Page 28 of Devils' Day Party
This too shall pass, I remind myself.
And at least for now, in this moment, I find some comfort in that.During the drive, I play Lost by the band Stitched Up Heart and let my mind drift to distant things. I don’t think about the Knight Crew’s prank or Calix’s face, or anything else. I just focus on getting home. Once I’m there, I feel better, turning the engine off and leaning back into my seat with a sigh. The rain’s just slowed down, the same way it did yesterday. Don’t think like that.
I climb out, taking my phone with me. I don’t look at the date on it again. If the Knight Crew had access to my phone to sneak it back into my car, they very easily could’ve fucked with that, too.
“Karma?” Mama Cathy asks when I walk in and find her in the living room, bent over a small canvas, a pile of bubble wrap on the floor beside her. The moms are always ordering art. Sometimes it’s to keep, sometimes it’s to sell. “What are you doing home?”
“Um, it’s Saturday?” I say with a breezy laugh, pretending like her look of confusion isn’t a terrifying thing to behold.
“Are you bleeding?” she asks, standing up from the couch at the same time that Mama Jane comes in, her face pinched.
“Did you get in an accident, Karma?” she asks as I turn to look at her and she spots the blood on my forehead. “Oh my god, are you alright?” Jane comes forward, cupping my face in her hands as I struggle to swallow past a sudden tightness in my throat.
“I told you yesterday that something happened to Little Bee,” I say, and Jane’s eyes narrow with worry. She flicks a glance in Cathy’s direction.
“Call the doctor,” Jane says, but I brush her off, stepping back and crossing my arms over my chest. Google today’s date, Karma, my mind urges, but I won’t. I refuse.
“I don’t need a doctor; it’s just a little bump,” I argue. “Can I just chill in my room please?”
The moms exchange a long, worried look.
“Do you have any other injuries?” Jane asks, but I’m already shaking my head.
“Look, I’m fine. It’s nothing. I can even leave my door open if that’ll make you happy.” I tap my foot and raise my brows, trying to give off the impression that I’m okay. I’m not, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll smoke some weed on the back porch, take a nap, and everything will be … well, not okay. Things will never be okay again, now that the video is making its rounds on the internet, but they could be better. Things will be better.
“If you leave the door open …” Jane hedges, but I highly doubt she’s going to leave me alone for long. More than likely, she’ll call the doctor—there’s only one in Devil Springs—and see if she’s making house calls today.
I head down the hall, breathing a sigh of relief once I’m back in my room.
My parents, despite being 420-friendly, will freak if they find out I smoke weed—they think I should wait until my brain is done developing—so I make sure to always smoke out the window to help hide the smell. I grab one of the joints I have tucked in my desk drawer and open my bedroom window, hopping up to sit on the sill as I light up.
Of course, from here I can see the mural on the inside wall of the carport.
The mural … that isn’t there at all.
My hands shake as I hold the lighter to the end of the joint, remembering the can of red spray paint and Katie’s silent tears. They painted over it, I tell myself, because that’s the only logical explanation. But then my eyes flick over to the perfect square of canvas on my easel, the one that’s still fully intact, despite my fit with the X-Acto knife.
Logic.
I have to hold onto logic.
A group of teens—one of them wearing a Devil Springs High sweatshirt—passes by, wearing masks and laughing.
“We’re already late; I say we ditch today, hit the party early,” one of them says to the others. I can’t hear their responses because they’re walking too fast, but that does nothing to melt the ice forming in my belly. My eyes stray back to my bed, to my phone lying innocuously on the comforter.
If there’s nothing wrong, why can’t you just pick it up and look at it? I ask myself, taking a drag on the joint and then perching it carefully on the edge of my glass ashtray. Carefully, as if it’s a venomous snake about to strike, I approach the silent rectangle of my phone.
“This is stupid,” I murmur after a moment, snatching it up and pulling up Google.
What is today’s date? I type, my stomach clenching before I hit enter.
