Page 2 of Devils' Day Party
Today, we celebrate in much the same way. Except the bonfires burn next to state-of-the-art sound systems, and alcohol makes its rounds along with weed and psychedelics. Masks are still worn, tricks are still played, and I swear that the devils still rise from the earth to torment humanity.
My devils come in the form of Calix, Barron, and Raz. Every year. Like clockwork.
“What the fuck happened here?” Raz asks, a plastic grocery bag clutched in one hand as he circles the cars, surveying the damage and then looking up at me with a sharp smile. “Little trailer trash bitch thought she’d get the first Devils’ Day trick on us, huh?”
Is that what I did? I wonder, my head ringing, my mouth tainted with the taste of copper. I think I bit my tongue when my head hit the steering wheel. I’ve never liked Calix and his friends, and it’s true: I’ve played my fair share of tricks on them during Devils’ Day in the past, but … Would I really hit Calix’s car like this, in front of all these people?
“I’ll pay for the damage,” I say, managing to keep my voice firm as I lift gray eyes up to Calix’s crow-black stare. He meets my gaze, a smirk crawling across his face as Barron watches us from one side, silent but no less scary than the other two.
“With what money, Trailer Park?” Calix asks, moving back over to the gas pump and pulling the hose from his car. “The change your dyke mothers pay you for working part-time at that dump they call a business?”
“Don’t talk about my parents like that,” I say coldly, feeling my temper get the better of me. I have to keep it in check though. I have to. They like it far too much when I get riled up. “At least my mothers didn’t ship me off to another state like a dirty little secret. That’s more than any of you can say about your own parents.”
“Say that shit again,” Raz spits, coming around to stand in front of me and tossing his grocery bag into the backseat of the car. He slams his palms on either side of me, pinning me in against the side of the Aston Martin. Ever since I can remember, Raz has worn red contact lenses over his pale blue eyes. I think, mostly, it’s to piss off that conservative senator daddy of his. But for whatever reason, the effect is monstrous. Monstrous, and yet, he smells far too good. Probably to lure in prey, like a carnivorous plant or something.
“Back off of her,” Barron says in that low, deep voice of his, like gravestones and cold, dead things. But he isn’t defending me because he likes me. He’s defending me because he wants to wait for the dark and quiet to play his tricks. I might like him and his big hands, stained with charcoal because he draws too much, if he didn’t work so damn hard to make my life miserable. “People are watching.”
Raz pushes off the car, his long, lean athlete’s body a testament to his position on the track team. From what I hear, dear old dad was disappointed that he couldn’t hack it in football. Even as the star sprinter on the team, he’s a fucking disappointment.
“I’ll find a way to pay for it,” I repeat again, desperate to avoid having the cops called on me. Based on the way my car is positioned against his, I can’t seem to come up with any way that I might’ve done this accidentally. Although, knowing Calix is loaded, what does it really matter? He’ll pay to have the car fixed—or more than likely just buy a new one—and I’ll have gained nothing except for a burden the boys can hold over my head.
“Maybe I’ll let you pay for it tonight with your mouth?” Calix opens the driver’s side door of the car as Raz shoves me aside, leaving me to stumble and fall to my knees on the pavement. His laughter rings out as I turn and throw a handful of rocks as hard as I can at the back of the car, the wheels kicking up dust that I cough on as I rise to my feet.
As the boys—pretty much everyone calls them and their friends the Knight Crew—speed off, they drag my car along with them for several feet, metal screeching against metal, exponentially fucking my vehicle up.
Typical.
I’ve never liked Devils’ Day, and I’ve especially never liked the party that follows it.
But I always go.
Always.
Because if I don’t, they’ll find me anyway, and I’d rather be in a crowd, wearing a mask, than at home alone like I was that one night.
This too shall pass, I repeat, as I climb in my car and, on the third try, manage to get the engine to turn over.
