by Ella Goode
Melody doesn’t even need to be in the GT program. Her old man’s a senator. There isn’t anyone around who won’t give her a cushy job with a big fat salary even if she doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing there.
I stare down at my own hands, callused and rough. Scars and new cuts mar the back of them. I curl my fingers into my palm and shove my fists into my hoodie pocket. Sure, she’s someone I’d fantasize about having, but reality is that if she ever climbed into my bed it’d be because she thought she was going to get something from me that an uptight FU High kid wouldn’t be willing to do.
As I watch the sunlight bounce off her head, I contemplate what that would be. Does she want to be choked? Called a bitch? Slapped around a little? Fucked hard against the wall because she’s looking for a bad boy? The would be the only reason she’d let me crawl into her bed. I can do all those things if she really wanted. My aching dick wants me to brush everything off the table and try at least one item on the list. But I know the minute that I finished, the moment she came, she’d be done with me. She’d ignore me in the hall, sit with the jocks who think they’re entitled to getting their grades changed, and generally think I’m a piece of shit.
I don’t need that. I’ve got real things going on in my life—things Senator James’s daughter wouldn’t ever comprehend She’s like that handbag my mom looks at on the Internet. You want it bad but can’t ever afford it. Or if you buy it, you end up ruining your life.
I reach down and grab my backpack. “Gonna bounce,” I tell her.
Her head pops up. “I’m not done.”
I shift my gaze to somewhere over her shoulder so I can’t see her beautiful eyes. “You’ve got it.”
“But what if I get stuck?”
There’s an earnest panic in her voice and I can feel myself wavering. If I stay here longer, though, I might never be able to leave. I lean over and snatch the pencil from her hand.
“What—“
And jot down my number. “There.” I toss the pencil on the table. “Text me if you need something.”
“Where are you going? School doesn’t dismiss for two hours.”
I’ve been here for almost five hours? No wonder I’m growing desperate. “Things to do, places to see.”
Her eyes narrow into mean lines. “A girl, isn’t it? Men,” she huffs in disgust. “You only think with one thing.”
“Yeah, my dick is really good at math. You should test it out. Maybe it’ll help you study better.”
“I’d rather die.”
The look of derision she sends my way should’ve wilted my semi but she’s too hot and too beautiful and I would be all too happy to have her on my dick even if she thought I was lower than a worm, which is why I need to get the hell out of here.
“Good thing I’m not into necrophilia then so you’re safe.”
She gives me the finger and the devil inside me has me shrugging off my backpack. “I thought you said you’d rather die than fuck, but I’m down.”
“Would you just leave? I can figure these out on my own.” She picks up the pencil and pretends to ignore me.
I give her one last look and then jet out of there. I roll around killing time for a while until I head across town in the pickup line at Franklin Middle School. My late model Beemer looks out of place amongst all the Land Rovers, Mercedes, and Cadillacs, but my sister, in her pleated tan skirt and navy blazer with the Franklin school crest stitched on it, looks like she fits in and that’s all that matters.
The uniforms for the school set me back five grand but I wasn’t going to let her go to school without having everything her friends had. I didn’t need her to be singled out for being different.
Once she spots me, she speeds over, not even once waving goodbye to her friends. That’s not normal. When she climbs in she has a sour expression on her face. I curl my fingers tight around the wheel. I swear to God, if any of those punks hurt her feelings, I’m gonna destroy them.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” she mutters but her actions suggest differently. She kicks her backpack and folds her arms across her chest, her face is drawn tight. I’ve been in this position before and nothing generally means something but I won’t get it out of her by pushing.
“Good. Then you won’t mind stopping somewhere on the way home.”
“I have homework.”
“You’re in sixth grade. How bad can it be?” What did I even study in middle school? Or did I sleep through those years, too?
“Not everyone is smart like you, Brad. Some of us have normal brains, you know.”
“Sounds terrible but since I know you’ve got a special brain, you’re exempt.”
“Ha. I wish.”
I don’t know what that means. When Belle was younger, it was easier to deal with her. I could give her ice cream to make her happy or read her a book. A cartoon distracted her. Now she gets moody and I don’t know how to bribe her out of her mood. I opt for just shutting up. The silence nets me a result when halfway to the Dairy Queen, she blurts out, “I don’t want to go to Franklin anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because I hate it there. Everyone is so stuck up and snobby and it’s always a competition as to who has the nicest stuff. ‘Candy’s mom got her a Chanel necklace,’” Belle says in a high-pitched voice which I guess is one of her classmates. “‘Well, my mom got me Gucci boots.’ ‘Gucci boots? Everyone has Gucci boots. I have Louboutins.’”
I feel like Belle is talking in a foreign language here but I get the gist. Her classmates have shit that she doesn’t have. “I thought you all wore uniforms.”
“Shoes and jewelry are whatever you want. It’s just this.” She pulls on her blazer. “That has to be the same.” She leans an elbow against the window ledge and props her tired head onto her hand. “I want to go to a normal school where it’s okay to wear tennis shoes and jeans. I’m tired of being around these bitches.”
“How much are the shoes?”
“I don’t want the shoes, B. I want to go to a different school!” she wails.
“Okay. Okay.” I try to calm her down so real tears don’t come, but leaving Franklin isn’t an option so I’m going to have to get her these boots she’s talking about. As I enter the town square on our way home, I spot the jock I fought with earlier. If I’d taken him up on his offer, I’d probably be able to buy those boots no problem. I swing into an empty parking space. “Hold on, Belle. I see someone I need to talk to.”
“Whatever.”
She sounds down and I hate that. I climb out of the car and hail Mark.
He spins around with his fists up. I hold out my hands. “Bro, I’m not here to fight. Do you still need that project worked on?”
He eyes me suspiciously, hands still raised. “Maybe. Why?”
“I’ve had a change of heart. So long as you have what I need, I’m available to help you out.”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch.” I just need the money.
Chapter Six
Melody
I stand inside Missy’s Bakery looking over the array of desserts. “You really are an artist,” I tell her. She takes her time with each dessert and I can tell she puts her heart into making all of them. I’m hoping that I can cheer my mom up with one of them. She has a sweet tooth so hopefully this will brighten her day a little.
“That’s a real compliment coming from a real artist.” I smile at her, feeling my face heat. God, if only I was a real artist. I’ve spent many afternoons here using the bakery as a getaway. Missy would let me take up a table eating all the cupcakes I could handle while drawing in my sketch pad.
“Thanks. I’ll take two of those.” I point to the rose-shaped cookies. “And three of these unicorn cupcakes.” I lick my lips, knowing that one of them will be my dinner tonight.
“It matches your hair.” She boxes them up for me. I give her my credit card to check out. I never feel bad about spending my father's money. Maybe I should
but I don’t. I don’t want half the crap that I slide his card to pay for but I do it out of spite. I don’t think it’s working. When my mom spends money he gets pissy but he never says anything about what I spend. He lets me coast by without a damn word. For now, anyway. That’s only because I’m playing by his rules. That’s all that matters to him. It’s when you start diverting from the way he wants things that the problem comes in. My mom tends to engage in long fights with him. Me, on the other hand, I avoid him like the plague. There’s no changing him so why even try? He is set in his ways but still I do whatever needling I can on my mom’s behalf. It’s not like the man doesn’t have the money to burn. I’m pretty sure he makes deals under the table, abusing his power. I just have no way to prove it. How else does he have so much damn money?
It isn’t even the abuse of power that bothers me. It’s the fact that he uses it for evil instead of doing good for others. I get that the world is full of shitty people but what if the good people learned to play their games but only better? I think a part of me is hoping that it’s something that I can do if I have to be pushed into the big corporate world. Maybe I can learn to play their little games better and smarter. Thoughts of having to follow in my father’s footsteps into the political world have me feeling depleted. My father would be oh-so-proud to see me there. I would hate every minute of it but I’d do it if it meant burning his world down.
“Here you go.” Missy hands over the cupcakes. All of my evil plans feel depressing and I push those thoughts aside. I walk out of the bakery and decide to sit on the nearest bench to enjoy my treat. Maybe I can stop thinking about Mr. Hot Shot for a few minutes. Oh God. I nicknamed him. This really isn’t good.
I go back to thinking about what I’m going to do next. At least I understood my trigonometry a little better after today. College applications are being sent out as we speak. Mine is sitting on my desk at home. Every time I think about my future as some crony in my dad’s world, I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. My hopes and dreams of having a career in art will never come to fruition. I sit on the bench, planning to eat one of the little unicorns now to make myself feel better when out of the corner of my eye I see Mark. Please don’t come this way, I silently plead to myself. I heard someone punched him today. I’m sorry I missed that. He’s a dipshit and had it coming, I’m sure.
I turn as he moves closer to me. Shit, he’s going to see me. Then he’s likely going to hit on me. I’ll turn him down and then he’ll say some asshole things to save face only for himself because no one else is around. I swear he doesn’t have two brain cells to rub together. I begin to go through comebacks in my mind to prepare myself for whatever it is he has to say. Seconds before he reaches me, he gets distracted and turns to talk to someone. I can hear their voices going back and forth with one another. At first I don’t place the other voice but then it dawns on me that it’s Brad’s.
Mark almost looks threatened by Brad but then as the conversation progresses they seem to come to an agreement. One that includes Brad hacking into the school’s mainframe to change Mark’s grade for way too small amount of money. They agree and shake on it, with Mark promising to get Brad the cash by the end of tomorrow.
Mark turns to head my way and that’s when my eyes meet Brad’s. They go wide for a moment and I think he’s almost embarrassed about being seen with Mark or maybe it's the hacking into the school thing. I debate if I should say something to him or keep my nose out of other people's business.
A girl comes bouncing up to him moments later, pulling his eyes from mine.
“Can I have five dollars? I want a cupcake.” She points at Missy’s. Brad’s eyes go soft on her and I know he’s going to give.
“I thought you wanted ice cream.”
“I need a sugar injection. Puh-lease.”
“Is it going to put you in a better mood?” he says but he’s already reaching for his wallet. The girl must be his sister. They have the same brilliant eyes.
“When am I not in a good mood? And don’t say five minutes ago.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling at the girl’s tartness.
“Next he’ll ask if you’re fine,” I say, making the girl turn to look at me.
“He alllllways asks that.”
I laugh and she throws her head back, too.
“I can’t ask if you’re fine?” His eyes bounce between us.
The girl drifts over, running a hand over the chestnut brown hair hanging over her shoulder. “Your hair is really pretty,” she says with a wistful note.
“Thank you.” I open my box. “I got one of the last unicorn cupcakes. You can have one if you like.”
“Yes!” She reaches into the box and grabs one.
I shut the lid and stare challengingly up at Brad. “Sorry, hot shot. The rest are for my mom.”
“I think I’ll live.” His sister sits down on the bench next to me. Brad sits on the other side. I know it’s not the time to bring up what I heard but now I kind of feel like I have to. I can tell with how they are acting that they are close. The last thing this girl needs is her big brother thrown in jail. Brad is likely one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. I’m saying that after only spending a small amount of time with him. I think he might have Ally beat and that’s saying a lot. A little bit of cash isn’t worth ruining his life over. It’s dumb and he doesn’t seem dumb, but maybe he’s one of those geniuses that runs around without his pants on because his head is too filled with genius thoughts. I can’t relate, but I can give him a sweet. Because I feel sorry for him and not for any other reason.
“Here. Have a cookie.” I reach into the box, giving him one of the two cookies. He quirks a smile at me.
“Tomorrow I’ll bring food to tutoring. You seem nicer when fed.” I can’t help the laugh that pops from me. “If you color my sister’s hair?”
“For real?!” The girl bounces up from her seat like a bunny. It’s adorable.
“We can do the wash out. It only stays in for a week. See if you like it,” I suggest. She hops up and down. Mr. Hot Shot full-on smiles at his sister’s excitement.
“I’m so excited.” She dances all around. Brad mouths a thank you to me. I smile back, knowing what it’s like to be her age. Middle school is brutal.
“Thank you for helping me today,” I say back. This time I get a smile. This might not be a truce but at least now we don’t hate each other. Not saying that we ever really did.
Chapter Seven
Brad
Belle and Melody decide that the hair coloring has to happen immediately. I text Mom that Belle and I are going to catch dinner together and not to worry. She won’t see it for a few hours, but knowing what we’re up to while she works the second shift at the washing machine plant lessens her anxiety. Melody’s house is exactly as I expect it to be—huge, rich, intimidating. Belle’s jaw drops to her chin as we pull up.
“Is this really a house?” She whispers in an awed tone.
“Yeah.” The only house bigger in this town is Carter Franklin’s and the ironic thing is he doesn’t even live in the gigantic mansion. The kid lives above a six-car garage. The rich are nuts.
“How many people live here? She must have a lot of siblings.”
“She’s an only child.”
Belle’s head comes around to pin me with a suspicious stare. “How do you know that?”
“Because I do.” There’s no point in lying. Belle knows I’m handy with a computer. I’ve had to fix a few absences for my mom. Some days it’s hard for her to face the day. Migraines keep her pinned to her bed and employers aren’t very understanding. She’s a hard worker, but there are no passes for someone who suffers chronic pain. If the employer can’t see it, the illness doesn’t exist, so to keep her employed, I fix things. The way these factories place a number value on people and then deduct points until you fall below a certain level is some bullshit anyway.
“What else do you know?”
I reach over and tug one of my
sister’s dark brown locks. “Nothing that’s important.”
School records only show absences and grades. They don’t tell me what color she likes or if she prefers chocolate chip cookies with or without raisins. They don’t tell me if she likes lace undies or plain cotton. They don’t tell me what she tastes like, what she feels like, what makes her cry or what makes her laugh. Nothing that’s important.
“Do you think you’ll ever own a house like this someday?”
The tone of my sister’s voice is so wistful, so filled with longing that it twists me up inside. I want her to have everything, though, no matter what it takes. “Yeah, why not? You’re smart enough to be this rich someday.”
I get out of the car before she can ask any more uncomfortable questions. Melody’s at the door waving us in.
“I asked Sarah to make us a snack,” she says. Over Melody’s shoulder I spy a gray-haired woman wearing an apron. Sarah must be their chef. My hand lands on Belle’s and I squeeze it in warning.
“Nah, the cookies were enough.”
“Yeah, I’m full from the cupcake,” Belle adds, although Melody doesn’t look entirely convinced.
“I’ll just have Sarah make up an assortment of things and if you’re hungry, you can eat it. Come on.” She slips her hand into Belle’s. “Let’s go up to my bathroom. I have all the supplies there.”
Melody leads the way up a carpeted staircase off the kitchen. At a landing the hall breaks into two directions. “This is Sarah’s place,” Melody says, pointing to the left. “Mine is down here.”
Melody’s right not to call her space a bedroom. It’s more of a suite with a giant bed with a gauzy canopy covering it. Small LED lights are woven between the curtains and make it look like there are stars shielding the bed from the rest of the room. I avert my eyes because staring at Melody’s bed too long is going to give me ideas that I shouldn’t be having—particularly when my baby sister is ten feet away from me. Across the room, there are steps to a lower level which is outfitted with a sectional, some giant puffy things and then a very large television. On either side are a set of glass doors which appear to look out over a balcony.
