The Dark That Kept Us (Kids of The District)

1. Blesk

CHAPTER ONE

blesk

Is it too late to cancel?

This taxi smells of lavender air freshener and old upholstery, but it could smell of grated parmesan on dirty socks soaked in fish sauce, and I would still be stalling.

I blink up at the soaring red brick walls of my new university campus. The drop-off lane churns with movement, people crisscrossing the pathways and jogging around idling cars. Nerves flutter inside me.

This is not intimidating.

It’s not.

It’s just people peopling.

I can do this.

“Are you okay, Miss?”

I lift my gaze. The taxi driver is looking at me in the rear-view mirror. “Does this smile look natural or terrified?” I plaster on a smile.

“Um.” He shrugs. “Natural?”

Taking a deep breath, I open the passenger door. “Thank you,” I say to him. Before I’m swallowed by a swarm of first-year students, I head straight for the campus reception to drop off my luggage and guitar case.

Even though I know I should find my dorm room and face reality, I follow the signage on the footpaths towards the library. I told myself that I would make living friends this year. The kind with a physical form, that can’t be snapped shut between book cheeks when they misbehave or upset me.

I pass under an arch and into the library.

I've spent most of my teenage years between stacks of books, hiding with fictional people instead of dealing with real ones.

The loud whirlwind outside gives way to a guaranteed quiet.

It smells like leather and dust, which is significantly better than lavender, old upholstery, parmesan, and dirty feet.

I sigh. I already love it here.

Social Blesk can wait.

Bookish Blesk is in awe.

My dad texts me just as I slump down onto one of the many multicoloured beanbags scattered across the first floor.

Dad: Remember to call me. Remember you can come home and change your mind. Anytime.

I stare at the message for a moment, my thumb hovering over the reply button. I should thank him. I should tell him I’m fine. I should say something, but he isn’t sure I’m ready for this, and if I talk to him now, I may let him convince me. Instead, I lock the screen and tuck my phone into my bag.

My father means everything to me. He truly does.

And my brother and I mean everything to him.

I understand why he tried to keep me at home, why he didn’t let me have sleepovers or mingle too much with the outside world.

I didn’t have a safe childhood, so when he took me in, he made it safe.

He was like that before Mum died, and after, it only got worse.

So, after school, I just stayed home because it didn’t matter that much to me, anyway. I like my room and my books.

I’ve been alone, absorbing bookish energy, for exactly forty minutes when my spine straightens, my body sensing his approach.

“No one puts Bebe in the corner.” My brother’s favourite thing to say to me; a Dirty Dancing reference I can’t seem to escape.

At the sound of his voice, my heart lifts and stutters all at once.

That’s not unusual. I stopped being surprised by Erik’s sudden appearances years ago.

He doesn’t need to be told where I am. He just knows.

It’s comforting. It’s suffocating, sometimes.

But I think I’d rather be suffocated by care than not have any at all.

“How’d I know I’d find you here?” He drops onto the beanbag beside mine, close enough that his shoulder presses against me. He doesn’t leave a gap.

“I didn’t tell you where I was,” I say quietly, without looking up, torn between leaning into his familiar warmth and shifting away.

“No,” he replies, not lowering his voice.

He stretches his legs out and tilts his head back against the shelving.

“You never do,” he adds easily. Like it’s nothing.

Like the fact that he always finds me anyway is simply a feature of the world, unremarkable as wind or rain.

Like I couldn’t escape him even if I wanted to.

I raise my finger to my lips. "Shh. I'm not sure if you've ever been in one of these before. It is called a library, and you're supposed to be quiet so people can read these things called books.”

“Oh, books.” He chuckles. "Gotcha. So, how was the drive? Was the Taxi guy nice to you?”

I slouch with a sigh. "It was uneventful, but the taxi guy said I have a natural smile.”

“Why the hell was he looking at your smile?”

“I asked him to.”

His brows furrow. “What the fuck does that mean? I’m going to need context, Blesk. Whose legs do I need to break?”

I stare at him, my heart skipping in wariness. “No, it’s not— I…” Ugh. “Oh, my God, Erik, what does your therapist do for a living? You haven’t changed.”

He smirks. "So you missed me then?"

"I was miserable without you," I mumble, rolling my eyes. Then I grin at him, glancing his way. "So it was just like having you at home."

"Oh, very funny." He clears his throat, looking almost disappointed by my joke. "Is Dad good?"

"Yeah, he's fine. You know, if I’d seen this library earlier, I would have demanded Dad let me visit you. Have you been in here before?”

"Oh no, never, Bebe. Not once in the nearly six years I've been going here have I stepped foot inside this place.”

I know he’s joking, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it was true. My brother excels academically and in life with little effort on his part.

“Don’t call me Bebe,” I say, lifting my chin. “And sarcasm is the weakest form of humour.”

"It's also the most popular."

"I admire how you don’t let your huge brain get in the way of doing absolutely nothing impressive.”

Erik erupts into laughter. “Well, I suppose I'm lucky girls don't care about my huge brain. Ain't that right?"

"Well, maybe they would care if you act—"

He mock-snores. "And now I'm bored. Tell me about home. Is your room still the same?”

I grab the hem of my skirt and pick at the seam. There is nothing there to pick… “It’s the same,” I say quickly to my perfectly sewn hemline. “Can you take me to orientation?” What the? I never voluntarily leave a library.

I glance at him.

“We could stay.” He looks up at the stacks ahead of us. “I’ll cancel my morning. And I’ll whisper to you. I swear I won’t disturb a single bookworm in here.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Erik.” His name comes out half-plea, half-warning. “If I don’t go now. I may never go.”

“An hour. Just sit here with me. I want to look at you. In my world. You look shorter.”

“Make me go.” I twist in place to look at him, and he’s already looking at me.

He seems a little different—still blond, still strong-jawed, still wide and hard across the shoulders.

Still handsome. That’s undeniable, not subjective at all, even Dad says he’s a handsome man.

It has been nearly a year since I’ve seen him—since he last visited the District and Dad and me—though we video chat weekly.

“You know I’ll end up only having you if I don’t try.

Please, make me try to be a little more social?

I’m away from the District. I’m safe. And you don’t need to pretend to support Dad in keeping me at home because he isn’t here.

I’m counting on you.” Part of me wants to sink deeper into the beanbag, hide in the stacks, which is exactly why I need to do this now.

“I told myself I would make friends and be social… for once.”

He pauses, his gaze losing focus on a thought that isn’t for me. “Since when do you want to be social?”

“Since now.” I nudge him with my shoulder, ignoring the nerves simmering inside me. “Come with me. Show me around. Be the God of the campus, or whatever it is you do.”

His mouth forms a tight line. “Fine.” He exhales, rises to his full height, and offers me his hand.

“Just like that?” I hesitate, suddenly unsure if I’ve made the right choice, because… look at the pretty books and the lack of people and our snug little beanbags.

He looks at his outstretched hand. “Just like that.”

I place my palm in his, and he pulls me to my feet in one smooth motion, and we are briefly closer than necessary and then we are not.

He keeps hold of my hand a beat after I’m upright, and my breath catches.

His thumb moves once across my knuckles, and it feels as it always has—like I’m underwater, where there is no noise or danger or anyone else—

A memory comes back suddenly…

The first year of her new life. She was small, with skinny legs and wide brown eyes, and flinched at the very air. Erik was twelve, maybe thirteen, tall and cute and confident. He noticed the flinching before their parents did.

One afternoon he sat across from her on the floor of his bedroom, solemnly, as if it were serious business. “We are going to play a game. It is called the touch game. I’m going to touch your hand,” he said. “Okay? You count to three first and then I’ll do it. Trust me.”

She stared at him.

“Put your hand out,” he added.

She held her hand out, palm up.

He nodded to her. “Go on. Count.”

So she counted. “One. Two. Three.”

He tapped her palm, just once, and she flinched, and then laughed at herself for flinching. He laughed, too.

“Again,” she squeaked. “One. Two. Three.”

He tapped her palm.

And then the memory ends.

I pull my hand free and sling my satchel over my shoulder. After smoothing my skirt down my thighs and tossing my blonde hair to one side, I peer up at him sheepishly. “So… Do I look okay?”

He grins down at me. “You know you’re pretty.” Then he pauses to look me over, his smile fading. “Everyone with eyes thinks so, Blesk. It’s fucking annoying.”

“I’m your little sister. It’s my job to be annoying.”

He brushes a strand of my hair over my shoulder. “Your hair is getting so long, Goldilocks.”

“Don’t call me that,” I grumble half-serious, half-not. “And don’t call me Bebe in front of people either.”

He lifts a brow. “Why? That’s boring.”