Vendetta (17 page)

"So . . . is this James guy on the market?" she asks, voice lower, eyeing him approvingly.

"Not exactly."

"Drat. Any chance I could change his mind?"

"Probably not."

She continues watching, humming in displeasure. "You realize that makes him all the more desirable, right? And now that I've labeled him a challenge there is no limit to what I mi
ght try."

I laugh. "I know."

"So what's the problem? Girlfriend? Fiancée? In the middle of a torrid love affair with his married college professor?"

"It's, um . . . complicated," I say, for lack of a better word.

Her shoulders fall, lips pulling into a fr
own. "Is he gay? Because I swear to God it’s like every guy with a six pack and a tan . . ."

"No," I interrupt. "It's not like that."

"God! You had me worried! You're such a pessimist!" she accuses. She links her arm in mine. "If you introduce me, I'll fo
rgive you."

We circle the pool, meeting the guys halfway.

By the time I return to the grill, Carter is preparing to put the hamburgers on. He's not alone.

"You look nice," I tell Mara.

She's traded her typical ensemble, the yoga pants and t-shirts we wo
rk out in, for a pair of cut-off denim shorts and a tank top. Instead of a braid, her hair falls in soft waves around her face. She got everything right, down to the elastic on her wrist.

"Really?" she asks, pulling on the hem of the shorts. "You're sure?"

She looks so normal, so wholly like one of us that I have to remind myself she's thousands of years old and trains angels to fight demons. That she's training me for the fight of my life.

"I almost didn't recognize you," I tease.

When the burgers are read
y and drinks are poured, the seven of us grab seats around the patio table. The sun has fully disappeared, and Kitty Fleming's garden lamps light up the evening sky. A few citronella candles grace the table, defending us from summer bugs.

"Before we eat,
I'd like to propose a toast," Carter says, lifting his plastic cup.

Joshua returns the cheeseburger to his plate, chewing slowly.

"To friends. Health. Happiness. Long lives and prosperous roads ahead."

"To friends," Selena says.

"Friends," Seth murmurs.

"
To the chef," I add, lifting my glass to Carter.

He tips his back to me.

*
             
*
             
*

I press two fat marshmallows on the end of a skewer and position Seth's hand closer to the fire. "Hold it here, just above the flame," I tell him.

"I can't believe you guys h
ave never roasted marshmallows before," Selena says, helping James. "I mean, whatever happened to the Boy Scouts?"

"There's no such thing as Boy Scouts where we're from, Love," James says. He and Seth exchange a knowing look.

"That's awful. I mean, I'm the
first to admit I'm not Scout material, but I can," she continues, removing her skewer from the flame, "roast a damn good marshmallow."

Joshua crams three marshmallows on the end of his stick, and plunges it directly into the flames.

"Joshua," I chide. "Y
ou're supposed to
lightly roast
them, not set them on fire."

He offers an impish grin. "I like my marshmallows with extra crunch."

"Pyromaniac," James mutters.

When my own marshmallow is sufficiently cooled, I pull it off and bite into it. The outside is
crispy, the inside warm and gooey. I lick what's left of the white, sticky substance off my fingers.

"You are way too meticulous," Seth teases.

"I'll bet Genesis was a Girl Scout," Selena says.

"Wrong. I've never actually roasted a marshmallow over fire. W
e—my mom and I, I mean—always used the stove top."

We plow through half the bag before Selena's phone buzzes. She pulls it out of her pocket and flips it open. "God. My parents. Yes," she continues, typing a text message with her thumb. "I know what time i
t is." She shuts the phone and tosses it behind her. "I swear, I will be so glad when they lift this whole curfew thing. I have no life."

"It's okay. We should probably clean up and go, too," I say, rising. "I need to get in another run tonight."

Carter pu
ts out the fire, and the rest of us gather our trash. I follow him through the sliding glass door and into the kitchen.

"Thank you for doing this," I tell him, returning what's left of the sodas to the refrigerator. "It's just what I needed."

"Well, it go
es without saying," he says, reaching around me to put away the ketchup and mustard bottles, "that I'd do whatever I could to make you happy."

He stops, standing almost on top of me, his eyes burning into mine.

A slow, embarrassed heat creeps to my cheeks,
the cool air from the fridge raises goose bumps on my arms.

"You were always too good to me, Carter."

He shrugs. Tears his eyes from mine. A small, defeated laugh. "And, somehow, I'm still not enough."

T
WENTY

The air is
warm. Beyond the trees the sky is endless and full of stars. Seth and I cross the street, jogging at the edge of the road.

We run quietly, the only sound our feet striking the pavement beneath us.

"I'm going to live in a place like this one day," I final
ly say, referring to the sprawling, impeccably landscaped lawns. Homes backing up to tee boxes. Houses that, until I met Carter, I only saw pictured in magazines. Magazines I could never afford. I stifle a laugh. "You know, provided I can keep the power on
."

"What?"

A sigh. "It was just this thing. With my mom, I mean. Seems like no matter where we were or what we were doing, we could never keep the power on more than a month or two at a time."

When I was younger and stupider I thought losing power was fun
, that it happened to everyone. It was my mom’s fault. I would come home from school to find blankets set up in the living room and a stash of books and food close by. Mom always acted like it was this special thing. Grounds for a celebration.

We played g
ames by candlelight. Mom read aloud from some cheap paperback she picked up for a quarter at a yard sale, censoring all the parts unsuitable for young ears. We snuggled on the couch, or pulled a mattress into the living room and spent the night together on
the floor.

Then, I made the mistake of inviting a girl in my class over to spend the night. At the time we were living in some
podunk
town. I forgot the name of it. I forgot the girl's name, too. All I remember was that the power went out, and she refused
to stay the night. In her world, the power only went out if there was a storm, and it always came back on a few minutes later. When it didn't, she begged my mom to take her home. I watched from Moose as Mom walked her down the gravel driveway, knocked on
the front door, and delivered her back to her parents.

Two weeks later we moved.

"Where do you think she is?" Seth asks, interrupting my thoughts.

"My mom? God only knows. I've literally lost count of how many times we've moved. South Marshall is the lon
gest she's ever stayed in one place. She decides she's meant to live in the city, so we move to some fifth floor walk-up. Then she'd rather be in the country. Back and forth. Again and again. Always looking for something else. Something better."

"I'm sorry
," Seth says.

"Yeah, well, I'm over it."

"Sounds like it."

I can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not.

"I have no control over her. If she wants to leave town and not tell me where she's going, that's on her. Any day spent wondering or worrying about her
is a day wasted. She's fine. She's settled in by now, found some crappy job. Two or three months and she'll be on the move again."

"She's your mom," he reminds me.

"Not really."

After the power incident, I knew we were broke. I mean, I figured we were be
fore this, as I lugged the same Hello Kitty backpack from school to school, grade to grade, even after we had to duct tape the bottom so my books wouldn't fall out. But thinking we were poor and having it confirmed are two entirely different states of mind
. And once Mom knew I knew, she didn't try to hide anything from me. I was privy to conversations with landlords where she begged for one more week. Just until the next paycheck.

Please, God, I'll do anything.

The understanding
was that I would keep whatever sorry rental we were living in at the time in order. I was the one who dusted and cooked the noodles and set out roach traps. But then something changed. Mom was waitressing at this hole-in-the-wall country kitchen that cater
ed to guys in camouflage and t-shirts without sleeves. The restaurant doubled as a store, selling cigarettes and sodas in glass bottles and vials of liquid guys bought on fall weekends to make them smell like deer piss.

I was sitting on the stockroom floo
r, working on my homework and trying to ignore the flies swarming around the crusted caps of a line of ketchup bottles, when the owner came back.  

The owner was straight up backwoods. He was also fat. The kind of fat that could be separated by a belt in
the middle. Half the weight above, the other half swinging low on his hips. He spent ten minutes ranting about how disorganized the room was and how pathetic his employees were, then offered me five bucks to fix it. I did, and, at the end of mom's shift, h
anded the money over to her, proud of everything I accomplished.

After this, I looked for things to do. Sweeping floors. Clearing tables. He paid me with a wad of cash he coaxed out of his back pocket, flipping through fives, tens, twenties, even one hund
red dollar bills. Maybe he felt sorry for me. My mom. I don't know. What I do know is that it set the next five years of my life in motion. Wherever we moved after this, whatever our situation, I was always expected to find a job.

I was twelve.

All these
years, and I can't shake the feeling that Mom was just using me. I guess part of me always knew that one day it would come to this. We'd go our separate ways. It's a relief, actually. I want—I
need
—my own life. Away from her. To get it right. Whatever that
means.

We circle the block.

"Tonight was kind of perfect, you know?" I finally say, breaking the silence. "It felt . . . normal. It was nice."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

I glance swiftly in Seth's direction. "Why?"

"Because there's nothing keeping yo
u from this," he reminds me. "This life. And I wouldn't blame you, Genesis. If you chose this, instead."

"No. It's not up for discussion."

"This would be an easy decision for anyone else."

"I'm not anyone else." I shove the loose strands of hair away from
my face. "And choosing this means giving up something even more important to me, and I'm not going to do that."

Seth stops mid-street. I continue past him, the strides lengthening between us, before stopping. I turn to face him. "What?" I ask. "Is this wh
ere you go into your whole 'there's more to life than chasing Viola and hunting demons' rant?" I move closer. "First it's you, and then Carter, and then you again. Carter isn't good enough for me.
You're
not good enough for me. When does this end? Because
I made my choice, Seth. I picked
you
." I stop directly in front of him. His eyes watch mine closely. "It was always you."

The breeze shifts, scattering a group of leaves from one side of the street to the other. They skitter along, scratching the pavement.
I brush away the sheen of sweat at my hairline.

"What?" I ask.

An ironic smile curves his lips.

My eyes narrow, and I'm about to ask him what's so funny when the sound of wailing pricks my ears. A siren. It grows louder. Screaming. And then it's joined by
others. Fire trucks. Ambulances. Police cars.

"That's really close," I mutter, more for my own benefit than anyone else's. And I feel this tug inside. This pull. I start jogging again, slipping down the street leading out of the subdivision. The clubhouse
and the fountain in front of it shines in the distance, blue lights sparkling. Seth is close behind.