BAD WICKED TWISTED: A Briarcrest Academy Box Set (51 page)

Heather-Lynn glided over to Sarah and gave her the usual double-cheek peck, Hollywood style. “Don’t mind if I do, dahling.”

Sarah laughed and bent down to give the begging Ricky a piece of bacon.

After getting the plates out, we sat at the table, just like we had for the past eight years. I slathered butter on my biscuit, my thoughts split between my audition and on the 3:00 AM phone call I’d gotten last night from Spider. My best friend at BA, he needed to chill with the drunk dials. I needed my sleep. I had too much going on to be woken up by heavy breathing and loud music blaring in my ear.

Sarah fidgeted across from me, and because I felt wired to her every nuance, my eyes shot to her. Clutching her knife, she stared intently at the butter as if willing it to move closer. She opened her mouth to say something, but then slammed it shut.

Without a word, I nudged the butter dish closer to her. White with bright red poppies, she’d had the dish for years, given to her as a birthday present by her late husband David. I guess he’d known she loved to cook as much as she liked to dance.

I covered her hand with mine, the contrast of my younger skin against hers, slamming home the cold hard truth. We didn’t have much longer. And I didn’t know when. I didn’t know how. “It’s called
butter
.” I tried to smile. I think it worked.

She nodded, her shoulders shrinking as if she were disappearing within herself.

Wasn’t she?

Always the attention diverter, Heather-Lynn cleared her throat and pointed her fork at me. “Tonight I’ll have some of that orange blossom and ginseng tea you and Sarah love so much. Maybe I’ll run down to the bakery and get some goodies for dessert.”

“Get the chocolate fried pies,” I begged, and they both laughed.

Yeah, it was the simple pleasures that kept the darkness at bay.

After breakfast was finished, Heather-Lynn and I cleared the table while Sarah read the newspaper, part of her daily routine. Editorials and world events were her favorite sections, probably because she’d traveled all over Europe in her youth, dancing for various ballet companies.

All was well. Yet…

“Keep an eye out for her today,” I whispered to Heather-Lynn who nodded, her teased blonde hair not moving an inch.

“Don’t be talking about me like I’m not here.” Sarah snapped up, newspaper in hand, eyes flashing. “I’m not a child.” She turned her back, cleaning the stovetop.

Oh.

Heather-Lynn never missed a beat, running over to a shopping bag she’d brought in earlier and set by the door. With a flourish worthy of a magician, she pulled out a see-through, baby-doll nightie. She jiggled it. “What cha think of my new outfit, ladies. I bought it just for Maxie-poo.”

I stared at the lace and the garters and the snaps and I don’t know what all else. An image of her and Max, our fiftyish-year-old mail man, rolling around…

“Thanks for that picture. Now, I have to go bleach my eyes,” I joked.

She turned to Sarah and made the hanger dance. “Huh? Ya see it?”

“I certainly can’t
unsee
it, my dear,” Sarah said, her good mood restored.

Or perhaps she was just pretending for us. Lately it was hard to tell how much of what she said was real or if she held back, not wanting us to know the truth.

Wanting to ease her work load, I went with her to the studio to set up for the morning classes. Across the hall from our apartment, the studio took up the entire width of the right side of the building. Beckham House, a two-story construction, consisted of three apartments, one down—which was ours—one up which was Heather-Lynn’s, and one that sat empty because it needed renovating. The last tenants had moved out under the cover of night, leaving behind punched walls and carpet ruined by a German Sheppard. That empty apartment was the one I’d shared with my mama, and I never walked past it without remembering those hungry days. It needed a complete makeover. But our money was tight, especially since last summer, when we’d had to replace all the wood flooring in the dance studio because of a burst pipe. I’d never asked Sarah how much it set her back, but I knew it had been substantial. Which reminded me. We needed to see a lawyer, get the ball rolling on transferring power-of-attorney over to me. I’m eighteen, so it should work.

I flicked on the lights in the studio and watched them blink on one by one, the scent of freshly mopped wood and the sweat of hard work reminding me of every moment spent here training with Sarah. She’d devoted herself to teaching me everything she knew. And it hadn’t always been easy. We’d had lean years, like most people in Ratcliffe. But we’d hung in.

I turned on the heat, set out the sign-in sheet for the students while she popped in a solo piano music CD. And we were done. Now it was up to her.

Fifteen minutes later, Sarah walked me out to my brown Corolla. Without her noticing, I checked her wrist for the ID bracelet, needing reassurance.

We strolled past the
For Sale
sign in the front yard, and despite being nervous about leaving Sarah, I got a zap of excitement. As soon as this house sold, we’d be out of Ratcliffe and living in a decent neighborhood. Cue, angels singing.

Maybe we’d find a small apartment near my ballet company—if I got into one. That depended on my upcoming audition at the Dallas Ballet Company. Not only was it validation for eight years of hard work, but they also awarded stipends to their students, which would obviously come in handy. Of course, my dream had been to move to New York City or even Paris to dance, but I needed to stay close to Sarah.

I slung my dance bag and books in my car and backed out of the small gravel drive next to our building. When I got to the road, Sarah stood on the old, rickety porch, watching me leave like she always did, her hands on her hips. A vacant smile graced her face.

Did she know who I was…right at this moment?

A morning was coming when she
wouldn’t
sing out to me, when she
wouldn’t
remember my name. Alzheimer’s does that. Like a thief, it steals all the moments of a lifetime; it scrounges through your heart and rips out the people you love; it claws through your mind and takes your ability to think, and then it takes your words until you can’t speak. And once you have nothing left inside, it slithers away.

Because you’re dead.

I lowered my window down and called out in a sing-song voice. “
Did I mention that I love you?”

She rolled her eyes and waved me away.

A COLD RAIN drenched me in seconds as I raced from my car to the front doors of Briarcrest Academy. That’s what I got for parking my beat-up car in BFE. But it was preferable to parking next to an import or a luxury car. At least in the overflow parking, I didn’t have to worry about accidentally dinging a hundred thousand dollar car with my door. But most of all, I didn’t have to worry about running into
him.
He always parked in the closest lot, the one designated for seniors.

Prestigious and old, Briarcrest Academy was hailed as one of the most academically excellent schools in Texas. It also had an excellent dance and music department. It certainly had one of the biggest price tags, annual tuition costing around thirty-five thousand a year for non-boarders. Against a backdrop of stately oak trees and carefully maintained shrubbery, the austere grey stones ushered in the privileged to its hallowed halls. Calling me privileged was downright funny, yet here I am, finishing up my last year at BA. All because Sarah had wrangled me a scholarship, pulling strings with one of the dance teachers here.

BA reeked of money, sophistication and class. It reeked of things I didn’t have, like Hummers and Prada purses. The girls—and guys—dressed like it was Milan Fashion Week and the paparazzi were waiting right outside the school to take their pictures.

I pushed through the double doors, stopping in the tastefully decorated foyer to brush off the rain. It didn’t help. I probably looked like a drowned rat, but at least my backpack had kept my books and ballet clothes dry.

I continued down the long entry hallway to my locker, and it was a lot like walking the gauntlet. But I’d mastered the art of ignoring the eye-judging of the girls and the leers from the jerk-offs who thought I was easy. They’d recognized I wasn’t a clone of them on day one.

Fine with me. I liked being on the fringe. The less they knew about me and where I came from the better. And ballet kept me happy. I didn’t need people.

But I shouldn’t generalize because I had some friends here, namely Spider. With his stuffy English accent, you’d think we wouldn’t go together, but we’d met freshman year and had been friends ever since. He was filthy rich and I wasn’t, but we did share a love for cafeteria French fries and Minecraft. He boarded at BA, and sometimes if I was too exhausted to drive home after hours of dance or if he was scary drunk, I’d sneak into his dorm and crash or take care of him, whichever was needed.

One of the football jocks—Matt the Quarterdick I called him in my head—whistled at me as I passed.
As if.
The star quarterback at BA, he was the epitome of the handsome, frat boy type. He was also Emma Easton’s on again, off again boyfriend. Although they’d been off for a while this last time.

Whatever. I avoided him.

I’d already learned a painful lesson with a certain rich boy at BA.

When I’d first come to BA, like most girls, I’d entertained thoughts—briefly—of meeting a hot guy, kinda like a Taylor Lautner type with a warm smile and perfect abs. He’d see me breeze through the door, and he’d break his neck to rush to my side. He’d introduce me to his friends, even the female ones, who’d be just as welcoming. Maybe he’d try and smell my hair without me knowing or offer to sing to me even when he couldn’t carry a tune. He’d drive a fast car and own his own penthouse where he’d promptly invite me over for a candlelight dinner. He’d sprinkle roses out in a trail to his bedroom. Ha. Yeah, I’m no beauty and that scenario only happens in the movies.

Imitating my classmates, I lifted my nose a notch higher and increased my stride, anxious to distance myself from the crowd who hung around the front entrance.

My phone buzzed, so I stepped inside the library. Heather-Lynn rarely texted, so I immediately got curious.

She’d written
, Sarah owes money to the wrong people. Just a head’s up.

What? That made no sense.

I’d only be gone for forty-five minutes.

With rapid-fire fingers, I texted back,
What happened? Should I come home?

But that would be hard. I had a test in Calculus and then ballet.

No, I’ll explain later,
she said.
Try not to worry.
Gotta go
.
Sarah needs me.

Baffled, I put the phone back in my purse. We weren’t rich, but neither were we hand-to-mouth either. Not with Sarah’s teaching income and the settlement from the oil-rig accident when her husband had been killed.

I headed to class. Sometimes Heather-Lynn could be dramatic, so I let it go, yet made a mental plan to call her at my first break.

My locker beckoned, but I stopped in my tracks.

Please. Not today. Not with my plastered hair and wet shoes that squeaked when I walked.

He
was there
,
his big shoulders and well-toned biceps taking up most of the space and all of my air.
Yes,
brooding and sexy, Cuba Hudson was serious man-candy, the kind good girls knew to stay away from. But I hadn’t. Within the space of a few weeks last year, he’d wooed me, screwed me, and then tossed me in the trash.

My heart clenched, remembering how he’d lied to me, how he’d fooled me. Of course, I’d given in to him, and he’d broken me, shattering something fragile that could never be fixed.

Perhaps running or hiding would be good now. There was always the bathroom or the library where I could loiter for the next five minutes. But then I’d be late for class.

I stood there uncertainly. Perhaps it was time to face him head-on.

And truthfully, I wanted a reaction out of him. Anything except the whole ignoring thing he’d been doing since he dumped me.

I marched up to my locker and flung it open with a metallic bang, making him flinch.

Of course, I immediately smelled him, a woodsy, expensive scent that wafted around him, bringing back a time I didn’t want to remember. One whiff and a thousand memories assaulted me, of how he’d incinerated me. I held my breath for a few seconds until I decided that was straight-up stupid. I had to breathe because it would suck if I passed out at his feet.

Oh, wouldn’t that just be dandy.

So what if he smelled delicious? I could handle it. I knew his game now. He had a knack for being a
playa
and…

Tingles skipped up my spin, and as if it were choreographed, every hair on my body lifted in perfect unison. For the first time in a year, my peripheral vision saw his head turn and sensed his golden eyes behind those shades, running over my body, lingering uninvited.

He had actually
looked
at me. Holy moly.

I stared into the recesses of the locker, my mind reeling.