He’s offering me answers, and I’m filled with sorrowful gratitude. Before I can say anything, Isaiah leaves, the door swinging shut behind him. Rachel watches where he disappeared and after a few beats she slowly turns her head in our direction. Gone is the beauty queen and in her place are two narrow slits of eyes.
“Isaiah hasn’t just walked through hell, he’s been chained to it most of his life. You offered him the chance at family, and if you were lying to him to get answers, I swear to God I will make you regret it.”
“He’s not lying,” Violet says. “Isaiah has a grandfather and an uncle and an entire army of men who will claim him in a heartbeat.”
Rachel yanks her cell out of her back pocket and offers it to Violet. “Put in your number and I’ll call you when he’s ready for you to meet his mother.”
She watches me with a perfectly pissed cocked eyebrow. I understand her wrath. Rachel’s protecting someone she loves. She’s protecting my brother.
“I’m not scared of you,” she says to me.
“You shouldn’t be. I’m not a threat to either one of you.”
Violet offers her back her cell and Rachel sizes her up. “And I’m not scared of you either.”
With a toss of her braid, Rachel turns her back to us and follows after Isaiah.
Violet and I stand next to her father’s car and try to digest the newest curveball life has thrown. She squeezes my hand, looks over at me, and I’m confused by the ghost of a smile on her face. “Don’t know about you, but I like them. They are definitely McKinley material.”
Violet
SITTING AT A picnic table outside the crowded clubhouse, I’m fidgeting every few seconds as if I’m being attacked by cockroaches. There’s a huge crowd and I can’t help but wonder if the Riot’s spying on me.
To be honest, we’re all a mess at the picnic table. Chevy’s heartbroken and flips a coin rapidly around his knuckles, watching it like it’s a crystal ball with answers. After what I’d thought would have been a glorious day of being reunited with Breanna, Razor’s gone silent and internal, and Oz is observing all of us as if he’s trying to figure out the messed-up puzzle that has lost 75 percent of its pieces.
It’s official—eighteen blows. Happy birthday to me.
Oz’s mom, Rebecca, my mom and the rest of the Terror Gypsies made my favorite foods: fried chicken, potato salad, baked beans and all the chocolate cake I could eat. They even made sweet tea that’s so sweet anyone who drinks it is at risk of falling into a sugar coma.
Me: I’m depending on you to lock the doors tonight and flip the porch light.
It’s my written reminder to Brandon to do what I’ve been encouraging him to do every night since we’ve been home.
The party started off as a family one with tons of little kids running around like they owned the place, but at eight anyone under eighteen had to go. Mom kissed me on the cheek, packed up Brandon and left. I’m officially at my first adult party. I’m assuming they’re letting Chevy stay because he’ll be eighteen himself soon and they consider being kidnapped an age handicap.
Brandon: I feel better when you or Mom do it.
Me: I know, but you can do this. I have faith in you.
He needs to do it. Simple things can cause him anxiety, and the kidnapping backtracked a lot of progress we had made. He was locking the doors before my kidnapping, regressed, and we will re-win this situation.
Brandon: I’ll do it. I promise.
I breathe out in relief. Brandon doesn’t like to break promises. He’s enough of a Terror boy that his words mean something. Me: I love you.
Brandon: Love you, too.
It’s a cool night, but not cold. The type that makes it nice to sit and admire the stars. All three boys wear black leather jackets. Oz and Razor wear their cuts as well, and Chevy’s football hoodie swallows me whole, but keeps me warm. The music is loud, the beer free-flowing, there is lots of laughter and stories being told and a part of me is sad that I can’t find an ounce of energy to go enjoy this party the million ways I thought I would as I grew up a child of the Terror.
I’m lost. Chevy is lost. So is Razor. I glance up from my not-even-touched red Solo cup of beer and look straight into Oz’s eyes. Oz and I share a complicated relationship. He’s like a big brother to me, and with me being someone who doesn’t like anyone telling me what to do, Oz and I have always clashed.
Oz is like his father, Man O’ War. He’s a huge solid wall of muscle and intimidating to those who threaten his family. He’s also a big soft teddy bear to those he loves. By the way he’s watching me, I can spot the spark of pain because he doesn’t know how to help not only me, but also Chevy and Razor.
By blood, Oz is an only child, but we’re his family. Chevy and Razor his brothers, me his sister. Isaiah had a lot of things right. Sometimes the best family is the kind that doesn’t share blood.
I glance over at Chevy and Razor and they’re both looking down at the table, the equivalent of crying into their beers without shedding a tear. Sadness is a bowling ball rolling down pins in my stomach.
This entire situation has become too big. The Riot, being kidnapped, being watched, being threatened, helping the detective and now Chevy finding out that the foundation on which he has been raised is crumbling.
Since Dad died, I’ve tried living life on my own. Thinking that if I did, it would hurt less, but I’ve been hurt anyway and all that’s happened is me ending up lonely.