Page 80 of Devils' Day Party
“Who are you?” he asks casually, lazily, canting his head to one side.
“Are you deaf?” Raz asks, smoking a joint and looking me over like he's enjoying what he sees. He’s wearing the same outfit as he did on night one—red leather pants slung criminally low, and a Luciferian sneer that brings goose bumps up on my arms. His tattoos catch the light from the lantern in the corner of the room, drawing my attention to a small crescent moon that I just vaguely recall pressing my lips against.
My gaze flicks to Barron who's paused in his drawing to stare at me. On his lips sits a knowing smile.
He can tell it's me.
I pull the pepper spray out of the small bag slung on my shoulder.
“Sorry boys,” I say, spraying all three of them before they can react. My hand clamps down on the sketchbook, and I take off out the door and into the woods, Raz howling in pain behind me.
“Who the fuck was that?!” he screams, voice echoing as I lift my skirts and sprint through the woods to the car. Luke's put the top up as I asked, and left the doors unlocked. I climb in and hunker down in the back seat, panting heavily, shaking with adrenaline. The spicy scent of the pepper spray seems to cling to me, making my eyes burn. I have no choice but to open one of the back doors and sit on the ground against the tire. In the bag where I carried the pepper spray, I have a flashlight that reminds me of the one Barron uses when he takes me into the woods.
Clicking it on, I stare down at the page in front me.
The blood drains from my face, and my throat gets tight.
There's a beautiful girl in charcoal, staring back at me, her smile almost too tight but happy, even if she doesn't know it. Her eyes say she tries really hard, but she's human, and she's not perfect, and she fucks up a lot.
She's standing in an alcove, beneath curving rock walls, a butterfly in her hand.
Baron's drawn … me. In a timeline he doesn't even remember.
Choking on my own breaths, I keep flipping through the pages, realizing that I'm staining them with my tears.
He was right: he does like to draw scenery. He also likes to draw girls.
Or more specifically, one girl.
Me.
On the next page, I see myself kneeling on the grass in front of the gas station, tears streaming down my face. In the drawing, Barron stands behind me, a lollipop between his lips. I flip the page again. There's me, wearing the necklace. Next page. Me, sitting on the picnic table bench next to him. Next page. A drawing of me and him, kissing while my fingers toy with the key around his neck.
Holy shit.
Closing my eyes, I lean my head back against the car and try to process what I've just seen.
Barron draws me. He dates each piece, and, flipping back to the beginning, I see they go all the way back to freshman year.
That, and in some strange, small way, he remembers the other timelines.
My friends and family might not remember the day is going in repeat, not really, but they're here with me in heart and spirit; we're in this together. We'll get out of this together.
Barron steps around the rear of the car, crouching down beside me as he reaches up to push his mask away from his face. His beautiful eyes are red and weepy, but he doesn't say anything as he reaches out, grabs the corner of the sketchbook, and yanks it away from me.
“You remember the other timelines,” I whisper, and he gives me a look like he's fighting between fury and genuine interest.
“I'm not very happy with you right now, Karma Sartain. Why don't you explain yourself before I decide to tell Raz and Calix where you are?”
“You told them it was me?” I ask, but when Barron doesn't respond, I realize that no, he hasn't. How could he tell them? The way he draws me … It makes sense he'd keep it a secret. There's care and focus and attention in those drawings. “You deserve to be pepper sprayed, drawing me all these years while treating me like crap? That's some creepy stalker ass shit.”
“What timelines?” he grinds out, looking down at the sketchbook. All the images he's drawn that show the timelines, he must've drawn today. So he's clearly been thinking about it. Obsessively so. I wonder if he does that every day? Draws what he can remember.
“All those scenes you drew in there, like me with the butterflies. Or … at the gas station, crying? Even the one with us kissing, I know about all of that. Because I lived it.”
He narrows his eyes at me, dropping into a full crouch and pushing the sleeves of his jacket up to reveal his black and gray tattoos.
