is struggling to make my presence make sense. “As glad as I am to have finally met you, may I ask what you’re doing at my house?”
“The …” Don’t say the Thing, not outright. “My stepdad’s driven us past your house and pointed it out once or twice.” I shrug my shoulders. It’s a lie, a pretty terrible one, if I’m being honest with myself, but it doesn’t matter. That part of this interaction is irrelevant, as Vic might say. “I know it’s weird for me to just show up on your doorstep, but I don’t have your number or anything and I thought …”
I try to remember what the old Bernadette used to believe. Oh, that’s right. People in positions of authority are there to help. Report bad things. Be honest. Ask for assistance when you need it. I mean, it’s laughable to me now, but I used to believe those things with my whole heart.
“I thought you might be able to help me,” I say, making sure I maintain eye contact with her. She has soft brown eyes, like those of a baby deer. Jesus Christ, what am I doing here? At best, I’m going to get Sara Young killed. At worst, she might end up hunting the Havoc Boys down as a part of some justice warrior plot.
Sara frowns, but only a little. Unlike me, it seems as if she’s used to smiling. She’s young—I’d peg her in her late twenties—but she has little marks on her face from smiling too much. Looking at her is like shoving an entire stick of cotton candy down a parched throat. I’m choking on sugar and sweetness; it’s basically poison to me.
I crack my knuckles in the awkward silence and her eyes find my HAVOC tattoo again.
Something shifts in her expression, a flood of hormones that I liken to … empathy?
Oh.
Oooooh.
She thinks I’m here because I want to leave the gang, I bet. I think about Ms. Keating and the soft sympathy in her face when she told me I had options, that she used to be in a gang herself once upon a time.
“Do you want to come in, Bernadette?” she asks me. “Neil should be here soon. The three of us could sit down before our shift—”
I cut her off by raising both hands and taking a step back. This time, I don’t have to fake the revulsion in my face at the mention of my stepfather.
“No, I … I don’t want him to know I was here,” I start, and Sara pauses a moment before nodding briefly. She’s probably making up some story in her mind, where I’m too afraid to talk to my ‘father’ or some shit. In reality, he’s the monster I hate most.
Sara combs her blond hair over her shoulder with her fingers as she waits for me to continue.
“How can I help, Bernadette?” she asks after a moment, when I just stand there in that stupid white dress, wondering if my cup’s going to overflow and I’m going to bleed all over it. I glance to the right, down the row of fifties bungalows with their American flags waving in the wind. There are no trees left in this neighborhood. Over the years, the homeowners have cut them down, one by one. I don’t think it was intentional, but the look of it is … austere, at best.
I turn back to Sara.
“Do you think it’d be okay if I came and talked to you sometime?” I ask, tilting my head to one side, hoping I look young and desperate enough for her to take pity on me. “I know we don’t know each other, but … I don’t have anyone I can trust.” I blink my green eyes and keep my face as neutral as I can.
“Are you in danger, Bernadette?” Sara asks me, stepping out onto the small front stoop of her home and looking up and down the street, like she can sense the Havoc Boys waiting around the corner for me.
“Yes,” I tell her, because that’s the truth. I am in danger. From her partner. From the Charter Crew. From my own strange, black, fractured little heart. “Would it be okay if I came over here sometime? I mean, if you can’t talk to a cop, who can you talk to?” I almost gag on the words, but I feel like I just pulled that off. Sara’s face softens and she nods, smiling at me in what I can only