The Edge Rules (The Rules Series Book 3)

by Melanie Hooyenga

  I park in my usual spot and take an extra moment to compose myself. As hard as I try, I can’t get Dad’s bombshell out of my head. How do you keep a second family secret for seven years? Boulder’s not that big. Someone had to know. His betrayal feels like shrapnel coming from every direction, and I fear we’ll be nursing our wounds long after this week.

  When I was little I wanted a sister more than anything in the world, but Mom always said that destroying her body once was barely worth it, so I stopped hoping. Now, I can’t help wondering about this little girl. Is she blond and blue-eyed like me? I get my looks from Mom, so—I can’t believe I’m even wondering this—she could look more like Dad.

  A gaggle of sophomores pass by, their giggles slowing when they see me. I kill the engine and grab my bag, and they scurry up the sidewalk.

  That’s more like it.

  The hallways greet me like any other Monday. I get a couple looks from randoms, but I’m used to that. It’s what I’ve always wanted—for people to look at me and wonder, but not really know what I’m thinking. The rush I get from the fear in their eyes is usually enough to sustain me, but lately the looks have been more curious, less fearful.

  But I can’t let that slow me down now.

  I’m almost to class when I stop abruptly, and a kid bumps into me from behind. I glare at him, but it doesn’t stop the sinking feeling in my gut. My formerly on-again, off-again boyfriend Austin—who’s now permanently off—is walking ten feet in front of me with his girlfriend Mia. They’re holding hands like they’re strolling through a park, not a crowded hall filled with kids rushing to class.

  Shame washes over me. When I lost Homecoming, I was furious at the world for what felt like the ultimate injustice. As I stormed out of the gym, I saw Austin and Mia making out in the hall and before I could stop myself, my house key was scraping the length of his truck. He knew it was me, and I realize now how lucky I am he didn’t follow through with his threat to press charges.

  That would make the shoplifting a second offense.

  They turn a corner and I blink as someone brushes my shoulder. “Watch it,” I snap, digging deep for the strength to get through this day.

  I coast through Homeroom holding my breath, and while History with Crusty Ray sucks, my secret seems to be safe. Kenzie is still ignoring me from her seat next to mine, and my former BFF Mike refuses to look in my direction. In Ethics, Miss Simpson greets me with a smile and says, “I hope you’re feeling better.” I just nod and take my seat. Miss Simpson is a saint among teachers. Most everyone likes her, and even though she saw me at my absolute worst last year—when I meant to just shove Cally and ended up drawing blood—she still treats me like a decent human being, which makes me want to do well in her class.

  Right now we’re studying variations in morals of different societies, and how some things we consider completely atrocious aren’t as shocking in other countries. I’m pretty sure stealing is wrong everywhere. A few weeks ago we talked about laws that are sometimes okay to break, and someone mentioned stealing to feed your family, but I have no excuse. I don’t even wear the things I’ve taken—they just sit in a pile gathering dust.

  The bell rings and Miss Simpson closes the door. “I assume you all read the chapter last night and are bursting with ideas. So let’s hear them.” She paces the front of the room, dry erase marker in hand. “What are societal norms that we consider wrong, but other countries may not?”

  Several hands shoot up around me, and she points at Jasminda, the alternative freak who won Homecoming Queen. “I’ve heard they eat dogs in China.”

  Several girls gasp, and there are a few “awws.”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Miss Simpson says. Her face pales, and she swallows hard before continuing. “There are animal rights groups actively working to stop it. In particular, to stop an annual Chinese festival called Yulin devoted to the practice.” She nods at Jasminda. “You hit one dear to my heart. What else?”

  “What about killing your wife?” a boy shouts from the back. “Aren’t there religions where that’s okay?”

  She nods again. “These are commonly known as honor killings.”

  “Doesn’t sound very honorable to me,” says Mike. Her eyes stay focused on the front of the class.

  “I agree,” says Miss Simpson, “and it’s a perfect example of how things that feel like common sense to us—don’t kill your wife—can be a gray area for other cultures.” She continues pacing in front of the room, a stern expression on her face. “That’s not to say they’re legal. Honor killings in particular are only performed by a very small portion of society. The majority of people agree that taking a life—any life, and for whatever reason—is wrong.”

  Kids throw out other examples, but my brain is stuck on Dad. Adultery isn’t illegal, but most people agree it’s wrong. Taking it to the level that you hide an entire second family from your wife and child is something that most would argue is borderline insane. As someone who takes pride in thinking through every detail, I keep getting tripped up on the logistics. How do you hide a child for seven years?

  When the dismissal bell rings, I skip lunch and head for my locker so I can leave by ten and catch Mike and Cally taping balloons to a locker. I noticed Mike excuse herself a few minutes before class and didn’t think much of it at the time, but Cally doesn’t have our lunch period so I guess this is the only time they could coordinate.

  I’m tempted to stop and ask what they’re doing when I realize who’s locker it is.

  Blake.

  Cally’s boyfriend, my former friend and first kiss, and the boy I’ve declared my enemy since middle school.

  Our birthdays are only a few days apart and of course Cally’s decorating his locker. They pause when I stalk by, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t help but check out their work. Balloons cover the front of the locker and streamers drift from the bottom. The flimsy paper won’t last long once kids traipse through the halls, but for now, it looks festive. I start to smile at Mike, but she turns away.

  I don’t bother with Cally. She was part of the Snow Bunnies for a hot second when she moved here last winter, but instead of being grateful for being included in the most exclusive group at Monarch High, she decided she was too good for us. I could have overlooked that, but she didn’t settle for hanging out with the loser Ski Bums and moving out of my life. No, she took Mike with her.

  Now they’re best friends and despite a few awkward conversations with Mike that tell me she hasn’t completely written me off, they exist in their happy little bubble without a care in the world.

  Not that I’m jealous.

  I really don’t care that much. Mike apparently has some new boyfriend who doesn’t even go here, but I’m sure he’s a total loser, too.

  I take a deep breath, pushing down the familiar twinge of guilt that twists my stomach whenever I see Cally or Blake. At least they seem happy together.

  I toss my books in my bag and head outside, pushing Cally and Mike and weird dog-eating cultures out of my head. I’ve got bigger things to worry about now.

  The judge slams the gavel. “Next case.”

  My shoulders slump. It took less than five minutes for him to decide that I’d best learn from my mistakes with fifty hours of community service. If this is leniency, I’d hate to see a mean judge. My lawyer, a man my father’s age but with gray hair and a big belly, stands and motions for me to follow him to where Mom’s waiting in the front row behind us. While I’m dressed like a normal teenager, she oozes wealth. People glance at me as we walk by, no doubt wondering why someone with money felt the need to steal in the first place.

  The first time was an accident. I’d slipped the leather bracelet onto my wrist to see how it felt against my skin, then forgot about it as I browsed the rest of the store. The stupidest part is I bought other things. I didn’t realize it was still on my wrist until I got home, but instead of feeling embarrassed or ashamed, I felt a rush not unlike the high I got when I torme
nted kids at school.

  But this rush didn’t hurt anyone. At least not directly.

  The next time was more of an experiment: different store, similar bracelet. I was more subtle when I tried it on and made sure to buy something so the woman behind the register didn’t suspect anything. And why would she? I clearly have money to buy whatever I want, so it wouldn’t occur to her to make sure I’d paid for everything I was wearing.

  And it snowballed from there.

  I always bought something—lingering at the jewelry display then rushing out would surely draw attention—and I made sure to chat with the employees. That added to the rush. Knowing I could manipulate them so easily filled the hole inside me that grew larger and darker each day.

  The first time I got caught, my cheeks turned that awful red before I could sputter an excuse, so I played it off like I was the biggest idiot known to man and didn’t realize I was still wearing it. I bought the item in question, plus a few other things, and backed out of the store dripping my deepest apologies.

  The next time, excuses sprang to my lips, but I played the bumbling idiot, even forcing out a few tears when the man didn’t seem to believe me. After I bought two hundred dollars’ worth of jewelry I’d never wear, he quietly asked me to never return to his store.

  So last week when the storeowner grabbed my wrist, I pulled out all the stops. I acted confused, let my cheeks turn pink, and was careful to keep my irritation in check. But she wasn’t having it. She called the police while still gripping my arm and insisted they arrest me.

  Panic nearly froze me.

  When she hung up the phone, I offered to buy the necklace and a number of its friends, but she refused to change her mind. When the cops arrived, they asked the question I’d been dreading.

  “Did you take anything else?”

  I’ve never been above a good lie, especially when it’s to save my own ass, but I must have hesitated a moment too long because the cop spun me around.

  “Place your hands on the counter.” I did, and he patted my sides, stopping at my jacket pockets. “Empty your pockets and place the contents on the counter.”

  And that’s when I knew I was screwed. Because today one necklace hadn’t seemed like enough. Kind of like drug addicts who need more and more to feel the same high. When I set five necklaces and half a dozen rings on the counter, the cop grabbed my purse and rifled through it. He pulled out two pairs of sunglasses, a handful of earrings, and the only thing I actually planned to use: a striped cloth headband.

  They asked more questions, but I didn’t hear them. All I kept thinking was that my parents were going to kill me. And not because I stole a bunch of cheap crap. No, they would kill me because this will embarrass them. The cop tugged my arms behind my back and the feel of cold metal on my wrists snapped me to attention.

  “You’re arresting me?” My tone was shrill and nasty and I couldn’t stop the look of disgust that rolled over my face. “For a couple necklaces?”

  The storeowner locked eyes with me and nodded once. “If it was just necklaces, I probably wouldn’t press charges. But your obvious lack of remorse pisses me off.”

  They led me outside, where I shook my hair in front of my face to avoid the curious stares of the people on the sidewalk. Once I was in the backseat, I ducked below the window, my life officially over.

  But now, standing in the hallway outside the courtroom, I know it’s only going to get worse. My lawyer is talking to Mom, and something he says jumps out at me. “Wait, what did you say?”

  Mom scowls. “I’m so glad you can be bothered to pay attention. This is your future we’re talking about.”

  “Sorry, I have a lot on my mind.”

  “You and me both.”

  Mr. Lawyer clears his throat, and we both look at him. “I was explaining to your mother that if you finish your community service within the prescribed time frame and without further incidents—”

  Mom rolls her eyes and I bite back a snotty comment.

  “—then you’ll have six months probation, after which your record will be cleared.” He levels his gaze at me and my breathing stills. “You’re fortunate Colorado considers under eighteen a minor.”

  “I’m not even seventeen yet.”

  “You will be in a week,” Mom says.

  As if I’m not aware.

  “I don’t think you’re grasping the severity of your situation,” Mr. Lawyer says. “Fifty-three weeks later and we could be looking at an entirely different outcome.”

  Heat floods through me at the realization of how bad this could have gone.

  He hands Mom a brochure. “This has the community service options. Some are… ahh… better than others, but those tend to fill up first.”

  “What are you saying?” I ask.

  “This isn’t going to be like volunteering after school. Most of these projects are menial labor. Gross, dirty work.”

  Mom takes the brochure and flips through it. “Surely you can pull a few strings. Frank Vines’ daughter cannot be seen—” she pauses with her finger on a picture— “debasing herself in this way.”

  “Well, ma’am,” he says, looking at me. “She should have thought of that before she broke the law.” He straightens his suit jacket and holds his hand out to me. “Good luck, Brianna. I hope we don’t see each other again for a long time.”

  He leaves us standing in the hallway, Mom clutching the brochure and me gaping after him like he’s my final lifeline and he’s slowly drifting away.

  *****

  “I have to pick up trash?! On the side of the road?! Like one of those chain-gangs or something?!”

  Mom did her best, but I want to get this over with as soon as possible and the only community service option accepting people immediately was trash duty. As in neon-jacket, long poky stick, and a bunch of delinquents meandering along the side of the highway while people who manage to get through the day without breaking the law drive by on their way to their non-criminal activities.

  Activities that do not involve picking up trash every Tuesday and Thursday for the next couple months.

  “Can’t you arrange for me to work at your office or something?” I’m not one-hundred percent certain what she does as a buyer, but I guarantee anything in her building is vastly superior to roadside humiliation. “Stocking the warehouse would be better than this.”

  Mom shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but the judge was very clear. You have to complete your hours with the services listed in the brochure.”

  “I’d like to burn that brochure.”

  “Brianna.”

  “I’m sorry, but this is stupid. How is this even a suitable punishment?”

  She narrows her eyes. “Would you rather spend fifty hours in jail?”

  I clench my jaw.

  “You broke the law. Now you have to live with the consequences. Your father and I—” her voice catches. “We can’t always be there to bail you out. And it’s time you learned that.”

  I want to argue. To scream and throw things and make her understand how absolutely unfair this is, but a tiny part of me knows she’s right. When I got suspended last spring for hurting Cally, my parents were pissed but didn’t ground or punish me in any way. Dad simply told me to make better decisions and that was the last we talked of it. Now, knowing all the lies he’s kept from us, I realize he probably just didn’t care. As long as my drama didn’t affect him or the business, I could go about my life however I pleased.

  And Mom’s just as bad. She may still be here, but she’s always made it clear that her number one priority is herself. If they think I expect too much, it’s because that’s what they taught me. To go after what I want, damn the consequences.

  My secret is out.

  From the minute I walk through the front doors of school, it’s obvious people know. And with the way rumors spread here, by first period my crime will have morphed from shoplifting to murdering a family of cats. So I do what I do best—I hold my head high, glare a
t anyone who dares laugh in my face, and refuse to speak.

  That gets me through Homeroom. When Kenzie stalks into History, my stomach plummets. She lifts her chin so she can look down her nose at me, and when she reaches her desk next to mine, she laughs. I’ve never seen her talk to the guy on her other side, but she leans toward him like they’re best friends and whispers loud enough for the entire class to hear.

  “Can you believe Brianna was arrested? I mean, I know everyone’s ignored her since she lost Homecoming Queen, but this is such a pathetic cry for attention.”

  The guy fidgets in his seat like he’s puzzled by her talking to him and terrified of saying the wrong thing. “Um, sure?”

  She straightens, working for her audience. “At least I assume it’s for attention.” She faces me, her head cocked in curiosity. “Or are you so poor now that you have to steal?”

  She reaches to touch the sleeve of my sweater and I yank my arm away.

  “Did you steal this, too?”

  Fury bubbles through me, but I will not let her bait me. I stare straight ahead and bite the inside of my cheek. I’m sure my face is horribly red, but I can’t risk speaking and having my voice crack. Any sign of weakness will only make this worse.

  I should know. I taught Kenzie everything she knows about humiliating people.

  Mike twists in her seat and catches my eye, but I look away.

  “So pathetic,” Kenzie says, abandoning the whisper.

  “Ladies, enough,” Crusty Ray says. “Open your books to page…” He continues his lecture, but all I hear are the whispers around me.