leave the nurse’s office and head to the parking lot, searching for the BMW my dad bought for Cassie and me. The white car shines in the sunlight, and I shake my head as I’m greeted with the mar on the otherwise perfect car—the huge dent in the bumper from when Cassie backed into a red pole. Some of the red pain is still on the car. I let out a laugh and climb into the driver’s seat.
Cassie has left me at school many times and I was forced to walk two miles home. She has friends, so she won’t have to walk, but I wouldn’t care if she did. I am sick to death of her. I hope she suffers.
2
6:30 pm
A little dramatic?
I’m still wearing the oversize t-shirt the Ms. Nancy got me and I lie in my bed, staring at the ceiling.
My homework is done and I’m just waiting for drama to go down.
Chloe hasn’t came back from school yet. I know she’ll be here soon. She always goes to a friends house after school and only shows up in time for dinner because her mom makes her. She forced me to walk home a few times—once from school and once from her friend’s house. But my dad put his foot down and told her if she didn’t bring me home, she wouldn’t get to drive the car anymore. Now she drives me home, and barely gives me time to get out of the car before she tears out of the driveway, throwing gravel behind her.
When the front door opens, I tense up, waiting to hear it slam. I’m waiting for yelling and screaming.
There is no slam. The door shuts normally.
“Cassie,” my step monster yells up the stairs.
Yikes.
She is going to be really mad when she realizes what I did today, but I couldn’t care less.
The step monster doesn’t call Cassie’s name again, which I expected. Cassie ignores her mom unless she wants something. It’s almost kind of sad, really.
It isn’t until five minutes later that the drama really begins. Dad shows up only moments before Cassie. And Cassie… she comes into the house screaming and throwing a fit. She slams doors and stomps her feet like a three year old. And I just stay in my room until I’m summoned. I know I’ll be called eventually, but right now I want to delay the inevitable.
There is a knock on my door and I tense. I listen carefully. Cassie is still downstairs, yelling at her mom, so I open the door cautiously and see Dad on the other side. I open the door wider so he can enter.
“You took the car and left Cassie at school?” Dad asks as he walks inside my room.
I shut the door behind him, trying to lessen the sound of yelling from downstairs and turn to face him.
“Did she tell you that she dumped garbage on me in the cafeteria today? I had to shower in the nurse’s station. Ms. Nancy gave me this shirt to wear.” I pull at the shirt. “I didn’t want to go back to class after that—it was humiliating. So Ms. Nancy wrote down that I was running a fever and sent me home.”
Dad sighs. “You know you have to start getting along with your sister at some point.”
“Stepsister.” I shake my head. “That girl is not blood related to me, Dad. She’s… pure evil.”
“Pure evil is a little dramatic, don’t you think?” Dad gives me a pointed look.
“If she came face to face with the devil, he would be scared of her.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Come on, Riley. You have to at least try.”
I throw my hands up. “I have tried. So many times. You know I have. I just wish you’d take my side for once in your life. I’m your daughter.”
“But she’s my daughter too,” Dad says.
I sigh, knowing that is all I will get out of him. “If I treated her half as bad as she treats me, I would have been shipped off to some boarding school in Europe.”
“I would never send you to boarding school.”
I huff, and merely stare at him.
“Riley, you are my daughter and I love you. But Cassie is also my daughter. You shouldn’t have taken the car,” he says.
Tears press against the back of my eyes as I look at him. “You realize that when I leave for college, I am not coming back, right? I won’t come for Thanksgiving or Christmas or Easter or anything. I hate them, Dad.”
“Don’t say that.” His voice is tight and he looks sick at my words.
“You’re making me hate you too.” A tear falls from my eye. “And I don’t want to hate you.”
“Riley…” His voice trails off and I can see the fight in his eyes. But I can also see the defeat. “You’re grounded. No going out for the next two weeks.”
“Where would I go anyway?” I shout. “Nobody likes me because they’re scared of Cassie.”
Dad’s face turns red. And I know I shouldn’t keep going, but I just can’t help myself.
“You know what, screw this.” I grab my phone from my nightstand and slip on a pair of tennis shoes.
“What are you doing?” Dad asks.
“I’m leaving.” I stand in front of him, crossing my arms over my chest. I’m daring him to stop me.
“Where are you going this time of night?”
“I don’t care. Anywhere is better than here. I’d rather die than be here.”
I storm past him and out the door of my room. My feet thump hard against the stairs as I run down them, and when I see Cassie smirking at the bottom, I walk right up to her and slap her across the face. She screams, holding her face in shock. I keep walking, vaguely aware that the step monster is yelling at me, but I don’t care. I simply walk out the front door, slamming it behind me.
Dang.
That felt good.
3
10:30 pm
Too young to die.
I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve just been walking around the park for the last four hours, ignoring all the calls from my dad. I do take the time to listen to the voicemails as they come through. At first, he was yelling at me for storming out like that and for slapping Cassie. Then his voicemails got calm, telling me if I came home I wouldn’t be in trouble. He said we could talk about it as a family. That’s laughable. We haven’t been a family for four years. Now, his voicemails are getting more
frantic. He’s worried about me. That alone almost makes me go back, but I can’t bring myself to do it just yet. I don’t want to go back into that toxic household tonight. I… I need a break.
It’s a little creepy to be walking around the park at night. There are lights around, but it’s still pretty dark. I hold my pepper spray in my hand, just in case. I do feel safer with it in my hand.
I need this walk. I need time to myself to think.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. There isn’t really anybody I could call. My grandmother on my dad’s side passed away early last year. She would have taken me in. There is always my mom’s parents, but I don’t even know how to get ahold of them. I suppose I could ask my dad.
My mom passed away when I was three. My dad raised me from then on. It was us against the world for ten years. And then he met Katheryn, who I refer to as step monster. I actually haven’t had a conversation with her in the past fours years. Not one conversation.
Yes, she’s yelled at me.
Yes, she’s demanded I do things.
But not once has she ever asked how my day was. Not once has she taken care of me when I was sick. I remember this one time, Cassie and I were both home with the flu. And the step monster brought Cassie water and soup and medicine. I was too sick to get out of bed, so I didn’t eat or drink anything for over forty-eight hours—not until my dad got back from his business trip. He had to take me to the hospital for dehydration where I had to stay for two nights.
Just thinking about that makes my blood boil.
I’m not going back. I’d rather sleep on a park bench than spend another night in that house.
The sound of shouting draws my attention and I’m worried my dad found me, so I look up and see that it’s not my dad. Two guys are fighting beneath a tree. Their faces aren’t visible from here, I can only see shadows. My hand grasps the pepper spray in a tight grip and I keep walking. I hope it isn’t some kind of drug deal that went south. That’s the last thing I want to deal with tonight. If the cops show up, they’d force me to go back home. Or maybe I could convince them to let me sleep in a cell overnight.
Am I seriously thinking that? That I’d rather stay overnight in jail than go back home? Have things really gotten that bad?
The answer is yes. I know it has. I just didn’t want to admit it to myself. I still don’t.
I’m so lost in my thoughts, that I don’t hear footsteps coming up behind me. I don’t see anything until it’s too late. Somebody grabs me and…
Bites me?
It feels like they’re stinging me almost.
I’m too young to die. I can’t go like this.
But the pain… it disappears almost as quick as it came and I’m left with an overwhelming feeling of satisfaction. The desire to fight whoever is holding me from behind is non-existent. I just let them. I am vaguely aware that something is pressed against my mouth and there is some kind of liquid going down my throat.
Everything starts to dim and my bad night disappears. All I’m left with is this feeling of euphoria that I never want to end.
If this truly is the end of my life, maybe dying isn’t so bad after all.
4
Tuesday, November 12
One week later…
12:00 am
The full moon.
I gasp for air as my eyes open, and I try to sit up but I can’t. My head hits against something soft.
What the heck?
I feel around the small, dark area, my eyes adjusting to the lack of light.
Actually, I can see well, which surprises me. There isn’t an ounce of light coming into this room.
Is the electricity out?
Did I fall off my bed and somehow end up with my head stuck under a piece of furniture.
But once I start feeling around and really look, I start to realize…
Am I…
I kick my feet.
Dear God.
I’m in a coffin.
I remember one time I was watching this silly documentary online and I specifically remember them saying that if you’re ever buried alive, the first thing you do is remain calm. They say if you panic, you’ll run out of oxygen sooner. But how can you do anything but panic when you wake up inside a coffin?
Am I dead?
I think back to see if I can remember the last thing I did. I got into a fight with my dad. I told him…
My throat tightens.
I told him that I’d rather die than be there.
Something hot and sticky runs down my face and I realize I’m crying, but my tears are thick. I wipe my thumbs under them and when I pull my hand back, blood coats my thumbs.
I’m crying blood. That means there’s definitely something wrong with me, right? But how do I call for help?
I hear something crunch.
Is that somebody?
I start screaming.
“Help me!” I bang on the lid of the coffin, but it doesn’t make a lot of noise, solidifying the fact that I really am buried alive.
Oh my gosh. This is my literal worst nightmare.
But then I hear the sound again. It almost makes a shing sound. And then I hear the sound of something hitting the ground. Is that a shovel? Is somebody digging me out? I listen closer and I the noise becomes clearer now. Somebody is definitely digging me out! My heart soars until I realize—whoever is digging me out must be the person who buried me, right? What if this is a serial killer? Oh gosh. What if this was some kind of mind game he was playing on me to mess with me and now the ‘real’ torture begins.
The lid of the coffin pulls back, making a loud creak.
This is it. I’m about to die.
“You okay?” a voice asks.
It’s a male voice.
“Are you going to kill me now?” My voice sounds weak, even to my own ears.
He laughs. It’s a deep, gravely laugh. “First thing you should know, you’re already dead.”
I sit up in my coffin. He holds out a hand to help me up and I accept it. I mean, he might be crazy and he might be a serial killer, but this coffin is really giving me the creeps and I want out now.
Once I’m standing, the guy jumps. He jumps eight feet into the air like it’s nothing and lands above.
“You coming?” he asks.
That’s when I notice there is another guy standing beside him. I know that I should be studying the way they look right now, just in case I get away. I should explain what they look like to the FBI, right? But I can’t bring myself to do it just yet.
“Can you help me?” I ask, holding up my hand.
The other guy—not the one who dug me out—rolls his eyes. “Just jump.”
Jump?
Is he insane?
I do it only to prove to him that he’s an idiot, and I somehow end up jumping really freaking high and landing…
On top of the cranky one.
Of course.
He catches me, stumbling back, but he steadies us. As soon as he knows I’m not going to fall down, he backs away from me like he can’t wait to stop touching me.
“Nice dress,” the cranky one says.
I tilt my head to the side, wondering what he means, then I realize.
Oh my gosh!
I’m in that dress.
When I was thirteen, my dad married the step monster and she picked out the ugliest dress for me to wear, while she had Cassie wear a gorgeous dress. I complained about it the whole weekend and I hated it. I haven’t worn it since I was thirteen.
“I’m really dead, aren’t I?” I ask, then laugh. “Of course she would put me in this dress. It’s one last way to tell me she hates me, even in death.”
I grab the dress, wanting to pull it from my body. I’m amazed at how easy it is to rip. I pull the fluffy, pink dress off me, tossing it onto the ground. I grin when I notice the black Converse. That I know was my dad.
One guy laughs and the other one chokes.
That’s when I realize I’m standing i
n nothing but my bra and panties in front of these strangers who I have decided are definitely not serial killers. I know I should be embarrassed, but I honestly don’t care. I’m dead. What does it matter?
“Am I a ghost?” I ask.
Neither of them say anything. They just continue to stare at me.
The one who helped me out of the ground is just grinning. He has a nice smile, I decide. I think him and I will be friends. The cranky one, on the other hand, is scowling at me, and I get the feeling he hasn’t decided if he likes me or not.
“I’m Riley Green.” I hold out my hand to be polite. It’s probably weird to shake hands with people my own age, but I’m going with it.
“Hi, I’m Asa Ferreira,” the nice boy says, shaking my hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Riley Green.”
I look at the cranky boy.
“Cayson Ingram,” he offers, but he doesn’t reach out to shake my hand.
I drop my own hand to my side. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you both.”
Cayson huffs, pulling his shirt over his head. He holds it out to me, so I look at him.
And, okay, maybe I check out his chest and his biceps. Maybe I count his abs.
2.
4.
6.
Dude’s ripped.
“Put it on.” He shakes the shirt at me.
I roll my eyes but grab the shirt, pulling it over my head.
It smells like him.
Casyon Ingram smells good. Really good. Like a mix of sandalwood and salt water. He smells like everything I could ever want in a man, and even I acknowledge that’s the weirdest thing I have ever thought, but I’m going to roll with it.
The shirt is big on me and hangs halfway down my thighs, but for some reason, Cayson looks at me like I’m wearing less clothes now than before.
I study Cayson closer, trying to find a flaw. I need there to be a physical flaw.
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