Chapter 3 – Leslie
After that, things went from bad to worse. Two days later, I showed up at the dance studio to giggles and weird looks from the two girls at the front desk.
“Um, Leslie…” one said, before bursting in laughter again.
My stomach sank. “What’s wrong?”
The other held out a pair of underwear.
My underwear.
“We received a package of a number of these yesterday, with a note.”
Rage made my body go stiff and still. I didn’t have to look in a mirror to see how red my face was. I also didn’t need to see the note to know who the culprit was, but when the woman handed it over to me, I took it.
With shaking fingers, I opened the folded, embossed note with the initials MC.
These are for Leslie Berger, so if she has an “accident,” she has extras.
She’s prone to them.
Thanks,
Mason
“Wow, Mason Calloway must really hate you,” the other girl remarked, tossing her hair. “What did you do to him?”
“He’s my stepbrother,” I said through gritted teeth. “And I’m going to kill him.”
The first girl shrugged. “I wouldn’t take Mason on, if I were you. They don’t call him Ice Man for nothing—and it’s not just because he’s an incredible center.”
“He’ll destroy you, Leslie. Take the L,” the other girl advised.
But even though there was some sympathy in her voice, neither of them were on my side. No, they weren’t going to go up against the titan of their little wealthy town. I was on my own—and I’d never felt more alienated in my life.
I texted Bea.
he’s still fucking with me
what did he do this time?
mailed all my underwear to the dance studio
There was a pause as she digested this. Then:
wow, that asshole is not playing around. What are you going to do?
hit him back where it hurts
hard
I was determined to win this fight. Bea, though, had some qualms.
les, are you sure? maybe you should back down
this isn’t going anywhere good
just tell your mom you want to come stay with me
But I knew that would break my mom’s heart.
And furthermore, I wasn’t about to forfeit. No, if the Ice Man wanted a war, he’d have one.
And I had just the idea for my next battle strategy.
Fortunately, when I got home from the studio, no one was home.
Dropping my bag off in my room, I tiptoed down the Berber-carpeted hallway. Even though I knew I was alone, I was worried I’d get caught. There’d be hell to pay if Mason caught me in his room.
But I’d been dosed with bravery and spite, and I was carrying this mission out.
The door to his bedroom was locked, but I had bobby pins from ballet—and knew how to pick a lock. Prying a bobby pin open, I put my ear to the door and turned it a few times, until I heard the telltale snick and the knob turned.
Aha. Step one, complete.
I pulled the door open, stepping inside my evil stepbrother’s room. His scent, something spicy, something musky, something sweet, filled my nostrils and overwhelmed me, making me shiver. It was because of the threat the scent represented, not because I wanted to roll around in it like a dog.
The room was neat as a pin. Paul had a housekeeper, which had been weird to get used to, but this was a whole different level. The books were stacked carefully against each other, the bed was made, and there wasn’t a single sock on the floor. Nothing like the other teenage boys I knew, like Spencer, who was a complete slob.
There was no art on the walls, and only one photo. In it, a much younger Mason and a beautiful blonde woman smiled at the camera, arms wrapped around each other.
Oh, Mason.
I knew from my mom that he’d lost his mother slowly, painfully, and both Calloway men had been helpless and lost and angry at the world once she was gone. Paul had my mom now—not as a replacement for his beloved wife, but a new love to help staunch that wound.
What did Mason have?
I almost abandoned my plan then and there, but the memory of the dance studio employees’ giggles made me square my shoulders. I could feel bad for him, but that didn’t mean what he was doing to me was okay. I needed to fight fire with fire.
Opening his closet, I ignored the carefully folded jeans and t-shirts, hockey uniforms, and suits he must wear on game days, spotting a shelf with three pairs of skates, stored upside down with the blades shining on top. A little box on the left held Mason’s skate guards.
Bingo.
I’d overheard Emory teasing Mason the other day about his lucky skates, and, well…one of these had to be lucky.
But since I wasn’t sure, I guess I’d have to take all of them.
They were being donated to the Yellow Toad, a thrift shop that raised money for homeless youth. Really, Mason should thank me for the service I was doing for him. He didn’t need all the luck. He’d be glad he was helping the community.
Although it was more likely he’d kill me.
I couldn’t wait to see the look on his face.