Page 24 of Chaos at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 2)
I’ll always regret that, sitting there and crying while Pen was dying.
The logical part of me knows that she was dead long before that, because she never went to school that day. I was just too busy running from Havoc to notice.
After a while, I set the water glass aside and use one of the bobby pins from my hair to pick Pen’s lock. It shouldn’t be so easy, like it isn’t fair she doesn’t have any privacy. I’ve seen her get in throw down brawls with our mom over having a deadbolt, but poor Pen’s never had her wish granted.
The knob gives a satisfying click, and I push the door in.
Pen is sleeping on the bed, wrapped up in her blankets, like it’s not the middle of the day with bright sunshine streaming in through the window. Her room smells strange, not like it usually does, like bleach and the sweet lilac scent of our laundry detergent. She cleans it constantly, scrubs every surface, washes her sheets three times a week.
I’ve always thought it a strange tic, for someone who keeps such a messy backpack and locker.
I wrinkle my nose, ignoring the sounds of children playing in the backyard of our neighbor’s duplex. Despite the smell, I don’t rush to Penelope’s side. Maybe something in me knew that that day, everything would change for me.
Because I wasn’t born Bernadette the bitch, the badass, the leather-wearing cynic with a fondness for sarcasm and a mean right hook. I used to cry over little things. Big things, too, obviously, but little things constantly. The world held promise before that day, like I could find a future waiting in the stars for me, no matter how distant or dim it might seem.
I sit down at Penelope’s desk. She’s left her phone plugged in, and when I touch it, I find that it’s unlocked. Definitely unusual for her. She craves privacy, wherever she can get it. There’s a note there, open and written with a discarded stylus.
“I’m so sorry, Bernadette. Out of everyone, you and Heather are the ones I owe the world to. But I can’t take it anymore. When I try to run, he chases. When I tell the truth, she calls me a liar. I can only take so many dark showers, stay awake so many nights. No matter what they say to you, always remember that I loved you both.”
I lift my head up from the phone screen to stare at the blanket mound on the bed.
Slowly, carefully, I set Pen’s phone aside and stand up.
This isn’t what you think it is, Bernie, I tell myself, my hands shaking as I stand there in a pink plaid skirt and a white cardigan, twisting my fingers together and doing my best to keep breathing. My head feels disconnected, and my heart thunders like a mad thing.
“Penelope?” I ask, but there’s no answer.
Closing my eyes, I try to listen for the sound of her breathing, but the fucking kids outside are too loud. Storming over to the window, I lean out and shout down at them to shut the hell up before I slam it closed. Spinning around, I close my eyes and perch my ass on the windowsill.
For several more minutes, I just sit there. Because the longer I do, the longer I can pretend that everything is okay. Like, if I don’t check her, then I can’t find anything wrong, and if I can’t find anything wrong, then she’ll be alright.
Finally, I open my eyes and look down to see her face, still and waxy and perfect. Trapped forever in a single state, draped in youthful skin and silken hair.
I choke on my own saliva as I fall to my knees in front of her.
I don’t have to touch my sister to know that she’s dead.
“Hey, Penny?” I whisper, calling her by a name that I haven’t used since Dad died. “Where did you go?” Reaching out, I pull the blankets back and find her clutching one of her stuffed animals, dressed in her favorite pj’s. There’s a bottle of Pamela’s pills on the nightstand, but I hardly register that. I just remember sitting there and watching her chest, waiting for that rhythmic rise and fall, that predictable constant.
It never comes.
After a while, I climb into bed beside her, looking into her face, committing it to memory.
I don’t remember crying, but when I finally get up the courage to grab Pen’s phone and dial 911, I look back to see the sheets soaked where I rested my head.
“My big sister was murdered,” is what I tell the operator on the end of the line.
Despite their findings to the contrary, I know better.
Penelope might’ve taken those pills, but she didn’t want to die.
Someone drove her to it, and I know exactly who that person was.
