Devils' Day Party: A High School Bully Romance - C.M. Stunich Page 0,105

my mask from my book bag and slipping it on before Katie and Emma peek into the room to watch me toss an apron over my neck.

“Do you guys want to cook with me?” I ask, and their eyes light up like stars. Sometimes, it's easy to forget how a simple question or an easy smile that doesn't mean much to you, can mean the world to someone else. “You should always be nice, Raz, because you never know when someone's so full of pain they might snap.”

I exhale, forcing a smile to my own face as I dress the girls in their own aprons, their butterfly masks reminding me of Barron as I pull two stools up to the counter to make things easier for them.

“Are we doing Bisquick biscuits?” Emma asks as Katie stands shyly on my other side, always the quieter of the two, her eyes watching me like I'm doing something worth memorizing, planting inside her brain to look at years after this moment has passed.

“No way. We're doing biscuits from scratch. Katie, can you get the flour?” I ask, and her cheeks flush with pleasure before she scurries off.

“Happy Devils' Day,” Cathy says, a furred deer mask on her face, made with real antlers. The moms believe in sustainable hunting, so every deer season, they bring home plenty of venison to feed not only us, but some of the older residents who live in the park. She pops the top on a bottle of champagne and pours three glasses, bringing one to me and kissing me on the forehead. “Don't tell your teachers,” she says, and I laugh, helping Emma and Katie mix up the dough for the biscuits and forming it into perfect little patties.

Once they're in the oven, we start the chocolate gravy, mixing butter, milk, vanilla, cocoa powder, and flour in a saucepan until it's nice and gooey and warm.

“I like cooking with you,” Katie tells me as we drizzle the chocolate over the fresh biscuits, serving the moms plates at the table as they light candles and dim the lights, the air crackling with the smell of burning sage.

“I like cooking with you, too,” I say, feeling my lips turn up into a smile. We serve everyone ice-cold milk with their food and sit around the table, candles flickering on every surface, the sound of my music still drifting from the speakers in the studio. It's just loud enough for us to hear at the dining table, all the windows open to the flood of silver light from the moon. My playlist must've ended and started over again because Toxic Thoughts is playing again.

“This is my favorite Devils' Day Party ever,” Emma declares, chocolate splatters on her mask that I can't even begin to guess how they got there. “We should do this every year.”

“I'll remind you that you said that when you're in high school,” Jane murmurs under her breath, but Emma isn't fazed. She turns her blue-grey glare right on our mom and frowns.

“Karma is in high school, and she's here,” she declares, and a laugh bursts from my throat. A sob is close behind, and I have to clamp a hand over my mouth as the tears slide down my cheeks.

“Oh, Karma,” Cathy says with a bubbly champagne laugh, reaching over to rub my knee. “You're okay, daughter. You're okay.”

We make a circle on the living room floor after dinner, consulting one of Mama Cathy's spell books and reciting a simple mantra for love, health, and happiness, lighting a red candle and sprinkling pink rose petals into a bowl of water from one of the local springs. There are over forty natural springs in the city limits of Devil Springs, and over a hundred in the county.

“Now what?” Emma asks, bouncing in place, her eyes glittering with boundless energy behind her mask.

“Now? It's two in the morning,” Jane says with a yawn, three champagne bottles drained. I was only given one glass because the moms like rules too much, but that's okay. I don't need alcohol or weed or boys tonight.

“Why don't we go work on the mural?” I suggest, and even Katie gasps in excitement. I laugh as my little sisters drag me outside to look at the lines of the image, drawn by the moms, and sloppily colored in with paint by the hands of eight-year olds. The left half of the mural is nearly done, but the right is just waiting for color.

On the ground