by Ginger Scott
“You think he’s so good.” He paces around me again, this time rubbing his hands together. “I see you talking here at school. You two have gotten close. I wonder if he would have broken the rules to get you your precious spot on the list. You think he has the guts? Because me”—he rounds me again, this time cocking his head to the side and glancing up in thought before continuing his speech—“I think he would fail if he had to break any real rules. He’s not cut out for the hard life. He’s different from us, or at least, from me.”
I swallow down the urge to protest. There are things he doesn’t know about Cowboy, things he’s been through. But those are stories for Cowboy to tell, not me. I have the same rules in place for him, too. I keep everything I’ve seen to myself. I haven’t even told Ms. Esher beyond the surface facts that make for interesting science. She knows I’ve been in the same landscape with him, that we’ve interacted, and that I brought things back—the bullet.
“Right, well, guess if you want to find me later, so you can come collect”—he walks backward as he moves from the dark corner into the rows of books that grow brighter with each bookcase—“you know where I’ll be.”
His sinister expression lingers, and even when he’s gone, I see it when I shut my eyes.
My legs finally buckle and I fall back a few steps before giving in to just sit on the floor. I’m not sure whether I’m weak or dizzy. I can’t seem to make my muscles work, and the tingling sensation rushing up and down my arm won’t stop.
It’s more than panic, but the only tools I have are the ones I’ve learned from the dozens of times I’ve been through this before. Tears burn at the corners of my eyes, but rather than give in, I breathe and count. Climbing to ten feels impossible, and my lungs feel small and unable to hold the air I need. I inhale anyway, holding the fullness in my chest for an extra second before letting it all slip away, leaving me flat. I repeat the steps, this time my lungs able to handle more. With each breath, more feeling returns to my arms and legs, and when I’m able to stand, I move to the last set of shelves.
I turned over every book in search of the envelope. With a strange rush of adrenaline suddenly coursing through my veins, I push on the bookcase until there’s enough space to slide my hand behind it and feel along the wall.
He took the money, which is fine. I can’t even guarantee it’s real. But he was wrong to assume the cash and photograph were the only things in there. I was right to hide them separately. I crouch down, sliding my palm along the dusty drywall until I feel the tear. I push my fingertips into the frayed slice, a cut I made with my knife during my sleep. The piece is small. It takes a few tries to dig my nails into the crevice to pry it loose and open up to the inside of the wall. When I do, the familiar metal meets my skin. I loop my finger around the trigger and tug until the gun is free from the hiding spot I left it in. I cup it and push it deep inside my backpack, burying it under at least four textbooks.
I push the bookcase back before I leave, and sling my backpack on my right shoulder so my arms are free to hug and protect it if I need to. I can’t be caught with this here, not at school, so I walk quickly, my frantic pace probably throwing up a dozen red flags to the teachers and administrators I see in the hallways on my way out.
The doors are minutes from being locked, but I’m the girl who loves school; getting in every last minute of studying—even on a Friday—isn’t out-of-place for me. What is out of place, though? Cowboy. He should be in the locker room, or with his team, or hell, he should be with Sonny. He’s not. He’s sitting on the hood of his car, not even close to game ready. And I’m pretty sure he’s waiting for me.
“We need to talk,” he says when I’m close enough to hear.
I squeeze my bag against my side, reminding myself of what I’m carrying. I swallow and glance around the lot. A few tailgating parents with pickup trucks, and vehicles belonging to cheerleaders and band members. Nothing out of place.
I nod toward the passenger seat and he slides from his hood to open it for me.
“You keep showing up in weird places needing to talk,” I say.
He shuts the door and moves around to the driver’s side, turning the ignition and shifting into gear. Before he drives us to wherever I’ve signed up to go, though, he twists in his seat and holds out his palm.
“Hi. My name is Kellen. I bet you didn’t know that.”
My forehead practically folds at his statement. I blink a few times while looking at his hand, shifting my focus up to his face as I take his hand in an almost automatic movement that’s out of my control. His skin feels different, a warmth to his touch that I don’t recognize. Even his eyes are different, no longer blue, but more of a dull green. His hair is a dusty brown, too, instead of waves of blond.
We shake . . . sort of. And I realize he is absolutely right. We call him Cowboy.
Who the fuck is Kellen?
25
Villain
I’m lost.
Not physically, but emotionally. I don’t know where I am and what is real. What was blurry for a while has become invisible. There is no line. The only thing that anchors me when I’m awake is my sister.
Gia is the one responsibility I refuse to let slip. If I don’t take care of her, she’ll be forgotten. She’d have to fend for herself, and she’s not old enough to do that yet. She’s six.
She talked me into a piggy back ride today. I carried the little monkey all the way home, but my shoulders ached too badly by the time we made it to the door. I like to carry her all the way to her room so she doesn’t have to see any of the shit Paul and my mom leave lying around. Just because I grew up knowing this, doesn’t mean she should have to.
This cash will help. It’ll put me ahead for a while. The goal is to have twenty thousand saved by the time May rolls around. I’ll need to get my GED anyway because I won’t have enough credits to graduate. But twenty will get me out of here, and Gia with me. I used to think it would be a fight, but now . . . I don’t even think they’ll notice she’s gone.
“I’m hungry.” Gia’s always hungry. It’s because we never have food in this fucking house.
“How about pizza?” I touch my finger to the tip of her nose. Her smile is broad and her head nods vigorously. “That’s a yes? Cuz I could call the vegetable guy, too.”
“No! Pizza!” She gets to her feet and jumps on her bed. I scoop her back up and tickle her sides. Her giggle is medicine.
“Okay, but you have to pick up your toys in here. Mom’s working late tonight, and Paul . . .” I let it trail off. I tell her they’re at work, but who knows. They both work at gas stations, selling cigarettes and liquor to people just like them. They usually end up going out when they’re off and getting high in some shithole apartment building. All I know is, I like it when they don’t bring their people back here. When they’re here, this house becomes a really dangerous place to be. I’ve wondered if it would be better for Mrs. Shipp, the nice lady who lives three houses down, to just adopt Gia. She’s there more than she’s here, and I think the old lady is lonely now that her husband died. A seventy-year-old parent has to be better than a junkie one.
I get the TV with the cracked screen working enough in Gia’s room for her to watch cartoons, and I close her door so I can order the pizza and take care of some business. I’m on the line waiting for the restaurant to pick up when the metal screen door rattles lightly a few times. I hold my breath.
Sal would bang on it with a full palm. He’d start dialing my phone too. I don’t have a single missed call. And Sal and I haven’t talked since he sold me out to the school two days ago.
“Anjo’s Pizza on Third.” The voice on the phone stirs me back to attention.
“Yeah, uh . . .” I stammer while I move toward the door, leaning until my forehead rests on it so I can listen closely. “One large pepperoni and a side of those garlic things. Oh, and the dipping sauce.”
“I can hear you in there.” It’s her voice. I sigh and close my eyes, lea
ning more of my weight into the door.
“Cash or card, sir?” I think this might be the second time the chick on the other line has asked me that.
“Cash, and I’ll pick up.” I unlock the main door and crack it open, meeting her waiting gaze. My focus darts just over her shoulder. That douchebag is here with her. This is all bad, just…bad. I don’t need any of this shit.
“Ready in twenty. What name should I put on the order?”
I widen the door and stare at them both, heavy looks on their faces as if they’ve come to deliver a death announcement for some beloved older relative.
“V,” I say.
“V? Like V-E-E?” I’m not sure why it matters. Seems like a really dumb question to ask. Does she ever ask if Ann has an e or not?
“Just V. As in villain.” I say, letting my view settle on her face again. I expect her to flinch a little but she doesn’t. She’s stoic. It’s annoying.
I end the call and push my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, then continue to stare at my enemies. I have nothing to say, so if she’s not going to say something, I’m not sure why I keep this door open. I push it to shut but before I get it to budge, she presses her palm on the other side with a force I can’t match.
“Damn,” I say, letting go so she falls forward and takes a step into my house. I laugh at her stumble. “Look who’s getting strong.”
“Why you gotta be an asshole?” Mr. Football Player presses his hand on my chest and invites himself inside. I flick his hand away and shove him into the door jamb. He grunts as his face flames with anger and in less than a blink, he’s bunched the collar of my T-shirt in his grip and has my back against the other side of the doorway.
“What’s going on?” Gia sounds scared, and it ticks me off that these selfish dicks came into my house and upset my sister.
“It’s nothing, G. Hey, why don’t you grab the empty cookie tin and go over to Mrs. Shipp’s house, see if she has any of those butter cookies you like. I bet she’d fill it up.” I keep my eyes on the quarterback’s while I talk, a keen periphery on Damsel. Of the two of them, she’s the one who could hurt me. Hell, it’s in her job description.
“Okay,” Gia shouts. Cookies is her magic word, and in less than a dozen seconds she’s grabbed the tin and rushed between me and the meathead to head down the street for treats.
“She’s cute,” Damsel says.
I shoot her a look and roll my shoulders, tugging at the front of my T-shirt to unwrinkle the stretched collar.
“Why are you here, princess?” I start my gaze on her, but I move my focus over to Lockland’s football god just to be funny.
“Ha ha,” he says, mockingly.
“There’s something you need to know. Something bigger is going on. The three of us, this Morpheus thing . . .” She meanders through her words, and I don’t see a point coming anywhere, so I cut her off.
“Right, some master plan. Maybe this is all some dystopian tale we’re in. Sure, okay. Thanks for stopping by, now . . .” I hold the screen door open and wave my palm out to usher them away. Instead, she holds her hand out to me from where she still sits on her ass on my living room floor.
I stare at it for a few seconds then laugh. Football man puffs out a judgmental breath and reaches to take her hand for me, but she withdraws it before he can help her.
“No, Kellen. He needs to do it.” She juts her hand out toward me again.
I wrinkle my nose, a nauseated sensation rolling around my gut. This feels like a trick.
“Who the fuck’s Kellen?” I glance to our quarterback, the guy they all call Cowboy.
“He is,” she answers. I stare at his features, making them fit with that name, imagining whether I’ve ever heard it yelled in the hallways, said on the announcements. If I were a loser, I’d have a yearbook around and could look it up.
“Okay, so what?” I shake my head at them both, suddenly remembering my sweatshirt in the other room and the money I haven’t hidden yet. I casually walk the direction of the hallway, my hand at my neck in one of those so-natural-it’s-really-unnatural looking gestures.
“We’re not here for the money,” she says, reading my mind.
I stop walking and turn to square myself with her. She’s still sitting on the floor, glancing at me over her shoulder, her hand waving in the air. Like a know-it-all grade-schooler. Whatever. I grab her hand and jerk her to her feet. Before I let go, though, she covers my hand with her other one, and steps in close so she’s basically the only thing I can feel and see.
“You didn’t know his name,” she says, her voice urgent, almost panicked.
Our hands are squirming, me trying to break free, her trying to hold on.
I shrug awkwardly while we wrestle with our hands. “So what? I don’t know a lot of names at this school. I’m not really in anybody’s circle.”
“What’s my name?” She holds fast, her grip impossibly strong all of a sudden. I sigh at first, but she jerks at me and demands I meet her stare. I fall into her eyes, the gold becoming darker at the center, pits of black for pupils that seem to draw me in, drown me. I blink. I roam my gaze around her face a little more. Her cheeks, soft, her hair so dark, loose around her face in a perfect heart-shaped frame that waves down her shoulders. I remember the tears, the one that fell, the one I caught on her face when she cried.
“I don’t know,” I admit. And I don’t. I have the initials she gave me, and I have the last name of Salaya-Lopez that I found on the folder in my initial meeting with Esher.
“His name is Kellen. And he doesn’t play football. Not really,” she says.
I laugh almost immediately. All I have to do is look at him to contradict her. He’s wearing some football shirt from last year, he’s bulky and ripped, and he just . . . he is!
“I promise. His name is Kellen. And his dad’s name is—” She looks to him, scrunching her eyes as if she’s trying to remember whatever lie they’re spinning.
“Jim. My dad’s name is Jim. We’re from North Dakota. We own livestock, and I don’t know what I’m doing here, but I’ve gotta get home.” I study his face while he talks, watching for the breaks in his character. I’m still laughing, expecting him to join me, to spill it while she leaps at me and ties a cord around my throat or sticks a shiv in my side.
“I’m Dominica. And this is exactly the person I am, only . . . it isn’t. And you, I don’t think you’re the person you really are either.” She talks through my growing laughter, and I fight against her grip until I jostle myself loose. I hold my hands to my head and glance between the two of them, their faces both so serious.
“If this isn’t real, then how can I feel this?” I slap my palm hard against the center of my chest three times. My skin burns and my heart pounds underneath. “Why can I smell this shithole I live in? Why do I know Gia, my sister? Why—”
“What’s your name?” Damsel, or Dominica, or whoever the fuck she is, steps into me again. I push her away, but she keeps coming back.
“I go by V.” I stand tall and puff my chest.
She pulls her lips in tight and shakes her head at me.
“I asked for your name, not some tag you like people to use in your little drug kingdom,” she says.
“Hey!” I charge right back into her and her chin scrapes against my chest as she glares up at me. I breathe down on her, like a bull. “My kingdom is not little.”
I rock on my feet, like a steed fighting for dominance. My nostrils flare with my anger, my muscles growing defensive and tense. She rocks with me, matching me motion for motion. A heavy thunk at our feet stills us both.
Her hands move to my chest, a gentle push moving my feet back half a step while she does the same. It’s a fairly small handgun, looks to be lightweight. I’ve seen my fair share of firearms over the last few weeks, this isn’t one of mine. Which means . . .
Her head tilts up and her wide eyes meet mine. She was planning to shoot me here, in my house, with my sister only a few hundred fee
t away. I shake my head, this time my humor coming out a bit more menacing. I mean for it to.
She lunges to grab the weapon, but I’m faster. I’ve had to become quick to build my empire. I kick it and hold her off with a stiff arm while I bend and pick it up. Something so small with the power to end a life. I admire it, holding it up to my face and turning it slowly to let the shine catch the barrel. My hand grips around it, the trigger feeling . . . just . . . right.
“Is this how you were going to kill me?” I grill her, and she swallows nervously then shakes her head.
“No,” she chokes out, backing toward the football guy whose name is apparently Kellen.
“Really?” I tilt my head to the side and take a step toward them both.
“I told you. This—even this moment right now—it isn’t real. None of this, the project, our dreams. Something bigger is—”
“Yeah,” I cut in, “you said that. Something bigger is going on.” I glance back to the gun, my mind racing with the possibilities. I won’t deny that weirdness abounds lately. But I don’t think she has a clue what she’s talking about, and strong or not, there’s no way she’s shooting a person with that gun.
“Tell you what.” I reach down and lift her hand and place the gun in her open, quivering palm. I back away, moving toward the couch, finally sitting comfortably when I reach it. “If none of this is real”—I wave my hand about the room—around this mirage—“shoot him.”
It’s fun to watch two people stop their breath at the same time. It’s like calling soldiers to attention. Both of their spines straighten, and their throats grow rigid, so tight you can see the vertebrae and tendons on either side.
“I’m not going to shoot him,” she says, taking the gun loosely in her hand. She’s more comfortable with it than I expect. I maybe should worry after all.
