Page 33 of Devils' Day Party
I head back to my parents’ house, parking outside the Diamond Point gates and then sneaking inside on foot. Once I’m sure that both of my moms are in their art studio out back, I let myself into the house with my key and load up as much weed and alcohol as I can find. Neither of my parents is much into substances of any kind, so there’s not a lot, but I do find a small container of pot brownies on the top shelf of their bedroom bookcase, and a case of wine that Mama Cathy bought for her book club meeting. There’s even a full bottle of tequila that some acquaintance of theirs gifted them for Christmas last year and they never drank; it still has a red and green ribbon tied around the neck.
After that, I head for the woods where the party’s being held later, intent on staking my claim in one of the train cars and getting wasted. I’m not sure why that’s the first plan that comes to mind. There are so many other things I could be doing right now, but I feel paralyzed. Helpless. At least the alcohol and the weed, they can take the pain away.
When I finally get to the train car, however, I find that someone’s already beaten me there.
It’s Pearl, sitting on one of the seats with her knee propped up, a small razor blade in her hand. One by one, she makes these perfect, tiny cuts on the inside of her right arm and watches ruby red droplets of blood well from each wound before moving onto the next.
As soon as I see her, I’m torn between wanting to rush in and tear the blade from her hand … and fleeing before she can see me. Unfortunately, my foot bumps an old beer can and her honey-brown eyes lift up to find me standing in the doorway.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asks, but I don’t know how to respond to that, so I lift up the case of wine in response and she scowls. “Wow. Red wine for a rager. You’re a real rebel, aren’t you, Trailer Trash?”
“What’s your problem with me anyway?” I snap back, even though I know that a girl who spends her afternoons cutting class and cutting herself probably should be handled with a bit of respect and understanding. But I’m tired, and I’m confused, and I feel like I’m floating through a nightmare, so I don’t act with the compassion that I should. “You’re such a bitch, like everyone else at Crescent Prep. You, the Knight Crew, the Devils’ Day Committee,” I add, thinking of the raven-haired girl who smashed the butterfly necklace. “Everyone. No wonder your parents all shipped you off to butt-fuck nowhere, Arkansas.”
Pearl rises to her feet and comes over to stand in front of me, silver-blond hair shiny in the sunlight, the red of her cuts a brilliant ruby against her pale skin.
“I don’t like you because you’re desperate,” she sneers, getting in my face, the razor blade still clutched in her hand. For a moment, I wonder if she’ll strike me with it. She doesn’t, tucking it away in her pocket as she moves around me toward the open door. “You act like you’re better than the Knight Crew, but you look at them like you’d give your left tit to be one of them. That’s why. You’re even worse than they are.” She elbows me out of the way, and I let her go, shaking, my hand clenched around the cardboard case with the wine in it. Slowly, I set it down on the leaf-covered ground and draw out a bottle. Using the bottle opener I stuffed into my pocket, I pull the cork out and toss it aside, putting the wine to my lips and drinking deeply. I barely stop for breath, downing as much as I can stomach before I haul back and just throw the bottle as hard as I can into the wall, like Calix did that first night with the vodka.
It shatters to pieces, stinking up the room with the cloying scent of grapes and cherries. But holy shit, it feels good, freeing.
“You’re even worse than they are.”
Fuck Pearl.
Fuck the Knight Crew.
I pull out another bottle, but I don’t bother to uncork it this time. Instead, I throw it at the last intact window there is. It’s beyond satisfying when they both shatter, and a strange, strangled laugh tears from my throat as I sink to the floor, twisting the top off the tequila and swigging several mouthfuls of that. It burns as it goes down, but I don’t care. Anything to make this day go away. Anything at all.
The alcohol burns in my veins as I take my mask from my book bag, slipping it on and then stumbling out of the train car to the pit where the partygoers start the fire every year. It’s just a hole, dug deep and filled with rocks, but it works. Somebody’s already stacked firewood nearby, making it easy for me to set up. I brought my own lighter fluid and a box of matches, so by the time the other students start showing up, I’ve already teased the flames into a roaring frenzy.
