“You’ve been down here a few times now. More than a few times. And you’re here tonight. Should I regret giving you the keys?”
“Maybe I’m here because I’ve moved back now.”
When I lived in New York, I’d usually see Pete once or twice a month.
I’d drive down to Wuthering Garden from New York City and try to spend a weekend or something, working in his shop and generally helping him. He’s allergic to computers so I’d help him with his accounts and stuff.
But over the past few days, ever since I moved back, I’ve been here thrice.
He raises his eyebrows, not believing me. “Is that really why you’re here? Because you’ve moved back.”
Something angry moves in my chest and I clutch the bottle tightly. “They kicked her out.”
“Who?”
“Her ballet studio,” I reply, taking a long, angry gulp of the beer. “BluefuckingMadonna.”
You know what, I was right. This beer is shitty.
It’s doing nothing to calm me, relax my suddenly tightened muscles.
“What the fuck? Why?”
“Because of what she did.”
What she did.
That’s the whole problem, isn’t it?
She stole my car and now she’s paying for it. She’s paying for it even when it wasn’t her fault.
That angry thing inside my chest hisses.
Pete watches me for a few beats. “Are you going to do something about it?”
He knows all about that night.
I’m not the sharing type, but if I was going to share what happened that night with anyone, it was going to be Pete. Maybe because he knows about my dad. He knows what a piece of shit he is, and so when my father pressed those charges against her to manipulate me, I told Pete.
“I already did. If they want to stay open in Bardstown, inmytown, they better make it up to her.” I take another gulp and can’t help but add, “She sneaks out every week. To go practice. She takes that shitty bus. All alone.”
“Well, I don’t think you’ve got a say in that.”
I frown. “I know. So I’ve been told.”
Why does everyone keep telling me that? That I don’t have a say in what she does or doesn’t do.
I know already, all right?
I fucking know and it fucking bugs me.
It makes me furious that I can’t do anything about this whole situation. It makes me furious that she was going to end up at juvie. And so I gave my father everything he wanted in exchange for him reducing those charges. And even with reduced charges, she ended up caged.
It makes me fucking furious that my father probably doesn’t even remember her name, the girl whose life he played with in order to get to me.
I thought at least at St. Mary’s, she wouldn’t be shut up in a detention center, among criminals.
She would have friends. She could see her brothers.
