Endangered (15 page)

THE START OF MY SUSPENSION IS
quiet and terrible.

Mom stays home from work that first day, occupying my time with whatever task is farthest from her. Anything so she doesn't have to be close to me, or talk to me, or look at me.

That hurts, though I kind of get the not-wanting-to-look-at-me part. I'm not too fond of mirrors right now. Not with two bad-getting-worse black eyes.

The throbbing, puffy pain stopped, but the purple bruises circling each eye have turned into ebony rings. My nickname has never felt more fitting.

I keep my mind off my mangled face by focusing on Mom's long list of chores. Or non-chores. It's stuff no one really does, like, ever. Things like polishing all the lamps in the house, and ironing the sheets in our linen closet. The mundane nature of each assignment is almost admirable, showcasing Mom's creativity in the art of domestic torture.

When Dad comes home that evening, he just glares with unhidden disgust and makes a show of leaving whatever room I enter. He's been that
way ever since he learned I'd be missing at least ten days of school over this “picture nonsense.”

I nearly tell him, “No, it's actually over some ‘
punching
nonsense.'” Didn't think he'd appreciate the quip, though.

My parents aren't too warm toward each other either. That's the new normal during this ordeal. If there's a bright side to being in our house of disdain, it's that Mom's too busy being irritated with Dad to remember that I still have my phone.

When I'm not being a domestic slave, I wait for word from Roz while trying to ignore my Admirer's texts. All apologies.

I didn't know you'd get in so much trouble. I'm sorry
.

We were both mad and took things 2 far. I forgive u. Do u forgive me?

I consider showing my parents and telling them, “See. It's him. He's real.”

But I know the way things are, at this moment, it doesn't matter if he's real.

There's stuff Dad wants to say, angry things. He saves them for when he and Mom are in their room. Like now. There's an empty drinking glass on my desk. I upend it, fling off residual drops of water, press it to the wall. With my ear to the glass, I try to decipher the warbling mess. I get, like, every fifth word.

“She . . . think . . . Vicky.”

Aunt Victoria?

I struggle to hear more, but they're moving around and I stop hearing anything useful at all. Lowering the glass, I consider the possibility that I'm being a total narcissist and every beef my parents have with each other doesn't necessarily revolve around me. They're talking about my evil troll of an aunt.

Totally unrelated.

I was allowed to sleep in yesterday. I suspect it was so Dad could leave the house without having to acknowledge my existence. But today, he rocks my bed frame, a gentle motion.

“Lauren, wake up. We need to talk.”

When I roll over, my parents are positioned exactly as they were the night we first talked about Coach Bottin. Dad on my bed, Mom in the doorway. Something uncomfortable is about to happen.

“What is it?”

“Look,” Dad says, glancing away from me, “we've been talking about everything that's going on, and after some consideration, we've decided it may do you some good to spend time with your aunt Vicky down in Georgia.”

“What kind of time?” I'm standing. This isn't “sit down” news.

“She'll be up for Thanksgiving,” Dad says, meeting my eyes, getting stern. “She's got plenty of room at her place, so you can fly back with her after the holiday.”

“Thanksgiving is three weeks from now.”

“We'll come down to see you at Christmas. You'll be settled by then.”

The man is crazy. Mom. She's not insane, I can talk to her. “Mom, I don't want to go. We can't stand Victoria. Tell him.”

She swipes at her eyes. “
Liebste, ich weiß, dass du es nicht hören willst
—”

“Speak English!”

She is stung, like I intended. For a moment. She hardens, and her voice takes on the same sternness of Dad's. “Your father and I have discussed this at length. You are not doing well here, Lauren. A change may suit you.”

“I don't want a change. Not like this. I was set up. You get that, don't you? There's some crazy guy that's turned everyone in school against me.
Now you're turning against me, too?”

“We're not against you, Lauren,” Mom says.

“It sure seems that way.”

“Stop being dramatic.” Dad rises like we're done.

“I'm not,” I say. “I just don't want to live with your evil sister, Dad. She hates me.”

“If she hated you, she wouldn't be
willing
to let you live with her.”

“Listen to me, okay. This isn't my fault. The Admirer—”

“They're talking about expelling you, Lauren! And locking you up. Do you get that?” Dad's in my face, and I'm not strong enough not to flinch. A string of spittle stretches from his lip to the bottom of his chin. I smell what he had for breakfast.

Expulsion. Lock me up
.

It's like I've got an ice pack on my face again. My skin feels so cold. I say, “
Who's
talking about that stuff?”

“The school board, and the lawyer they're recommending.”

“But we were with the cops the other night. They didn't even care.”

“Then, Lauren. Things change. It's time you learned that.”

“But, I—”

“Shut. Your. Mouth!”

My father has never, ever spoken to me like this before. The closest I can recall was when I was five and he barked at me to get my hand away from our stove's blue flame. Then I'd run, ashamed for disappointing him. Sticking my hand in fire would've been better than this.

Mom's left her perch in the doorway and is pulling him back, trying to. “Come. Everyone needs a break. You should rest and she should rest.”

He allows her to lead him from my room, but not before he speaks again. “You're going to Georgia. That's the end of it.”

When they're gone, I slam my door, lock it. Drawing the curtains and
cocooning myself in my comforter, I wait for my parents to return so we can argue, or they can apologize, or they can tell me they aren't banishing me to the Peach State.

No one comes.

I'm dozing on a moist pillow when I hear shaking. I mistake it for Dad jiggling my doorknob, his apology singing in my imagination. Rising from my cocoon, the sound becomes clearer and I know
exactly
what it is.

My vibrating phone shimmies beneath the sweatshirt I stashed it under, dragging the garment toward the edge of my desk. I save my cell from a falling death, and read the incoming text.

At first, I think this is some Admirer trick. Then, no. His tricks are angrier. And, maybe, bloodier.

Smart-ass.

I switch apps to view my in-box and there's a new email titled
Portside Hackers
but from an almost nonsensical email address: [email protected].

The message says:

Switching apps, I text Taylor back.

My concerns about Marcos are too long to text. Plus, I'm not ready to tell him everything about
Dante, Neptune's Fury
, and the rest.

Brock Parham, then
. I never knew he was good at anything besides being a D-bag, but if Taylor's saying he's got the computer skills . . .

That's only half of the equation, though. My Admirer is a photographer and a techie. Best I can tell, neither Brock nor Marcos fits both criteria.

Or one of them is hiding a talent. Not unheard of. I should know.

Hex codes are six-character designations for colors across a visual spectrum. Mostly used by designers, illustrators, and, on occasion, photographers. A code of all zeroes—000000—is solid black. FFFFFF is white. When I search for 778083 on my web app, I get a pleasant surprise.

The color gray.

There's a long break with no text. Maybe I pissed him off. If so, it's not intentional. This time. Him admitting the total dickishness of what he'd done to me, and helping me gather some intel on potential Admirer candidates, is appreciated. I don't want him thinking that we're Team Hug now. That we're rekindling something.

Perhaps it's time to lift his Ocie ban. Her tutoring will give him something else to do.

My phone vibrates again.

But it's not Taylor.

Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. It's the smart thing to do. I do the other thing.

Five letters, keyed in a blur.

Acknowledging him is a mistake; I'm too angry to care. Getting beat up, grounded, and being told you're getting shipped off to Warden Vicky's . . . it can have that effect. I send my message again.

Okay?
Really?
No! It's not okay. It's pretty freakin' far from okay. I let him know with yet another colorfully worded text.

Whatever I felt I had to say to him, I'm not feeling it anymore.

Continue what?

There's a crawling sensation at the base of my skull, like my spine is the water spout from the itsy-bitsy spider nursery rhyme, and the little arachnid is doing a short-lived victory dance at the top.

Staring at my phone, I anticipate his next taunt. The inactivity stretches ten, twenty minutes. I glance at the clock: eight thirty. School's started. Unless he's sneak texting between classes, I won't hear anything for the rest of the day.

Seven hours of waiting for him to say something. Or send something. Or—this is the scariest one—
do
something.

Swinging my feet from under my comforter I stand, then crouch, retrieving Victoria's collapsed makeup mirror from beneath the bed. On my dresser I unfold it, and flip on the battery-powered light, illuminating my battered face in three separate panes. I wince at the initial sight, like my reflection's going to punch me, too.

It's not so much the bruises that stun me. It's the thought of my aunt Victoria having the perfect makeup to cover them while giving me the smoky-eyed look of a runway model. All because everyone thinks
I'm
the lunatic, and everything that's happened is my fault.