Past
There was a lot of hot anger afterward.
Hot, impotent, what-the-fuck-do-I-do-with-it anger.
At Arya, who’d probably set me up so her dad would catch us and pretty much ruined my life as a result.
And at Conrad Roth, the obnoxious, abusive, piece-of-shit billionaire who thought (no, scratch that, knew) he could get away with what he did to me, just like he got away with everything else.
And to an extent, even at Mom, whom I’d stopped expecting much of but who somehow managed to surprise me with each betrayal, no matter how big or small.
But there was nothing to do with this anger. It was like a big, fat black cloud hovering above my head. Unreachable but still real. I couldn’t get back at Arya—she had Conrad. And I couldn’t get back at Conrad—he had Manhattan.
After Conrad delivered his final punch, I managed my hasty, bloodied escape from the Roths. I bled all over the bus’s floor and attracted uncomfortable looks, even from New Yorkers, who were used to pretty much everything. I stumbled back into my apartment building, only to find out when I got there that I didn’t have a key. It had stayed with Mom back at the Roths, probably burning a hole in her handbag while she cleaned her son’s blood off the shiny marble floors.
So I found a temporary solution for my rage.
I punched the wooden door.
Once, twice, three times before my knuckles started bleeding.
Again and again and again, until I created a hole in the wood and fractures in my bones.
And then some more, until the hole became big enough for me to slip my blood-soaked hand into it and unlock the door from the inside. My fingers were twice their original size and wonky. Wrong.
This was the thing about broken stuff, I thought.
They were more exposed, easy to tamper with.
I vowed to fix myself up real fast and put my feelings for Conrad and Arya Roth in my pockets.
I would revisit them, later.
I couldn’t stay in New York after that. That was what Mom said.
Granted, she didn’t say that to me. I was just a useless kid, after all. Rather, she shared this piece of information with her friend Sveta over a loud, heated phone call. Her screechy voice carried through the small building, rattling the roof shingles.
I only heard shards of the conversation from downstairs, where I was flung over the Vans’ plastic-covered couch, pressing a bag of frozen peas to my jaw.
“. . . will kill him . . . said I made him a promise, I did . . . thinking about, what you call? Juvenile institution? . . . told him not to touch the girl . . . maybe a school somewhere else . . . never have kids, Sveta. Never have kids.”
Jacq, Mrs. Van’s daughter, who was seventeen, stroked my hair. I was lucky Mr. Van had been there, delivering me his hand-me-down Penthouse, when Mom had kicked me out, or I wouldn’t have anywhere to sleep tonight.
“Your nose’s broken.” Jacq’s long fingernails raked over my skull, making frissons run through my back.
“I know.”
“Shame. Now you won’t be pretty anymore.”
I tried to smile but couldn’t. Everything was too puffy. “Crap, I was counting on this moneymaker.”
She laughed.
“What do you think is going to happen to me now?” I asked, not because I thought she’d know but because she was the only person in the world who was speaking to me.
Jacq mused, “I don’t know. But honestly, Ruslana seems like a bit of a shit mom. She’ll probably get rid of you.”
“Yeah. You’re probably right.”
“Should’ve kept your lips to yourself, lover boy. Hey, anyone ever told you you have pretty eyelashes?”
“Are you hitting on me?” I would arch an eyebrow, but that would make a wound open again.
“Maybe.”
I groaned in response. I’d sworn off girls for life after today.
“Has your mom ever cut your eyelashes to make them grow thicker?”
I shook my head. “My mom never gave enough crap to change my diaper, probably.”
That was my last night in New York City for several years.
The next day, Mom knocked on the Vans’ door and threw my meager possessions into the back of a taxi.
She didn’t even say goodbye. Just told me to stay out of trouble.
I was shipped off to the Andrew Dexter Academy for Boys on the outskirts of New Haven, Connecticut.
All because of one stupid kiss.
