by L.J. Shen
I had two options: break or build a stronger version of myself.
I chose the latter.
By the time Papa took a job in Todos Santos a couple years later, I wasn’t the same girl who’d pretended to be asleep when confronted.
Poppy, my older sister, joined him in California, but I asked him to let me stay at Carlisle.
I stayed where my art was and avoided Vaughn Spencer, who attended All Saints High across the ocean. Win-win, right?
But now, Papa was insisting I spend my senior year with him and Poppy in Southern California.
Thing was, the new Lenny didn’t turn a blind eye to Vaughn Spencer.
I was no longer fearful.
I’d suffered the greatest loss and survived it. Nothing scared me anymore.
Not even an angry god.
Lenora, 17; Vaughn, 18
I was born with an insatiable appetite for destruction.
It had nothing to do with what happened to me.
With my life story.
With my parents.
With the fucking universe.
I was wired in messy-ass knots. Made out of metal cords instead of veins. An empty black box instead of a heart. A laser-focused vision to detect weaknesses instead of pupils.
Even when I smiled as a kid, my cheeks and eyes hurt. It felt unnatural, daunting. I stopped smiling early on.
And judging by the way my senior year of high school had started, smiling was not in the goddamn cards for me in the future, either.
“Take ten deep, cleansing breaths,” I could practically hear my mother pleading in her calm, sweet voice in my head.
For once in my miserable existence, I listened. Driving my fist through every locker in the hallway was probably the dumbest way in the world to get kicked out of school and simultaneously break every bone in my left hand, killing my career in the process.
Not that I was here for the sharp minds of my educators—or worse, the bullshit diploma. But unlike my shit-for-brains best friend, Knight Cole, I didn’t have a red, shiny self-destruction button I was eager to push.
One.
Two.
Three.
F…uck this shit. No.
Lenora Astalis was here in the flesh. Alive, kicking, and in my zip code. In my realm. I’d shoved her existence into a drawer in my brain I usually reserved for unsatisfying porn and mindless small talk with girls before they lowered their heads to suck my cock.
But I remembered her. You bet your fucking ass, I did. My little dancing monkey. So agreeable you could get her to deep-throat a baseball bat if you asked, and not even nicely. Supposedly this was a favorable trait in the fairer sex, but Good Girl was too submissive and pure even for my taste.
Back then, she’d had yellow hair like spun gold, shiny loafers, and a terrified, please-don’t-hurt-me expression. The Carlisle cape had made her look like Hermione Granger’s geekier friend. Voted Most Likely to be Wedgied to Death, Lenora Astalis had the annoying quality of looking perpetually prim, proper, and pathetically righteous.
Now? Now she looked…different.
I wasn’t impressed with the black shit she’d smeared on her eyes and the Goth clothes. They were just camouflage for the fact that she had zero spine and would shit her pants the minute someone dropped the F-bomb near her.
Good Girl was standing by her new locker, her hair now jet-black. She was applying an extra layer of eyeliner (she needed that like I needed more reasons to hate the world) while staring at a pocket mirror glued to the inside of her locker door. She had on an OBEY beanie, but had corrected it with a Sharpie so the word was now Disobey.
What a fucking rebel. Someone should notify the authorities before she did something really crazy, like eat non-organic blueberries in the cafeteria.
“Yo, SourAss Kid, what’s good?” Knight, my best friend, neighbor, cousin, and full-time douche canoe, clapped my shoulder from behind and gave me a bro-hug. I trained my eyes on an invisible spot ahead, ignoring both him and Astalis. With all due respect to Lenora—and I had absolutely none—she hadn’t earned my attention. I made a mental note to remind her where she stood.
Or, in her case, kneeled.
I still remembered how she’d reacted when I slid into her room that night. The way she’d shivered under my finger, brittle like a china doll, practically begging to be shattered. Crushing her wasn’t even going to give me the usual high. It was like taking candy from a baby. There was no kindness behind my decision to spare her. I was naturally pragmatic.
I had an end game.
She wasn’t going to stand in the way of it.
Risk. Reward. Return.
Hurting her would have been redundant. Astalis had kept her little pink mouth shut all these years—clearly intimidated. I knew she hadn’t blabbed, because I’d checked. I had eyes and ears everywhere. She’d kept my name out of her mouth, and when her sister came to live here sophomore year, she’d stayed back in England, probably piss-scared of me and what I was going to do to her. Good. Worked fine for me.
But that fragile trust had been broken the minute I saw her here.
In my kingdom.
A Trojan horse with a belly full of bad memories and bullshit.
“Your Cuntness has that extra shine today,” Knight observed, looking me over as he glided his fingers through his shampoo-commercial hair, the color of buttered toast. He was the star quarterback, the prom king, and the most popular guy in school.
Hey, whatever helped him sleep better at night and pacified his adopted-kid complex.
“I’m surprised you can see anything through the mist of your own self-righteous farts,” I sneered, stopping at my locker and throwing it open.
Just six lockers away from Astalis, I noticed. Karma really was a piece of fucking work.
Knight propped an elbow on a nearby locker, studying me intently. He unintentionally blocked my view of Lenora. Just as well. Her Robert Smith custom didn’t exactly add sex appeal to her already bland appearance.
“You coming to Arabella’s back-to-school party tonight?”
“I’d rather have my dick sucked by a hungry shark.”
Arabella Garofalo reminded me of tiny, inbred dogs with diamond-studded pink collars and squeaky barks, who occasionally bit your ass and pissed themselves when excited. She was mean, desperate, mouthy, and perhaps worst of all—entirely too eager to offer me blowies.
“Why don’t you get your dick sucked by Hazel? She just got old-school braces, so it’s practically the same,” Knight suggested cordially, fishing his Alkaline water bottle out of a designer leather backpack and taking a swig.
I knew there was vodka in there. He’d probably popped a few Oxies before getting here, too. Asshole made Hunter S. Thompson look like a fucking Boy Scout.
“Booze before ten a.m.?” I twisted my lips in a lazy smirk. Love letters and nude Polaroids spilled from my locker in a river of teenage desperation. No girl had the guts to actually come talk to me. I collected and tossed them into a trash can nearby, never breaking eye contact with Knight. “I thought being a virgin at eighteen covered your pathetic quota for senior year.”
“Eat shit, Spencer.” He took another swig.
“If I did, would you go the fuck away? ’Cause in that case, I’m tempted.”
I slammed my locker shut. Knight didn’t know about Lenora Astalis. Bringing attention to her wasn’t on my agenda. Right now, she was a Goth freak with zero reputation or social status to speak of, and that’s how she was going to remain in these hallways, unless I showed any trace of emotion toward her.
Which—spoiler alert—I didn’t have.
“Don’t be fresh, Spence.”
“I’m stale as a five-day-old shit.” I threw my backpack over one shoulder. Ain’t that the truth.
“Gross, man. Having Luna, Daria, and me as friends didn’t really humanize you as much as your parents had hoped. It’s like putting a little hat on a hamster. Cute, but useless.”
I stared at hi
m blankly. “Are you even talking in English right now? Get your ass something greasy and a bottle of water before everyone gets secondhand alcohol poisoning from your breath.”
“Suit yourself. More prime English meat for me.” Knight waved me off, a spring in his step.
I shook my head as I followed. As if he’d ever do something about said meat. For all intents and purposes, the guy was a fucking pussy-vegan, more virginal than olive oil. He wanted to dip his dick into one hole, and one hole only. It was attached to Luna Rexroth, his childhood crush, who was in college, miles away—hopefully being less pathetic than him and getting laid.
However, there was no doubt the English meat Knight had poetically referred to was Lenora, which meant her presence at All Saints High had already drawn attention.
I could see why her older sister, what’s-her-face Astalis, was a hit with the dudebros. I’d seen her around. She looked like the kind of attention-seeking, bubbly, mass-made blondie who’d traded her soul for a pair of red-soled heels.
“The only English chick I’m interested in meeting is Margaret Thatcher.” I popped a mint gum into my mouth, shoving another one into Knight’s without his consent. His Mel Gibson breath was so flammable he could torch the motherfucking school if he lit a joint.
“She is dead, bro.” He chewed obediently, frowning.
“Exactly,” I quipped, hauling the strap of my backpack to my other shoulder just to do something with my hands. It was only nine-thirty, and already today excelled at sucking all the hairy balls in the universe.
When Knight remained glued to my side, despite not having the same first-period class as me, I stopped walking. “You’re still here. Why?”
“Lenora.” He unscrewed his “water” bottle again, taking another generous sip.
“Throwing random names in the air is not conversation, Knighty-boy. Let’s start with an entire sentence. Repeat after me: I. Need. Rehab. And. A. Good. Fuck.”
“Poppy Astalis’ hotter-than-Wasabi sister.” Knight ignored my jab. “She’s a senior, like us. Gives good-girl vibes.” He let loose a devilish smirk, turning around and running his eyes over her black-clad figure. She was only a few feet away, but didn’t seem to hear us, with the hustle and bustle. “But I can see her pointy fangs. She’s a natural born killer, that one.”
Poppy. That’s what’s-her-face’s name. Eh, I was close.
Lenora was a year younger than me, and if she was a senior now, that meant she’d skipped a grade. Goddamn nerd. No surprises there.
Knight continued his TMZ report.
“Their dad is this hotshot artist dude—runs that snooty art institute downtown. Honestly? I’m boring myself into a coma by repeating this information to you, so let’s just cut to the tea—the black sheep of the family is here for the year, and everyone wants a piece of that lamb.”
The meat metaphors were getting creepier by the nanosecond. Besides, I knew very well who Edgar Astalis was.
“I’m guessing this is the part where I should feign some kind of interest.” My jaw ticked, my teeth slamming together. He was lying. There was no way anyone wanted to touch Lenora. She strayed too far from the conventional hot-girl look. The black rags. The eyeliner. The lip piercing. Why not jerk off to a Marilyn Manson poster and save the condom?
Knight rolled his eyes theatrically.
“Man, you are really forcing me to spell it out. I saw your ass swallowing Girl, Interrupted with your eyes.” He clapped my shoulder like some kind of old, wise mentor. “You’ll be lucky if she ain’t pregnant after that eye-fucking sesh.”
“She looked familiar, that’s all.”
She did, because I’d been expecting her to show the fuck up since the minute her sister and dad crashed this town.
At school.
The gym.
Parties.
It didn’t even make sense, but I still looked—even at my own parties, where uninvited guests weren’t welcome. She was a dark shadow following me everywhere, and I always tried to maintain the upper hand in our imaginary relationship. Fuck, I even rummaged her stupid-ass Instagram and found out what she watched and listened to just so I could understand her cultural world better and crack her, should the occasion occur.
And, well, it fucking had.
I decided on the spot that, despite Knight’s status as my closest friend, I wasn’t going to tell him I knew her. It would only complicate things, pushing my secret one more inch toward the light.
As it was, the truth was clawing at me, leaving welts of uncomfortable reality. Sometimes, on bad nights, I was tempted to tell my parents what had happened to me. They were decent parents, even my dipshit self had to admit. But ultimately, it boiled down to this: no one could take my pain away. No one.
Not even my damn-near-perfect, loving, caring, powerful, billionaire parents.
We come into this world alone, and we die alone. If we get sick, we fight it alone. Our parents are not there to go through chemo treatments for us. They’re not the ones losing their hair, puking buckets, or getting their asses kicked at school. If we’re involved in an accident, they’re not the ones losing blood, fighting for their lives on the operating table, losing a limb. “I’m here for you” is the dumbest sentence I’d ever heard anyone say.
They were not there for me.
They tried. And they failed. If you want to look at your fiercest protector, at the one person you can always count on, take a good look in the mirror.
I was in the business of avenging my own pain, and there was a debt to collect.
I was going to get it. Soon.
As for my parents, they loved me, were concerned about me, would die for me, blah blah fucking blah. If my mother knew what went through my head, what had really happened that day at the Parisian gallery auction, she would commit coldhearted murder.
But that was my job.
And I was going to enjoy it.
“So you’re telling me you don’t think Lenora Astalis is hot?” Knight wiggled his brows, pushing off the lockers and matching my stride.
I eyeballed her again. She balanced her textbooks on her hip as she walked toward the lab, not hugging them to her chest like the rest of the preppy damsels of All Saints High. She wore a black denim mini skirt much shorter than my fuse, fishnet stockings ripped at the knees and ass, and army boots that looked more haggard than mine. Even septum and lip rings couldn’t taint her shy appearance. She popped her pink gum, staring ahead, either ignoring my existence or not noticing me as she brushed past.
Her beauty—if you could call it that—reminded me of a child’s. Small, button-like nose, big blue eyes dotted green and gold, and narrow pink lips. There was nothing wrong with her face, but nothing overtly attractive about her, either. In the sea of Californian, shiny-haired, tan-skinned girls, with bodies made of glitter, muscle, and curves, I knew she wouldn’t stand out—positively, anyway.
I arched an eyebrow, shouldering past him to class. Knight followed me.
“Are you asking if I’d let her suck my cock? Possibly, depending on my mood and level of intoxication.”
“How fucking charitable of you. Actually, I wasn’t asking that at all. I wanted to tell you Lenora, like her sister, is off-limits for you.”
“Oh, yeah?” I threw him a bone, keeping him humored. Hell would freeze over before I took an order from Knight Cole. Or anyone else, for that matter.
“You can’t break any of the Astalis girls’ hearts. Their mom died a few years ago. They’ve had it rough, and they don’t need your nasty-ass self shitting on their parade. Which happens to be your favorite pastime. So this is me telling you I’ll fuck you up if you touch them. Specifically, the morbid-looking one. You feeling me here?”
Lenora’s mother died?
How had I not heard about it when Poppy moved here?
Oh, that’s right. I cared about her existence a little less than I did about Arabella’s stupid parties.
I knew the mother never moved with Edgar and Poppy, but I
’d guessed they either got divorced or she stayed with the talented kid in England.
Mothers were a touchy subject for Knight for more reasons than I could count. I knew he’d take it as a personal offense if I deliberately smashed Good Girl’s little heart. Lucky for him, I had very little interest in that organ, or the girl who carried it around in her chest.
“Don’t worry, Captain Save-a-Ho. I won’t fuck them.” I pushed the door to my class open and blazed inside without sparing Knight another look. Easiest promise I ever had to make.
When I plopped down and glanced toward the door, I saw him through the window, running his thumb across his throat, threatening to kill me if I broke my word.
My father was a lawyer, and semantics were his playground.
I said I wouldn’t fuck her.
I never said I wouldn’t fuck with her.
If Lenora deserved a public spanking to make sure she stayed in line, her ass was going to be red.
And most definitely mine.
The opportunity to corner Lenora Astalis presented itself three days later. I’d skipped Arabella’s party, and wasn’t surprised to hear Lenora hadn’t showed up, either. But her sister, Poppy, was there—dancing, drinking, mingling, even helping Arabella and Alice clean up puke and cum stains afterwards.
Lenora didn’t strike me as a party girl. She had the strange gene, the one that made her stick out like a sore thumb wherever she went, even without the Maleficent wardrobe. I could tell because I had it, too. We were weeds, rising from the concrete, ruining the generic landscape of this yacht club town.
The first day, I’d ditched my last class and tailed her car after school to see where she lived. She drove a black Lister Storm—a far cry from her sister’s Mini Cooper—and got honked at five different times for failing to take a right turn on a red light. Twice she flipped the other driver the bird. Once she actually double-parked to rummage through her bag and hand a homeless person some change.
By the end of the journey, I couldn’t help but smirk to myself. Edgar Astalis had put his girls in a castle by the ocean, with high, white-picket fences and drapes firmly shut.
