Modern Monsters (Entangled Teen) (7 page)

Autumn draws one knee up and rests her chin on top of it. “Tell me about it. Like, tell me what you’ve been going through.”

“I d-don’t think you want to hear it.”

“Yes, I do. I want to know what it’s been like for you.”

I can’t begin to understand why she’s curious about my situation. Because she feels somehow responsible for me being in this position? I really hope that isn’t the case. But if she wants to know… “My mom doesn’t believe I’m innocent,” I murmur.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Why?”

“N-no idea. Just doesn’t.”

“That’s seriously fucked up. What else?”

Honestly, I don’t know where to start. I feel like complaining is the last thing I should be doing. But Autumn is waiting for an explanation and so I give her one, maybe minus some of the details, but I tell her about the night the detectives came and took me to the clinic. I tell her about staying at Brett’s because Mom can’t stand to look at me, about Aaron and his friends cornering me in the bathroom…and I tell her about Craig Something-or-Other because I feel that part is important. If he’s coming to talk to me, he might be going after Callie, too.

“Oh,” Autumn says after a moment. “Craig Roberts. Yeah. I know who that is. Skinny guy, dark hair, kinda hot?”

“Uh, I guess so.”

“Definitely a reporter. Callie hasn’t said anything about him showing up at her house, but she’s had a few smaller journalists from the newspaper trying to get her to sit down and ‘share her story’ or whatever.” She makes a face. “Which is kind of dumb considering, you know, she was just raped and we don’t even know who did it. They probably want to make an example out of her for why people shouldn’t drink at parties or something.”

“Maybe,” I agree, almost amused at the way she can keep a conversation going without my having to say much. It’s kind of nice. I prefer listening to her over talking.

“Well, your friend Brett is probably right about not talking to him. Newspeople never report things as they get them. They’ll twist your words around and edit the hell out of them to make you out to be some terrible person.” She shrugs.

“And th-that would bother you?”

“If it’s not true, then yeah, it would bother me.”

I asked Callie earlier, and for some reason Autumn’s opinion matters to me, too, so I feel compelled to repeat the question: “Are you positive now it wasn’t me?”

Autumn examines her nails. I find she does that a lot when she doesn’t want to make eye contact. “Honestly? No. I’m still half-and-half. But Callie is starting to think you’re innocent, and if you’re going to help me try to find who did it…”

I open my mouth to say something when my phone rings. Autumn is silent while I pull it out of my pocket and look at it. Amjad. I’ve never turned down a call from him, so I hold up a finger to let Autumn know I’ll be a sec and answer, “H-hello?”

“Vic,” Amjad greets. He sounds…weird. Stuffy, maybe. “Can you work tonight, maybe?”

I glance at the time. It’s five now, and the shop stays open until eleven. It’s a longer shift than I’m used to working and I’ve never done it all by myself, but my desperate need to never let Amjad down rears its head. “Y-yeah, of course.”

“You are wonderful. Thank you.” He apologizes a few times before I get him to hang up, and then I rise to my feet with a sigh.

“Um…I g-got called in to work. I should go.”

Autumn blinks and stands up. “I didn’t know you had a job. Where at?”

“J-just a few blocks away. Rick’s Convenience Store?”

“Oh, I know where that is.” She pulls the keys from her pocket and inclines her chin. I hesitate, unsure if this means she’s offering me a ride or if I need to retrieve my bike, but she isn’t saying good-bye, so…

We pile back into her car and she drives me up to Rick’s, pulling to a stop just outside the door. I offer to run inside and grab her a slushie, but Autumn insists she needs to get back home and she’ll take me up on the offer some other time. I get out of the car and watch her drive away, feeling oddly alone without her presence.

With a sigh, I open the door and step inside. Amjad is behind the counter and I don’t have to look twice to realize he isn’t feeling well. “W-what’s wrong?”

“Ebola,” he laments. “Maybe scarlet fever. Something deadly.”

I raise an eyebrow. He beckons me behind the counter to begin showing me the details I’m unfamiliar with: how to lock up the store, how to close down the register and put the money in the safe, how to set the alarm on the building. I already have my own key, but this will be the first time I use it, and I’m already panicking a little and trying to write the details down so I don’t forget. What if I mess something up or set off the alarm or something?

But Amjad seems to have the utmost faith in me. I think that makes me feel worse. He says the stock is all done so all I have to do is man the register and handle customers. When he leaves me alone, the silence of the small store is enough to almost send me into an anxiety attack. What do I do if someone I know walks in? Can Amjad see me through the cameras to tell if I’m screwing something up?

I sit behind the counter, stomach in knots. For the first thirty minutes, the only customers I see are those who pull up to the gas pumps outside and pay with their cards directly at the kiosks. Gotta love modern technology.

By six, the evening crowd has begun to descend from downtown Sacramento as a majority of offices close for the weekend. Most of the people who come into the store are there for sodas, beer, energy drinks, and the occasional lottery ticket, and thus far, no one I recognize has wandered in.

I text Brett to let him know I’m at work and not at home, since by now he’ll be leaving tennis practice and wondering where the hell I am.
I’ll walk to your place after work or I can go home
, I tell him, not wanting him to feel obligated to come get me. But he texts back,
Going out with some of the guys then I’ll be there around eight
, and I have to smile a little.

And at exactly eight o’clock, I hear the door chime and look up from the game on my phone, expecting to see Brett there and—

“Evening, Vic,” Craig Roberts says.

My spine goes rigid and I cram my phone into my pocket like I’m doing something I shouldn’t be, even though I’m not, and do my best to keep a straight face. “W-welcome to Rick’s. Can I help you?”

“Man, it was hard to find out you even worked here.” He glances around and approaches the counter. “No one I talked to even knew you had a job.”

One corner of my mouth twitches. “Sir, if you’re not going to buy anything, I’ll have to ask you to l-leave.”

Craig arches one of his perfectly shaped brows—I bet he gets them waxed—and turns around. He surveys the area briefly and grabs a package of powdered doughnuts from a nearby rack. “Guess I can screw the diet for one night. So, tell me about the party, Vic.”

He tosses the doughnuts onto the counter and my eyes don’t leave him. What do I do? I’m not in a position where I can run away, and maybe he was counting on that. I also don’t have Amjad to hide behind. I’m pretty sure Amjad could take this guy in a fight easily. “I’m n-not interested in discussing anything about my personal life with you, Mr. Roberts.”

He holds up his hands defensively. “Hey, I’m with you, kid. I thought you’d be glad to tell your side of the story, especially since several people are getting Callie Wheeler’s.”

My heart stops for a beat. He’s lying. He’s probably lying. Callie wouldn’t talk to any reporters; I’m sure her parents wouldn’t allow it. Autumn would have told me earlier, right? “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Is it true she picked you out of a lineup by the sound of your voice?” he presses. “What about when she returns to school, what happens then? Any idea?”

My blood is slowly starting to boil. Sometimes, I wish I were the violent sort just to get people like him to shut the hell up. “G-get out, please.”

“I’m still a customer, you know.” He points at the doughnuts.

“And I have the right to refuse service to assholes,” I say icily. “P-please leave.”

This time, Craig’s smile fades, darkens to something that makes my stomach roll. “I’m trying to help you out here. Getting on my bad side isn’t the best idea.”

I’ve got nothing left to say so I simply stare at him, halfway contemplating hitting the alarm under the counter that’s meant to alert police of a robbery. Too bad I’d probably be the one they threw into the back of their car.

Craig takes the hint, at least. He pulls a business card out of his wallet and deposits it on the counter along with a couple of dollars, says, “Keep the change,” grabs his donuts, and leaves.

I slouch back in my chair, hands clammy and trembling. Visible effort is required to pull myself away from the edge of having an anxiety attack. Craig’s card stares up at me from the counter and I almost throw it away. Almost. Something tells me I should save it, just in case, so I slip it into my back pocket just as Brett wanders into the store.

“Sorry I’m late. Stopped to grab a bite to eat with Mitch and Connor and we lost track of time.” He doesn’t look at me immediately, but rather heads to the slushie machine and grabs the biggest cup we have. Cherry slushies are his Kryptonite, I swear. When he returns to the counter, he takes one glance at me and frowns. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

“Craig Roberts dropped by,” I say, and watch the color drain from Brett’s face.

“Goddammit. What’d he say?”

“Said it w-wasn’t a good idea for me to make an enemy of him.” I slouch forward and rest my elbows on the counter with a sigh. “He’s probably right, but I d-don’t think telling him my side is going to help.”

“It won’t. He’ll spin it to suit whatever angle he’s trying to get at.” Brett pushes a hand through his hair with a sigh. “Sorry. I should’ve gotten here earlier.”

I shake my head. Can’t exactly expect someone to be with me every second of every day. I have to be capable of dealing with things myself. “I th-think I handled it. He said that Callie had given him her s-side of the story. Do you think she did?”

A frown pulls at Brett’s face as he sips his slushie. “I don’t know. I mean, if she wanted to still press charges despite the whole no-evidence thing, then going to the media would be a good way to get exposure for the case and pressure the police into doing something.”

I desperately want to tell him about my earlier conversation with Callie and why I don’t think she actually talked to Craig. And I would, if my lawyer were anyone other than Brett’s dad.

I can’t even talk to my own best friend. Remaining silent on so much is starting to make my heart hurt.

Chapter Nine

I don’t pretend to understand the point of going to the restraining order hearing the following Monday, but Mr. Mason insists it’ll look better on me if I do. He has me dress in the nicest outfit I own, which is left over from a wedding I went to with Mom a year ago. The black slacks and button-up shirt’s sleeves are just on the short side. The sleeves, at least, I can roll up to my elbows and still look nice. There isn’t much I can do about the pants except wear some of Brett’s black socks and hope no one notices. I tried to slick my hair back and tame the curls a little, but there’s really no helping that.

I’m a little surprised—pleasantly so—that Mr. Mason lets Brett come along. I have no clue where to go or what to do when we reach the courthouse, but this is familiar territory to both of them. We get through security without incident and Mr. Mason leads us to department thirty-three, where we sit outside the courtroom among other groups of people. Only then does the anxiety start to gnaw at me and I find myself sinking into my chair.

Brett leans over and asks, “You okay?”

“I-It’s a lot of people,” I point out quietly, like someone will take offense if they overhear me. “I d-don’t see Callie.”

“She probably won’t be here.” He pats my arm. “More than likely, it’ll be one of her parents or something. Or they could not show up at all.”

Which makes this seem like a waste to me, but okay. At exactly 8:30 a.m., the courtroom doors open and we’re allowed inside, crowding into the minimal seating of the room and waiting some more. Mr. Mason tries to explain how this process works, but the words seem to echo in my ears. The entire morning goes by in a blur, from one case called to the next. Eventually the sound of my name snaps me out of the fog. “Theresa and James Wheeler versus Victor Howard.”

I stand up abruptly, unsure if I’m supposed to, and I see two people in the row in front of us do the same. They both turn to look at me, gazes lingering, and turn back only when the judge asks, “It looks like no further paperwork has been filed to proceed with this protective order?”

“No, Your Honor,” Mrs. Wheeler says. “We’d like to hold off for now, at our daughter’s insistence.” Frankly, she doesn’t sound happy about that. I wonder what Callie had to say to convince them.

The judge looks over the top of his glasses, eyebrows raised. “You’re sure? If you decide to drop it now, you’ll have to start over from scratch if you change your minds. Unless Mr. Howard is convicted, of course, in which case a criminal protective order will be established.”

My ears have started to ring again. My hands are fisted so tightly that when Mr. Mason prompts me that we’re good to leave the court, my fingers have gone numb. I heard what happened, and yet I still have to ask, “Is that good?”

“It’s good,” he assures me. We pass by the Wheelers as they’re leaving, too, and I have to stop and look at them, desperate to just…go up and apologize. To tell them how sorry I am for what they’re going through, and hoping that if maybe I let them put a face to my name, they won’t see me as the enemy anymore. But Mr. Mason and Brett flank me on either side and Brett quietly says, “Don’t,” as they usher me down the hall. I look over my shoulder and as we round the corner, I see both the Wheelers watching me go.

I wonder if they see me as Vic, or as the monster who hurt their little girl.

The rest of Monday, Brett and I are allowed to stay home and sit in front of the TV with video games. Or rather—I sit in front of the TV with video games while Brett stresses himself sick over a college essay for Harvard and a report for English, which he insists matters even this late in the game because he refuses to graduate with anything less than a 4.0 average. I heard a saying in a TV show once: first you’re a child prodigy, then you’re a teenage genius…but by the time you’re twenty, you’re ordinary. Brett spent so long being labeled as gifted for his intelligence that I think people assumed it would always come easy for him. The older he gets, the less easy it is for him to stay on top.

Come Tuesday, we’re right back at school and whatever sense of relief and calm I was experiencing after the hearing has long since faded. Maybe it was just the exhaustion talking that had me so out of it. Mrs. Mason suggested taking me to the doctor to see if they could give me anything, but that would require me to talk it over with Mom and I’m not sure if it’s worth it.

When I get to school Tuesday morning, Autumn falls into step alongside me. Really, she came out of nowhere the moment Brett was out of sight. Was she following me or something? “Hey.”

“Uh…hi.” I stop to look at her. “W-what’s up?”

She inclines her chin to look up at me as though that’s the dumbest question I could have asked. “Nothing. I was just saying hi. How are you?”

It might just be me, but she seems awkward. “Fine, I g-guess. Everything okay?” Did something happen? Is Callie all right? Is Autumn all right?

She nudges my arm with her elbow to prompt me into walking again. Given the direction she’s taking, I assume I’m accompanying her to class. How many tardies have I racked up in the last few weeks? I don’t ask why she’s making me late but I’m finding it hard to believe she wanted to come find me just…because. No one except Brett hangs out with me
just because.

“Here’s my class.” Autumn stops outside her first period room and turns to face me. Her hair is tied up today, but there’s so much of it that a few wavy auburn strands have escaped the confines of her hair band and are dangling around her face and shoulders.

She’s so pretty.

“Okay. I guess I’ll see you around.” I take a step back, trying to look at this odd situation from an unbiased perspective. Not coming up with anything.

Autumn says, “Sure,” and watches me start to leave. I see her mouth open as though to call for me, but it’s too late. I’ve already turned around and bumped right into someone. Someone who isn’t taller than me, but definitely more muscular.

“S-sorry,” I manage.

The guy shoves me back a little, scowling. “Watch it.” Then he looks me over as Autumn comes up to my side. I’m vaguely aware of the warmth of her hand on my arm, like an almost protective gesture.

“I s-said sorry,” I mutter.

He narrows his eyes. “Hey, aren’t you that guy?”

“Leave it alone, Marco,” Autumn warns.

“This is him, isn’t it?” His dark eyes flicker from me to Autumn and back again. “You bothering her, asshole?”

My height is about the only thing I’ve got on my side. I straighten up as best as I can, trying not to shrink in on myself or inch behind Autumn. I’ve never been in a fight and I don’t ever want to be. “N-no, I w-was just—”

“J-j-just wh-what, genius?” Marco sneers. “You’ve got a lot of nerve even coming to school after what you did.”

Autumn’s grip on my arm tightens. “He didn’t do anything. They cleared him.” Which is only a partial truth, but that’s okay. No one needs to know the details.

Marco’s attention is momentarily diverted. “Oh, you’re on his side now? Did you get drunk and spread your legs, too?”

Impulse
: a sudden strong and unreflective urge or desire to act. Also: what drives me to punch Marco.

I’ve never hit anyone before in my life. This time the action follows before I even know what I’m doing and my fist is connecting with his face and…it’s nothing like the movies. There is no slow motion and he doesn’t stagger back and hit the floor with the force of my swing. If anything, it snaps his head to one side while sending a surge of pain where my knuckles connected with his jawbone straight up my arm and into my shoulder.

Autumn says, “Fuck,” and I’d say that about sums it up accurately.

Marco knows how to throw a punch better than I do. He hits me square in the mouth and I slam into the wall before going down. Before I can even see straight again, there are already people beginning to crowd around us to see what’s going on. No one makes a move to help.

No one except Autumn. She puts herself between Marco and me, shoulders squared. Marco wipes at his mouth. Did I make him bleed, at least? I hope I did. How embarrassing.

“Move,” he snaps.

“You touch him again and I’ll kick your Gucci-wearing ass into being held back another year,” she snarls in a tone not unlike the one she first used when flooring me on the concrete. That tone makes me nervous and a little quivery all at the same time…as long as it’s not directed at me.

Whether it’s because he knows she’ll do it or because he has issues with hitting a girl in front of everyone, Marco just scowls and pushes past her to head into class. Though not before stopping to look down at me, still dazed on the ground. “Guess what they say is true. Like father, like son.”

Huh? What does that even mean?

He disappears into class and the crowd disperses with disappointed grumbles while Autumn turns to help me up. “What an asshole. Oh, you’re bleeding.” She frowns, reaching up to touch her fingers to my cheek. Yeah, and bleeding bad enough that the taste is flooding my mouth and I don’t dare say anything. Instead I duck my head and move away, jogging down the hall for the boys’ bathroom.

The last bell has already rung, so I’m alone. Thank God. I hit the nearest sink and spit blood into it. No teeth lost? Awesome, I’ll consider that a win. Closer inspection shows the blood coming from my lower lip, which must’ve been sliced open on my teeth.

I watch my reflection in the water-spotted mirror; my sharp features look gaunt and hollow in this lighting. Blood wells in my mouth again, dripping from my lip partway down my chin to the porcelain. My first fight. If you can call it that. Whether it was him talking about Autumn like that, or somehow implying it was Callie’s own fault that she was raped, or just an accumulation of everything that’s happened finally sending me into attack mode, I have no idea.

“Vic?”

Autumn’s face appears in the mirror as she leans into the bathroom. I don’t turn around. “I’m f-fine.”

The door creaks open and then closed. Autumn glances around to make sure we’re alone. “You totally dripped blood on the way here. Let me see. Are you gonna need stitches?”

I don’t have much choice but to turn around and let her look at my face. She heaves a sigh and grabs a few paper towels, wetting them under the faucet before pressing them gently to my lip. The chill burns but in a pleasant way. I close my eyes.

“Don’t let him get to you,” Autumn murmurs. “I mean, I know I was a bitch at first, too, and I’m sorry for that. People like to lash out without knowing all the details.”

I can’t say much with the paper towels half in my mouth, so I don’t try.

She continues, “What did he mean, anyway? Does he know your dad?”

Deep breath. This time, I want to answer so I pull back, taking the towels from her to hold them myself so I can speak. “No. I don’t even k-know him. He was, like, a one-night stand or s-something.” As far as I know, anyway. Mom never wanted to talk about him. She never had photos, never had stories.

“Oh.” Autumn tucks her thumbnail between her teeth and chews on it worriedly. That can’t be good for her polish. “So, like, he took off when you were a baby or something?”

Something in the casual way she asks such a personal question, like she’s talking about the weather, almost makes me laugh. It gets a smile out of me, at least. Gingerly and slowly I take the paper from my lip; it feels like it’s stopped gushing everywhere, anyway. “My m-mom never tells me anything about him. My aunt once t-told me that I looked like him. That’s all I know.” Aunt Sue had only smiled when I tried inquiring further, and insisted that she’d already said too much.

Autumn sighs. “God, that’d drive me crazy.”

“I’m used to it.”

“My dad isn’t really my dad. He’s my stepdad. But he’s been around as long as I can remember.” She shrugs. “And my birth dad is probably on a street corner trying to skim money for heroin for all I know, so…”

It hurts to smile as much as I am. “Interesting.”

“Is it? Why do you think that’s so funny?”

“No reason.” I duck my head. “You’re just…weird. Good weird, not like…”

She smirks. “Heroin-addict weird?”

“P-pretty much.” I tilt my head. “So why did you actually c-come find me this morning?”

It’s Autumn’s turn to look a little sheepish, but she plays it off by rolling her eyes and smiling and turning in a full circle while staring at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I guess I wanted to see how it went at the hearing yesterday and make sure you were all right.”

I lick my lip absently. The metallic taste is still present, but not as bad as before. “Still alive and kicking and not behind bars.”

She laughs. “You know, you’ve hardly stuttered at all during this conversation.”

I pause, considering that. She’s right. “Maybe Marco knocked it out of me.” When she shoves my arm and rolls her eyes, I laugh a little. “It’s better when I’m calm. It gets w-worse when I’m anxious.”

Autumn says, “Ahh,” like this explains every mystery in the universe. “And what makes you so calm around me, Vic?”

I don’t know how to answer that. At all. My face grows hot and I press the paper towels back to my mouth for no reason other than it keeps me from having to fumble for words. I shrug. She smiles. For once, there is no sadness or anger or anything extreme. Just the softness of her lips curved up so that it makes her eyes squinch at the corners. I could get used to a smile like that.

“Come on.” Autumn reaches for my free hand to tug me toward the door. “Your backpack is in the hall. I’ll walk you to class this time.”

“She walked you to class?” Brett laughs on our way home. “Woo, that’s like, a fifth of the way to first base. Congrats.”

“Th-that’s not the point of the story.” I recount to him what happened with Marco, glossing over the details of my miserable defeat. I mainly want to tell him about what Marco said about my dad to see what he thinks. The puzzled frown that crosses his face says he’s just as perplexed as I am.

“Your mom never talks about your old man, does she?”

“Not at all,” I agree. “It’s always been a touchy subject.”

“Then maybe there’s something she isn’t telling you. Why don’t you ask her?”