Page 6 of Endless Anger (Monsters Within #1)

LUCY

SIXTEEN YEARS OLD

When we were babies, our parents put Asher and me in the same crib because there weren’t any other safe places for a colicky infant to nap. Our moms, best friends at that point, stayed in the room, making sure eight-month-old Asher didn’t stir and cause problems.

As the story goes, the intrusion did wake Asher, but only long enough for him to reach out and grab hold of the sleeve of my outfit, which they said had an immediate calming effect on me.

I was out like a light in seconds, and we’ve been inseparable since.

That small gap in our ages never really seemed like much—it’s a mere six months—maybe because we’ve always been together. But lately, as the spring rolls around and Asher’s being fitted for his graduation gown and doing grad prep, the divide feels impassable.

I’m sitting on his bed with my legs crossed, Keats purring in my lap, watching from the corner of my eye as he tosses another college brochure in the wastebasket by his desk.

Floating shelves above the wooden structure are lined with various books—from classics like Moby Dick and Beowulf to manga and blank sketchbooks.

His black hair is a little longer than usual, falling limp when he leans back in his chair, shaking the strands loose from the collar of his plaid button-down. The sharp angles of his face are mesmerizing, but then he opens his mouth and ruins the illusion.

“You know, I’m starting to think my parents signed me up for some mailing lists,” he grumbles.

“Have you decided where you want to go?” I ask, trying to make it sound casual. Like I don’t mind that he’ll be leaving me behind.

If my parents had bothered having me earlier in the year, we’d be in the same grade, and I wouldn’t feel like I’m suffocating now.

Asher swings his gaze lazily in my direction. His eye is a purplish-yellow color from a scuffle at school last Friday, and there’s a hint of blood on the collar of his shirt.

Violence doesn’t faze him in the slightest, and as a pacifist I should probably care more that his solution to every problem involves his fists, but…they’re usually my problems that he’s trying to solve.

There’s a small, slightly deranged, part of me that likes how he always has my back.

“According to these fucking recruitment letters, I pretty much have my pick of the lot,” he tells me.

Acid burns in my stomach. Must be nice. All three of the Anderson kids have had that experience.

“Yeah, but where do you want to go? It probably won’t do you any good to just pick a random school.”

“All I want to do is draw,” he says, shrugging. “I can do that anywhere. Don’t even need school for it.”

“Sure, but?—”

“My mom didn’t finish her degree, your mom has one she doesn’t use, and they both seem to be doing pretty well,” he continues, propping his arms behind his head.

I catalog the bulk of them, which has increased in the past year or so, and I quickly look away as heat fans my face.

“So are you saying you don’t want to go to school at all?”

“Who knows. Maybe I’ll take a gap year and wait to see if something else piques my interest.” His warm brown eyes meet mine. “Where are you wanting to go?”

“Avernia.”

“Ugh. Still? I thought Quincy’d convinced you to stay away from that stupid place.”

I frown, confusion screwing up my face, and dig my fingers into Keats’s fur.

“What are you talking about? Your sister loves Avernia. She’s constantly singing its praises.

Plus, it’s one of the only schools in the country to keep expanding its art and humanities courses where the others keep shrinking theirs. ”

“Do you even know what you want to major in yet?”

“Well, no. But I have some time to decide. I’m stuck between some kind of environmental preservation program and political science?—”

Asher snorts.

“—but a planned trip to see the campus next fall will help me pick, I think. Avernia graduates go off to do really cool things, and I…I want to do them too.”

It sounds pathetic when I say it, but it’s the truth. Where else can I whisper my basest desires if not in the comfort of Asher’s bedroom?

My dream has always been to open up a sanctuary for endangered wildlife and to fight for the conservation of the planet and its natural resources.

While Avernia is best known for its classics, theater, and literature departments, it’s a top-tier location for the kind of work I’m interested in, and has superior science programs with lots of important faculty to network.

Not to mention Quincy going there makes me feel like I could do it. I trust her judgment.

Asher gives me a droll look. “There are better schools out there, pup. Closer to home even. I bet your parents would love that.”

“I’m sure they would,” I say, thinking of the disappointment that lines my dad’s face with each day that brings us closer to my graduation. “But my long-term decisions shouldn’t be about them. That’s what they’ve always told me anyway. ”

“They’re lying.”

The way he says it, with such assurance and finality, makes my skin crawl. It feels like he’s holding something back, which he never does.

We tell each other everything.

“Why would they lie?”

“Parents do that sometimes. Maybe they’re trying to spare your feelings.”

“If they wanted to control my decisions, couldn’t they just threaten not to pay my way?” That’s what happens in the movies and books, anyway.

My parents aren’t like that, but maybe Asher knows something I don’t.

Ever since he came back from that weekend trip a couple years ago, his attitude about school and the future in general has been worse. While he has never been a terribly positive person, this still seems excessive.

“What aren’t you telling me?” I ask.

He pushes from his desk, kicking off his Converse before face-planting beside me. The mattress jostles with his added weight, and Keats launches off my lap, retreating to the hallway.

“No more school talk,” he says into the bed, his voice muffled by the sheets. “It’s depressing.”

“How so? Your grades are great, and you don’t even have to try. Mine, on the other hand…”

“If you’re worried about getting in, don’t be. I’m sure Quincy would write a great recommendation, and having an alumna on your side would go a long way.”

“That won’t make me a better test-taker. Not even the extra time helps.”

“There’s more to the application than test scores, Luce. Plus, your parents can convince anyone to do anything. I doubt the school would want to piss off a former governor.”

“Yeah,” I agree, but his words weigh heavily on my chest.

I don’t want my parents to have to charm my way into school .

Given my academic record and history of “civil disturbances” in the name of the greater good, I doubt I’ll get in anywhere based on extracurriculars alone.

My community merit outshines everyone on this godforsaken island.

I’m the twice-elected leader of our school’s wildlife conservation club, I’ve helped my mother run countless fundraisers to find stray animals homes and offer affordable spay and neuter clinics, and I spent last summer volunteering at the Society of American Foresters helping plant trees along the East Coast.

But Avernia is still a business at its core, so the likelihood of them caring about community action when considering retention possibilities is low. Even Quincy says there’s a certain expectation of the students to be exemplary learners and social butterflies.

Unfortunately, my academics leave a lot to be desired, although not for lack of trying. It’s just that concentrating on stuff I don’t find interesting is hard, and when I lose focus, it just kind of snowballs into an uncontrollable mess.

Still, if I end up having to use my parents to get me into Avernia, I suppose that wouldn’t be the worst thing. Maybe the change of scenery will help reset my brain or at least give me a chance to get away from the people who have always disliked that I’m not outgoing or exciting enough.

Anything that takes me away from this island.

“Asher! Lucy! Dinner’s on the table if you’re hungry!” Asher’s mom shouts from somewhere in the house, her lilting voice carrying across the dark wood floors and disappearing into the tall ceilings.

“She made vegan mac just for you,” Asher notes, lifting his head. “Don’t tell her Italian ancestors.”

I mime zipping my lips and tossing the key. “Mum’s the word.”

When I get up from the bed, reaching for my jacket, I turn around and wait for him to join me. He rolls over, propping his head on his hand, and stares at the wall.

“Are you okay?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. “You’re being weird. ”

“I’m fine, pup. Don’t worry about me.” When he sits up, there’s a distant glint in his gaze that makes me shiver. After a beat, he refocuses.

“Sometimes I think you forget I know you better than anyone.” Reaching forward, I smooth the indent between his brows. “I can always tell when you’re keeping secrets.”

He swats my hand away, but catches it at the last second, holding me still. “Oh yeah? What sort of secrets might those be?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t have to ask.”

“Then maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

It feels like he’s just slapped me. I recoil, snatching my wrist out of his grasp.

Sighing, he drops his head into his palms. “I’ll go with you.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need an escort to get food?—”

“No, not downstairs.” He plants his feet on the floor, lifting his eyes to mine. “To Avernia. If that’s really where you want to go.”

I can’t stop a smile from splitting my face in half. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I don’t mind waiting around a year for you.” He clears his throat, straightening his spine. “That’s what best friends are for, right? So you don’t have to do anything alone?”

“But three seconds ago you were just trying to convince me to enroll somewhere else.”

Asher shrugs. “An exercise in futility. You hate being told what to do, and you’ve never listened to me before.”

Squealing, I throw myself at him, not thinking about the position it’ll put us in when he falls under my weight. I just wrap my arms around his neck and squeeze tight, trying to memorize the clean cotton scent of his shirt and the hint of some woodsy cologne he and Foxe bought a few months back.

For once in our friendship, he doesn’t smell like fresh blood or sweat, even though I can see the evidence of today’s fight blooming on his knuckles. Beneath one eye. A scar on his lip from a few weeks back with Foxe.

“No take-backs,” I say, jabbing my finger into his chest .

He chuckles but doesn’t reply as I bury my face in his shoulder, too delighted to speak.

At this moment in time, he’s not the angry, unhinged kid I’ve come to think of as a savior.

Right now, he’s just my best friend.

The only boy I’ve ever loved.

And the one I know will never break my heart.