Page 195 of Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 5)
It’s almost like … I’ve hit a finish line somehow.
Heather made it; she’s safe; she survived.
You’d be so fucking proud of me, Pen, I think as I spot her ghost standing in the corner, smiling at me and wearing the prettiest pink skirt and the brightest pink lipstick and beaming like the whole world is on fire and burning just for us. There is no end to the things that I can do, that I can accomplish.
“I’ve always been proud, Bernadette,” she tells me as I choke on tears and try to hide my reaction from the boys.
Of course, that’s never a thing, hiding from them. Because they always know. Not once in the last ten years have I not felt seen by them. I rub absently at one of the scars on my shoulder where Martin’s bullet tore through, and I smile sadly at Pen’s ghost until she fades away with a wave, leaving empty space in my heart that I have no choice but to fill with love.
“You okay, wife?” Victor asks me, offering up a scotch that I accept between grateful hands. The booze burns on its way down, tasting like fresh fruit, butterscotch, and oak. It’s far nicer than the crap we drank in high school. That is, except for the one exception of the fancy stuff we stole from Coraleigh’s beach house. Fuck, that feels like it happened a million years ago.
“I’m okay,” I promise, holding my glass in my left hand and grabbing my journal with the other. I’ve taken to keeping one, ever since Aaron got me that one for Christmas during senior year. This is where I write the first drafts of my poems. There’s just something so … visceral about seeing my hand move, the page indenting with the press of a pen. After, when I’m ready to edit my raw work, I type it out on my laptop, format it for digital eyes. I’m damn near ready to publish my first book of poetry. Since, you know, getting published as a poet through traditional means is damn near impossible, I’m going the self-publishing route. I’m a soon-to-be indie motherfucking author, baby. “I’m just processing.”
“It’s fucking hard, right?” Aaron asks, drawing my attention over to him as he sits next to me on the couch, reminding me of that first night we spent at Oak Valley Prep. This is like a mirror to that except instead of my being upset about Pamela and Penelope, I’m celebrating Heather and Kara. “Seeing them leave with dates and wicked intentions. Kara was practically drooling over that Brody guy. And isn’t prom when most teens lose their virginity?”
I give him a look that says bro, do you remember what we did in high school? But he isn’t paying attention to it, staring at the fire as Hael pulls kindling from the basket nearby and lights it up for us. Teenagers are fucking skanky hos is what I want to tell Aaron, but sometimes parents just need to pull the wool over their eyes so they can sleep better at night. Also, I gave Kara a giant box of condoms last week when I found her naked with Brody in the pool out back.
She’s just fucking lucky that I’m the one that caught her. The Havoc Boys are too goddamn overprotective for their own good.
“Virginity is a patriarchal social construct,” I remind them, but that doesn’t do much to assuage Aaron’s fears. He downs the rest of his drink as I chuckle, letting my pen drag across the page as I contemplate starting a new poem. Sometimes, I sit here for hours and hours and nothing comes to me. Other times, I have to leap out of the shower and grab the nearest tube of lipstick so I can scrawl messy words across the bathroom mirror. “Anyway, they’re safe with our crew. That’s all that matters. Let them make their own decisions, find their own tragedies, and dig up their own triumphs.”
I write that down, just in case.
“So,” Hael begins, perching on the arm of the couch opposite where Aaron and I are sitting. Victor takes his drink over to the fire so he can rest a hand on the mantle and stare down into the flames. Oscar, surprisingly, is also having a drink tonight. Most of the time, he stays sober while the rest of us get fucked-up and it works out great in case there’s a crisis that needs to be handled. Seeing as we’re still Havoc, there’s always a crisis, but we get through it each and every time. Together. As a family.
“So, what?” I query back, tapping my pen against the page and lifting my eyes to look at him. He meets my gaze with a warm honey-brown one, his smile more than enough to tighten the muscles between my thighs. I decide then and there that tonight is a group night meaning nobody is allowed to retreat to their own bedroom. I’ve got like, empty nester syndrome or some shit.
