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She sent a text last night I didn’t see until this morning: We need to talk. Can we meet before class?
I texted back yes, but nothing more from her.
Because of my absence yesterday, the last time I saw her she was climbing into a car with her friends at Shamrock’s. She texted me Saturday to confirm she received the code, so I know she made it home safely, but there’s this itch to see her I can’t shake.
It’s both annoying and addicting.
Breanna Miller—the girl with soft skin and gorgeous hazel eyes. Breanna Miller—the girl who can tell me about the Milky Way. Hell, she can probably tell me about anything.
“Are you smiling?” Chevy asks. “Shit, you’re smiling again. That’s the second time in days. Gotta admit, that scares the hell out of me.”
I sober as I answer his first question. “Everything at Cyrus’s is good.” Since I left home, Dad and I have had no communication. Not sure where that leaves either of us.
“Does the shift in your normal fuck-off attitude have to do with what you’ve got going on with Breanna Miller?”
I don’t respond. I already informed Oz and Chevy that Breanna’s off-limits. She’s a private person. So am I. The one thing Breanna has after we chatted on Friday is my respect.
Out of thin air, Chevy produces that coin of his and flips it over his fingers. “Remember when we were kids and we’d catch fireflies in the forest with Olivia?”
I nod and watch the coin appear and disappear up and over his knuckles. This kid could make a good living in the circus...or make a million dollars as a pickpocket.
“Do you remember how Olivia taught us how to catch them by cupping our hands after she explained how fragile they were?”
I nod again, wondering where Chevy’s heading on this memory lane detour.
“Do you remember what happened next?”
I snort because I do. Chevy tosses the coin in the air and he catches it between his hands with a loud clap as a reenactment of what occurred that night. We squished the hell out of those first few little fuckers.
“None of you listen,” Olivia chastised us. “Each of you are too excited to do what you want to pay attention—to learn.”
“Not that you asked me.” Chevy yanks me out of my brain. “But you need to be careful with Breanna. She’s not from our world, and what’s worse, she’s not the type that’s curious about the club. She’s one of those quiet types and those girls can be fragile. Guys like us can hurt girls like her without meaning to.”
There’s a twisting in my gut. Years ago, I was the one who killed the most bugs. It was never my intention to cause harm. In fact, the desperation to capture one alive caused me to go faster, and in my haste, I crushed more. “You telling me to stay away?”
“I’m telling you that you keep pissing off people—people who love you. Starting shit with a girl outside of our world isn’t going to help anyone. Your dad asked me to tell him if you get into trouble at school. Breanna could be trouble and I’m not looking to rat you out on anything. Guess I’m saying stop making life complicated.”
“You’re right,” I say. “I didn’t ask.”
“You never do. Figured out what Olivia wants you to do with her ashes yet?”
I shake my head and appreciate the change in subject. I’ve read through the bylaws Olivia left me a dozen times over. Even compared them to the current copy I found in the clubhouse. Nothing is different. Everything the same. I can’t help but feel like she’s toying with me from beyond the grave.
“Makes me wonder what she has up her sleeve for me,” he mumbles. It’s what we all think—that she left her ashes to each one of the brat pack. That we will each receive the same wooden box and messed-up set of instructions. It happened to Oz and Emily after her death. Now to me. Maybe her mind was in neutral toward the end.
I should confess everything to Chevy—the visit from the detective, my thoughts and fears about Mom’s death and the increasing paranoia that the club was involved, but I don’t. As he clearly pointed out, I don’t ask for advice and his anecdote reminds me why. In the end, even the people I care for the most believe I’m crazy.
Stone rounds the corner in that quirky way he walks with his shoulders rolled forward and his feet moving too fast. He’s fourteen, a redhead like Violet, tall like a tree, thin like a sheet of paper, and the wires in his brain are crossed—not like mine, but more like Breanna’s. Where she’s supersmart, Stone is, too, but he’s socially inept and he can’t empty thoughts from his brain. Stuff circles and the loop won’t end.
Asshole guys in this school try to harass anyone associated with the Terror, and Stone’s connection with us combined with his personality has tattooed a target on his forehead. Good news—he’s Terror family.
Rumor has it the two juniors down the hallway have been dared to bully Stone, and we won’t permit that to happen. They block Stone’s path and Chevy and I push off the lockers, but Chevy raises his hand. “I got this. If this goes bad and I get suspended, I need you here.”
I withdraw and let Chevy run the show. Stone belongs to all of us, but because he’s Violet’s younger brother, Chevy takes it more personally. As soon as Chevy joins Stone, the two juniors retreat. Chevy glares at them as he passes and I wait for them to piss their pants.
“...okay, thank you.”
My head whips toward the sound of Breanna’s sweet voice. At the corner, she waves at our English teacher, then starts for our classroom. She holds her books to her side and a part of me lightens as if I heaved a hundred-pound chain off my shoulders.
