Chapter 2
MILLER
Ilet out a groan as my phone alarm beeped, already awake but dozing in that state of procrastination about lifting my head off of the pillow and getting out of bed.
It was the first day of school but my hesitation to start the day had nothing to with my senior year, rather the trepidation of my brother starting his freshman year.
It was going to be difficult for Mason; I knew that.
And I was determined to watch over him and protect him, but I also couldn’t be his keeper every minute of the day.
High school could be brutal, but for any kid who didn’t fit into a certain mold, it could be a daily torment.
And it didn’t have to be any major or outstanding feature for you to be a target—you might just prefer to wear suit jackets and ties, or like classical music or have orange hair or be too skinny.
..and someone would find a way to make your life a misery.
And it meant he became more introverted, burying himself in his books.
I suspected there were things he never told us, but I remembered the times he’d come home with mud-stained pants (when it hadn’t been raining), his backpack covered in graffiti, a missing shoe (located but never retrieved from the branches of a tall elm), torn books, paint in his hair.
There hadn’t been much I could do at middle school, but now I’d have my eyes and ears peeled and if anyone hurt my little brother, they’d have to deal with me.
“Miller!” Dad’s sharp tongue was accompanied by a cranky knock on the bathroom door. “Get a move on. Some of us have to get to work!”
I spat out my toothpaste and rested my toothbrush on the shelf.
I quickly inspected my teeth, ran my fingers through my disheveled hair, rueing the fact that I hadn’t gotten a haircut.
I’d put it on my To Do list for this week.
Summer break had gone by too fast, what with working on the Mustang, hanging with my brother and helping out at the Hamlin’s farm.
I unlocked the door to see Dad glaring. “Keep your hair on,” I said with a grin. “Aww, that’s right, you don’t have any.” I cracked up with laughter as I reached to rub his closely shaved head, his preferred style since he’d found his hairline receding at an alarming rate.
Dad scoffed, mussing my hair, returning the jibe. “Ha! Like father, like son. Enjoy it while you can!”
“Hey, how’s it going?” I said to Mason as I came back into the kitchen. He was eating a bowl of cornflakes, a book propped against the cereal container.
“Otis found an ancient sword in the cornfield and now he has magical powers,” he said without looking up.
I hadn’t meant about the story, but said, ”Okay. Cool.” I stood at the window and filled the sink with water and dish soap, pushing back the net curtain a little. There was no sign of movement from across the street, so I quickly washed the dishes.
Dad came in the room and picked up his keys. “You boys all ready? Got your lunches made? Mase, you ready for your big day?”
He nodded, then his mouth rounded. “Oooh, Otis has the ability to see in other dimensions when he wields the sword around.”
Dad and I glanced furtively at each other; both of us had the same concerns but we didn’t want to alarm Mason.
“You better hurry with your breakfast, buddy,” Dad said, reaching for the book. “Don’t wanna be late for the bus, yeah?”
Mason picked up his bookmark, which looked like an old envelope and marked his page. Dad ruffled his hair and kissed the top of his head. “I gotta go, but you have a great day, Mase. I’ll hear about it tonight. Have fun, now.”
“I will, Dad,” Mason said. “See you.”
“Yeah, see you tonight,” I said, one eye still on the window, wondering if Quinn Devereaux had already left for school. She lived across the lane and usually left early for the drive to Brizendine Prep over in Pine Ridge, the next town over.
“Love you boys,” Dad chirped, gathering up his lunch bag and the old juice bottle that he used as his water bottle. Brushing by me, he squeezed my shoulder and murmured, “You’ll keep an eye on him?”
I nodded, both of us looking over to my brother who was eating at a snail’s pace.
“C’mon, bud,” I said, “finish that bowl, so I can wash it.” I didn’t mind washing the dishes, a chance to watch the window, though there was no sign of Quinn’s sleek black Jeep or Mrs. Devereaux’s fancy Mercedes.
My interest in my neighbor was somewhat contradictory. Dad couldn’t stand the Devereauxs. Mrs. Devereaux was rude and a complete snob, confirmed by the letter we received in the mailbox a day after moving into the house on Ambrose Lane three years ago.
“Dear Neighbor, Ambrose Lane is an illustrious neighborhood and from the look of your vehicle and the quality of the furniture and appliances you moved in yesterday, I am unsure if you will truly feel at home in our quiet and respected street.
Also, I noticed the arrival of a large brown dog.
If I so much as see the dog running loose or hear any barking or see defecation on the street, I will not hesitate to call the authorities.
Yours, Annabelle Devereaux, Ambrose Manor.”
Dad had read the letter out loud, howled with a mix of both outrage and hilarity and said, “Defecation? Who the heck says defecation? She means dog poop!”
That letter was still attached to our fridge door with alphabet magnets, so I knew that the grudge was very much alive.
In the early days, Mrs. Devereaux found something to complain about at every opportunity.
If she wasn’t knocking on the door saying the lawn was too long or declaring she’d heard Hamish, our eight year old dog barking, there were notes in our mailbox threatening to call City Hall.
Her most recent outburst was just before summer when Dad bought an old 1966 Mustang for us to restore together, and he parked it in our yard.
The next day he’d had a visit from the council about an ‘abandoned vehicle’ on our property.
To say Dad was riled up was putting it mildly.
He’d stormed across to Ambrose Manor ready to give Annabelle Devereaux a piece of his mind.
But no one was home, and he came back more infuriated than ever.
A couple of days later, we’d cleared out the garage so there was room for the Mustang, which had been our intention all along.
The thing was, for being the enemy, I was intrigued by Quinn Devereaux.
I’d only come face-to-face with her a handful of times, usually when she was trailing behind her mother who would come over to complain about a pile of leaves or the direction of the wind or something crazy.
But I’d only spoken to her once and that was last summer.
Mason and I had been gaming when there had been a knock on the door.
To this day, I regret the ten seconds I took to blast the zombies before getting up to answer it, because by the time I got to the front door, Quinn was already leaving.
But on hearing it open, she’d stopped and turned around.
“That came to our house,” she said, her eyes dropping to the carton on the doorstep.
“Oh...thanks,” I’d said, a little shocked because I hadn’t expected her to be at the door.
“I don’t know why the driver got it wrong,” she said like it had been my fault they didn’t read the address properly, and for the next few seconds I’d been thunderstruck, lost in her startling blue eyes which were blazing with indignation at the delivery mistake, and.
..well, that’s when I fell, mesmerized by how pretty she was—glossy dark hair tied up in a ponytail and wearing a sundress showing off her tanned shoulders—yeah, I was a goner.
Well, temporarily.
I’d been quickly brought back to reality with a mind-numbing thud when she stopped at the gate, turned abruptly and said, “Make sure it doesn’t happen again—I don’t have time to be your delivery girl.”
And she’d slammed our rickety gate and stormed off across the lane and jogged down her driveway.
A crush is a weird thing really. Basically liking someone based on looks alone, fantasizing about a potential relationship but knowing there’s absolutely no chance of it becoming reality.
Well, that was my situation but on a double whammy—not only was Quinn in a whole different class with her big house and private school but through association with her obnoxious mother, she, too, was the enemy.
I prodded Mason to clean his teeth and put on his shoes as he seemed to have no concept of time. I stood over him as he packed his pens and notebooks, lunch bag and water bottle. He picked up the book he’d been reading and stuffed that in his backpack.
I was hesitant to say something, but there was a dilemma in wanting my brother to fit in and letting my brother be himself. “Don’t think you’ll need your book. At least, not today.”
“I can read at lunch time?”
“Lunch is only forty minutes. Not enough time to read.”
“On the bus, then?”
“First day, you’ll be too busy making friends,” I said. “Meeting new kids, new classes. And you’ll get so many books that you’ll need all the room. And you can bet I won’t be carrying them for you.”
He reluctantly took it out and put it on the dining table. “Okay.”
“Hey, you gonna take a hoodie?”
“I’m not cold,” he said.
“You sure? Okay,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. I didn’t want Mason to be bullied on his very first day because they’d likely be some jerks who would comment on his skinny arms, but I also didn’t want to draw his attention to it and make him fret. “Let’s go then.”
The bus stop was down the lane and around the corner, a five or six minute walk for us.
“Are you just taking the bus today?” Mason asked.
“I’ll take it for the first week, till you settle in.”
“I’ll be fine,” Mason said.
“Yeah, I know you will,” I said breezily, “but I wanna make sure you know your way around. Anyway, there’s a couple of things I gotta fix on my bike before I can ride it.”