Page 64

I’ve never been kissed by a boy before. I envisioned myself kissing Milo sometimes. He had nice lips, and a nice face. Maybe he would push me up against a wall, like in the movies. His hand would go in my hair, his lips on my neck, then my mouth. Maybe his hand would move lower and stroke me on my most intimate part.

Nobody has ever done that before. Not any other guy. My father crept into my room at night sometimes and did things when I was younger.

At the time, I thought it was normal. I even looked forward to it, because he made me feel special and good. I didn’t know. I didn’t understand. If a daddy loved his daughter, that would be normal, right? Don’t all father’s touch their daughters? He would overwhelm me with attention and pleasure, then he’d yank it away.

I craved his attention, his approval, his affection. It was sick, yes, but it was my own conditioned and traumatized mindset. He abused me long enough to make me crave it, though I didn’t realize it was abuse.

Little did I know how wrong that was. I was caught in the hands of a sinister beast.

My mother told me there were no monsters, but there was a monster in that house all along. The man she loved was the same one who came into my room and gave me pleasure. He was the same one who got tired of molesting his daughter, so he turned up the heat and decided to start bringing home women to rape. He’d be consumed with panic. So, he killed them to erase the problem of a beaten and violated woman in our basement.

Chills ran down my skin just thinking about it.

I spent most days wandering the halls like a ghost, never really seeing anyone, never letting myself get too close. There were rules here, just like at home, only nobody said them out loud. Don’t cry where anyone can hear you. Don’t talk about the bad stuff, not in detail, not unless you want to watch people’s faces get weird and far away. Don’t touch anyone unless they touch you first, and even then, flinch hard enough, and maybe they’ll stop.

The staff were fine, I guess. They weren’t cruel, not like my father. They left me alone, mostly, except for the woman who made me take my pills every morning and asked me sometimes if I missed my mom. I’d always say no, even though some nights I’d scratch at my arms until they bled just to remember what her touch felt like.

After dinner, Milo and I would sit on the back steps. I liked it there. It was quiet, and you could pretend you were somewhere else if you squinted at the trees long enough.

Milo always found me, even if I tried to hide. He was quiet, but not the scared kind of quiet. More like he was listening to something the rest of us couldn’t hear. He’d just sit next to me, knees apart, elbows on his thighs, staring at the sky like he was waiting for it to crack open and swallow us whole.

Sometimes we didn’t speak for a long time. He didn’t mind the silence, and neither did I. Words got twisted here, anyway.

This one afternoon, I was sitting with my chin on my knees, picking at a hole in one of my socks, when Milo dropped down next to me with a sigh. He had a bruise on his cheek, fading, but still there. Nobody asked about bruises around here. That was another rule.

He picked at the chipped paint on the step. “You want to hear something fucked up?” he asked, voice flat.

I shrugged. “Sure.”

“My dad used to lock my mom in the bathroom for days. Said she was crazy. Wouldn’t let her out. Told me that’s what happens when women get hysterical, they need to be put away until they remember who’s in charge.” He picked at a scab on his knuckle until it bled.

I didn’t say anything for a minute. I thought about my own mom, how she’d sit by the lake and talk to herself, whispering about monsters and blood, rubbing her arms. “Do you think she was actually crazy?” I asked.

Milo shook his head. “Maybe. She was scared, I think. Maybe being scared all the time makes you crazy after a while.”

I nodded. “Being scared makes you do weird things.”

He looked at me then, and I felt seen in a way that made me want to jump out of my own skin. “Yeah,” he said.

The 16-year-old, Derek, came out behind us, shoving the door open so hard it bounced back in its frame. He had that look, too much energy, nowhere for it to go. The staff always said he was “troubled,” which was just a fancy way of saying nobody wanted him.

Derek stopped at the top of the steps, looking down at us. “Hey, Starla. You want to come with me? We’re going to sneak into the kitchen and steal cookies.”

“No, thanks,” I said, staring at my hands.

He grinned. “Come on. You can help me distract Miss Cathy. You’re pretty, she likes you.”

My stomach twisted. “I don’t want to.”

He took a step closer. “Don’t be a bitch. It’s just cookies. Unless you’re scared?” His eyes lingered on me too long.

Milo moved. He straightened, shoulders broadening, suddenly bigger than I remembered. He looked up at Derek, face blank and flat. “She said no.”

Derek scoffed. “What, are you her bodyguard now? Thought you were supposed to be some freak.”

Milo’s eyes didn’t leave his. “Want to find out how much of a freak I can be?”

Derek hesitated. I saw something flash in his face, fear, maybe, or just the realization that Milo wasn’t bluffing. Milo didn’t move, but there was something coiled in him, tight and dangerous. He was taller than Derek, you could see the lines of muscle in his forearms where he gripped the step.