Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #5) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,42

you worried about her?”

“I told you that you’d regret pissing me off,” Pamela warns me, shaking her head. “And now Neil is dead because of you.” I cock a brow. This is the perfect opportunity to test out my bullshitting skills. They’ve been honed to a fine point living in Prescott; I expect nothing less than perfection from myself.

“Because of me? No, he was working for some white supremacist gang from Portland. Likely, that’s what got him.” I pause as Pam stares me down with matching emerald eyes. Why do we have to share the same eyes, me and her? The same skin color. The same shade of ashy white blonde hair (when hers isn’t overly processed, that is). It isn’t fair, for us to look so alike. If I share so many of her physical traits, is some of her ugliness in my DNA as well? “You didn’t … kill him yourself, did you?” I hazard and Pamela’s nostrils flare wide, the sickly-sweet scent of her perfume making me feel dizzy. Or maybe that’s the blood loss? I have no idea. I put a hand on the wall to steady myself.

“What the fuck are you playing at, little girl?” Pamela asks me, and I swear to fuck, I have to have a PTSD attack right then and there. Little girl, little girl, little girl.

“You sit your ass in here and think about what you’ve done, little girl.” Pamela’s nails are digging into my arm so hard that blood runs hot and wet down to my elbow, drip, drip, dripping to the floor. She shoves me into the bathroom so hard that I stumble, smacking my chin on the edge of the bathtub as tears run down my face like rivers. There’s something smelly in the bathtub, something that reeks of bleach.

“Mom, I’m sorry!” I wail, pushing up to my feet and trying to get to the door before she slams it in my face and locks it from the outside. I didn’t realize until I was much older how weird it is to have a lock on the outside of a bathroom door. “Mom, please!”

I didn’t mean to spill the orange juice. Pen stuck French fries in her nose, and I laughed so hard that I bumped it with my foot. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to …

I shake my head and reach my fingers up to my temple. Oscar waits at the edge of the driveway, his eyes as sharp as daggers. Our eyes meet, but only for a second. Then Pamela is slapping me across the face as hot blood begins to run down my legs. I’ve overfilled my cup. Again.

Scratch what I said about the bleeding slowing down. Too optimistic too soon, I guess.

I feel dizzy.

I put my hand to my cheek, but I don’t retaliate. I don’t need to.

“I know you were upset when you saw that video of Neil raping Penelope. Any mother would be. In fact, I don’t blame you for doing what you did—”

Pamela is on me like white on rice. That’s white trash, southside shit for you. One time, her best friend went to a Halloween party without her. You should’ve seen how my mother blew up. “I will ruin that cunt! I. will. RUIN. her!” She ripped the woman’s earrings out and hit her so hard in the face that she gave her a blowout fracture.

Neil and his family got my mom out of facing any charges. Unsurprising.

Pam grabs my hair and yanks me toward the grass, and I let her. I could fight back and kick her ass. If I wanted to.

“Don’t touch her!” I yell at the boys, because I need them to show restraint right now. “She won’t hurt me, not really.” Pamela throws me into the grass, bleeding and shaking. But not because of her. Fuck. My fight or fight harder instinct is blazing so hot, I wouldn’t be surprised to stand up and see a burnt swatch in the grass beneath me. “Mom, please!”

Shit.

And now I’m triggering my own PTSD.

Mom, please. Please don’t lock me in the bathroom with a tub full of bleach. Please don’t hit me when I sneeze too loud or cough too hard. Please don’t laugh at me when I throw up on the rug in front of all of Neil’s awful friends. Please, please, please.

Be a mom.

Only … she isn’t. She never really was. Because being a mother isn’t just about pushing a human out of your vagina.