Teddy must sense me diminish, because he leers over me now with a chuckle. “Yeah, we heard you partied quite a bit.”
Then, suddenly the boy in the ball cap stops spectating and is behind his friend, slapping a hand on his shoulder. “Teddy, comeon, man. It’s no big deal. Let’s just go. We got to grab the speaker or your dad’s going to kill us.” I expect Teddy to put up more of a fight, but he deflates, shoulders slumping forward.
“That’s some bullshit, man,” he says again, then turns away and starts to drag his tube back into the water, the music slowly fading away. The curly-headed kid follows suit, scurrying to clean up what he can as he tugs the cooler with beer and the now-empty tube that held the speaker into the water with them.
“Thanks,” I say to the ball cap boy, who’s standing with his hand on his hips. I breathe out a sigh of relief, unclench my fists. He smiles. He’s the kind of handsome that makes a boy prom king or class president.
“No problem, ma’am,” he says and turns to hop effortlessly into his tube.
I watch from the bank as they drift away. When he meets up with the group, there’s more grumbling from Teddy. “We’re just going to let some drunk tell us what to do?”
“Relax, Teddy, she’s not just some drunk,” the boy in the ball cap says, then loudly, like he wants to make sure I hear him, wants to make sure his words strike my breastbone: “She’s also a cunt!”
They erupt into laughter that’s amplified off the limestone wall across the river and back at me before they disappear around the bend. And I am left alone in The Hollow, foot throbbing, neck burning, emotions shredded bare and raw, surrounded by the deep, dark blackness of echoes.
CHAPTER EIGHTEENSARAH LYNN
Mom’s in a good mood after grabbing drinks with Iggy. She’s curled on the sofa, bare feet tucked under her, a glass of chardonnay on the coffee table. We’re putting together the welcome bags for orientation, and she’s humming Ricky Martin’s “Livin’ La Vida Loca” as she drops gold pens into each bag.
“That was the song for our opening number. Can you believe that?” she says.
Dad’s on yet another business trip. Kayden got home a few minutes ago and went straight to the media room to playCall of Dutyon the theater screen. The muffled sounds of a war zone come from behind the wall. But, tonight, Mom doesn’t seem to mind.
“What did you think of Hannah’s makeover?” I ask, taking advantage of her geniality.
She smiles, eyes on the gold ribbon she ties around the neck of a gift bag. “I like seeing you take initiative, sweetheart. That’s what separates winners.”
My chest loosens, just a little.
Then she says, “Olivia, though…” and clicks her tongue. “We’ll need to stay ahead of that problem.”
“She’s not a problem, Mom. Really. She’s sweet.”
“Yeah, well.” She picks up a pair of scissors from the coffee table, uses the open blade to curl the ribbon, then sets the scissors back down. “Some poisons are sweet, Sarah Lynn.”
I let out a sigh that I swear is silent, but Mom misses nothing.
She catches my hand. “Look at me,” she says, and I obey. “We have worked too hard for this. I’m not about to let some little girl swoop in and steal this from us. Especially the daughter of someone like Cat Dennis, for heaven’s sake. Do you understand me?”
“Olivia’s never been in a pageant. She literally has no idea what she’s doing.” I move to slip my hand from hers, but she tightens her grip. Her face is calm, serene, as she tilts her thumb and presses down. The edge of her nail sinks into my skin, a small, perfect puncture of pain. I don’t move. I hold her gaze.
“Do you understand me?” she repeats.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
She releases my hand. The mark stings—just a shallow crescent, already fading. I rub it once, then drop my hand to my lap.
We sit in silence for a heartbeat, and then a knock sounds at the door. Mom hops up to answer it, and I follow behind. Despite the late hour, she is presentable, still in the zebra-print dress she wore to the bar, hair curled and makeup in place from the luxury setting spray she buys for us.
She slips her heels back on and opens the door with a bright smile, and there’s good old Sheriff Ryan on our front porch. He takes off that ten-gallon hat of his and holds it in his hands. “Kennedy Claire,” he says.
“Sheriff, how nice to see you.” Sheriff Ryan, aka Dudley Do-Right, makes it a point to drop by once every few weeks to have coffee with Dad, and checks in on us whenever he’s out of town. I used to think Mom was a busybody, but old people are worse. They have the least amount of time left on this earth, but still somehow too much time on their hands.
“Look, Kennedy Claire, this isn’t a social visit.” He lets out a sigh like he won’t be enjoying what he’s about to say. “I’m here as a courtesy to you, and to your family. Hi, darling,” he says to me. I give him my prettiest smile. Then his attention is back on Mom. “I received a call this evening from Miss Cat Dennis. She’s been staying up at themodel home at the new Sherman Ranch development. Apparently, Kayden and some of his friends were causing a bit of a disturbance down there at The Hollow.”
“Cat Dennis said this?” Mom says, her voice flattening on the name like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth.
“Yes, ma’am. She said the boys were drinking, leaving trash, using some vulgar language. Seems Kayden got into a bit of an altercation with Cat, called her, well…” He trails off for a moment, looking to the side, then says it quiet. “The C-word.”