“Oh, I dare, all right. Who is he?” he yells. “I’m going to kill him with my bare hands.”
Fuck’s sake. I march into the kitchen with him hot on my heels. I pour myself a glass of wine as Fletcher carries on and waves the underwear around like a lunatic.
“I mean it,” he yells. “I want his name.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose . . . God . . . I do not need this shit.
Tristan
I pull the car up and frown as I peer at the house. This can’t be it. I search for the address that Sammia found for me, and I frown. This is the right address.
Huh?
There are bikes and shit all over the front yard. I sit in the car for a moment and stare at the junkyard.
There’s no way she would live here.
I’m not giving up this easily. We are not over until I say we are over.
Oh well, guess there’s only one way to find out. I get out of the car and walk up to the front steps. Five bikes are strewed across the front yard, along with basketballs and catcher’s mitts. I look around at all the shoes. Does a fucking centipede live here or something?
How many children does she have?
I peer in through the screen door. I can hear yelling coming from the kitchen.
That’s weird.
I knock on the door.
“Hello?” I call.
I hear Claire’s voice. “That is enough, Fletcher,” she snaps. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”
Huh?
“Hello?” I call again.
“Hello,” a boy says as he appears in front of me.
I stare down at him. He’s little and has dark hair. “Is this the Anderson house?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I frown. What the fuck—she does live here? “Is . . . Claire Anderson here?”
“Yes. That’s my mom.” He swings his arms from side to side as he looks up at me, totally clueless.
I wait for him to go and get her. When he doesn’t, I ask, “Um . . . can you get her for me, please?” What the hell, kid?
“Yeah, okay.” He walks off, and I stand at the door . . . uneasiness fills me. This was a bad idea.
Another kid comes to the door. He has curly light hair, and he glares at me through the screen. “Who are you?”
“Tristan.” I smile.
“What do you want?”
Jeez. I frown . . . these kids are rude. “I’m here to see your mother.”
“Go away.” He closes the door in my face.
I frown and step back . . . what?
I wait for him to open it back up. He doesn’t. Okay . . . what just happened?
“Harry.” I hear Claire’s voice. “Don’t be rude.” She opens the door in a rush, and her eyes widen as she sees me. “Tristan,” she whispers as she steps out onto the porch and quietly closes the door behind her. “This is a really bad time. You need to go,” she whispers.
I can sense something is wrong with her. “What? Why?” I whisper back.
The front door opens up in a rush. “Is this him?” a big teenage kid yells.
Claire’s face falls, and I frown as I look between them. “Huh?”
“That means yes,” he growls. He turns his attention to me. “You!” the huge kid screams. The veins are sticking out of his neck in anger. What the hell? He looks like the Hulk.
“You!” he yells again at the top of his voice. “I’m going to kill you with my bare hands.”
My eyes widen in horror, and I step back and stand on something—a skateboard. It rolls out from underneath me, and my ankle turns, and I step back as I fall. Then I tumble down the six stairs. “Ahh!” I cry as I hit the ground with a thud.
Claire runs down the stairs. “Oh my God, Tristan.”
Ouch . . . a searing pain rips through my ankle.
The huge kid comes running down the stairs and starts whipping me with something across the head. “Stay the hell away from her.” He continues to hit me. “Stay. The. Hell. Away.” He whips me again and again.
“What are you doing?” I cry as I try to shield myself from his onslaught.
“Fletcher!” Claire screams. “Go inside the house. Now.”
He holds something up to my face. “Are these your underpants?” he sneers.
My eyes widen . . . oh, hell on a cracker. This is the fucking twilight zone.
“Are they?” he cries. He holds them up to my face, and when I don’t answer him, he gets infuriated and