by Monty Jay
They laugh loudly at my comment, knowing I’m right. I don’t believe serial killers pass anything on to their children besides trauma. But I know what’s it like to be raised like you’re a monster. Eventually, you give in and turn into one.
The windows of the next car in line roll down, allowing me to catch a glimpse of Alistair Caldwell in his driver’s seat.
“Shame he hates the world so much. He would have made the perfect trophy boyfriend,” I say with a shake of my head. I mean, his family owns most of the town—we would have been great if he wasn’t five shades of fucked-up.
“Because Easton Sinclair isn’t already perfect? Do you see the girls that swarm him like flies, ready to take him right off your hands?”
“Like you, Mary?” I arch a well-manicured eyebrow at her, and she turns her flushed face, trying to think of a way to backtrack and deny.
It’s not lost on me that Mary has been thirsting over Easton since preschool, and the moment we split, she’ll be there, legs spread, ready to pick up the pieces. Not like I care—Easton is there for the same reason they are.
Placeholders until I graduate.
“Kidding,” I add at the end, smirking a bit.
Then, like the explosion he is, Rook Van Doren slides his lean body through Alistair’s passenger window, hanging outside of the car as he sits on the doorframe, grinning widely, a match dangling from his pink lips.
“Romeo, Romeo, where art thou Romeo?” he chides. “You’ll see him tomorrow. We got some sketchy shit we need to take care of tonight.” His jokester voice rings in the air as he drums his hands on the roof of the car. There isn’t a single thing he takes seriously.
“Yeah, jackass, that’s definitely going to comfort her tonight,” Silas’s voice calls back.
“Sorry, was I supposed to lie? It’s not like we’re going to bake cupcakes.”
The streetlights bounce off his pale skin, the yellowish-orange glow warming his face. Industrial flames glow around him. Those pretty-boy features make him look so unassuming, that sorta wild hair and brazen look that reminds me of wild mustangs. Free, reckless, dangerous. I’ve heard at least five girls complain about how jealous they are of his long eyelashes that frame his hellfire eyes.
I’ve never seen them up close, but that’s what everyone calls them.
Hazel on anyone else, but his? They scorch you.
Something that I’ve always admired and simultaneously drives me up the wall about Rook is how unpredictable he is.
You never knew what you’ll get from him. A smile, a Molotov cocktail, a knife in the back, a laugh. The only boy in their group that you can’t prepare for is him. Everyone knows Thatcher is supremely intelligent and that, if given the opportunity, he might lock you in his basement and play Dr. Hannibal with your body parts.
God, and if you weren’t aware of Alistair’s anger issues, climb out from under the gigantic fucking rock you’re sleeping under and look at him. He’s practically bathing in wrath-scented cologne.
And of course, everyone is aware that Silas is the quiet one. The schizo doesn’t say much because he is too busy inside his own head.
He’s the one my sister was able to crack.
But Rook, he’s identical to the element he so fondly associates himself with. Nothing he does is deliberate; it’s always on a whim, probably based on whatever feels right at the moment for him. The boy has never thought twice about anything.
I admire it because he has the balls to do it. I find it stupid because he’s going to wind up getting himself killed, and being that crazy is only fun when you have the money and power to avoid the consequences.
The psycho.
The vengeful one.
The schizo.
And the devil.
The Hollow Boys.
Irritated and done snooping, I step back from the window. “I’m going to grab something to drink. Try not to cream your panties before I get back.”
Making my way down the steps and through our living room, I hear my mother’s glossy voice echo. My feet slow so she doesn’t hear me coming. I walk until I reach the edge of the kitchen entry, listening to her on the phone.
“I just don’t know what to do anymore, Sherry. I mean, she’s hopeless! She was always rebellious as an infant, but sleeping with Silas Hawthorne? God, I can’t imagine what the people at church think when they see us. He hangs out with a boy the town calls the Antichrist,” she whines emphatically.
My ears ring while she continues. “We’ve tried grounding her, and she just sneaks out. Ugh, and the weight! You should see the weight she has put on since she met him. It’s awful!”
The water starts to bubble at my feet.
A flood warning signals in my head, and I know what’s coming.
If she would just stay away from him like I told her, this wouldn’t be happening. Our own mother wouldn’t be speaking about her daughter like this. The water wouldn’t be rising this quickly, and my lungs wouldn’t be shaking.
“Sage is fine. I mean, at least we have one child who cares about this family’s image. Just as long as she can refrain from screwing it up.” Her footsteps move away from me, telling me she’s heading out the opposite side towards the den.
My heart pounds in my chest, my nails digging into the palm of my hand. Every time Rose screws up, every time she bends the rules, it’s like they push my head further and further beneath the surface.
The drowning is coming. I can feel it.
When awful things happen, some people become dainty, soft wallflowers that grow in the corners, waiting to be plucked by their Prince Charming.
And some people become warriors.
They forge themselves with iron, building layers of armor to protect what remains. They become hard.
Mean.
Angry.
Jealous of the ones who are able to reconstruct themselves without the bitter shards of glass from their trauma.
The front door opens, the wind brushing her dark auburn hair that is several shades darker than my own from her hair dye behind her shoulders. Her smile would light up an actual fucking room if you could convert it into electricity, and that should make me happy.
It doesn’t.
“Huh,” I say, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “I thought the trash only came on Tuesdays.”
Rosemary’s eyes raise to find my own. The oversized hoodie that belongs to her boyfriend swallows her small frame. The smile falls, and she sighs.
“Save the bitchy remarks for your friends.” She pulls the hood up, walking into the kitchen to avoid me, but I follow.
I know I should walk away, leave before I say anything worse, but I can’t stop myself.
“Funny. The schizo teaching you how to have a backbone now, or are you just feeling feisty tonight?”
“Don’t call him that,” she says, slamming the refrigerator door. “What is your problem with them anyway? They’ve never even bothered you!”
My tongue becomes swift, sharp, lethal in a matter of moments.
What is my problem? My problem?
“They are scum, Rose. It makes this family look dirty!” I shout back.
“Does Mom have her hand shoved up your boney ass so far that she’s using you as a puppet now? You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous.”
“Jealous? Me? Of what? Your gang of mentally unstable assholes? Please,” I scoff defensively.
What would I have to be jealous of? I have everything I could possibly imagine.
“Jealous that I have real friends. A real relationship. While you spend your days with fake boyfriends and whack-ass people who would stab you in the back the moment you turned around. All because you’re too afraid to upset Mommy dearest!” she snaps, shaking her head.
“Ya know, maybe I wouldn’t have a problem if you’d stop opening your legs for the freaks of Ponderosa Springs. God, don’t you see the way people look at you? You’re a walking carnie show attraction!” I sneer.
&nb
sp; She flinches, biting back like I’d slapped her across the face, sadness filling her eyes. I tell myself she deserves to hurt like I do. Here I am drowning every second I’m living this life, and she hasn’t got a care in the world. Some harsh words won’t kill her.
Rose steps closer to me. “No, that’s your problem, Sage. Maybe if you’d stop caring what people thought of you, you wouldn’t be such a miserable bitch.” Walking straight through me, she nudges me with her shoulder as she passes.
She leaves me there, coming down from my temper trip, my heart aching inside my chest. I fall against the wall, my legs feeling like they might give out, but I refuse to let them.
The ice-cold water is right below my nose, and I try to keep it from seeping into my mouth. I refuse to do this right now.
I inhale and exhale deeply through my nose, continuing the process until my heart rate slows and the water starts to reside.
I repeat over and over again:
I am Sage Donahue.
I have everything.
I will not drown.
I will survive.
Rook
“Your aim sucks.” Silas looks over at me while smoke rolls from the tip of my tropical-flavored Swisher Sweets.
I place the wrap on my lips, holding it there, pointing the paintball gun up at the football teams’ scoreboard. We’re lying a few feet back from it, the Astroturf digging through my jeans, practically burning my ass.
“I said yes to vandalization. I never said I would be good at it.” I puff on the end of the blunt, letting the funky-smelling smoke soak into my lungs, giving me that feel-good high I need every once in a while.
It’s not about numbing anything; it’s about curbing the impulse. For a few hours, that itch on my palm is sated just enough to let me get through the day without blowing someone up.
I’ll see a guy being a douche or just walking down the street with an arrogant smirk on his face, and all I can think about is what he’d do if he were wrapped in flames, drowning in gasoline. That’s normal to me. It’s odd to me that no one else thinks that way.
Weed is keeping me from being homicidal.
Plus, it fills up the emptiness for a while. All the smoke makes me feel less of a void.
I shoot the lime-green paintballs onto the board, creating more of a mess on the already coated object. You can barely see what’s beneath the yellow and green paint, and with football already into preseason, they’re not going to be happy about it.
“Feels a little like a rite of passage, doesn’t it? Last prank on the football team,” I say, coughing a bit, my head light and my body humming with awareness. The warm summer air is starting to get colder every day we approach fall. “I fucking hate this place, man, but it’s the last year of all of us together. Last of everything.”
Silas remains aloof, showing little emotion, not because he doesn’t have any, but because he doesn’t like expressing them. He very rarely reacts to things that normal people would, and even though I know he loves Rose and cares about us, I know relationships are tough for him.
Relating to people. Understanding them.
He’s different—he sees the world in a different scope than everyone else, and he sometimes looks like he doesn’t care about anything, always seeming humorless or emotionally cold.
Even when he’s with Rose and she smiles, it’s maybe a lift of his lips, but he never really shows he’s happy, unless you look at his eyes.
I think that’s how Rosemary wiggled her way into his heart. She could read in his eyes what his face would never express. She saw all the way inside of him and took that information and tried to understand it.
Truth is, no one would ever really know what’s in Silas’s mind. We’d never be able to relate to it, but I can try to protect him from it. Even if he hates me bugging him about taking his meds.
Because he protects me.
Well, a truth of mine.
“There are cars,” he says as the whistle of bullets rattle my ears, more paint exploding against the sign. “Planes. Trains. Subways. Lots of ways to travel, Rook. It’s not the last of anything—we just have to get jobs, and you won’t be able to burn down buildings anymore.”
I laugh, feeling it build in my stomach as the effects of the weed start to crest. I mean, he’s right, and I know I’m overthinking ’cause of the pot, but it’s still a scary feeling for me.
The word “family” was lost the day my mom died.
And found again at a country club while I was trying to blow up firecrackers.
Leaving Ponderosa Springs was never a question, but leaving them, that’s a different feeling.
“And you’re still set on staying? Can’t talk you out of it?” I ask, even though I know he has no reason to leave, not like I do.
“Nah, I’m here until Rose graduates. She wants to go to Hollow Heights, so I’m with her until the end.” There is a bluntness in his voice, calm, so dead set that even a stranger walking past would know he meant what he said.
“Your parents gonna be okay with that?”
“They’ve been trying to get me to leave since I was diagnosed.” He sighs. “They love me, so I get it. They never wanted to see me go through the ridicule here—they still don’t—but I’m not leaving Rose. So they also know there is no talking me out of it. Plus, it’ll be easier to intern at my dad’s company in Portland.”
He’s the only one with good parents. Great parents, even. Scott and Zoe are successful, happy with three sons, and love them in a way parents should.
Crazy that even someone with a steady environment can still crave destruction, isn’t it?
I take another hit, finishing it off and tossing the butt onto the field, knowing it will singe the shit out of the fake grass.
“Are we done being nostalgic? It’s hurting my head, and we gotta go pick up Rose.”
“Where is she?” I ask with a nod of my head, letting him know I’m ready to leave.
“Tilly’s, studying, but her sister’s boyfriend and his swarm of friends showed up, and I don’t like her being around them.”
“A chance to shit on Easton and I get a burger? Where do I sign?” I reach my arms above my head, stretching as I stand up.
“We are going to collect Rose, and that’s it. No fighting.” He grunts, walking in step beside me.
“Yeah, no fighting. Got it.” I grin as I reach into my back pocket, grabbing one of my Lucky Strike matches and placing it between my teeth.
I wouldn’t start anything. I usually never do.
But I would finish it.
Tilly’s Diner is a short drive from the high school, and when I’m on my bike, it takes maybe six minutes to pull into the parking lot with the neon sign illuminating the asphalt.
I shake my hair out of my eyes when I pull my helmet over my head, swinging my leg over the bike while Silas pulls into the parking space next to mine. Tilly’s is packed. Unsurprisingly, considering it’s a Saturday and this is where every dude with Axe cologne lingers and girls ready to gossip congregate.
I feel sorry for Rose, for the fact her twin sister is a raging, ego-filled mean girl. And since Rose hates driving, most of the time she has to tag along with her. Even if she doesn’t want to.
Her parents, I am guessing, think if they surround Rose with the “right” people, she’ll see how bad we are for her. They think she’ll get bored, see what her life could be if she ended up with the people on the right side of the moral scale, instead of the boys that are the tarnished stain of Ponderosa Springs.
In the years we’ve been alive, we’ve damaged the reputation of this town and its people. We’ve taken their hierarchy and clawed it to pieces. The Donahues are afraid their precious little girl has completely turned to the dark side.
They are right.
And they aren’t getting her back.
Silas pulls the glass door open, stepping onto the checkered floor, and when we cross the threshold, all voices cease to exist. The fully packed diner becomes q
uieter than a mouse’s footsteps.
We are the things that don’t belong entering a place we are not welcome.
It’s as if we’ve just walked into church or some place of worship.
And everyone knows, holy ground burns the feet of the damned.
I grab Silas’s shoulder. “What? Is there something on my face?” My voice rings through the space, crackling and popping in their ears.
Some of them stare openly in shock; others hide their gazes, fearing that we’ll make eye contact with them and possess them or do something wicked. Women grab their purses, men slit their eyes, girls tighten their thighs, and boys try to act tough.
Silas starts moving, stalking towards his girl with purpose. Her body is tucked into a small booth by herself. He wasn’t joking when he said he wanted to get in and get out—he hates being around this many people. Even if he’d never said it out loud, I can see it in the way he holds himself.
I follow behind him, watching as her gentle eyes raise, meeting her boyfriend’s. Everything fades for the two of them, the anxiety drops from her shoulders, and relief washes down his back like water.
Jealous isn’t the word for what I feel about them. I don’t like Rose like that, and I can admit when guys are attractive, but Silas doesn’t do it for me like that.
But sometimes, very rarely, I wonder what it would feel like for someone to look at me like that.
Like I’m more than a problem. A mistake. A monster. Lucifer.
Someone who looks at me like I’m human.
Rose gathers her things quickly, sliding from her place in the booth, bringing my attention to the others around her. Members of the football team sit together, some of them on top of the booths themselves, their flavor of the week dangling on their arms.
In every way besides monetary, they are our opposites.
We are all rich, and that’s where the similarities stop.
If there was a wrong side of the tracks in Ponderosa Springs, we’d be over there. All the while they stare over at us from their balconies and perfectly trimmed lawns, looking at us as if our clothes don’t cost just as much, as if our families aren’t just as affluent.
None of that matters because our wealth is covered by the stench of danger. Ruckus. Violence.
