Chapter 1
Eleanor
Everything I knew about life, I learned from Wesley Peters.
I called him the greatest teacher of life lessons, and I swore up and down that he’d saved my life countless times. The fictional world of the five-book Wesley Peters fantasy series defined my whole antisocial personality.
Needless to say, my people skills were lacking, which was fine, because I was really great at avoiding humans—well, at least until I was forced to interact with them.
“You’re grounded from your room,” Mom stated as she stood in my bedroom doorway rubbing her palms against her face.
She’d tossed her brown hair up in a messy bun, and her painting apron was tied around her waist, hiding her Pink Floyd T-shirt.
Her neon-green Chucks were covered in paint, and her pink thick-framed glasses sat on top of her head as she gave me the brightest smile.
She’d been painting all day in the garage, because the weekends were when she could let loose and dive into her love for art. During the week, she was just your everyday friendly nanny, saving kids from lives of dullness. On the weekends, though? She let her hair down.
It had been two months since her cancer diagnosis, and I loved whenever she was painting. As long as she was painting, I felt like things were OK. As long as she was still herself, every day was easier.
And for the most part, she was herself. Sometimes she was tired, but still, she was Mom. She just took a few more naps than normal.
I narrowed my eyes, looking up from my novel. “You can’t ground people from their bedroom.”
“Yes, you actually can. Your father and I talked it over, and we are grounding you from these four walls. It’s summer vacation! You need to hang out with your friends.”
My eyes darted from her to the book, then back to her.
“What exactly do you think I’m doing?” I loved my mother to death.
Out of all mothers, she was top of the line, but that afternoon she was being completely inconsiderate.
It wasn’t just any summer day, after all.
It was June 22, 2003, the day I’d been counting down to for the past three years.
Three. Long. Painful. Years.
She was truly acting as if she didn’t recall that Wesley Peters and the Marked Beast had released that day. The fact that she even had the nerve to speak about anything other than Wesley, Hannah, and Sofia was mind-blowing.
“Eleanor, it’s your summer vacation, and you haven’t even left your bedroom yet.”
“That’s because I had to reread the first four Wesley Peters books in order to prepare for this one.
” Truly, she should’ve understood. It was like back in her day if a new Black Sabbath album came out and, instead of letting her listen to it, Grandma told her to go pick up milk from the corner store.
Totally uncool.
Black Sabbath > milk.
Wesley Peters > social life.
“Shay said there’s a party happening tonight,” Mom commented, plopping down on my bed. “There will probably be pot and alcohol,” she joked, nudging my arm.
“Oh, joy,” I mocked. “How could I pass up such a grand time?”
“OK, I know you’re not the party animal yours truly was as a teenager, but I feel like every sixteen-year-old should go to an unsupervised party at least once in their life.”
“Why would I want to do that? Why would you want me to do that?”
“We haven’t had sex since summer break began,” Dad said matter-of-factly, joining the conversation.
“Daddd,” I groaned, covering my ears. “Come on!”
He walked into the room, sat down on the bed behind Mom, and wrapped his arms around her. “Ah, come on, Ellie. We all know sexual intercourse is a beautiful, natural act, one we should all celebrate when it is had in a consensual, respectable fashion.”
“Oh my gosh, please stop talking. Seriously. Stop.” I tightened my grip on my ears, and they laughed.
“He’s just teasing you, but we were hoping to have a horror movie marathon, and I know how you hate horror movies,” Mom said, and I was actually thankful for the heads-up.
One time when I was a kid, I’d walked in on them watching Child’s Play, and for weeks I was convinced my dolls were out to get me. I got rid of every stuffed animal I owned. You never really notice how creepy Cabbage Patch Kids are until you envision them with butcher knives in their hands.
Don’t even get me started on the time Dad thought I was old enough to watch The Shining.
Spoiler alert: I wasn’t.
Ever since then, when they had a horror movie night, I made sure to go to Shay’s house. I would’ve been fine with it, too, if it hadn’t been that night of all nights.
“Can’t you guys just wait a few days?” I asked.
“We would, but seeing how it’s our anniversary . . .” Mom’s words trailed off, obviously thinking that would be enough to convince me.
Spoiler alert: It wasn’t.
“Oh, man, that’s today?” I asked. “Didn’t that just happen last year?”
Dad smirked. “It’s insane—you can remember book release dates but not your own parents’ anniversary.”
“You would understand if you ever read these books, Dad.”
“It’s on my to-do list,” he joked. He’d been saying that since the first Wesley Peters book had come out. I wasn’t holding my breath.
“I’m just saying, Ellie, it would be great for your father and me to have the house to ourselves tonight. Plus, you know how hard it is for us to find alone time to . . . well, you know,” Mom commented.
“Have sex,” Dad said, making it clear as day. “Honestly, you’re welcome to stay here, but you do know how thin these walls are. So if you want to go from hearing horror movie characters scream to hearing your mother’s screams, by all means, stay.”
“For the love of . . . I just wish you’d stop talking now.”
My parents’ favorite pastime was making me as uncomfortable as possible. They were ridiculously good at it too. They always got such pleasure from my pain.
Dad couldn’t stop himself from teasing me more. “If you want, you can just get earplugs while we are—”
I leaped up from my bed and shouted, “OK! OK! You win. I’m going to the party with Shay.”
They smiled, pleased.
“Though I do think it’s rude that you use sex talk to make me uncomfortable enough to get your way.”
“Oh, honey.” Mom smiled and rested her head on Dad’s shoulder as he tightened his arms around her. They were so grossly in love. “The best part of parenthood is making your teenager uncomfortable. Remember that.”
“I’ll keep it in my back pocket. I’ll be back by ten, so wrap it up by then.”
“OK, but make your curfew midnight for tonight! You’re young! Now go, be free! Be wild!” Dad shouted. “And keep an eye on Shay, will you?”
“Will do.”
“Oh, and do you want some condoms?” Mom asked, making me cringe. She loved every second of it.
“No, Mother Dearest. I’m good.”
* * *
“Are you good?” Shay asked, looking into her handheld mirror and applying her tenth coat of lip gloss as we stood on the front porch of some random kid’s house.
My cousin Shay was beautiful. She was the kind of beautiful that didn’t seem fair for a high schooler, and she’d been that way her whole life.
My aunt Camila was a gorgeous Hispanic woman, and Shay took after her more than she did my uncle Kurt, which was a blessing, since Kurt was an asshole.
The less connection Shay had with her father, the better, really.
But man, had she gotten her mother’s looks. I was sure the day Shay had been born, she’d rolled out on a red carpet with paparazzi asking her what she was wearing, and I could just see her replying, “Onesie by JCPenney.”
Her hair was Snow White–black, and her eyes were deep chocolate with lashes every girl dreamed of.
She had curves in places where I had flat tires, but the best thing about Shay was that she didn’t rely on her beauty.
She was one of the most down-to-earth and funniest people you’d ever meet.
Plus, she was all about girl power thanks to her piece-of-crap father.
We didn’t really talk about Kurt a lot since Shay’s parents had gone their separate ways, and I thought it was best that way. Whenever Shay used to mention her father, she’d just call him the shitty shithead who shit on her and her mother’s lives.
Dad still called Kurt his brother, though he wasn’t proud to do it. It was just like how Mufasa still claimed Scar, even though Mufasa knew his brother was an evil prick.
Though maybe things would’ve been different if Mufasa had blacklisted Scar.
Hakuna matata, I suppose.
Shay didn’t call herself a man-hater, but she did tag herself as a woman-lover.
I liked that about her, because way too many girls our age despised one another in order to get guys to like them. What a waste of energy. It truly felt as if high school had made them completely forget all their Spice Girls training from elementary school.
Shay stood tall in her high heels, and boy, could she wear high heels.
My calves hurt at the thought of even trying them on.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I replied, looking down at my yellow cardigan with dragonflies Mom made me. Beneath it was an old-school Metallica T-shirt that I stole from my dad because it hadn’t fit over his gut since 1988. My favorite ripped blue jeans and yellow Chucks completed the outfit.
My cocoa-colored hair was brushed back in a ponytail, and the closest thing to makeup on my face were lingering microscopic remnants of the bar soap I’d used to wash it that morning. At least my braces were nice and shiny.
I should’ve worn a push-up bra. Not that it would’ve helped any. Push-up bras only really worked if there was something to actually push up.
My handwoven crossbody bag—also made by my mom—was tossed over my shoulder, and I was already counting down the hours until the party would be over.
“It’s pretty much just guys from the basketball team and their friends,” Shay commented, as if that would make a difference in my mind about the party I was about to hate.
“That’s fine.”
“There’s some nice people, though,” she said. “They aren’t all assholes.”
“That sounds promising.”