“We should get out of here,” Eric muttered and pushed off of the tree he was leaning against.
“Relax,” I said. “Weren’t you the one to dare me to do this? I mean, come on.” I tossed myself back on the grass, spreading my long arms on either side of me. I felt like I had run some kind of marathon, destroying my body. But it felt good at the same time—like I had really earned this fatigue.
“What do you think they’ll do?” Eric asked me, his voice low.
“When they see what I did?” I asked, raising a delicate eyebrow. I felt more adrenaline than I had in years. I felt in complete control of my life. Since the accident, I had felt all fumbly and strange, like every minute was on the brink of another disaster. “I honestly don’t care. I hope they scream and shout until their fucking heads come off.”
“Ha.”
We held the silence for a bit. Eric and I were always good at being quiet together when we needed it. After a long moment, I heard something in the distance—possibly dogs howling. It was super dramatic— the sort of thing you hear on a crime show.
It was definitely dogs and within seconds, both Eric and I sensed they were coming in our direction and fast.
Eric bolted up, blinking at me. “You don’t think they have some sort of sensor, do you?”
I shot to my feet. Suddenly, lights swirled up from the single driveway. Alarms blared. I looked at Eric with panic sketched across my face, knowing that everything in our lives was about to shift on its axis. Fuck! Eric reached out and gripped my hand, yanking me toward the cliffs on the other side of the line of trees. But we had only just walked over there and seen it — it was a staggering drop to the ocean below.
It wasn’t an escape route and in fact, it reminded me of the horror of what I had gone through only a while ago.
I hung back, dragging Eric along with me. He screeched at me as police officers and security staff raced toward us, saying, “Get down on the ground, now. You have nowhere to run. ”
I couldn’t focus or comprehend the officer’s words. All I could imagine was darkness, the truck ripping through the tree—blood soaking my white t-shirt. Death permeated through every emotion. And now, a police officer tackled me, latching my wrists with cuffs and screaming in my ears. “Hold still. You’re under arrest for the destruction of private property.”
“Destruction?” I demanded of him, my eyes brimming with tears and my words hinged with laughter. “Do you not see what I made? I mean, do you even see it?” I yelled, knowing I was making an even greater mess of things—but feeling on the brink of a mental collapse. “I made a goddamn masterpiece. And everyone will know it.”
Chapter Three
Of course, that feeling of adrenaline dissolved pretty fast after they slammed Eric and me into a Crestwood holding cell.
I had always imagined something like this— shoved back into the concrete wall, watching as the iron bars slid across, just not at such a young age. The police officer who had driven us to the jail from Crestwood beamed at us, his eyes almost red, like a rat. He had lost all the hair on the top of his head. I wanted to ask him how Crestwood hadn’t kicked him out yet since he clearly didn’t fit the bill of ‘attractive,’ which was normally so important in this evil community.
But luckily, I kept my lips pressed closed. At least I was smart enough not to fuck things up even more.
Eric and I collapsed on plastic chairs in the jail. Only one other person was there in the small room, drawn into a tight ball in the corner, shaking back and forth. She was maybe thirty-five or forty, and it wasn’t clear why she was there.
“Why didn’t you follow me?” Eric asked now, his eyes following the police officer out front. “Now, he’s going to call our parents.”
“Oh, no,” I said, feigning that I even gave a shit. My mom was at the hospital, probably stitching up someone’s broken skull or delivering an emergency baby. The fact that I had graffitied the side of Crestwood wasn’t super high on her priority list just now.
At least, I didn’t think so.
“I don’t know how you’re not getting it through your skull that you just—” Eric began.
“Yeah? Well, you dared me,” I shot, shrugging my shoulders. “It’s not like I could go back on that.”
“You’re so fucking stubborn,” Eric laughed and then shook his head. He scratched at the stubble on his chin, something he was trying to grow out for a while now.
The jail guard appeared again at the door, telling Eric that he had gotten a hold of his father. Then he pointed the finger at me. “But you. I don’t know. Did you give me the wrong number?” he asked with a puzzled look.
“No, sir,” I answered and stole a glance at Eric.
“Well, then. Eric’s dad has agreed to come to pick both of you up.” The guard stepped forward so that his nose cut between two iron bars. The whole thing was vaguely comical yet also menacing. “And you should know, kids. Crestwood is not going to take kindly to this report. It’s not like we can just take that graffiti off ASAP like we would like. They’re going to analyze it and come up with their own punishment for you.” He muttered to himself then turning away. “I can’t believe a couple of Ridgewood kids would even have the balls... What kind of idiots are you? Were you dropped at birth?” He asked as he walked away, half laughing and shaking his head as he left the area.
Eric’s father arrived about thirty minutes later. It was nearly midnight, and it was clear that the man had been sweating throughout the entire drive from Ridgewood. He was a bit tubby in the belly, easing into his forties and leaving his handsome features behind. When he entered the jail, though, he looked at us like we had ruined his life.
I suppose in a sense we had.
I guess because we were kids, there wasn’t much of bail to cough up. Or maybe it was because Crestwood knew that we didn’t have much cash anyway. How could they fine us, when most of our parents operated as their nurses, their gardeners, their pool boys? The divide of our communities always reminded me of the movie The Stepford Wives.
Eric, his dad, and I sauntered out of jail in silence. Our heads hung low as the exhaustion settled over us. I shoved my hands into my pockets and pouted, feeling much younger than the seventeen-year-old that I was. Fuck. I had been caught committing a huge crime. It was beginning to really sink into my head the extent of the damage I had done to the ancient building. Had I just ruined my life?
Eric’s dad’s truck was a bit too similar to our old one. I told myself it was just a matter of everyone in Ridgewood owning the same sort of things. I shoved myself in the center of Eric and his dad, listening to them grumble at one another.
“Was it her idea, Eric? Tell me if it was,” Eric’s dad demanded as his hands gripped the steering wheel tighter.
“I’m literally right here,” I said and palmed the back of my neck.
He shot me a hard glare, one that was disapproving. “It’s just that I don’t know what to believe. How did you even get it in your heads to do that? Of all the things to do! And what the hell were you doing over here today?”
“We came over because I couldn't deal with school today?” I murmured as I gave him a side-way glance.
Eric’s dad just blinked at me, putting two and two together. He knew about the accident and what our family had gone through this past year. I could see the empathy in his eyes. I looked out to the road and took a deep breath. I was underslept, stressed out, and pissed off. I gazed at the paint on my fingers from the graffiti, remembering the adrenaline of what we had just done and smiled to myself.
“I’m glad we did it. I’m glad we showed them what we were made of,” I whispered, speaking to no one. “It was worth it. No matter what.”
Eric’s dad didn’t know what to say. He cranked the engine and shoved his foot too hard on the gas, yanking the steering wheel to the left. Our tires whirled out onto the perfectly paved road, speckled on each side with pompous-looking, old-fashioned street lights. Everything about Crestwood was so damn or
nate and immaculate.
“You have to calm down,” Eric muttered into my ear, sounding insistent and worried.
This wasn’t like him. Usually, he stood his ground and was just as stubborn as me. But it seemed we had stepped over the ledge this time. He gripped my leg a bit too hard, making me yelp. Eric’s father remained silent as he continued to drive back to Ridgewood. He cranked the radio to an oldie’s station, an old song my dad also used to play too loud on his stereo. I dropped my head back. I should have just dealt with my shit and gone to school instead of resisting the temptation to run.
My little white shack of a house appeared at the end of the road. It was completely dark, making the windows looking hollow and barren. Eric hopped out of the truck to let me exit and then meandered up the brick path with me toward the front door. I could feel his father’s eyes on us still, as though he was expecting us to jump out of sight and go commit another crime.
Eric slid his fingers through his wild black curls. “We really fucked up this time, didn’t we, Ken?”
I shrugged and bit my lower lip. I couldn’t find the right words to respond. I fumbled with my house keys, wondering if I even had the strength to sleep through the night.
“But I sure wish I could see the look on their faces when they see the painting,” Eric continued, sounding oddly conspiratorial, now.
I flashed my eyes toward him, watching as a curious smile glittered across his face. “You know Crestwood will mop the floors with us,” I stated, almost laughing. “They’re going to make us regret that we were ever born.” I rocked a shoulder into Eric and he nodded in agreement.
“Don’t they think we already regret that? We are Ridgewood residents, after all.” Eric winked. Sometimes, I imagined that that wink had brought many girls weak in the knees for him. But instead of that, I just felt a wave of impossible comfort fold over me.
“Get some sleep, Picasso,” Eric teased his words final. “I’ll see you in the morning, bright and early. Bring me a piece of toast this time.”
“Will do, partner.” I started up the steps and made my way into my small house as they drove off.
Of course, I wasn’t able to sleep. I tossed and turned and my arms flailed frantically. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw either the past or the future and neither looked very damn sunny. Sometime after four in the morning, I heard Mom’s keys in the front door— her soft footfalls as she entered. She was always so careful not to wake me. When Dad had been around, he would sometimes wake up around this time of night to make her a ‘night-time’ snack and hear about her day. He was always so considerate.
With this in mind, I swiped the blankets from my legs and hustled to the door, whipping it open. When I reached the kitchen, Mom was in the bathroom, scrubbing her face, which gave me just enough time to grab a packet of cookies from the top of the refrigerator and pour a glass of milk. To finish it off, I whirled off the top of the peanut butter and stabbed a knife inside and when Mom appeared from the bathroom, she blinked at me curiously, her eyes foggy with fatigue.
“What are you doing awake?” she asked, giving me a confused smile, yet she didn’t seem angry at all.
I shrugged and shoved the plate of cookies toward her. “I figured you would want a snack before you went to bed. Don’t worry about waiting up for me to go to school. You should get your rest and just sleep.”
Mom sat perched across from me and grabbed a cookie. It was always routine for her to slather a bit of peanut butter over it and this time, she eyed me mischievously. “Your dad should never have introduced this to us,” she said, taking a bite.
I snickered, remembering it— the messy chocolate peanut butter parties we frequently had in the kitchen, between bouts of dancing and singing. We never had much in terms of money—but love. That was something we’d had ten-fold and I cherished every bit of it.
“Whatever. What’s a few extra calories here and there?” I grinned back at her and swiped a piece of hair out of my eye.
“You can say that because you’re seventeen,” Mom teased. “When you’re thirty-six, talk to me.”
I crunched a cookie, letting crumbs flicker toward the table. “How was your day?” I asked her, my heart thumping in my throat. Was it possible that Mom would never learn what I had done? Just how far I really fucked up this time?
She shrugged. “Blood, guts. That sort of thing.”
“That’s what you always say. It’s like you live in a horror movie,” I grimaced and a shiver ran through my body.
“But I get to come home to a wicked girl rom-com,” Mom returned. “So it all balances out.”
I fell into a profound level of sadness, like dropping into a well. I loved my mother more than I could possibly love any other creature on the planet. If only I could pluck out the horrors in her life. If only I could move us away from Ridgewood to a place that didn’t reek with painful memories. She deserved so much more than this.
Chapter Four
The next day Eric picked me up like nothing had happened, although you could still feel the thickness of something weighing heavy on our shoulders. We were pretty quiet on the way to school, each of us swimming in expectations about the soon to come falling ax from Crestwood Academy. He parked in the back row of the parking lot at Ridgewood High, fished out a cigarette from his dashboard and placed it between his lips. He lit the end and watched it glow to life. Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes for a moment and then exhaled the smoke that had filled his mouth.
“There he is. My endlessly cool best friend,” I observed my voice heavy with sarcasm.
“Hey. The stress is getting to me.” He answered, leaning against the car with his feet crossed at his ankles.
“You aren’t a fifty-year-old guy on the assembly line,” I scoffed. “This is only a minor incident on our record.”
“My dad nearly cut my head off last night,” Eric admitted, arching his thick black brow. He took another long drag and then asked, “Did you tell your Mom?”
“No way,” I shook my head. “I gotta get to first period. Let’s catch up later, okay?” I cut out from the car and trampled toward Ridgewood High’s entrance, still feeling Eric’s eyes burning into my back. The tension between us would dissipate soon; it always did. But right now, my stomach flipped upside down.
My other best friend, Wren—a wiry red-head with an infectious laugh, two bean-pole-like legs, and shiny braces, lurked around my locker. When she spotted me, she feigned a model pose—stretching her hand across my locker and shifting her weight. When we had been younger, we had played ‘model’ in my bedroom, faking a catwalk from the dresser to the closet and back. I burst into laughter and then I tossed myself into her arms for an enormous bear hug.
“Where the hell were you yesterday?” she asked. Recently, she had been experimenting with cursing, after growing up super religious. It didn’t quite suit her yet.
“Oh, man. Wren, I had the craziest day...” I muttered. I yanked open my locker, causing two books to fly out and scatter across the floor.
Behind me, some of the jocks—a football player named Ernest and one of his cronies, a kid named Peter, scoffed, saying, “Pick up your shit, nerd.”
I rolled my eyes and spun toward them, starting to develop my response. But Wren wrapped her hand around my arm and squeezed, whispering, “Ignore them. They’re working with only ten percent of their brain matter. Just let them have their jabs.”
I sighed and let my shoulders fall. I could certainly be a hothead, something that frequently got me into trouble with the upper-crust of the Ridgewood idiots. Of course, they didn’t have half the egos of the Crestwood students—but a hierarchy still remained in-place and little ol’ me, as the resident journalist and artist of Ridgewood? That didn’t put me very high up on the pecking order, especially since I so frequently ‘forgot’ to write about sports.
“Hey, did you hear what happened up at Crestwood Academy?” Wren asked in an excited voice and I watched both her brows lift. She flicked he
r phone from her pocket and began to scan through her social media updates.
My heart hammered wildly in my chest as my head filled with blood making my eardrums started to pulse. I started to chew on my lower lip.
“What are you talking about?” I asked. I felt like my legs might give out beneath me.
“It’s actually crazy. Someone had the balls to apparently sneak onto the grounds and graffiti the school wall!” She gave me a gleeful, bright-eyed look. “And you’ll never believe what they made.”
I sniffed. Was it actually ok to keep this sort of heavy secret from my best friend? I scanned the hallway, watching as Eric dropped in from the parking lot. His eyes looked shadowed, almost diabolic as he continued down the hall.
“It’s this beautiful painting of a Ridgewood student holding up the head of Headmaster Damon Blair. I mean, what kind of balls do you have to have to do something like that? This person is my idol and maybe a touch crazy. But all in all is Ridgewood’s new hero nonetheless!” She squealed in excitement.
“Do you have a photo?” I asked despite everything that went through me and I felt a strange jolt of pride.
“Sure thing. Here.” Wren dropped her phone on top of the books I carried, revealing the enormous work I had stretched out across the bricks in little more than thirty minutes. It was bizarre to see it in the photograph with a news headline beneath it that read: “Ridgewood Gets Revenge.”
“Let me read the article,” I demanded, taking a closer look as my eyes scanned it quickly.
“Ugh! You always have to read everything,” Wren complained.
Late Tuesday evening, two unnamed Ridgewood residents snuck onto the Crestwood Academy grounds and crafted their own mural across the 200-year-old stone of the prestigious school. The graffiti depicts a Ridgewood member holding up the head of long-time esteemed headmaster, Mr. Damon Blair.
Wicked Blue Bloods: A Highschool Bully Romance - Crestwood Academy Book 1 Page 2
