“Turn around before I kick you out of your chair.” Charlie bites.
That gets him to face forward. My friend has her own reputation around school—from getting into fist fights with mean girls in the bathroom to pranking my regular bullies back, she’s created quite the stir in our little town.
“Thanks,” I mumble as she helps adjust my tuba.
“Ride or die,” she smirks before picking up her flute. “Let’s get this over with.”
Once everyone is settled, Mrs. Christie begins conducting each section of the room for their parts. It sounds like a dying cat’s last call as off-tune instruments fill the room. I close my eyes at the pressure in my skull, my ears ringingwith every missed note.
Charlie elbows me. “Look alive.”
My eyes fly open as Mrs. Christie turns towards us. She lifts her hand, and I know my part is approaching. I raise the mouthpiece before blowing into it, and thick, white powder poofs out of the bell, dancing over and coating everyone in the front row as my eyes widen in horror.
A girl screams, standing as the substance clings to her skin and clothes. She turns her ire on me, her face twisting. “Dirt!”
I’m mortified and left blinking at the carnage. The floor and first row of students are coated in fine dust, and the air smells heavily of baby powder.
A cackling laugh from across the room is what breaks my concentration. Kairo is howling so hard that his face is turning red. Roman is chuckling with him, low-lidded eyes pinning me with predator-like intensity. Maddox smirks, sitting back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest proudly.
“Who did this?!” Mrs. Christie rages to the room. Her wide eyes bounce around until they stop on the three boys. “You three! Detention! Go to the front office!”
None of them looks remorseful as they push up from their chairs and abandon their instruments. Before the door closes, Kairo gives me a mocking wink that makes my skin crawl.
Chapter Four
Rosalie
My anxiety has been high all day, and I couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder. I knew the guys would be out for blood the moment they were released from detention, so I didn’t stick around to tell Charlie bye before taking my usual, lone route to the trailer park. The further I get from the school, the more I can breathe.
But it’s short-lived when I see the beat-up, old Corolla parked in the makeshift driveway. The back windows are busted out, replaced with trash bags to prevent the wind from tunneling through the cab. The hood is a crimson red from being replaced, and clashes horribly with the navy tone of the rest of the body.
It sits idle in front of the dilapidated, single-wide, serving as an eyesore for any passerby. Junk parts of old vehicles and trash litter the walkway to the busted front porch. Every step forward has my heart sinking lower until I feel like a shell—numb and hollow to what’s about to happen.
I pray he’s asleep.
I hope he’s in the middle of a bender, out of his mind, and lost to the world.
Anything but sober.
As I brace a hand on the front door’s dented handle, I steady my racing heart. Whatever hell awaits me on the other side is something one can never be prepared for. No matter how many times I undergo this, it’s never the same.
I push the door open, and the overwhelming scent of mothballs and souring liquor assaults me. It makes my insides revolt, and I have to choke down my gag.
“You’re home,” Dad slurs from the kitchen sink. The island is piled high with empty bottles and rotting food containers. The trash can at the end of the cabinets is overflowing, and the lid is nowhere to be found.
He’s only been home for a day…
“I am,” I say quietly before heading towards my room at the end of the hall. I keep my head down, hoping to escape, but as he wrenches me by my arm, my head is left spinning.
“I’m fucking talking to you, Rosalie. Don’t walk away from me.” He spits in my face, the stench of alcohol mixing with his putrid breath.
“Yes, sir.” My lip wobbles, but I hold back my tears as my arm flames where he touches. It’s getting hard to breathe with him this close, but I don’t dare move. Even as my muscles lock up tightly, and my mind screams for me to run, I remain frozen with terror.
Dad curls his lip, his dark black hair that resembles my own flopping into his eyes and sticking to his sweaty temples.
When people drink, their sweat gets this distinct smell that stays in your nose. It’s embedded into the fiber of my being and serves as another scent I’m conditioned to be repulsed by. As my stomach churns, I have to swallow down the bile that’s threatening to spew all over my father’s scuffed, brown boots.
Dead eyes, devoid of light and warmth, trail over my face. “You seem fine to me. What was all of that shit the nurse called me about?”
