Pricked

by Winter Renshaw

  I make my way to the kitchen for a glass of water and then head back to my room, passing the stairs to the basement on the way. Eben and Laurel are staying the night tonight and last I knew, they were downstairs in the theater watching Bird Box and “canoodling” as my mother would say.

  The smallest hint of their laughter trails up the stairs—I’m guessing they’re not paying that much attention to the movie.

  When I get upstairs to my room, I find a text message notification on my phone. All of my friends from college are scattered across the country with their respective families for the summer, but I know some of my friends from high school are now home from college, and a few of them have already contacted me about meeting up again.

  Only this text isn’t from any of my old friends.

  It’s from Devanie.

  DEVANIE: so sorry 2 bother u but am at a party and need some1 2 come get me asap! madden will kill me if i ask him. :(

  ME: What’s the address? I’ll be there as soon as I can.

  I change from pajamas into cuffed jeans and a white scoop neck t-shirt and twist my hair into a messy top knot before locating a pair of red Chucks in the back of my closet. Grabbing my keys, phone, and purse, I bolt downstairs, popping my head into the living room where my mother is still lost in her book, which I now see is a Nancy Reagan biography.

  “Hey,” I say, breathless.

  She looks up, sliding her glasses off her face. Her eyes scan the length of me. “Brighton. Why are you dressed like you’re going somewhere at ...” glancing at her gold Michele wristwatch she adds, “nearly ten-thirty at night?”

  My phone vibrates with a text from Devanie—an address.

  I’m not normally in the habit of lying, but if my mom knew where I was really going, she might feel the need to lecture me about boundaries and simply stated, I don’t have time for that right now.

  “Just going over to Honor’s,” I lie.

  “This late?” She sits straighter, almost scoffing at me. I know she disapproves.

  “She just got in from Portland and we haven’t seen each other since spring break.”

  My mother stares ahead, silent for a moment, and then she places her glasses back on. It’s a good thing she loves Honor.

  “All right. Don’t be out too late.” She licks her index finger and flips to a new page in her book.

  I head out through the back door, dashing to my car and plugging the address into my GPS. The house is in Olwine, which means it’s going to be at least thirty minutes until I get there.

  I shoot Devanie a text, letting her know I’m on my way, and then I head out.

  The house at 1352 Vernon Street is a yellow split-level with a sprawling oak tree in the middle of the front yard and a basketball hoop attached to the two-car garage. Every light is on inside and I see an abundance of teenage-sized shadows moving around behind the curtains.

  It’s definitely a house party. I suspect someone’s parents are out of town.

  I text Devanie, letting her know I’m outside, and a second later she comes out from behind the garage, emerging from the shadows.

  She practically runs to my car, wasting no time climbing in, and when the dome light flicks on, I see dried tear tracks on her cheeks.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. “What happened?”

  She’s shaking. I place my hand over hers.

  “Can you just drive, please?” she asks. “I want to get out of here.”

  “Of course.” I shift into reverse. “You want me to take you home?”

  She dabs at the corner of her eye with the back of her hand and sniffs. “Yeah. Turn left at the next stop sign.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?” I ask as we drive. “You’re so shaken up.” She’s quiet. “I won’t tell your brother, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Dragging in a ragged breath, she brushes her palms against the tops of her thighs. I realize now she’s wearing one of the dresses I’d given her—the pretty pink Lilly Pulitzer with turquoise flowers and little gold pineapples.

  “I was texting my friend Kyler,” she says, “from school.”

  “Okay.”

  “And he asked if I wanted to hang out tonight with him and a few friends.” She glances out the window. “You need to turn left at the light up there. Anyway, I showed up and it was him and, like, three other people, and they were watching a movie and there was pizza and I thought we were just going to chill or whatever. And then more people started showing up and more and more and some of them were older. I didn’t recognize them. And then one of them pulled out this little baggie with a bunch of little white sticks in them. They lit them and started passing them out. Kyler took a hit and then he tried to get me to take one. That’s when I locked myself in the bathroom and texted you.” She buries her face in her hands. “He probably thinks I’m so freaking lame now.”

  “No, no. Sweetie. God. No,” I pat the top of her hand. “You did the right thing. And honestly, I’m so proud of you for texting me.”

  “Madd’s going to kill me if he finds out I went to Kyler’s.”

  “He’s not going to find out.” I stop at the light and flick on my left turn signal. “He doesn’t have to know. But what about your mom? Does she know you went?”

  Devanie laughs through her nose. “Yeah. Right. She’s still at work, and I probably won't hear her come in until after the bars close. Take a right up here. I’m on the corner. The white ranch with the porch light on.”

  I pull into a single stall driveway a moment later and she gathers her things.

  “Thank you so much for picking me up,” she says before she gets out.

  “Of course, sweets,” I say. “Anytime.”

  She quietly shuts the door and I watch her walk up the front sidewalk, fishing around in her bag for her keys. I intend to stay here until I see to it she gets inside.

  A minute passes and she’s still searching for her keys.

  Dropping to the steps in front of the door, she empties the contents, spreading them out on the concrete in a frenzy.

  I roll the window down. “Lost your keys?”

  She shoves everything back into her bag, her mouth half agape as she walks back to my car. “They must have fallen out at the party.”

  A moment ago she said her mom doesn’t get home until after the bars close—which is about three hours from now. She can’t call her brother because then she’ll have to tell him what happened.

  “Get in,” I say. “You’re staying at my house tonight.”

  The ride to Park Terrace is quiet, save for the music I let Devanie choose. It’s some pop band I’ve never heard of, but it seems to put her in good spirits because a few times I catch her tapping her finger along to the beat.

  Stopping outside the iron gates, I punch in my security code and wait for the doors to open.

  “This … is your house?” Devanie asks, eyes wide and bright in the dark of my car.

  “My parents’ house,” I say. “Technically.”

  “Holy sh....” Devanie unbuckles her seatbelt, perching on the edge of her seat as she scans the expansive property, the perfectly placed mature trees, the trickling fountain in the circle drive, and the strategically arranged lighting that makes the house equal parts terrifying and majestic this late at night.

  I drive around back, parking in front of my designated garage stall, and we head inside the house.

  It’s dark. Quieter than before. I assume everyone’s in bed by now, given the fact that it’s almost midnight. I stopped on the drive home to get her a cheeseburger and fries after I heard her stomach rumbling.

  “Follow me,” I say, leading her through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the foyer, where we stop at the base of the curved staircase. “You’re staying in the guest room tonight. Last room on the right. Next to me.”

  She follows me up, the stairs creaking softly beneath each step, and I stop when I get to my door.

  “Hang on. I’m going to grab you some
pajamas.” I head in, emerging a minute later with a gray t-shirt and drawstring sweatpants that she can tie tight so they don't fall off. When I come out, I find her staring at the collage of framed and matted family photos that clutter the walls of our upstairs hall. “This way.”

  I take her to the guest suite next to my room and flick on the lamp on the bedside table. The bed is king-sized but comfortable, a Duxiana pillowtop, and I point her toward the en suite.

  “There’s your bathroom. I’ll be next door if you need anything,” I say, yawning. “And these are for you.”

  I hand her the pajamas, realizing she’s yet to say a single word since we walked in.

  “You going to be okay?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “I’ll take you home in the morning,” I say. “In the meantime, you should probably text your mom and let her know where you are. Give her my number too, will you? Just in case.”

  “Okay,” she speaks. Finally.

  “Goodnight, Devanie.” I close the door behind me, attempting to make as little noise as possible. In the morning, I’ll explain everything to my parents and then I’ll have Eloise, our weekend chef, make her a proper breakfast before I take her home.

  I meant what I said when I told her I wouldn’t breathe a word of this to her brother. I’m beginning to get the impression that he’s more of a parent to her than her own mother, but their family dynamics seem a bit complicated and I don’t want to get involved in any of that. The Boys and Girls Club handbook explicitly stated we’re only allowed to communicate with the child’s legal guardian(s).

  I wash up for bed and climb under my covers, trying my hardest to relax after an eventful couple of hours, but every time I close my eyes, I see him.

  Madden.

  And while I hardly know him, I find myself wondering what he’s up to tonight, on this ordinary Friday evening. I picture him surrounded by friends, maybe a brown bottle of beer in one hand. Music blasting. People laughing. The smell of cigarettes lingering in the air. Not a designer accessory, nose job, or European luxury car in sight.

  Just regular people.

  Nice, unassuming, genuine people having a good time.

  People unafraid to be themselves.

  Unencumbered by societal expectations placed on them, dictating anything from how they’re to behave at all times to what topics of conversation are appropriate in that setting.

  Must be nice …

  Rolling to my side, I squeeze my eyes tight and force myself to think of something else, anything else, but ultimately it drifts back to him every time.

  The sound of water rushing through pipes in the guest room travels between the walls. She must be getting ready for bed. Part of me feels bad for keeping a secret from him. He obviously cares about her more than anything in the world.

  But a promise is a promise.

  And I’ve yet to break a single one.

  16

  Madden

  I pull into Mom’s driveway shortly after eight Saturday morning, parking behind her dented Taurus. I’m not usually up this early, especially on the weekends, but I couldn’t sleep last night. It was one of those nights when I tossed and turned and my mind wouldn’t shut off. I’m lucky if I got maybe four hours total, but whatever. I’ll survive.

  Grabbing the McDonalds bag, I head inside to wake Dev.

  The house is still, quiet. Pitch dark save for some dimmed sconces along the hall walls. Mom’s door is shut. Dev’s is wide open. I pop my head in.

  “Hey, you up?” I ask before spotting a crumpled pile of covers and no Dev.

  Heading to the bathroom, I find that door open too, the light off. I check the rest of the house—even going so far as to check the fucking coat closet.

  But Devanie’s not here.

  Running my hand through my hair, I settle in the middle of the living room, dragging in lungfuls of air as my blood boils beneath the surface of my skin.

  I knew this was going to happen if I got her a phone. I knew she’d get a taste of freedom and autonomy and try to pull some sneaking out shit.

  Collapsing in the worn leather recliner, I pull out my phone and tap on the tracking app so I can see where the hell she’s been and where the hell she is.

  First I’m going to find her. Then I’m going to bring her home. And after that, I’m going to rip my mom a new one for coming home and not realizing that her goddamned daughter was gone.

  The app is loading when the crunch of driveway gravel beneath tires draws my attention to the front of the house. I head to the living room window, peering out from behind cigarette-scented curtains, only to find my sister climbing out of a shiny white Volvo.

  The fuck.

  She was with Brighton?

  Tearing outside, I’m met with a sheer look of terror on my sister’s young face, and Brighton’s car jolts and settles, like she’s just shifted into park.

  “The hell, Dev?” I come at her, my hands in the air. “Where were you?”

  She avoids eye contact at first, slinging her bag over her shoulder before shrugging.

  “I stayed at Brighton’s last night,” she finally answers.

  “Why?” I ask, realizing there are worse places she could’ve been. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  The driver’s door opens and out steps Brighton. But before she has a chance to say anything, Dev steps forward.

  “It’s not her fault,” Dev says. “I asked if I could stay with her last night. I was bored.”

  I look between the two of them, and their poker faces drive me fucking mad.

  “Go inside, Devanie.” My jaw clenches and my stare lands on Brighton.

  “It’s okay, Devanie,” she says. “I'm just going to talk to your brother for a second. See you Tuesday, okay?”

  Devanie lingers, hesitating, and then she storms inside with the temperamental stride of a preteen.

  “What the hell, Brighton?” I ask after the front door slams and my sister’s inside. “You can’t just pick her up and take her to your house and not tell anyone.”

  “I made her text your mom,” she says.

  I roll my eyes. Like that means anything. Though knowing Dev, Brighton doesn’t have half a clue what a winner our mother is. It’s not something either of us have ever broadcasted, especially to people we hardly know.

  “What really happened?” I ask.

  “You’ll have to ask her,” Brighton says. “I promised to stay out of it.”

  “A little late for that. You pick her up, you’re part of it.”

  “Either way, I promised I wouldn’t say anything to you,” she says. “You’ll have to talk to her about it.”

  “I don’t care what you promised. She’s a damn kid. You can’t promise shit like that.” My words are sharp and curt and every part of my body is tense.

  The last time I felt like this was the night I walked in on Veronica blowing Horatio, though this is a different brand of betrayal and exclusion.

  “What if something would’ve happened to her?” I ask.

  “I’d never let anything happen to her.”

  “From now on, if my sister asks you to pick her up, you contact me first,” I say. “Give me your phone.”

  I hold my hand out, and she glances at it before her golden gaze returns to mine.

  “What? Why?” Her perfect, straight nose crinkles.

  “So I can give you my damn number.” I flatten my palm. “Come on.”

  She retrieves her phone from her car and hands it over. I program my number in and give it back.

  “The Boys and Girls Club requires that I only communicate directly with legal guardians,” she says.

  “I don’t care what the Boys and Girls Club says. I want you to keep me in the loop at all times.” Pulling my phone out, I tap on my Contacts icon. “Give me your number.”

  Brighton exhales before rattling off ten digits, and a minute later, I’ve added her as The Girl with the Butterfly Tattoo because right now everything about her, including h
er fucking name, is like nails on a chalkboard.

  I’ll change it when I calm down.

  “She’s a good kid, Madden,” Brighton says as she walks to the driver’s side of her car. “You should really give her more credit.”

  With that, Brighton ends our conversation, and a second later, she’s backing out of the driveway.

  I head inside, finding Devanie sitting on the sofa, her knees drawn to her chest and her phone in her hand.

  “Got you breakfast,” I say. I’m pissed as hell at her, but it doesn’t mean she needs to starve.

  “Already ate,” she says.

  My hands rest on my hips. “Of course you did.”

  Her attention lifts to me. “Brighton’s chef made us Nutella crepes this morning and the best scrambled eggs I’ve ever had.”

  There’s a glimmer in her ocean eyes, an undercurrent of excitement.

  “You should see her house, Madd.” She rests her phone on the cushion beside her. “It’s like a palace.”

  I don’t give two shits what her house is like. “What happened last night?”

  The light in her eyes dims and she swallows before responding. “Nothing happened.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No, seriously. Nothing happened,” she says. “Nothing happened because I called Brighton and she picked me up before anything could happen.”

  “I’m going to need you to elaborate.” I take a deep breath. “Or I’m taking your phone back.”

  Her jaw falls for a second and she shakes her head. I imagine she’s weighing her outcomes.

  “I was hanging out with a friend and they invited some other friends over and then more people showed up and ...” her voice trails. “Some of those friends were smoking pot.”

  My fists clench at my sides. This is exactly the kind of shit I was afraid of. She’s twelve fucking years old.