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1
ELLE
He’s letting his hair fall over his face again. Unwashed and over-grown, the chestnut-colored shag doesn’t hide as much as he thinks it does. At least not with me. He wears it like a comfort blanket; hiding from monsters that, in this town, are all too real. Monsters I’ve seen first-hand.
Guilt claws at the insides of my ribs. This isn’t the first time Brandon Hicks has come to school with bruises. It’s not the second or third time either. I’ve tried going to the administration, the sheriff, Child Protective Services, even my brother. Not that any of it did any good. From the looks of the shadows under that curtain of hair, Aaron Hicks thinks he’s untouchable.
On my desk, a glossy little apple lets out a cheerful chime. “That’s time, ladies and gentlemen!” I call out. Chairs scrape on the linoleum tiles and the room overflows with the rustling and groans of twenty-eight students. “Bring your papers to the front—butpleasedon’t forget to write your names!” I remind them. “Last week, I had at least a dozen assignments without names!”
A couple of kids turn back to their desks, hastily scribbling in names and dates.I knew it.I stack their tests in my ever-growing ‘To Be Graded’ pile, and supervise the packing up of backpacks. Fifth-graders are pretty easy. Don’t get me wrong, they can be total assholes, but they’re also highly independent.
“Alright!” I clap my hands together. “It’s Friday. You know what that means!” Two girls roll their eyes, but I’m not fazed. They can be just as snotty as they want, but it’s good for them to know someone at school truly cares.
“Raise your right hand. Left on your book bag.” I wait, making sure I meet each set of eyes. Only when each one of them is still and quiet, their hands dutifully raised, do I go on. Their voices chime in, ever so slightly out of step with each other, but no less passionate for it.
“I solemnly swear I won’t do anything stupid this weekend. I will not succumb to peer pressure. I will get enough sleep, eat my vegetables, and make good choices. I promise to be here on Monday morning with my bones intact and my reading done, so help me gummy bears.”
I don’t just have this pledge memorized; it’s seared into my psyche. It’s etched into my soul, more permanent than any of the ink my brother wears, and twice as meaningful. Does it make me the ‘quirky’ teacher? Absolutely. Does that bother me? Hell, no. Week after week, they all repeat it. And Monday after Monday, they all come back to report how they kept their pledge over the weekend.
Worth it.
They file toward the door, mouths moving faster than their feet. There are plans to make. Sleepovers to plan. Gossip to share. I give each of my students a little packet of gummy bears as they exit, giving high-fives, fist bumps, elbow bumps, and salutes. They grin and thank me. Well, most of them do. One hangs his head, avoiding eye contact as he holds out his hand for the gummy bears. If I hadn’t already decided to talk to Brandon Hicks before releasing him into the world at large, that would have sealed it.
“Brandon, can you hang on for a second? I want to talk to you about the extra credit.” I keep my voice as casual and airy as if I was commenting on the fall weather. He doesn’t speak; just shrugs and steps to the side, letting the last two girls exit the classroom. I take a seat at one of the little desks, my knees jamming into the storage area underneath.
I’ve had exactly one conversation with Trooper Hicks. The highway patrol officer stormed into my room to collect his son a few weeks ago. Brandon had the audacity to stay after school for the DIY Club I supervise, and apparently, the signed permission form from his mother wasn’t good enough for the officer.
The way he placed his hand on the back of his son’s neck and pushed him out the door still sends ice shooting through my veins. Every time I look at Brandon, I remember the evil grate in his father’s voice as he stormed out of my classroom. “If I were you, I’d stick to teaching and keep my nose out of family business.” It wasn’t hard to read between the lines and find the threat in that comment.
Brandon slumps into the chair next to me, eyes trained on the faux wood grain of the desk with laser-like focus. “How are things at home?” I ask gently, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye.
“You can’t do anything,” Brandon says flatly, refusing to look at me. I guess we’re skipping the part where he pretends everything is fine. My heart aches for him.
God knows I’ve tried, but he’s right. I can’t help him; at least not through the standard channels of law enforcement. But that doesn’t mean I’m out of options, even if those options come with strings I’d rather not think about right now.
“Brandon—”
“No.” He interrupts, turning to glare at me with a level of vitriol I’ve never seen from him. “You’ll just make him mad all over again. No one cares if a cop hits his kids!” Brandon slams his small hands against the front of the desk, shoving his chair back with a screech. The desk topples forward, crashing to the floor with a metallic clang that makes my ears ring. Brandon is on his feet in an instant, eyes wild as he surveys the wreckage of his outburst.
“It’s okay,” I soothe, holding out a hand to calm him. Far from having its desired effect, my thoughtless gesture makes him wince. “Oh, I’m so sor—”
“Just leave me alone!” Brandon screams at me. He looks up, meeting my eye for the first time. His sweet baby face is twisted in fear and anger, highlighting the bruise that colors his cheekbone. In an instant, I recognize that expression. A knot of familiar, hopeless anger echoes in my chest, a whisper from a past I’d like to forget.
Eyes shining, he blinks at me. Once. Twice. Three times. “Icanhelp you,” I whisper. “I won’t go to the police again.” Brandon squints at me, his angelic lips pinched. I can tell he doesn’t believe me. “I promise.”
A world-weary expression washes over his face. It makes him look far too old and sends a burst of anger, red-hot and sparking with hatred, searing through my veins. Hatred for any man who makes a child feel like this. Hatred for the piss-poor system that’s failing him and all the people that won’t do something about the evil this kid lives with.
“I have to go, Ms. Rainer. Thanks anyway.” Brandon trudges out of my room, leaving me to pick up the desk and weigh my options. They’re limited and none of them are good.
* * *
Even without the “Now Leaving Haven, Tennessee” sign, it would be impossible to miss the shift at the city limits. Maybe the founders of my birthplace could foresee the rundown and violent future that awaited their progeny. Maybe the land just had that feel to it. Or maybe someone had a sick sense of humor. Either way, Peril lives up to its name.
Violence, crime, poverty, lack of education—you name it, my hometown is drowning in it. Not that the Chaos Riders do a lick of good. At least the Sinners keep Haven in decent shape.
My stomach turns as I pull onto the cracked driveway that leads up to my childhood home. The black asphalt falls away in foot-sized chunks on either side. Weeds and overgrown grass choke their way up through the weak spots, doing their utmost to reclaim the crumbling surface.
The driveway is nothing compared to the dumpster fire the one story home has become. It was well on its way to condemned territory when I left all those years ago, and it doesn’t seem like my brother has been a better caretaker than our father was. The beige paint is peeling like ancient bark. Entire bricks are missing from the chimney; either knocked out or disintegrated after decades of abuse.
