Three
My shift ends and right off the bat, I can tell there’s something wrong with April.
She’s too quiet, barely saying a word or sparing a glance in my direction. When I ask her if she’s ready to head home, she just puts her book back in her backpack in silence, the action my only answer. She doesn’t even perk up when Sienna hands me a big bag filled with leftovers for us to take home.
I let her stew all the way home, but as soon as we set foot through the door, I’ve had enough.
“Okay, enough with the silent treatment. What’s going on?”
April spins to face me, hands on her hips, sporting an attitude far beyond her years. “You lied to me.”
My brows pull together. “I did?”
“You said it was paint on your shirt. But, you lied. It was blood.”
My stomach bottoms out, mouth opening and closing three or four times as I fail to find the words. I’m completely stumped. “How did—”
“I heard those girls at the diner.”
Of course.
All of my earlier anger at Peyton and her two pom-pom pals comes rushing back at warp-speed. They came into the place where I work, talked shit to me and then upset my sister. I’m so pissed, my hands are trembling. But most of all, I’m mad at myself. How did it never occur to me that April could hear what they were saying? She was literally a table away, well within earshot. God, I’m such a dumbass.
Her blue eyes take on a glassy sheen, bottom lip wobbling as she holds back her tears. “Are you… hurt? Did somebody hurt you?”
“April, no.” I bend until I’m eye-level with her, both hands on her shoulders. “It was an accident, I swear. I just… walked into my locker door. Made my nose bleed a little. I’m sorry for not telling you.”
I’m a piece of shit for lying to her again, but at least this is somewhat more believable. Besides, the chances of her overhearing someone else talking about the… incident are pretty slim. And if the situation does arise, I plan on taking her far, far away from it.
“Why didn’t you?” she asks, voice small.
“I was… embarrassed, I guess. Half the people in my school saw.”
Okay, I guess that part isn’t a lie.
April stares at me solemnly for a few seconds before a giggle bursts out of her. She covers her mouth, tries to stifle it, but it’s no use. She’s full-on belly laughing now, her entire body shaking with it.
It’s enough to make a rare smile split across my face. “Oh, is that funny, huh? You think it’s funny that your big brother bust his nose on his locker door and got laughed at by a bunch of people?”
She tries to deny it, but she’s laughing too hard to let the words come out. I make it worse, tickling her under her arms until tears stream from her eyes and she’s gasping for breath. After a minute or two, when I’m genuinely concerned for her lack of air, I call a truce.
“Come on, kiddo. Let’s see how much of these leftovers we can eat. Deal?”
She nods. “Deal. Do you think there’s chocolate fudge cake?”
* * *
There was, in fact, chocolate fudge cake. Two pieces of it. I’m assuming it was meant to be one for me and one for April, but she had both of them. Along with a slice of cherry pie, another burger and half a grilled cheese.
She’s eight, half my height and weighs sixty pounds wet-through. I have no idea where the hell she puts it all.
By the time she’s finished eating, she’s almost asleep. I have to force her to shower and brush her teeth before tucking her into bed. As soon as her head hits the pillow, she’s out like a light. With a chuckle and a head shake, I switch off the lamp on her nightstand and close the door with a soft click.
The stairs creak as I make my way down them, the carpet frayed and pulling at the edges. This house could be nice, with a little TLC and a lot less violence. As well as the peeling paint, there are holes in the walls and liquor stains from bottles being thrown at them. Half of the furniture is either broken beyond repair or stuck together with tape and superglue. A heavy sigh falls from my lips as I take in the mess, the empty bottles littering the kitchen counters and overflowing ashtray on the coffee table. It stinks in here. The trash can is full, the floors are sticky and the fridge is bare.
Just being in here makes my skin crawl.
I hate it, hate every inch of this house. But, I hate my uncle more.
He’s scum for what he puts us through, the way he makes us live. Watching our backs at every turn, jumping every time we hear a car door shut outside, coming downstairs every morning to see him passed out while the floor is littered with broken glass.
There’s an itch beneath my skin, a buzzing that won’t go away. A burning need to straighten this place out, to make it better for April, even if only in a small way.
I empty the trash then sweep my arm across the counters, knocking the bottles into the bin, filling it all the way up again. I wash the dirty dishes in the sink, wipe down every surface, scrub the floors and reposition the cushions on the couch, then spray air freshener until I almost choke on the fumes. I don’t stop until the place is spotless and I’m dripping with sweat.
The grandfather clock in the hall chimes. He’ll be home soon, another hour or two. I drag my arm across my forehead, glancing around to take in my efforts. It’s not perfect, but it’s… better. A definite improvement. Giving myself a mental pat on the back, I trudge back up the stairs and grab a reasonably dry towel from the basket then pad into the bathroom.
This room isn’t much better. Some of the tiles are cracked, there’s mold in the corners and the toilet could use a well-needed clean. But, right now, I don’t even have the strength to think about it, much less do it.
I crank the water and strip off, groaning at my aching muscles, then let out another as the hot water beats down on me, this one out of relief. Today has felt never-ending, with one shitty moment after another. First my face was used as a human goalpost, then Peyton and her minions ruined my shift at the diner. Add my sleepless night to that list, and I’m more than ready for the day to be over. I need a reset. And sleep, stat.
Except when I’m out of the shower, dressed and back in my room, sleep is the furthest thing from my mind.
I’m too awake, too jacked up. Peyton’s words keep running through my mind on an endless loop, so loud that my head feels like it’s vibrating. She’s with Asher. Her and Asher. Unwanted images flash behind my eyelids of them together, him touching her, kissing her.
I pace the length of the bedroom, careful not to wake April, hands clenching into fists at my sides. I don’t know why I’m so bothered about this, why my heart feels like it’s about to explode inside my chest, why my stomach’s churning like I’m on a rollercoaster. I hate Asher. He’s a conceited asshole, a spoiled rich boy with zero morals. He treats me like dirt purely for enjoyment. I shouldn’t give a damn what he does or who he spends his time with. And yet…
I lift my mattress, glancing back over my shoulder at April’s bed on the other side of the room to check she’s still asleep before continuing. Wedged right at the back, beneath the slats, is a metal box. I pull it out and open it up. Inside, there’s a pile of cash, a family photo, a sketchbook and a pack of pencils. A weird mixture of stuff, I know. But, they’re all things that matter to me. Things that I could never let my uncle get his hands on.
Bypassing the photo and cash, I retrieve the sketchbook and pencils, flipping the pages until I reach the half-finished drawing I started a few days ago. It’s of the bay at sunset, the sun sitting low in the sky, the boats rocking against the slow waves in the water. Some people go for a run when they can’t think straight, or hit the gym or watch mindless TV for hours. Me? I draw. It calms me, keeps me grounded. It’s exactly what I need right now, except not even five minutes in, that incessant niggling feeling inside my brain still hasn’t disappeared.
Sighing, I tip my head back, eyes burning a hole through the popcorn ceiling.
No, I tell myself. It’s not happening again.
But, as if my body is possessed by some other being, I stand and walk over to the closet anyway. That voice inside my head screams at me to stop, reminds me that I’m verging into dangerous territory. I ignore it. Easing open the sliding door, I crouch down and gently lift up the loose floorboard right in the corner, blindly searching in the darkness below until my fingertips brush against cold leather. I grip the book and pull it out, every ounce of tension leaving my body as I run a thumb over the cover.
I fall back onto the bed and stare at it, taking a minute to gather myself before opening it.
The truth is, I hate this fucking book. I hate what it represents, what it means. But most of all, I hate myself for even feeling the need to reach for it, for filling the pages inside it to begin with. It started as an outlet, just a simple, no harm done way to get out the anger I was feeling. Now, it’s so much more than that.
Holding my breath, I open it up to the first page. Cruel, teasing eyes stare back at me.
Asher.
Page after page is filled with Asher. It’s sort of like a journal, but… not.
The things he does to me, his taunts, his pranks. The things he says. Close ups of his features; his full lips, his thick lashes, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. The dimple in his right cheek that only appears when he smiles. The way the sun hits his tan skin. The way his dark-blonde hair sticks out from beneath the backward ball cap that’s permanently atop of his head. Drawings of him standing at his locker, drawings of him concentrating in class. Drawings of him during football practice, his biceps bunched as he lines up a throw, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. It’s endless.
I don’t know why I do it. I don’t understand why he plagues my mind so much, to the point where if I don’t permanently etch the image onto paper, I feel like I’ll go insane.
Maybe it’s a coping mechanism. Maybe I’m messed up. Or maybe… maybe it’s the same reason Peyton’s words from earlier are bothering me so damn much.
Either way, I’m fucked.
I settle back against the headboard, pencil in hand, and shut my mind off, letting my body take over. My hand moves without instruction, without thought. Every line, every curve, every shadow, every single detail, it all comes naturally. Before I know it, two hours have passed and I’m staring down at a drawing of Asher. He’s sideways on, lips twisted into a smirk, his football in his hands. I even managed to get the smear of my blood across the leather and stitching. It’s all there, like I’ve transferred it straight from my head.
My shoulders deflate, my breath leaving me in a rush like I’m coming down from a high. My mind is clear, a slate wiped clean. I stretch my fingers out, twisting my wrist to relieve the ache. I pack everything up, squeezing my eyes shut before placing the book back under the floorboard, silently vowing - again - that that was the last time, that I won’t need it anymore.
But even as I think the words and seal them with a resolute nod, I know I’m lying.