Page 13 of Devils' Day Party
“Great. Another visible sign to tell the world how weird we are.”
“Karma,” Jane repeats, the softness in her face hardening just a bit. “Your sisters are excited about this project. They’ve been waiting hours for you to come home and look at it. I know you have the party tonight, but can you spare a minute or two please?”
“You’re right,” I snap back, knowing that my anger’s misplaced, that I should be yelling at Calix or Raz or Barron or Sonja, and not at my family. The stress is just wearing down on me; I can’t take it anymore. “It’s my fault my car broke down, and I got detention for fighting with Raz Loveren, so I’m late. Maybe if you checked your messages as much as you stare at your art, you’d know about it?”
I turn and storm down the hallway, slamming the door before either of my sisters or my mom can follow. The locks slide into place, and I stuff my headphones in my ears, using my phone to blast the band New Years Day until my head begins to ring.
I have a text from Luke waiting for me.
What’s up with the party tonight? April wants to go, but I don’t feel comfortable with her being there. Can you talk some sense into this girl?
With a sigh, I sink down to the edge of my bed and rub my forehead with my fingers. My easel sits quietly in the corner, mocking me with a tiny canvas covered in black paint and silver stars. I’ve been working on it for months, adding layer after layer until the designs began to pop up off the surface. There’s a crescent moon in the center, a lone tree shining silver beneath it. I’m not sure what I’m going for with the piece. Mama Cathy says all art starts with intention, so if that’s the case, I guess I’m fucked.
Staring at the piece, I feel my anger start to ride hot and heavy through me.
Before I can think better of it, I stand up and tear it from the easel, using an X-Acto knife from my desk to score the canvas over and over again, imagining it as Raz’s face. Barron’s. Sonja’s. Calix’s. And then I throw it against the wall and sink to the floor.
One more year, Karma, that’s it.
One more year and I’ll be free of the Knight Crew and this stupid, shitty town.
But for now, I’m here, and I have to make the best of it.
I’m going to the party tonight, I tell Luke, tapping out a quick group text to her and April. If you guys want to come, meet me at the bus stop at seven.
It’s a bit of a copout, ignoring the message that Luke sent me about April—she’s probably right about April staying home—but I’m just not in the mood to deal with it. Instead, I stand up and throw my closet open, looking for something to wear tonight. You know, since my goddamn dress was stolen from the clothesline this morning.
Whatever I wear, it has to be good.
Because whatever Devils’ Day tricks the Knight Crew thinks they can pull on me, I’ve got to do better.
Or worse, rather.
Much, much worse.The Devils’ Day Party is always held at Devils’ Den, a remote spring in the bottom of a shallow cave. Just behind it, there’s an old steam train and several passenger cars, sitting on a bit of broken track that leads to nowhere. About a five-minute walk from the spring are several glamping treehouses, locked up and waiting for the spring and summer rush. During the Devils’ Day Party, they’re inevitably broken into and defiled. The owner’s tried everything: security cameras, plywood over the windows, and even once, he sat outside with a shotgun.
Didn’t matter.
Somebody—nobody knows who—hit the man in the back of the head with a baseball bat and left him inside one of the treehouses until morning. After that, he pretty much gave up. We have exactly two police officers in Devil Springs, and they have far more important things to worry about on Devils’ Day than a bunch of teens getting drunk and fucking in some stupid luxury cabins made for tourists.
I’m standing at the edge of the clearing, the bonfire leaping and dancing in front of me, reaching orange claws up to the heavens where a crescent moon sits—much like the one on the Crescent Prep logo. Much like the painting I just destroyed. My heart aches a little at the thought, but I push the emotion aside, eyes scanning the gathered crowd for any signs of the Knight Crew.
They’re not hard to find, clustered around a very familiar yellow car with mangled eyelashes. Calix lounges on the roof like a dark god, smiling at his worshippers, his dark mask fixed in place—both the physical one he’s wearing, and the emotional one he uses as a shield.
