Bad Son (Prequel to Bad Wolf - a novella)

by Jo Raven

  So where did she vanish to this past week?

  She’s fiddling with the end of her ponytail, and her nervousness is undoing the good effect of this place, undermining my reassurances to myself.

  When the waitress comes to pour us coffee, I accept my mug and take a long gulp, letting the heat flow through me, hoping it will ground me.

  “What’s going on?” I finally ask, unable to stand the silence any longer. I know that’s rich coming from me, but... “Something freaked you out, didn’t it?”

  I don’t even know how I know that. Maybe because that’s how I feel most of the time, this twisty thing fucking up my chest—like when I realized I need the Lowes more than I thought. When I realized I need Gigi. This fucking panic.

  “No, I...” She spreads her hands on the table. They’re small, pale hands with pale pink nails, perfect ovals. What will she do if I take her hands in mine, if I kiss her palms? “Everything’s fine.”

  I search her face for the lie, because, come on—but I can’t find anything that says she’s dishing out what I wanna hear. She smiles again, color rising in her cheeks, her gaze meeting mine, tentative and yet bold.

  Fuck, she’s beautiful. And there’s something so sweet about her face, about that smile, that I’m transfixed.

  The pancakes arrive then, the clatter of the plates on the table jarring me. The waitress winks at me and goes, and I blink stupidly after her.

  “I don’t suppose you want to tell me how things are at home,” she says after we’ve dug into the syrupy goodness of the pancakes and the crispy bacon. She licks her fingers and I stare, her words flying right over my head and my dick going diamond hard. “Jarett.”

  “Huh.” I realize I’ve been staring at her mouth, and force my gaze away. “Nah, I’m good. I mean...” I lift a hand to rub at my forehead and the headache spiking there. “Not really, but man, I don’t know, are friends supposed to always—”

  “Friends understand.”

  I look back at her, surprised. “What? Understand what?”

  “If the other person needs some space. But eventually you talk to each other. We,” she waves between us, “talk to each other about whatever has been on our minds. That’s how it works.”

  I nod, not sure what to say. If that’s what she wants from me, then that’s what I’ll do. And if all we get to be is friends, then that’s okay. It has to be okay.

  Right now, it’s all I have.

  “Give me your phone number,” she says. “And I’ll give you mine. And you can call me whatever you need someone to talk to. Or to have pancakes with.”

  My mouth pulls into a smile.

  Somewhere in my head, a voice is railing at me for letting this slip of a girl tell me what to do, dictate how this relationship will work. But just for that word, that idea, that relationship with her, I’d work hard.

  I’d give all I have. It’s not much, but I’d give it all of myself.

  Chapter Ten

  Gigi

  “Lick me, Gertrude,” Ollie says, thrusting his hips, standing way too close to me, while his buddy Everett holds me in place as I flail. “Suck me. Take it deep, bitch.”

  The fact he’s fully dressed, that we all are, and we’re right outside the school doesn’t matter to my panicked mind.

  “Let me go!” I struggle in Everett’s hold as the two idiots laugh, but for me it’s a flashback straight to hell, to my recurring nightmares. A memory from a few years back that shouldn’t have shaken me so badly. It shouldn’t, I keep telling myself stubbornly, even if it’s obvious that it did. “Everett, let go!”

  I wonder how many more people will pass by and not stop. You’d think my shouts would give people pause, but they only hurry by fast, heads down.

  Do they think I want it? That I asked for it? That my skirt is too short, my cleavage too low, my hair too long? That I invited these assholes to paw at me and make crude jokes?

  Jesus.

  I’m still struggling, Ollie’s voice lost in the rising roar of panic in my ears, when Everett’s hold goes slack.

  Ollie steps away from me, falling silent, and they both turn and walk away quickly, casting glances over their shoulders.

  I stagger back and try to catch my breath, wondering what happened and who I have to thank for this respite.

  Then I see Jarett.

  I should have known. He’s one of the few people the bullies are afraid of. He hasn’t noticed me, I realize. He’s just passing by, his wide shoulders and the strength in his body, the intensity of his gaze and general presence commanding attention.

  He swaggers by, and the guys step back, while the girls sigh. He never seems to notice. And he’ll never know how he’s saved me time and again from the bullies just by being here.

  My heart bangs about in my chest. I want to smile and cry at once. I want to plant myself in front of him, throw my arms around him, and ask him to hold him.

  I want to turn around and go before he sees me and this complicated feeling in my chest grows stronger and chokes me up.

  This truce between us... no, not truce, that’s not the right word. This understanding, maybe, this arrangement, the tacit agreement that we’re friends without benefits and with many boundaries, friends who skirt the real issues and only hang out together sometimes making small talk... isn’t enough for me.

  But it will have to be.

  It’s pretty clear Jarett doesn’t share my feelings, and that he needs a friend, someone who’ll put up with his shitty mood swings and stubborn silences, and in exchange for his protection from the bullies I’ll be that friend, if it kills me.

  ***

  “You’re shitting me.” I shoot my mom un incredulous look.

  “Augusta, language.” Sometimes I think Mom is sad she never gave me a middle name to call me by when she’s upset with me. “It’s our best option.”

  “Best for whom?”

  “Oh for Pete’s sake, don’t throw a tantrum now, Gigi.” Mom puts her fists on her hips and glares at me. She’s a copy of me—or rather, I’m a copy of her. Same hair, same eyes, same mouth, only hers is thinner, especially now when she’s flaming pissed. “Best for all of us. When have I ever put myself before you?”

  God, she’s right. I’m just so angry, so frustrated.

  We’re moving house. Moving away—from this neighborhood, this street, this school.

  So not fair. Just when I decided that I can’t keep away from Jarett, that I’ll try to be his friend, she goes and springs this on me? Sure, being his friends is not what I want, but it’s something. Moving away would be to lose him completely.

  I can’t. Can’t give up on him. On this strange relationship we have. On the hope that one day things could change.

  “Honey, listen.” Mom sighs and lets her hands drop to her sides. “I know it’s a shock. But I didn’t realize you’d take it this hard. Merc seemed happy when I told him. I know you made friends here, but you’ll make new ones. Besides, we’re not moving all that far. Just to the other side of the city. Not to the other side of the country, or to the moon.”

  She’s right. Moving won’t change anything. I’ll keep in touch. With Sydney. With Jarett. Right? Nothing to worry about.

  Even if I don’t have Sydney anymore to gossip about everyone and everything during break.

  Even if I don’t have Jarett to walk home with and check out in the garden as he rakes the leaves, shirtless and sexy and...

  Yeah. I’ll be fine. It will be fine. Has to be.

  I repeat that to myself while Mom explains why this is a good move. How this neighborhood is getting dangerous, how this house is falling apart, how much better the new house will be, how marvelous our life will be from now on.

  It occurs to me she’s trying to convince herself as much as me.

  Anyway, looks like it’s a done deed. My opinion doesn’t count. Not being an adult yet sucks. We’re staying here until the end of the month, then going, and that’s in less than two weeks. I’m too shock
ed to throw a fit over the fact Mom has obviously been sitting on this for some time but didn’t see fit to tell me.

  Probably because she knew I’d throw a fit.

  Still.

  It sucks. And it hurts. And I’m afraid that it will change everything.

  ***

  “We’ll be fine,” Sydney says for the hundredth time as I sniffle into my pillow. “I’ll be hitting you up at your new home so often you’ll wish you’d never met me.”

  And that makes me snicker.

  We’re both in our jammies in my bedroom. Syd’s staying over for the night, something we often do—supposedly to catch up on homework but mainly to listen to music and talk.

  Tonight we’re not even pretending to be studying.

  “You will visit me,” I tell her, and it’s an order. “We will hang out. All the time. Every day.” Then my bravado fails me. “Will we? Please, say yes, Syd.”

  “Yes,” she says immediately, and see? That’s why I love this girl.

  Our friendship is new, but strong. I can’t even remember how it started. During a school break I guess, maybe in the cafeteria, but since then, we’ve been living in each other’s pockets. We’re inseparable, and this move won’t change that.

  “What about Jarett?” she asks quietly, and I flinch.

  That’s exactly what—and who—I’ve been trying very hard not to think about, not to wonder what will happen.

  “What about him?” I mutter.

  “What did he say about this? Wait...” She scoots closer to me. “You told him, right? That you’re moving?”

  The little red hearts printed on my pajama bottoms suddenly become fascinating. I study them with a frown.

  “Gigi. Oh my God, you didn’t tell him.” Sydney elbows me. “Why not?”

  I shrug. Wince inwardly.

  “You have to tell him!”

  Dear God... “I will, okay? Haven’t had the chance yet. I’m just...” Scared to death we’ll drift apart. That the tenuous thread of friendship between us won’t hold, that it will snap and we’ll part ways forever.

  But no way, right? We’re friends. We’ll be fine. If Sydney and me are going to be fine, why not Jarett, too?

  It’s different, something tells me. It’s not the same. No matter how you try, how you force what you have into this friendship mold, it wants to be something else, something more.

  You don’t lust after your bosom friends. You just don’t. And the way I lust after Jarett... Even if he doesn’t feel the same way... is not how friends feel.

  And moving away from him feels like dying.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jarett

  The heavy feeling in my chest hasn’t eased up. More days have passed, and Mr. Lowe is still yelling, and Mrs. Lowe is still wandering around in a strange daze, forgetting what she was about to do, what day it is, and who I am.

  Fuck this.

  At least Gigi is back, walking with me from the bus stop home, chattering about this and that, calming me down with every step we take.

  I’ve been thinking to take her hand. I’d fucking love to hold her hand, grip it tightly to let her know I’m listening. That I’m right there, with her. That I need her to give me a chance, to give me time.

  To stay.

  When I wake up shaking from a nightmare, from bad memories, when the deep cold pit of fear opens up in my stomach, I think of her, a few houses down the street. When I remember the bullies I encountered in foster homes, when I remember Connor, I think of her, and I can breathe again.

  So when she comes over to the house today, I look up from where I’m painting the fence, and smile. It feels good to be outside, moving and creating something, instead of stewing inside four walls, lost inside my mind.

  Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, strands of flyaway hair in her eyes, her lips chapped, and she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  We should kiss, I think randomly. Otherwise we’ll never know how good it could be. I think it’s time.

  “Hey, Rett.”

  I nod at her. “Hey yourself.” I keep painting, keeping an eye on her. “What’s up?”

  She bites her lower lip, and I stare until my brush starts dripping on the grass. Damn, it’s hot when she does that. “Nothing much. You?”

  “Same.” I won’t tell her about the Lowes again, or Sebastian’s barbs whenever he sees me. Fuck no. I lay the brush over the can of paint. “Wanna grab a coffee?”

  She shakes her head. “No.”

  That’s when I notice she won’t look me in the eye. Her cheeks are splotchy and I realize her eyes look red-rimmed. What the fuck happened?

  Worried, I get up from my crouch and stretch my legs. “How about a walk?”

  “Okay.”

  That’s our thing, I guess. Walking side by side. I close the can of paint, leave everything where it is, and I don’t fucking care if Mr. Lowe yells at me about it.

  I hurry out the gate to join her, and she smiles, but it’s not convincing. Something happened, that’s for sure.

  We walk together down the street, and even though we don’t hold hands, I can almost feel her slim fingers in mine.

  One day, I tell myself. One day, maybe, we will.

  “Will you tell me what happened?” I ask as we pass by the Jensens’ house with the white picket fence. A fairytale house, with chocolate tiles on the roof and pink candy windows.

  “Not today,” she says. “Today I just want to walk with you down the street, like we always do.”

  Can’t be anything all that bad, I think, shrugging and matching her much shorter strides. If it was, she’d tell me.

  Right?

  Maybe she had a fight with her friend, that Sydney chick she always talks about. Or with her brother. So what if she cried? Girls cry more often than boys.

  I haven’t shed a tear for as long as I can remember, and I’ve tried. I’ve tried to let all the grief and anger out, but I can only smash things, destroy things, and the ache in my chest never lessens.

  It’s as if the tears I’ve kept inside have dried up, their salt hardening around my heart, turning it to stone, but now... now I feel things. Since I met her, I feel, and it scares me.

  As we walk and walk, saying nothing and hearing everything, I think she may be undoing the spell. The shell is cracking. The numbness is fading. It occurs to me that with one blow she may well crush me.

  Well, I did say she’s worth it.

  I just didn’t think she’d do it. Crush me under her heel.

  Christ, how many times do I have to get it wrong to realize I know fuck-all, and that hope will always screw me over?

  ***

  The first indication that the world has gone to shit once more is the ambulance I find waiting outside the house when I return from school two days later.

  There’s a catch in my breath, in my heartbeat, in my whole body. I stumble, and have to hold on to the fence not to fall on my face.

  In a daze, I stagger into the house, my bad knee hurting more than usual, as if it remembers older times just as much as my mind does.

  Mrs. Lowe, a voice is screaming in the back of my mind. Something happened to her. Or to Sebastian? He takes drugs, I’m damn sure of it. What if he overdosed? What if he was in an accident? What if she fell down the stairs?

  So many scenarios. So many fucked-up possibilities.

  The door is open a crack. I push it and enter the house, this house that it’s finally starting to feel vaguely familiar, not a home yet but maybe, given time, someday...

  Hope. That sneaky, big fucking bastard.

  I don’t see anyone in the hall. I check the living room, and the kitchen, but it’s all empty. Then I hear voices from upstairs, so I make my way up on shaky legs.

  I see the paramedics first, and the stretcher, and then Sebastian. Someone is sobbing.

  It’s Mrs. Lowe, sitting on the bed where her husband is lying.

  He’s dead. I don’t need anyone to tell me. It’s in the st
illness of his face, of his chest, the grief on his wife’s face. The blank faces of the paramedics who are standing in uncomfortable silence, waiting to take the body away.

  The body.

  Mr. Lowe, teaching me to fix a car engine, treating me like his own, clapping me on the shoulder, asking me how my day had been. Trying to make me feel at ease, treating me like a son.

  And all I can think of is that this is a fucking déjà vu. It can’t be happening.

  Not again.

  I’m still stuck on that, when Sebastian ambles over to me and unexpectedly puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’ll be okay,” he says.

  The weight of his hand is crushing me, the weight of the whole world, and yet it keeps me there, an anchor, a line to the here and now. I’m adrift in my mind, in the past and all the bad stuff, and his hold is the only thing keeping me from sinking.

  Who would’ve thought that he, of all people, would know what I need, that he’d care enough to comfort me when it’s his dad who died, not mine?

  That’s fucking nuts.

  So I stay there in a daze, watching as the paramedics eventually load Mr. Lowe on the stretcher and carry him downstairs, as Sebastian turns to his mother and holds her as she cries, and realize I want just one thing:

  To hear Gigi’s voice.

  But when I call her number, she doesn’t answer.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gigi

  In typical Gigi fashion, I avoid Jarett in the days after Mom dropped the bomb about us moving away. I’ve seen him around at school. But he hasn’t seen me. I’ve kept out of sight. Hey, he’s done it, too, from time to time. Why should I feel guilty for needing time?

  We’re more similar than I care to admit to myself, Jarett and me. Hiding from ugly truths, preferring not to look reality in the face.

  But yeah, I know I need to tell him. Sydney was right.

  Not that I needed her to tell me that. Of course I’ll let him know. Only I hesitate because... honestly, I’m not even sure he’ll be upset like I am. If he isn’t as sad about it as I am, it will break my heart.

  Crazy. I’m crazy. He shouldn’t have the power to break my heart, not so easily, not when we’re barely friends, let alone anything more. When we haven’t ever kissed, or held hands, or professed any feelings for each other.