The Edge Rules (The Rules Series Book 3)

by Melanie Hooyenga

  Crue pats the front of his jacket and pulls out a CD with handwriting on the front. “Nah, left my laptop at home.”

  A low rumble shakes from Bruno and a wide grin splits his face in two. “You win.” He tosses him something but it moves too fast to see anything but a flash of hot pink.

  “What is that?” I ask Mystery Boy—X-Man?—but he’s already looking at his phone.

  “It’s one of those little Troll dolls on a keychain,” says Shaved Head. “Most creative discovery gets it until the next time.”

  “Do you have to hang onto the thing to win?” I ask. Keeping trash anywhere but at the end of my pokey stick does not sound like something I’d like to be a part of.

  Mystery Boy looks up and meets my eyes. His are so dark they’re almost black and for a second I forget where we are. “It’s an honor system.”

  My pulse speeds up. “Honor among thieves?” I say the words without thinking, and I immediately wish I could take them back. For all I know I’m the only thief here.

  But he smiles, a tiny curl of the side of his mouth. “Something like that.”

  “Put your seats in the upright position,” Bruno shouts. “The Goodship Lollipop is taking off.”

  I don’t know if it’s the soft chatter around me, the two hours of fresh air, or the sense of relief I feel for making it through my first shift, but I can’t keep my eyes open. My head rests against the window and the next thing I know we’re back at the center. Everyone says good night to Bruno as they exit the bus and I head straight for my car.

  Should I say goodbye to anyone? This isn’t a party—this is court-mandated community service—but for the first time in my life I care what a group of strangers thinks about me. It’s not that I’m intimidated by any of them—well, maybe Shaved Head a little, but I get the sense that she uses her appearance as a defense mechanism. Kind of like I do, just differently. While I try to appeal to the general population by looking as desirable as possible, she’s taken the stay-the-hell-away approach. But she seemed nice enough on the bus.

  As I open my door, a grinding squeal like fingernails on a chalkboard assaults my ears. I turn to see what the hell made the noise and freeze.

  Mystery Boy’s standing next to his car, the driver’s door open, and our eyes lock. He rests his arm on the roof and his tattoo winks at me, and I catch myself wishing he’d push up his sleeves so I can see more. He nods his head, then unleashes a smile that really shouldn’t be allowed in public. My insides warm and a thousand butterflies batter about in my stomach, but I have enough sense to smile back. And not my practiced come-hither smile. Just a regular, holy-crap-do-you-know-how-hot-you-are smile.

  Then he gets in his car and starts the engine, and for the first time I really notice his car. The body says Subaru, but it’s the junkiest one I’ve ever seen. Duct tape runs along the edge of the wheel wells, secures the bumper to the car, and covers the entire panel of the passenger door. Like there isn’t a side to the door—it’s made entirely of tape. And not the plain silver stuff. This has a dark green background with a smiling fox next to a tree. Over and over again. He pulls away and I’m left standing there with my hand on the open door, my heart racing.

  But it doesn’t take long for reality to come screaming back. While I’ve never have this kind of physical reaction from a boy, nothing can ever happen with him. He may be hot and make my insides tremble, but he’d never be allowed to set foot in the driveway.

  To my parents, appearances are everything.

  This was supposed to be the best day of the year. I’d wake up to the scent of freshly baked pastries and French-roasted coffee and Mom and Dad would be waiting in the kitchen with the first of many birthday presents, then I’d float through the day as my adoring fans showered me with praise.

  But the only scent coming from downstairs is the same coffee as always, and I doubt anyone’s throwing me a parade at school. Nonetheless, I take extra time getting ready and based on Mom’s smile when I join her in the kitchen, she approves.

  “Happy birthday,” she says, pointing at a mug of coffee next to a store-bought box of Danishes. “I know it’s not what you were expecting, but there’s a lot of that going around these days.”

  She already creamed and sugared my coffee, so I take a sip, hoping the artificial sweetness will rub off on my mood. Being disappointed that there aren’t any presents for me makes me a spoiled brat, but it doesn’t change how I feel. If they didn’t want to keep up the tradition, they shouldn’t have started it in the first place.

  “Your father promised to stop by this evening.”

  Her emphasis on the word promised makes me wonder if he’ll show. He may be a tyrant, but he comes through on his promises and if he says he’ll be here, I have to believe he will.

  “Don’t be late.”

  “I don’t have any plans.”

  She raises an eyebrow.

  While she knows Austin and I broke up at the end of the summer, she certainly doesn’t know that I keyed his car in a rage, or that he’s already moved on with Mia. And while she’s aware that Kenzie and I don’t hang out as much—meaning never—I’ve managed to keep her in the dark about my shift in the social hierarchy. As in my plummet to the bottom. Even Mike, who was once my closest friend, barely looks at me.

  “You said I’m grounded, right? I assumed there wasn’t a furlough for special occasions.”

  Her eyebrow relaxes, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “I’ve gotta run. Took too long getting ready this morning.”

  She smiles. “It shows.” She means it as a compliment, but what I hear is that I haven’t been putting in enough effort lately.

  Edge Rule #4: Some days you have to work a bit harder to hold your edge.

  When I get to my locker, I blink away tears and plaster on my nastiest expression. Since my eleventh birthday—the first year we had lockers—my friends have always covered mine with streamers and balloons and silly notes that told everyone how much they loved me. Sometimes it was a bit over the top, but I milked it for days. Seeing the bare yellow paint, just like all the other lockers, hits me in the gut.

  As I grab my books, Austin walks by—without Mia for once—and pauses a few feet away. Our eyes meet for a beat longer than necessary, long enough for me to know he remembers it’s my birthday, but before he can say anything, I turn away.

  In History, I refuse to acknowledge Kenzie. She either takes pity on me or forgot it’s my birthday, because she ignores me throughout class. I’m not so lucky in Ethics. Mike’s already in her seat when I arrive, and based on the way she tracks me from the moment I enter the room, she hasn’t forgotten.

  I take my seat, determined to stare straight ahead, when something pokes my arm. Mike’s holding out a small cardboard box with a hot pink tulle ribbon and the logo from my favorite chocolatier.

  “I had a date there the other day and remembered how much you like their truffles so…” She sets the box on my desk. “Happy birthday.”

  Talk about getting hit with a feels-bomb. I finger the scratchy smooth fabric, unable to hide my surprise. This is the nicest anyone’s been to me all week. But I shouldn’t be surprised. Mike’s never been super outgoing, but she has a good heart. It used to piss me off because she always put up a fight when I asked her to be mean to other kids for me, but I guess there’s something to be said for standing up for yourself. “Thank you.”

  “I figured you could use something sweet.”

  If she’s heard about the arrest, she’s not letting on.

  She smiles. “Do you have big plans later?”

  My reflex is to lie, to tell her I’m having a party to end all parties, but I don’t have the energy. Instead I find myself wanting to tell her everything that’s happened. “No. My mom and dad split up and with everything else, I’m not in a very birthday-party-celebration mood.”

  Her jaw drops and I immediately regret saying anything.

  “It’s not a big deal. My dad’s coming over l
ater and—”

  She silences me with a hand on my arm. “Bri, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  I try to shrug it off but it’s like I opened a portal to the tiny piece inside me with feelings. I force a smile. “I figured it’s time I became a statistic, you know?”

  She lowers her voice. “And with everything else…”

  So she has heard. “I figured I’d start my seventeenth year with a bang.”

  Miss Simpson stands at the front of the room, our cue to stop talking. Halfway through the lecture, something Mike said jumps out at me. She had a date. I knew she’d broken up with Evan, one of the hottest, most popular boys in school, and has a new boyfriend, but this is the first time she’s mentioned him to me. I hadn’t put much thought into who he is, but now I sit up straighter, my senses humming, the potential for juicy gossip giving me a boost better than any cup of French-roast coffee.

  *****

  I refuse to become the kid who waits for her dad with her nose pressed against the front window. He’s always worked a lot and kept weird hours with the brewery—although I’m now realizing a lot of that must have been with The Seconds, his other family. It’s not like I miss him, or that I’m even looking forward to seeing him. Odds are he’ll use this visit as an excuse to ride me about the arrest, but odds are also good he’ll come bearing gifts.

  It’s dark by the time he arrives. His headlights cut across the front window and I fight the urge to run to the front door. Instead I sit at the dining room table, one leg crossed over the other, a bored expression on my face.

  He enters the house in a rush, bringing the cold air inside with him. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.” He brushes a kiss on my cheek and sits in the chair next to me. “Is your mother here?”

  “She’s in her office.” She locked herself in there as soon as she got home, promising we’d celebrate once he leaves.

  “I need to speak with her when we’re done.”

  When we’re done? Like I’m a checkbox on his list, not his only daughter—scratch that. Oldest daughter. I prop my elbow on the table and rest my cheek in my hand. Why did I think this would be different?

  “Let’s go in the study.”

  I follow him across the foyer to the bookcase-lined room that overlooks the front yard. When I was little and still enamored with my father, I’d play in here as a way to be close to him, imagining I was the CEO of a fashion empire and his business magazines were fashion magazines featuring my designs. But I stopped coming in here when he grew more distant. Now it feels cold and uninviting, like the man he’s become.

  Sitting behind his massive oak desk, you wouldn’t know he’s just left his family. He looks as calm and collected as always. Then again, Frank Vines is a master at keeping up appearances.

  I take the seat facing him and wait. He wouldn’t bring me in here without something important to say, but pestering him before he’s ready to share will get me nowhere. I cross and uncross my legs and stare at the row of unread first editions on the shelf behind him.

  “You’re as bad as your mother with the fidgeting.”

  Okay then. I place both feet on the floor and concentrate on not moving.

  “How was your day? Did you do anything fun?”

  “Considering I’m grounded and don’t have any friends, no.” His eyes narrow and I press my lips together. I didn’t mean to tell him that. I’m wound so tight trying to balance that line between being in control and exploding like a nuclear bomb that I can’t help but snap at him. “Mom said we’d celebrate tonight.”

  He tilts his head, a slight waver in his stoic expression. “I’m not staying.”

  I lean forward, ready to pounce on his moment of weakness. “Mom and me, we. Not you. Or did you forget you walked out on this family?”

  He leans back in his chair and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I know you’re upset but—”

  I roll my eyes.

  “There’s a lot you don’t understand. When you’re older—”

  “Save it.” I cross my arms. “This isn’t why you brought me in here.”

  He rests his forearms on the desk, reclaiming control of the conversation. “Did you start community service this week?”

  I nod.

  “And when do you expect to finish?”

  Fifty hours at four hours per week is, “almost thirteen weeks?”

  He sets his phone between us and opens the calendar app. “It’s the second week of November, so that has you finishing just before Valentine’s Day.”

  “Of course it does.” I started the week of my birthday, so why wouldn’t I end on the most romantic holiday of the year?

  Dad closes his screen and levels his gaze on me. “I’ll make a deal with you.”

  Can he get me out of this? I sit up straighter.

  “I’m planning a trip to Switzerland over spring break. If you finish your hours by Christmas—”

  “Done. Not a problem.” Switzerland is my absolute favorite place on earth. The skiing is like floating on a cloud, the boys are delicious, and best of all, I can be whoever I want to be.

  “Let me finish. There’s another caveat.” He laces his fingers together, a move he makes when he’s closing a deal, and his face twists into a frown. “It can’t get out that you’re picking up trash.”

  Dread fills my gut and I break into a sweat. “I don’t plan on telling anyone, but I can’t stop who might see me.”

  “If anyone bothered to look at those people, no one would believe it’s you.”

  The knot in my stomach hardens. “I won’t say anything.”

  “It’s more than that. How do you think it makes me look that my daughter was, A),” he ticks off his fingers, “arrested for shoplifting, and B), is now wandering the highway with a bunch of criminals?”

  Because this is all about him. Forget asking why I did it or wondering how I’m doing now that he’s abandoned us, he’s only worried about how this reflects on him. Never mind that he has two fricking families. I want to scream and ask if I’m allowed to tell people about that.

  At least he didn’t call me a criminal.

  “So it’s a deal?”

  “This is my birthday present?” I suck in a breath. Frank Vines doesn’t do talking back, and that came out bitchier than I intended.

  He reaches into his suitcoat pocket and pulls out a small velvet box. “I’m not sure you deserve this, but I’d already bought it so…” He sets the box on the table between us.

  I count to three before picking it up. Greedy hands are not tolerated. Inside, a diamond-crusted circle sits on a silk cushion, a silver chain tucked behind it. This hasn’t been in style for at least a decade, but it looks expensive and based on the pleased expression on his face, he picked it out himself. “Thanks, Dad. I love it.”

  “Now you have no excuse for stealing cheap crap.”

  The tiny burst of happiness pops. He can’t let me have one moment. I close the box and clutch it in my lap.

  “There’s one other thing.”

  I look up. How can there possibly be more?

  “About the trip. This will be Piper’s first time traveling abroad, so I expect you to show her the ropes.”

  Too many things crash through my mind. He’s bringing them? I’m supposed to go on a trip with his new family like it’s no big deal? What will Mom think? How can I do that to her? And finally, “Wait, you mean like a babysitter?”

  “We’ll worry about the details later.”

  So a babysitter. But still, it’s Switzerland. I’ll worry about how I’m going to complete fifty hours of community service by Christmas later.

  “I expect you to keep me posted on your hours.”

  “What, like a spreadsheet or something?”

  His eyes narrow at my tone. “A text is fine.”

  I fight the urge to salute him.

  He stands and extends his hand toward me. I brush off the alarm bells clanging in my head and shake his hand—firmly, but not too firmly—and
he leads me into the foyer.

  “Could you please get your mother?”

  I trot away like an obedient daughter and knock on her door. “Dad wants to talk to you,” I say to the closed door.

  When she steps into the hallway, she looks composed—hair styled like it’s not the end of the day, clothes unwrinkled and flattering as always—but her eyes tell another story. Like it’s taking all her energy to maintain the Miranda Vines mask. “What does he want?”

  “Another power trip? I don’t know. He’s by the door.” I lead her to where he’s waiting and start to run up the stairs, but he stops me.

  “Brianna, remember what I said.”

  I look down at him from a couple steps up. From here he doesn’t seem as imposing, just another guy in an overpriced suit determined to make people think he’s more important than he is. It used to impress me the way people cowered when he made demands. I dreamed of being just like him—it’s why I became the bitch I am—but now, watching Mom fidget next to him, I wonder if it’s worth it if you don’t have anyone to be yourself with. Sure, he’s got The Seconds, but I’d bet my 4Runner he treats them the same way.

  If you have to demand love, what’s the point?

  I run my fingers over my lips like a zipper and go to my room.

  Not much later, Mom knocks on my door. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.” I push my homework aside and she sits next to me. I can’t remember the last time we’ve sat like this, but strange times call for strange actions. “What did Dad want?”

  She looks at her hands and tears spill down her cheeks.

  My heart races. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen Miranda Vines cry, and one of them was when the housekeeper spilled bleach on her favorite Gucci bag.

  “He gave me the divorce papers.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  She laughs, but it’s a sad, pitiful sound. “That was my reaction.”

  “So he’s really doing this?”