Page 115 of Vile Bastards
Make yourself visible.
Oh, Papa.
The memory of his murder is vibrant and fresh in my mind, a painting with cruel strokes that I can’t look away from. When I close my eyes, I see the pink and red mist, the bits of bone, spattering against the painting behind his desk. There was a sailboat on it, silhouetted against the distant, sleepy Rhode Island town where Pavel met my mother.
Not all that long ago, I had a father and a home and luxuries that I’d long overlooked as such. Now, here, I … filthy, rotten, contaminated, bestial, desperate, hungry, hard and leaking at the tip, wanting Scarlett, needing Scarlett, hating myself.
I pull a handkerchief from my pocket and dab at the sweat on my forehead.
“You rich boys and your handkerchiefs,” Bohnes offers up with a sigh, and then he moves away from me, pounding up the front steps and disappearing into the debauched shadows of Prescott Senior High School.
A boy bumps his shoulder into me—presumably on purpose—and then scowls at me as he saunters past.
“Welcome to Prescott, faggot.” He yuks and snorts like a wild pig, and I curl my hands into such tight fists that my fingerless gloves—which offer such minimal protection against the elements—squeak like living things. A cold shudder races through me and I gag as I pull out a wet wipe and scrub at the shoulder of my sweater.
I’m infected already, and the day hasn’t even started.
I almost turn and run. Where, exactly, I’d run to, I’m not certain. There’s nowhere for me to go. Shall I take that Barracuda back to Emma Jean’s shoebox of an apartment with its floral watercolors, Nelly Furtado songs from the early 00s playing softly in the background?
She leaves used tissues in small white bundles on her coffee table, and I saw an old teacup with a rotten bag at the bottom of it sitting in a windowsill. Overall, most people would probably call the place clean, but I can barely stand to look at it.
I actually only slept one night there before I went back to the safe house on Saturday. Unfortunately, Bohnes talked sense into me: I can’t go between her place and the safe house without risking its location.
So I went to Emma’s on Sunday because Scarlett was with her family all fucking weekend, and I nearly screwed her against her Pantera in front of everyone, covered in mud and screaming on the inside. How dare she blow me off this weekend?
How dare I crave her smell, the liquid heat of her pussy, the wetness of her tongue?
I put a hand over my mouth and close my eyes, doing my best to ground myself.
The sound of a car pulling up behind me draws my attention around, and I turn, spotting Scarlett Force inside her red Pantera, a pair of cat eye sunglasses on her pretty face, her black hair loose and flowing around her slim shoulders.
I swallow past my anxiety and wait for her to join me on the sidewalk. She’s dressed in black and white plaid skinny-leg suspenders with red heels, and a white short-sleeved top with a massive black bow at the neck.
When she turns around to retrieve something from her car, I see that the shirt has such a low back that her elegant spine and the wings of her shoulder blades are visible. As she walks toward me, I attempt a gentlemanly disinterest, but wicked, filthy things rise up inside of me when I see that she’s wearing no bra, and if I look closely enough, I …
“Morning sunshine,” Scarlett greets, pausing beside me with an adorable frown. She lifts her sunglasses up to rest on the top of her head and studies me, in a hoodie that says Atreyu on it which seems to be the name of some random metalcore band. “You look distinctly uncomfortable, and the day hasn’t even started. You gonna make it through, cupcake?”
At the track on Friday, I attracted several strange looking admirers wearing metal in their faces, tattoos on their arms, talking about how much better the world was in 2006, and wishing they could build a time machine. They had spiked and razored hair in a multitude of colors, enough eyeliner to blind a man, and arm warmers decorated with rusted safety pins and buttons featuring obscure cartoon characters.
So those are scene kids. I feel sickened at the thought of them considering me one of their own. How can I possibly carry on with such a horrific disguise? What would Papa say?
“I’ll survive,” I say, and I try not to curl my lip as I do it.
Scarlett lets out a snort and then slaps a hand over her mouth.
“Oh dear,” she murmurs, dropping her hand and flicking her tongue against the edge of her mouth. She gifts me with that endless earthy gaze of hers again. “Um, are you sure you can handle this? You’ll have to sit at desks where other people—”
