Page 121 of Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 5)
“You wearing a wire or something?” Pam asks, looking me over like she can’t imagine any other reason for me to be here. There’s an immediate tension in the air because I’ve already taken note of the fact that she hasn’t denied my claim, hasn’t sputtered and slammed her hands on the table and turned that funny pink color she does when she’s mad. She isn’t mad at the accusation because … it’s true.
I laugh at her, but then I feel something salty and reach up my fingers to touch the tear on my cheek. Fuck. I’m crying. Even though I told myself I wouldn’t. Even though I promised that I wouldn’t do this.
“I’m not a fucking snitch,” I growl back, with so much vehemence that Pamela actually reclines in her seat. This woman who accepted ten-grand to marry me off to a gangster. Who, for years, ordered me around and screamed in my face and called me horrible names while hiding the blood on her hands. “Oh, how I wish I were right now, that I could sell you out and watch you scramble in front of the media. All your rich friends know now, don’t they? Why you’ve been arrested. And they don’t care. In fact, they’re hoping you’ll take the fall for it, so they don’t have to pay for playing sick, little games with stolen children.”
“You’re a little liar and whore, just like your sister,” Pamela tells me, her vitriolic words twisting inside my head like a mantra. Liar and a whore. But I’m neither of those things. If anyone at this table is, it would be her. “Marrying your father and having the two of you was the worst mistake I ever made. If I could go back in time, I would abort Penelope and leave your predator daddy behind.”
The harsh bite of truth colors every word of that, but I don’t flinch. None of that surprises me. Pamela has never liked being a mom. The very idea of it makes her feel trapped, like a butterfly with its wings torn off.
“Why didn’t you just walk the fuck away?” I ask, staring her down and watching as she curls one hand into a fist, digging those chipped fingernails of hers into her palm. The way she looks down at my perfectly painted and bejeweled nails makes it plainly obvious that she’s jealous. Control. It was all about control.
“Why did you even come here?” Pamela asks, but I’m shaking my head again, leaning in close to her so I can whisper.
“You answer my questions now or I’ll see to it that you don’t survive to your trial date.”
Our eyes meet, and I notice just the briefest hesitation in her gaze, like she isn’t sure if she believes me or not. It takes a while for the idea to settle, the idea that she finally has no power over me. She can’t make me sit in Neil’s lap or watch Coraleigh put me in the car to take me to the Kushners.
My throat gets so tight that I suddenly find it impossible to breathe. I’m choking. I’m choking and I am so goddamn sad. Why am I so fucking sad all the time? One minute, I’ll be fine. I’ll know how many good things I still have in my life and how goddamn lucky I am. I’ve made it to seventeen-going-on-eighteen without being sexually assaulted. It’s a miracle. Getting my Havoc Boys back is a miracle.
I clamp an arm over my belly as I try to hold back the tears.
The miscarriage is a distant, edgy thing at the back of my mind. I didn’t want a baby, so I’m relieved. And I feel bad for being relieved. But I also know that if I did end up with a daughter, I’d know exactly how to be the perfect parent: be the opposite of Pamela. Embody love instead of hate.
I sit up and fold my arms across the surface of the table.
“Why did you marry my father?” I ask, because I need to know all of this. And, in this last moment, if Pamela can give me a scrap of something to hold onto, I’ll let her live the rest of her days out in prison. Frankly, it would be a better punishment than death really. She’ll hate the food and the lack of designer clothing, the absence of nail artists from Oak Park, the lack of a hairstylist with experience working on Hollywood stars. She’ll hate this place because it will embody everything that she deserves: a desperate, empty, lonely cage. Forever.
At the same time, I know that my list of vengeance was not made for the people whose names ended up on it. It was designed for me, by me, and if you ever thought a personal vendetta was the only reason this story was penned, I feel sorry for you. If you thought all those soft and quiet in-between moments were filler, then you didn’t understand. If you disliked me because the ugly things inside of me made you see the ugly things inside of you, then you’re just as lost as I once was.
