Chapter 8 giving the "Dog," the slip
Bri
Two weeks later, I slipped around the cameras in the house and into my father’s study. My feet worked the floorboards by the window, until I found just the right one. I pried it gently up with a butter knife from the kitchen. Beneath it was a small pile of books, some of my dad's prized trinkets including his chain watch, and some books on magic he insisted I hide before he died. I had adhered to his every last wish, all that remained was revenge. He had said when the time came, they would make sense to me. They had sat here for 10 years waiting for this day. The day I refused to be their pawn and their property. They had a contract in blood I was not consulted on or asked about, nor did my blood adorn the scrap of old parchment willfully. They had held me down and stolen it. I was 14 then. My mother kept it under lock and key, hidden somewhere inside her apartment upstairs. After the night of being confronted about Andy’s kiss, everyone backed off except for my new little messenger. First, Trent had dropped a note in my lap in biology. It said, ‘I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole I didn’t know the truth. Can we talk?’ I looked over at him in suspicion and he gave me puppy dog eyes to which I rolled my own. I flicked him off before mouthing ‘Fine’ to him across the room. I walked over to the waste basket and blocked my hand from view as I crumpled the note and incinerated it, letting ashes fall from my fingertips. Down an unmonitored corridor, between classes, I passed him a note, telling him where to meet me and to destroy the note immediately. That would be simple for him since he was a pyro.
Saturday I was in my typical simple black, off-shoulder, long-sleeved dress despite the heat and humidity. I paired it with simple flats and minimal makeup for visiting my father’s tomb before work. I looked in the mirror at my gaunt expression. The soft, faint light the magic cast in my swampy, green eyes rimmed in a smokey azure was the only sign the woman looking back was still alive. I was going to change that. I was going to live. My wavy, light brown hair had hints of natural golden highlights but was dull. I pulled it back into a simple ponytail and gave myself a nod.
I grabbed my gray backpack, heavier than usual given my plans, and my fathers little trove of books, and slung it over my shoulder. Spinning slowly, I surveyed everything one last time catching the mirror again. I had become thin, to mothers approval. The old cook used to leave me plates in the fridge but my mother fired her when I was 15 thinking that would force me to join them at dinner. She had been a kind woman. I often found her more nurturing than anyone else in my life, after my father died I’d find myself at task with her in the kitchen prepping and learning how to make any number of classic Louisiana cuisine. Both Cajun and Creole, beignets and po boys, gumbo and jambalaya, boudain, and beans and rice along with other southern fares.
I didn’t want to eat meals with them. Food was too intimate, food was heart and soul, love and grit. So I lived off of bread ends and random fruit or canned bits of this or that, cold and empty like the heart of the woman staring back at me. I swear Maggie's wit and signature coffee warmed my soul, in a way it felt like a grandmother's embrace. Not that I ever knew what that felt like, but I could imagine. Her, Zoey, and my pure bullheadedness were the reasons my spirit still lived and refused to crumble to the dust it threatened to become at times.
My hall was to the right of the front entryway. As I rounded the corner I almost collided with ‘The Dog’. He stood between me and the door, surveying my appearance. “Who are you all dressed up for, little doll?” he probed. I glanced up at him before letting my eyes fall back on the floor. “I have a date with the same dead man I see every weekend.” His cool, calm, domineering biker boy demeanor shifted a little as he found himself without a response to that. He had never been a part of the punishments, never been around to see them, but that didn’t get him off the hook. I didn’t know his story and I didn’t care. “Want some company?” He asked. Odd, very odd. I glanced up at him, inside I was seething. Instead of lighting him ablaze like my magic demanded I replied as I looked back at the floor. “No, I’d rather go alone, just like I've been doing for the last 10 years, it’s our time.” He nodded, lost for words again and I wondered if this entire thing wasn’t just as awkward for him as it was for me. Deciding I didn’t want to know, I motioned for the door, “Excuse me.” Nothing would make this ok. My anxiety was peaking, I needed to get the hell out before the world started closing in. I was holding a mask of submission over the boiling rage and the fury of magic that roiled like a hurricane within me.
“Look I know this is all,” he tried to talk again. “Please,” I said, choking on the magic ready to defend me. ”Can I just go? I'm running late, the flower shop closes early today.” I pleaded in a strained whisper. I probably looked on the verge of tears as I pushed the well bubbling up back behind a wall of granite. He just nodded, stepping aside. So spineless, so easy to make him so uncomfortable that he folded. Weird. “Thank you," I mumbled, giving him the briefest of glances as I brushed quickly past him, careful not to touch him as I hurried to the door. I was pushing out the door when he broke and called my name but I kept moving, pretending I didn’t hear him and he didn’t pursue me. Spineless he was, I didn’t let myself wonder what he wanted. With what he was willing to do to me, he didn't deserve that kind of consideration.