Page 122 of Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 5)
Not anymore.
Never again.
When Victor put that crown on my head, I knew that it wasn’t a reward for the violence, that it wasn’t a reward for bashing in James Barrasso’s head. It was a reward for reclaiming myself, for falling into my own skin and finding out that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Mixed reviews from critics stained with blood and tears,
The politics of a broken life are really just reality,
My words are what set me free, so if I have to be something polarizing,
Then that’s exactly what I’m going to be.
The poetry filters through my head, unbidden. I couldn’t stop it if I tried. Any attempt to hold back that twisted prose would leave me writhing on the floor in agony, poisoned by it. Consumed by it. So I don’t bother. I just tap my pretty nails on the table and let it come, memorizing every line of my mother’s face so I know exactly the type of person that I never want to become.
“I married him for his money,” Pamela says, sitting back in her orange jumpsuit and looking like a supermodel even with the faint purple circles under her eyes. She’s pretty, just like me. We’re both pretty and look at what a curse it is. The world simultaneously rewards and punishes pretty, doesn’t it? “I’d have done anything back then to get away from your grandparents.” She keeps staring at me, but like she has no idea who I am or why I’m here. “Does that answer your fucking question, you ugly little brat?”
The insult bounces off of me. She can hate me all she wants. I have people who love me, so guess what? The worst the world has to throw at me means nothing. Her ugly words can’t take away the satisfaction of knowing that I’ve got the one thing I’ve always dreamed of: acceptance. A place to belong.
“Why did you want to get away from them?” I continue, realizing that this is literally the longest conversation we’ve had in years. How sad is that? Maybe Pamela would’ve seen something to like in me or Penelope or Heather if she’d bothered spending time with us?
“This is fucking ridiculous,” Pam sneers, looking away from me toward one of the guards, like she might ask to be taken back to her cell. My turn to slam both palms on the surface of the table. My turn to get a look from one of the guards.
I keep my eyes on my mother.
“Do you think I’m fucking kidding you?” I whisper, leaning in. Our eyes meet. “You know that we killed Neil, don’t you? You know that we buried that monster alive in a satin-lined coffin which was a far nicer end to his life than he deserved.”
Pamela’s eyes blaze with fury—especially because this isn’t news to her. She knows all about Neil’s death, his burial, the fact that the oxygen tank found in the coffin with him came from one of the nursing homes she moonlights at.
My mother leans forward, looking me dead in the face.
“Of all my children, you were always the worst. There were moments, early on, with Penelope where I thought I could be happy. But you? You were the worst mistake I’ve ever made.” Pam leans back after delivering what she thinks is a fatal blow crafted of words and pain. It hits me and slides right off like nothing.
“This is your absolute last chance to answer my questions,” I continue, proud of myself for keeping my breathing even and steady. “You know what happened to Neil. If you think being inside these walls keeps you safe, then you’re even more of a fool than I pegged you for years ago. Why did you want to get away from your parents?”
“I’m not giving you my autobiography,” Pam snaps back, and I go to stand up.
If that’s her final answer then … well, I’ll use my new connections with Vera and Stacey’s girls to get what I need. I’ll have her fucking killed, and I’ll slash her name from my list with a lipstick color that reminds me of Penelope, and then I’ll probably cry for a while.
Throughout it all, I’ll have the Havoc Boys to fall into.
Even now, they’re waiting for me outside, piled on the roof or the hood of the Camaro, smoking, watching, waiting. Five boys in black with crude letters crafted of ink on their left hands, their hearts dark and obsessive, but poignant in their determination, in their love. Unfailing.
“Your grandfather was a drunk. He beat me and your grandmother. He used to fuck her, too, while she screamed. Does that answer your question?” Pam snaps as I lower myself back to the seat across from her. Those familiar green eyes of hers blaze with pain, but I can only sympathize so much. She is no longer just a victim; she is a perpetrator. There is no excuse for that. None at all. “I married your father because he was wealthy, and he wanted me. He wanted me so much that he divorced his wife of ten years.”
