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Chapter Twenty

Dylan

I ’m not good with feelings. Understanding them. Talking about them. Experiencing them. But the feeling when you smash your fist over and over into something—that’s one I’m familiar with. Most times, seems like pain is the only feeling that fits me just right. Deflates everything else down to a level that’s more tolerable.

The feeling’s off tonight, though. Possibly because of some kind of regret that’s pulsing alongside the pain. Don’t usually feel that afterwards.

We got back from the hospital just over an hour ago. Two broken fingers—a fracture that’s seriously called a “boxer’s fracture”. Nothing broken in my foot from kicking the desk, though. Mainly used my heel, so it’s just bruised. The doc was originally gonna just use a splint on the hand, then he and Phil had a little chat in private, and next thing you know, I’m in a full freakin’ cast and swallowing meds to “smooth things out” for the next few days. “While the fingers heal.” Doping me up so I’m less likely to get riled up again and smash my fist into anything else, is what they really mean. That’s their preventative plan for at least the next few days. Which is fine. Not like I want to kick off again in front of the entire family. In front of the neighbors.

In front of Scarlett.

Can’t forget she was here too tonight, to witness me hulking out like some kind of freak side-show act. How she fessed up afterwards to her little lie, the high-and-mighty poise shocked right out of her—because she sure as hell had no idea that tiny deception would end up blowing up so spectacularly in everyone’s faces.

Still can’t figure her out. She’s… tricky. Everything Eli warned me about, pretty much. But also intriguing. Possible that’s part of the appeal she uses to lure you in, though. I don’t know what the hell to think anymore. Which is why I try as much as possible not to. I’m escaping into comics. Started re-reading the entire Moon Knight series—the two thousand and six version. Not the first time I’ve re-read the series, and I like that it’s not. Makes it familiar. Predictable. Seems that’s something I’m desperate for these past few days. Which makes no sense. Not like anything from my life with Eli is the kind of stuff you’d want to be reminded of.

Just as I’m starting the third issue, there’s a knock on the door, which I assume is Phil doing his fifteen minute check-in.

“Yeah,” I call, my voice still raw from all the yelling earlier.

When the door opens, it isn’t Phil who steps into my room.

It’s Scarlett.

My breath catches for a second. She looks hot, dressed up from her date or party or wherever she went with her dough-head boyfriend.

My eyes narrow. “You need something?”

“No.” She sweeps her hair over her shoulder.

But there’s no good reason for her to be here right now. Especially the way she’s looking—like a cover model in bold technicolor. Or more like a flashy gift from a shady acquaintance. Appealing but suspicious.

She takes another step into the room. Closes the door part way, but not fully. Makes me calm down maybe a notch. Doesn’t feel like I’m trapped in here with her, at least.

She scans the room calmly. Doesn’t show any reaction to the fact that it’s pretty much back to normal. Besides a few missing pictures and those two huge-ass holes I punched through the wall by the door. She walks casual as fuck over to the window and takes a seat in the chair I haven’t sat in once. Looks relaxed. Possibly like a spider spinning her web.

I close the comic I was reading. “Get out.”

She acts like she didn't hear me and leans back in the seat. “I just got back from Xave’s house.”

No idea what game she’s playing right now, but I want no part of it.

She glances over at me, continues talking like I didn't just ask her to leave. “Most of the parties around here are at the beach or at Xave’s house.” Then, like I asked for clarification, she explains: “Xave’s the tall guy with brown wavy hair and pretty eyelashes… The one who called in the car the other day to bitch about my driving.” She slides down a little farther until her head hits the back of the chair, her eyes focused on the stars through the huge skylight in the high, sloped ceiling.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I mean…” She sighs. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t give a crap about some rich guy’s party.”

“Well, that’s because I haven’t told you about the drone mishap yet.” She doesn’t wait for a response. Just launches right into it. “Xave bought this new fancy drone. Not huge or anything, but decent size. And he decided to test it out by filming the party, which was inside.” She shrugs, still staring out the skylight. “I mean, obviously. Or the story wouldn’t be nearly as good. So anyway, he’s got this drone flying in the smoking room.” Another glance in my direction. “The smoking room’s where he has most of his parties. No idea why it’s called a smoking room. It’s just a room. I mean, not just a room—it’s massive. Practically the size of a football field. Black and mirrored walls and purple and orange velour couches… Honest to God, bright purple and orange velour! ” Her eyes flick to me again, like she’s checking if I’m getting all of this.

I am. None of it makes sense, though. These people live in a whole different reality. Might as well be a different planet.

“It’s so bad. Anyway, he’s flying this drone above the party. And the ceilings are high, but still—a ceiling’s still a ceiling, right?” She looks at me.

I’ve got nothing for her. I’m still trying to understand the “smoking room” thing. And what “velour” means.

She goes on. “And Xave’s never flown a drone before, so he’s got no clue what he’s doing. Also, he’s basically trashed. So maybe ten minutes in, he flies this thing right into a huge-ass chandelier. Six-feet in diameter at least. And the blades of the drone are whirring and spinning and they get caught in the strings of dangling crystals or whatever those things are on a chandelier, and the entire thing starts swaying. And people are freaking out because the chandelier looks like it’s going to come crashing down any second—and it looks seriously heavy. ”

Okay. I’m invested now. Not gonna let Scarlett know that. But she’s hooked me.

She continues. “Xave’s split between laughing his ass off and yelling at people to move out of the way. But he still hasn’t shut the stupid drone off. The blades are still whirring and getting caught up in more and more strings of crystals… Until it finally gets jammed.” She pauses and I wait, trying not to show that I give a crap. Scarlett shifts, leaning forward a little. “And the chandelier doesn’t fall… But the drone does. And it lands right on this table where Piper Shen set up a bunch of trays of fancy desserts she spent all week making. She’s had a thing for Xave since last year and apparently thought baking a bunch of squares or whatever would make him fall for her. Like it’s nineteen-fifty-something. And she flips her lid. Yelling at Xavier that he’s a jerk, and he has no idea how long it took her to make these lemon curd square things—like he flew his drone into the chandelier just to ruin her home-baked goods. And, get this…” Scarlett’s eyes go wide. “Piper throws one of the squares at him… And there’s this tense silence. I mean, there’s music blasting, but you know what I mean. Anyway, Xave starts laughing… And Kyle Baxter picks up another dessert square, and throws it across the table at Piper. Hits her right on the side of her head so it splats in her hair. Then someone yells, ‘food fight!’—and the shit basically hits the fan. Everyone starts throwing cupcakes and meringues and stuff at each other, and half an hour later, most of the room is a total disaster. Covered in icing and crumbs and pie filling and stuff… And then suddenly, Xave’s dad walks into the room. Which is a huge deal, because his dad lives in his own wing of the house and makes an appearance in the main house, maybe every lunar eclipse or something. So everyone races for the exits, sliding through whipped cream and icing and smashed cake, like it’s the cops who just showed up. Not even eleven and the party just shut down.” Scarlett’s head dips forward to look at me, her eyes expectant. “And here I am.”

No idea what reaction she expects from me here. Not even sure why she shared the story with me. I rub the back of my neck, still getting used to the shorter hair curling over my fingers. “So you thought you’d come to my room in the middle of the night to tell me about your gazillionaire friend getting his drone caught in a chandelier?”

She shrugs. “I figured you could use some light entertainment in your evening.” A quick eye roll. “Also, it was less about the drone hitting the chandelier than about the drone falling on the dessert table and causing a food fight, so you clearly misunderstood the whole climax of the story.”

I level her with a look that tells her to cut the bullshit. Would be cool if she could be straight with me for once, ’cos I know she didn’t really come over here just to spin a ten-minute story about a fucking food fight in this guy’s mansion. And if she’s playing some kind of game—which I’m sure she is—I want a clue about what her angle is.

“Okay… truth?” she sighs, swinging her legs over the arm of the chair, so her feet are dangling over the side now.

“Yeah,” I bite. “Truth.”

Another sigh. She glances at me. Then looks away again. Out the window this time. “I wanted to check and see how you’re doing.”

… What the hell? “Why?”

“Because you had a crap night… A crap week.” She turns to look at me. “A crap life, sounds like.”

“My life is none of your business.”

She doesn’t say anything. Which isn’t like her. Scarlett usually snaps back with an answer to everything. Something I don’t hate about her. She thinks fast. Always processing one step ahead.

“I was wondering how you made out at the hospital.” Her eyes dip to my right hand. “Nice cast, by the way.”

When I don’t say anything, she rolls her head back to stare out of the skylight. “And I was wondering how you were doing. After what went down and everything… And how things are with you and your folks.” Another glance at me. “Did they ground you? Or…”

“What’s that?”

“Grounding?”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes go wide, then she schools her features and tries to look chill. Too late. I saw enough to know I’m an idiot for not knowing what grounding means.

“Just… when you’re not allowed out of the house for a certain amount of time, basically.”

I poke at my lip ring with my tongue. “Been grounded since I got here, then.”

She nods. Stares at me for a second longer than feels comfortable. Then looks out the window again, and more softly, she says, “Also, if you want me to be totally honest… the drone story didn’t happen tonight.” She glances at me. “It did happen. But it was last year.”

I wait. Not sure what to say to that. Girl lies a lot.

“But the rest is true—about wanting to see how you’re doing. I just wasn’t sure what to say at first. It seemed awkward to just come out and ask.”

“Well, I’m fine,” I tell her. “So you can leave.”

I don’t trust her. Still don’t get what her angle is.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t look like she even heard me. Then she jerks her chin towards my chest. “You fixed your Lucky Six necklace.”

I don’t say anything. Pretty obvious I did; it’s hanging around my neck.

Makes me think of Kenz. How she acted different when I got back from the hospital. I rub my neck again. “Doesn’t matter. She’s scared of me now.”

No idea why I said that out loud, and I wish I could take it back. But Scarlett doesn’t miss a beat. Doesn’t show some huge reaction or anything, thank fuck. But she does respond right away. “You think Kenz is scared after everything this evening, you mean?”

I don't answer. Pissed I said anything about it at all. Worried I'm getting weak and caving in to her.

“She’ll bounce back,” Scarr says. “She was probably just a little shaken up after, uh…” Her eyes meet mine. “After seeing you like that,” she finishes.

I glance down at my mummified right hand. Don’t want to meet her eyes again.

“Just give her some time. She’ll start to trust you again.”

I keep quiet. Still regretting opening my big mouth. Letting this beautiful, sly girl know I give a crap. Letting her know anything about me.

“Seriously, Dylan. Kenz will bounce back.”

I don’t say anything.

“You should talk to her,” Scarlett goes on, like we’re having some breezy conversation here, instead of just her talking and me lasering my eyes at the cast I didn’t really need. “Nothing deep or anything. Just tell her you’re sorry. Reassure her you wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt her, or—”

My eyes snap up. “I wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt her.”

“Okay, so then tell her that.”

I roll my lip ring between my teeth. “I’m not gonna talk to her about that. It’s fine. You can—”

“You should read her one of those comics,” Scarlett interrupts.

“Huh?”

“Those comics you collect—you should read one to Kenz. Tomorrow night when it’s her bedtime, ask Diane if you could read to her. Or anytime, really. Bedtime just seems like an easy time. That way you don’t feel like you have to… you know, talk or whatever. But it’ll be a gesture to let her know you care about her, and—”

“I didn’t say I care about her.”

“Relax.” She rolls her eyes. “Your secret’s safe with me. I’m not going to let it out of the bag that you actually give a shit about someone.”

I sit up, ready to kick her out.

She must notice because she sighs. “Okay, fine. Whether you care about her or not, it would still be a good way to let Kenz know she doesn’t need to be scared of you. Make her feel more comfortable around you again.”

I don’t respond. I’m thinking about it. Can’t imagine myself doing something like that—going up to Kenz and asking if she wants me to read to her.

“You’ve got nothing to lose. Just do it. Tomorrow night, ask if you can read her a comic—something that doesn’t have swearing or too much violence, obviously.”

Shit. I wouldn’t think about that.

“Yeah, maybe,” I say. Don’t think I’ll do it, though.

“Cool.” She motions with her chin towards the discarded comic on my bed. “So, what’s the deal with the comics, anyway? How long have you been into them?”

I shrug, looking over at the piles on the shelf, then back at her. “Since I was eight or nine.”

“Are you into the movies, too? The superhero movies?”

“Sure.” I’ve only watched a couple. Truth is, I only got into the comics because I could hide a few of them in the closet under the loose linoleum tiles. Gave me something to do those times I got locked in there. Couldn’t usually read the text, but it was still better than nothing, just looking at the pictures. Made me feel like I was somewhere other than a cramped dark closet. Like I was in a whole other world. Easier to do when I was younger, though. Got harder, the older I got. Like I got too smart to fool myself after a while.

“Can I read one?” She swivels in the chair so she’s facing the stacks piled on the bookshelf. Means she doesn’t notice when I freeze.

Why would she ask that?

What the hell game is she playing? Why is she in my room acting like we’re life-long buddies or something? Asking if I’m okay. Asking to read my comics.

She’s on her feet now and wanders over to the stacks of comics, no clue that she’s got me on the defensive now. She picks up the one on top of the second stack—the Locke but we both pretend not to notice. He goes back downstairs. We go back to reading.

Next thing I know, there’s sunlight streaming through the skylight across my bed. I’m still in the same spot against the pillows, my head turned to one side. The issue I was reading slid onto the floor.

It’s morning?

I whip my head up. The chair’s empty. I wonder for a second if maybe I dreamt that whole weird evening. But there’s a heavy, sweat-inducing cast on my right hand proving I didn’t. And a note on one of the pillows by my head, with a message written in girlish curly script:

It’s midnight. Heading home but didn’t want to wake you. Finished issue 2 and 3. Hope it’s ok, I borrowed issue 4. Still trying to decide if I like the series.

But there’s a smiley face beside that, which I think means she’s admitting she totally does.