by Ivy Fox
Hate.
I hate him.
God, how I hate him.
Against my better judgment, I finally lock eyes with the man who evokes such villainous anger from inside me, and what I behold doesn’t surprise me in the least. It’s exactly what I expected to find on his handsome, malicious face.
The dark glow of gold burning with disappointment in his eyes.
The flare of his nostrils indicating his disgust.
The discontented scoff he lets out that only my ears seem to pick up on.
He’s rows away from the stage, yet his voice is the only thing I hear, overshadowing any song that may linger in the air.
“You are a Grayson, Eleanor. Act like one. This dance business is beneath you. You are not a mindless girl who follows the herd, but the wolf who leads. Be the wolf, Eleanor. Be the fucking wolf.”
My own amber eyes shine unapologetically, and I pray he reads the words embedded in them, even as I try to keep up with the châiné on stage.
“Oh, I am the wolf, father. And one day, my teeth will shred you apart. I promise you that.”
But instead of the high that I thought I’d feel, the vindication of bravely throwing such an ill-meaning glare toward the man who corrupts my very existence, all I experience is dread.
My heart plummets to the varnished floor as I watch him silently mouth the one phrase which strikes more fear in me than any other.
“That’s my girl.”
Chapter 2
Chad
I pace back and forth in my room, clenching my fists at my sides, all the while getting more pissed off by the second with my mother’s no-show.
She promised me.
She fucking promised me!
But surprise, surprise, her word means shit.
I told her I wasn’t leaving for Aspen tonight if I didn’t see Elle today. I don’t care if I do end up spending Thanksgiving on my own tomorrow. I’m not leaving Manhattan until I see for myself with my very own eyes that my best friend is okay after her asshole of a father crashed her ballet recital last night. I told my mother as much yesterday, and still, she had to schedule an emergency counseling session on my fucking time!
Why are all the other messed-up kids in New York City so damn important to my mother, but her own son’s issues are so easily disregarded?
I look at the clock on my nightstand one more time and see that it’s well past one, which means Elle’s mom and her have already picked up their lunch and are doing their little girly picnic thing down at Central Park. When Elle gets in one of her moods, her mom buys miniature sandwiches and creamy pastries to take with them to the park. My girl always seems to find her center when she’s surrounded by nature and lots of sugary treats. Unlike my own mother, Eleanor Grayson knows exactly what to do to keep her daughter’s temper in check. My mom, on the other hand, can’t even remember a simple promise she made to me less than twenty-four hours ago.
That’s it!
If she isn’t done in fifteen minutes, I’m going downstairs and barging into her office. I don’t care if I do get grounded for disturbing her precious session. I told her how important it was to me that I spend some time with Elle today. It’s bad enough I won’t see my best friend for ten whole days while we’re supposed to do our so-called family outing in Aspen for Thanksgiving.
Yep, because that’s what we Murphys do—pencil in family time on a fucking calendar in order to force us to socialize with one another.
Mom says it’s better this way.
Some bullshit about quality over quantity.
Apparently, going skiing as far away from the city as possible is just what the great Dr. Valerie Murphy ordered to make sure there aren’t any interferences to our scheduled family bonding.
For Mom, her distractions consist of all the delinquents in need of a savior.
And for Dad?
Well, he gets distracted just by the overload of jumbled thoughts in his creative head. He has piles of fictional characters to keep him entertained at any given time, and a change of scenery won’t change that much.
I’m the only one who doesn’t get so easily sidetracked in this family. Unless, of course, it has to do with Elle—then all bets are off. I don’t care what we’ve got scheduled on the old Murphy family agenda. If Elle needs me, then I’m there for her. And right now, I’m going out of my mind because I’m not where I should be, and that’s by her side.
Elle is hurting.
And when Elle hurts, I hurt.
Last night when she called me for our usual late-night phone call, I knew something was wrong. She tried hard to act all tough, but Elle was never really good at hiding her true feelings from me. I guess that’s just one of the many reasons why we’re best friends. We don’t need to keep secrets from each other or put up pretenses that everything is all fine and dandy. She gets enough of that farce at home, and frankly, sometimes so do I.
Damn it. I should have asked my father to take me to the park this afternoon instead. Maybe that would have been the smarter choice. He would have taken his laptop and left Elle and me alone to talk while writing his next bestseller.
While Mom is consumed with saving one child at a time, my father prefers to create worlds kids can get lost in just by flipping a page. The only downside with the scenario of having my dad take me is that my introvert of a father is crap at small talk. The minute he realized he had to keep Elle’s mom entertained while I talked to her daughter, he’d freeze up and act all weird, not knowing what to say. For a man whose life’s work is dealing with words, he sucks balls using them in real life.
My mom is the enthusiastic conversationalist in their duo. She loves to chit-chat, and Mrs. Grayson is always kind enough to bob her head and give my mother her full attention while she goes off on a mindless rant anytime they meet up. My mom has a knack for filling empty, silent spaces with her opinionated world views. There is never a quiet moment when Mom’s around, that’s for damn sure. Maybe it’s because she’s a shrink—getting paid by the hour to shut up and listen to other people’s problems makes it hard for her not to be a total blabbermouth when she isn’t working. Whatever my mom’s damage is, her special ability to mingle is the reason I picked her to take me to see Elle today instead of my dad.
And now I’m late.
So fucking late.
I promised Elle I’d meet her there by now.
I promised, goddamn it!
And although my mother apparently doesn’t know the meaning of the word, I do. I keep my vows—especially to Elle.
She’s the better part of me.
Since we first met in daycare when we were just knee-high, we instantly became a unified front—Elle and me against the world and all its bullshit. Surprisingly enough, I don’t remember the day very much, but Elle loves to reminisce on it and gets her mom to recount our first encounter every chance she can. The way her mother tells it, I took one look at Elle when she came in on her very first day, walked right over, grabbed her by the hand, and said she was going to stay with me from then on out. I must have been a little over five years old, yet I knew this was the girl I wanted to be inseparable with. And since that day, we have been.
Elle is mine, and I am hers.
It’s that fucking simple.
But lately, my heart beats faster every time I say those words aloud, and I don’t know why. I’ve always known we belonged to each other, that our friendship was the ride-or-die kind, but recently when I think about how much Elle means to me, my heart leaps to my throat, and I have to scratch at it until it settles down.
The first time it happened, I thought I was coming down with the flu. My head felt light and dizzy, my stomach was twisted up in knots, and my skin felt like it was burning up. It was the weirdest thing. I try not to think about it too much, but it’s becoming more of a daily occurrence. I never know when the agonizing feeling will strike either. It can happen when Elle is whispering one of her secrets in m
y ear, her warm, sweet breath tickling my skin while her jasmine perfume teases my nose. Or when she lets me hug her, and I feel her chocolatey silk hair—which always reminds me of sunshine and dandelions—caress my face like a gentle spring breeze. On rare occasions, she doesn’t even have to be with me at all for me to feel all feverish and anxious. Just thinking about her for too long squeezes every organ trapped inside my rib cage, making it hard to catch my next breath.
When I told Elle what was going on with me, she just shrugged like it was nothing and told me she feels like that all the time. But I think her reasons for being restless and incapable of breathing right are different than mine. Her dad is usually the one at fault for her mood swings, and unfortunately, I can’t blame that douche for mine.
I look over at the clock yet again and see that another twenty minutes have passed and still no sign of my mother anywhere.
Fuck this. No more waiting.
I throw my hands in exasperation into the air, having had enough of this waiting around bullshit, and decide to remind my mother that I exist too, damn it. I fling my bedroom door open with such force it bounces back against the wall with an almighty thud. By the sound of it, I’ve probably cracked the paint with the doorknob, and knowing my mom, if she sees it, she’s going to make me patch the wall up before our flight tonight. She always says that our actions have consequences and that we should be prepared for whatever they are, no matter what. Mom’s a firm believer in owning up to your shit, but when she’s the one who fucks things up, well, that’s a whole different story.
I stomp through the hallways until I get to the east wing of the penthouse where my mother’s personal office is. She has a practice down in Chelsea, and during working hours, that’s usually where anyone can find her, Monday through Friday. However, on the weekends, holidays, and after hours, she holds up shop right here at home for her more problematic cases. She says that a loving, healthy environment can be felt in the air. For the kids who have been dealt a shitty hand all their lives, they need to see actual proof that well-balanced homes do, in fact, exist and are not just fictional unattainable fabrications portrayed in movies or on TV.
No matter how mad I am at my mother right now, I know I have it good with her and Dad. Sure, they sometimes put their work before their own kid, but I think they do it because they know that, deep down, I’m good. I do well in school, get good grades, and have tons of friends. I’ve got plenty of extracurricular activities I’m involved in, from basketball to baseball, and on a more academic front, the Student Committee as well as the Mathletes. For an eleven-year-old kid, I’ve got my plate stacked to the high heavens without ever relying on Ritalin or Adderall just to keep up with it all.
I like being busy.
It keeps me sane.
Maybe I inherited the trait of always needing to be on the move from my parents. Or maybe what really fell through the gene pool is their tendency to obsess over the things they hold most dear. Mom’s obsessed with trying to help every child in need and mend the cracks done to their psyche. While Dad’s life’s goal is creating fictional worlds for his YA fantasy novels, so kids my age can have an escape from everyday crap.
I guess mine is… well, I don’t know yet.
I love sports, but I can take it or leave it if push comes to shove. I like my academic responsibilities, but it’s not like I love them to the point where I’m constantly seeking perfection. I’m not addicted to my Xbox, nor do I have the urge to always be on social media. I guess the one thing—if you can even label it an obsession—that is important to me is Elle. Our friendship is the only thing I can’t go without. Because when it comes to Elle, she makes me feel like I’m the most important person in the world. That I come in first place above everything else, and that’s not something I ever want to change. Or take for granted.
Another reason why my mom dropping the ball on me today is pissing me off.
Damn her!
She is definitely going to get a piece of my mind.
Furiously, I turn the corner in the hallway that leads to my mom’s office, ready to let her have it. However, my feet halt to a dead stop when I see our housekeeper, Mags, embracing someone in front of her, while my mother looms over them both with an inquisitive gaze in her eyes.
“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Mags coos, trying to soothe whoever is hidden in her embrace.
“Can we blow this joint or what?” I hear an abrasive reply.
“Sure. I just need to talk to Dr. Murphy for a quick second, okay?”
“Can’t you just talk to her when you come back after dropping me off at home?”
“Now, Santiago. This won’t take but a minute. I’m sure you can wait sixty measly seconds, can’t you?”
“Whatever,” the aggravated voice huffs out.
I watch Mags’ shoulders slump just a little bit before she follows my mom into her office, leaving the angriest kid I have ever seen alone with me in our hallway. His dark brows are pinched to showcase a deep scowl, as his stare never wavers from the two women. He looks to be my age, but at the same time years older. He’s got on a basic white T-shirt and raggedy old jeans that look two dress sizes too big to have been bought for him specifically. Even his black army boots look odd on his feet, almost as if they should be worn by a soldier and not a prepubescent kid. However, what really grabs my attention is that it’s the end of November, cold and snowing outside, and this kid doesn’t have a jacket or coat on him, just a black hoodie clutched in his hands, which he ends up throwing onto the floor when my mom’s office door finally closes in his face.
The click of the lock startles me, and I realize that not only am I gawking at this kid but also that my mother didn’t even notice me. It’s just like her to be consumed with someone else’s drama and baggage and overlook mine entirely. I’m about to turn and storm back to my room when a pair of the darkest eyes I have ever seen freeze me in place, anchoring me to the spot.
I tell my brain to say something since I must look like an idiot for just standing here, but the dark-eyed boy tilts his head at me, his scrutinizing gaze starting at the base of my feet, traveling all the way up my scrawny frame. When he finally reaches my face, he scoffs bitterly, and I don’t know why, but it makes me mad.
No.
It makes me damn furious.
“Like what you see, boy scout? Take a picture, why don’t you? It’ll last longer,” he taunts me, with his foot placed flat on my mother’s pristine white walls, as he leans against it with his arms crossed over his chest.
His scruffy boot is definitely going to leave a big-ass print on it. I should tell him that it’s rude and order him to take the sole of his boot off my wall, but I don’t. It serves my mother right for forgetting I exist. He takes a pack of gum out of his pocket, unwrapping one and popping it into his mouth before throwing the wrapper onto the floor. I take two steps his way and instantly smell the peppermint.
“You should pick that up,” I tell him.
“You pick it up,” he counters, not even looking at me.
I bridge the gap between us and do just that.
“You here to see the shrink, too?” he asks, eyeing me up and down again. “You don’t look fucked-up to me.”
I try to keep my eyes in their sockets at hearing him cuss with adults nearby. I cuss a lot inside my head—I mean, a lot, a lot—but never out in the open. Mom says that if you are going to curse, then it’s because the situation must be severe enough to have called for it. Otherwise, it just makes you look like an ignorant buffoon.
Whatever.
I shake my head in reply and take another step toward him, leaning against the wall by his side, staring at the same white door as he is.
“Yeah, you definitely don’t look the type.” He scoffs again.
“I didn’t know fucked-up had a look.” I retort calmly, even though I feel the tips of my ears heat up, cussing so nonchalantly when my mom is just a few feet away.
“So, you do have a voice? Good to know, boy scout. And trust me, fucked-up definitely has a type.”
“Does it now?”
“It does. You’re looking at it. You scared?” he teases, turning on his side, his shoulder to the wall, and his arrogant smirk mocking me right to my face.
I bite my inner cheek because it’s apparent this kid wants to get on my last nerve. Too bad for him that my mom already beat him to the punch.
“So, if you’re not here to get your head examined, what’s your deal?”
“I’m waiting on my mother.”
“Is she a wack job too, like me?”
I shake my head no and tilt my chin in the direction of my mom’s office.
“My mom is the psychologist you just saw.”
“Ah, makes sense. She’s vanilla as fuck, your mom, so of course you’re her kid. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, now did it?” He chuckles with amusement.
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” I bark out, not even caring that my mom probably heard my cried outburst. I turn to my side so I can face the stupid-ass kid’s smug expression straight on.
His smile widens, almost splitting his entire face in two. I can’t help but notice his black eyes that seem to sparkle at my rage—like deviant stars brought to life, hungry to feast on my fury.
This kid’s a dick. No question about it.
“Hmm. Maybe I’m wrong,” he goads, rolling his tongue over his teeth.
“Whatever.”
I slump back on the wall and stare at the door, willing it to open so I can remind my mother of her shortcomings and get away from this jerk. I need to get to Elle, and both my mom and this kid are wasting my precious time.
“You look as pissed as I feel.” He laughs. “The good doctor take your allowance away or something?”
“No.”
“Your favorite toy?” He continues to goad.
“No,” I snap, rolling my eyes at him.
“Then what did she do that has you looking at that door like you want to burn it down?”
