“Yeah, says the girl who's in AP history.” Using my foot to shut the door, I breathe a sigh of relief that I can talk without having Dad glare at me, which he's probably doing through the floor.
“It's not my fault I have a freakish memory for dates.”
“D-Day,” I fire at her.
“June 6, 1944.” She says it through a mouthful of something without even thinking about it. “Give me something that's a challenge.” At least I think that's what she says. It's hard to tell.
“I can't believe you got out of working this week,” she says with more crunching.
“It helps to know people.”
“Yeah, right. So, I am totally making a pilgrimage to Portland next weekend to go shopping. I thought we could make a day of it.” My heart sinks as she says it. I would love to go shopping with Tex. Spend an afternoon just walking around the mall and talking and eating giant pretzels and staring at cute boys like we used to. I miss it. How could I not have realized I miss it?
“I can't. I have to go camping with my parents.”
“Uh, okay. What are you, five?” The slurping sound is probably her licking whatever it is she's eating off her fingers. I really hope.
“It's my Dad's idea. Family bonding and all that. What are you eating?”
“Salt and vinegar chips mixed with cheese doodles.” Uh, excuse me while I hurl. Tex loves to mix her snacks. I hear her licking her fingers.
“Ugh, I hate family bonding. My parents keep trying to do that, but it always ends up with Coby sulking in the corner and me getting yelled at for trying to cheer everyone up.” Of course she forces all the blame on her younger brother, like she's all innocent.
“That's because you make a scene.”
“I do not make a scene!” The crumply sound must be her rooting around in the bottom of the bag for crumbs.
“Um, do you remember Applebee's?”
“What was I supposed to do? That drunk guy dared me.” What an understatement. She'd hopped on top of the bar, and, suffice it to say, she was banned for life from Applebee's.
“My point exactly.”
“You're such a pain in the ass.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Well okay, if you can't come shopping, can you at least visit me at work tomorrow? I can't stand talking to Toby all day. He's going to ComicCon, and if I hear one more word about his hobbit costume, I'm going to scream.” The thought of it makes me shudder, but I'd really be a horrible friend if I leave her to deal with it.
“Fine, fine. I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks, bitch.”
“See you later, ho.” My mother is going to die. The words try to struggle their way out, like I've got that disease that makes you yell nonsense words and swears. I swallow them back for the hundredth time.
I don't want to go to the cemetery tonight. I don't want to see Peter, to hear his strange voice. To feel the way I do when he's around, like I'm seconds away from death. Does that make me a masochist? Or suicidal? Or one of those freaky people who's into whips and chains and pain?
I pace my room instead, the pizza I've consumed churning around like a storm of cheese and sauce. Ew.
I really don't want to go camping. If it were just me and Mom, I'd be there in a heartbeat. For some reason adding Dad to the mix just throws everything off. She says it's because we're too much alike, which I think is insane. The reason we argue so much is because we don't understand each other. I can follow the twisted logic of his mind, but I don't see the point in it.
I wish I had someone I could talk to. The one person I could always talk to was her, and I can't talk to her, about her.
There is someone who might understand. At least I hope so.
***
“Don't you sleep?” I say when I'm close enough for him to hear me. As usual, he's standing there, like he's been waiting his whole life for this one moment. For me.
That's ridiculous. He isn't waiting for me. He's just... always here.
“No.” I click on the lantern I've brought with me. Dad had found it in the basement when he went looking for the camping stuff. It's old, but still works, and casts a slightly blue light over everything. A moth flutters toward the light as I crash against the broken angel.
“Aren't you tired? Don't you have something better to do than hang out with me?”
Silence.
“Probably.” He flows into a sitting position as I try not to stare. When he moves it's like he isn't made of bones and muscle, but water. I've never seen anyone move like that, not even dancers are that smooth. Something else that tells me he's not what he seems. The thought has been building in my head since that first night, and everything I've seen has only done more to confirm my suspicions. I just don't know what he could be.
“I don't get you.”
“What do you mean?”
“This whole thing,” I wave my hands around, indicating his person. “When I surprised you, that one time, you seemed sooo, I don't know. I thought you were in a gang or something. You seemed dangerous.” I try to look into his eyes, but I feel so foolish, I can't. “And then all that stuff went down and I have to say, I was really freaked out by you and your brother and then you saying you want to kill yourself. I don't know why I came back here. Maybe I'm just nuts.” I bang my fist against the angel's foot.
“You were correct the first time.”
“You're in a gang?”
“Of sorts.”
“No way, do you have one of those secret handshakes?” His head tips to the side, as if he's confused. “Never mind.”
“I want to kill you.”
“What?” I hear the words, but they don't make sense. I thought he wanted to kill himself, and his brother was the one who wanted me dead.
“Very much,” he says. Now I look up at him, and I get that feeling. The one where you know you should stop poking your fingers through the tiger cage because something's going to happen and it's not going to be pretty. I stare into the eyes of the tiger, and then it happens.
He lunges at me and I'm on the ground, his hand on my neck, making it nearly impossible to breathe, his body crushing mine. Panic takes a fraction of a second to set in and then I'm losing it. His face is hard in the bluish light. Somehow he pumps fear into me, and I feel it soaking into my skin from his. The fear is a knife, slicing through me as I pray for it to end.
“Do you understand?” he says, voice as cool and even as glass. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but I kinda can't breathe. Thrashing, I try to get my knee free so I can kick him in the groin. God, he's heavy. Somehow he's got my legs trapped so I can't move them. My hands are busy trying to pry his arms from my neck. I convulse, trying to put him off balance. No dice. My vision's getting spotty, so I give up. Guess he is going to kill me. The pressure lessens on my throat and I'm able to get enough air to say something.