Page 52 of Devils' Day Party
“You surprised me today, Trailer Park,” Raz says as he guides me over to his crew's table in the center of the courtyard. Some of the other girls scowl at me as I approach, dressed in their Devils’ Day spoils, with long-horned beetles hanging from their ears, or European wood wasp clips in their pretty hair. I very clearly see Cami Alhambra shove her dress back in her bag and lift up her nose with a sniff. One of the other girls, the one in the leaf mask from the committee, scowls at me in a way that makes my stomach roil. The Knight Crew’s cronies know I don't belong here as well as I do. “Didn't think you had the balls.”
“Didn't think you had the stomach for it,” Barron adds, a ring candy pop on the middle finger of his right hand. He lifts it to his lips, sucking on it as his dual-colored eyes find mine. “But I guess you've managed to shock me before.”
Calix sits on the table, one leg extended, one knee propped up. He doesn't bother to look at me, carefully hidden behind the textured leather of his ebony devil mask.
“What's that supposed to mean?” I ask Barron as Raz lets me go, propping his foot on the bench seat and reaching up to undo the top buttons of his shirt. I stand next to him as Sonja settles herself on the edge of the table, legs hanging over next to Raz's as she studies me with bright green eyes.
“It doesn't matter what it means,” Barron Farrar says, looking up at me with that same disappointment from earlier, one of his eyes a warm brown, the other a cool blue that seems to cut into my chest, expose the blood and bone and pain resting there, a web of flesh that makes me feel trapped. He snaps his sketchbook closed, sitting up and leaning his left elbow back on the table. Barron brings his other hand to his lips and swirls his tongue around the green candy ring on his finger. “So, what spurred your interest in us today?”
“I'm trapped in an eternal hell,” I say, putting my hands into the front pockets on my blazer. I can feel Luke and April watching me from across the length of the courtyard, but I don't bother to look back at them. If I do, my resolve will crumble, and I'll end up doing something drastic, just to start this day all over again. “I've been living the same day on repeat, so I figured I'd try something different.”
Raz laughs at me, but I'm pretty sure he doesn't get what I'm saying. None of them do. Barron slides a hand over his rainbow-colored Mohawk, studying me like I'm the subject in one of his drawings.
“Nice necklace,” he says as I finger the Diana fritillary around my neck. It matches the tattoo on his chest, and I'm starting to wonder if there's any coincidence in that at all. It feels like fate to me. A dark, twisted sort of fate, but still.
“Thanks. Did you send it to me?” I ask, and now it's Barron's turn to laugh. The sound is nothing like Raz's crowing guffaws. Instead, it's slow and dark and dangerous. Barron rises to his feet, towering over me, several inches taller than any other member of the Knight Crew. He reaches out with his left hand, lifting the necklace off my chest and making me shiver. He fingers the butterfly for a moment and then snaps the chain off my neck. “What are you doing?” I whisper as Sonja and Raz laugh.
“I'm taking back my gift,” he says, and my eyes widen. So Barron really did send the necklace? He cups it in his palm and then tucks it into the pocket of his Crescent Prep slacks, smiling at me in an empty, meaningless sort of way before walking off and leaving me gaping behind him. That’s Barron in a nutshell: gift something to me, and then take it back. Light and dark, just like his eyes. Just like his soul.
“Ignore that asshole. He has impossible standards,” Raz says as I sit down on the bench, my heart beating frantically, trying to figure out why I'm so upset. Why would Barron send me a necklace at all? Most especially, why would he take it back?
“Impossible standards for what?” Sonja asks, sliding off the tabletop to sit on the bench beside me, her hair as red as Raz's eyes. “It's not like he'd ever date Trailer Park over here. Fuck her, maybe, but that's about all she's good for.”
“Says you,” I growl out, my face flaming, my fingers curled around the edge of the bench seat. People are staring at me, their faces covered in masks, some of them pretty, some grotesque. I prefer the latter ones. Pretty things lie. Pretty things glitter and sparkle and beckon. At least the ugly ones just portray on the outside what's already on the in. “But then, you don't know shit about me, do you?”
