Eight #2
I imagine Molly with a notebook, hanging on to Mom’s words in a room filled with computers.
Kristen had been shouting about injustices in the education system for years, but to no avail.
Molly finally published an exposé on how Capital City schools censored any discussion of LGBTQ health because the school board felt teachers couldn’t talk about it without offending anyone, so they shouldn’t talk about it all.
The article pushed for change and LGBTQ advocacy. We got it, thanks to her.
“Thanks,” I say. “For telling me.”
Damian shoots three balls into the pool table’s pockets and throws up his hands in victory. “Read the headlines tomorrow,” he shouts. “ Damian Scott Jr., Billiard Champion . The entire world will know.”
Fox swats at him with his pool stick.
That gives me an idea.
“Actually, Molly. Do you still write for the Chronicle?”
“I usually do one article a month. Why?”
My idea is bold, risky, and possibly illegal. It might work.
If the media runs a story about Golden Ace finding evidence that the CCPD didn’t follow up on, it could pressure the cops to find my mother’s missing autopsy. Having the press investigate would be poetic and effective.
Molly agrees to help. When I finish explaining, the music stops, the room’s walls cease to vibrate, and Brynn calls, “Come and eat, kids.”
“Sometimes I forget how young she is,” Molly says, “She talks like my grandma.”
I laugh, but notice streaks of purple crayon on the banister, and I pause before following her. Fox’s friends scramble up the stairs like bees swarming pie. Damian and Jamie wrap up their game and file out at the end of the pack. Only Fox and I stay.
He leans on his pool stick, resting his chin on the chalky tip. “Looks like we’ll need another rain check.”
“Why?”
“Because it will cheer you up,” he states, matter-of-factly.
“I’m fine.” A barb of defensiveness cracks my tone, and he studies my pinched shoulders. He knows I’m not fine—not all the way.
The dim light in the basement highlights his golden features. His face is still, void of every pretense, and he fills the room with a fractured familiarity. He’s not fine either.
“Food will help.” Fox’s gaze flicks to the stairs.
My stomach growls, and a friendly twitch plays on his lips.
He waits for me to move first.
We’re both two feet away from someone who understands, only neither of us will admit it.
“Where were you during the assembly today?” I ask.
“At the assembly.” He raises an eyebrow. “Nice of you to look out for me.”
A dare. What about Damian? Or Aaron? If Fox knew, he wouldn’t tell me anyway.
I turn to go. I’m halfway up the stairs when he calls out, “That’s a nice dress.”
I wonder if it would be okay for me to borrow something from Brynn’s closet.
~
Dinner is spinach lasagna and a kale and bean salad. For dessert, pumpkin cheesecake and pumpkin ice cream. No crème br?lée.
While I was downstairs, Phil and Arielle Bridges made their arrival. Phil has taken his place as the center of attention, and it appears that Arielle has brought fresh peas.
“I didn’t realize you could harvest peas in October,” Brynn exclaims to Arielle, as we take our seats.
Arielle replies, “Of course you can. Besides, Madeline loves peas.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet of you to bring them for her,” says Brynn.
My dad snorts, but I don’t react. Arielle knows I hate peas.
Fox, Damian, Molly, and Jamie sit a few seats down from my dad and me. Damian and Molly seem to have stopped fighting, and Fox is back to being his easy-going, full-energy self, teasing his friends, laughing too loud, and never once looking at me.
The most interesting part of dinner happens when Molly asks Mayor Bridges what he thinks of “all this Dark Static business,” despite him talking about keeping Capital City safe during our assembly today.
The guests each give their undivided attention to Phil, who laps it all up. “As you all know, my priority as Mayor is the safety of every citizen,” he says, launching into the same speech he’d given hours earlier.
Arielle takes this as an opportunity to venture into the kitchen and check her lipstick.
A white glare shines into the dining room as her makeup compact mirror catches the light.
I’ve noticed that this is a pattern—Arielle ventures into another room and touches up her face whenever she gets bored with Phil’s performances.
“Shame what happened to Dr. Milligan’s house,” says Damian.
“Thank goodness Dark Static didn’t hurt anyone,” adds Molly.
“Definitely a shame,” says Phil. “Milligan’s mansion was an important part of Capital City’s history. It’s never good when Supers get out of control.”
My dad chuckles. “Is that a euphemism, Phil?”
“What do you mean?” asks Phil, a tremor in his voice.
“I mean one of the great and scary things about having Supers in this city is that no one can control them.”
“You’d be surprised,” the Mayor replies.
The room’s energy has shifted. It’s palpable enough that I stop watching the spots of light from Arielle’s mirror and study Phil.
His confidence wavers, something darker taking its place.
Bags puff under his eyes, and he hunches over his plate, as if this “Dark Static business” might push him past his limit.
What does he know that we don’t? Or are we finally seeing the real mayor, who can no longer hide under the pressure?
“Tea, anyone?” Brynn slices through any awkwardness by assuming the role of the perfect hostess.
It’s after dessert, traditionally when my dad and I head home, but instead of gathering his things, Dad waits for Phil.
Phil accepts a mug from Brynn, who looks honored to have him there.
Arielle returns from fixing her lipstick and gives Phil a comforting squeeze.
Phil sighs, then nods to Damian. “How’s the tennis team looking this year? You boys bringing home another trophy?”
My dad finally stands. We’re not getting anything else from our mayor. Others rise to call it a night too, as if the possibility of hearing Phil’s plan for Dark Static is the real reason that anyone came.