In the Blood (Entangled Teen) Page 2

  “I fell off my bike.” He shows me his arm which is bleeding and covered in mud.

  “Go home and get your mom to fix you up,” I say.

  He’s a sweet kid, but I’m in no mood for company after today’s run-in with Foster.

  “I can’t, she’ll kill me. I’ve broken my new bike.” Tears form in his eyes and he brushes them away with his sleeve.

  “She’ll understand,” I say gently. Not totally convinced by what I’m saying as I’ve seen his mom in action. She’s always shouting at him for doing nothing. I feel really sorry for the kid sometimes. It’s not like he’s a little monster.

  “Can you fix it, please?” he implores. “Before Mom sees.”

  I draw in a deep breath. All I really want to do is shut myself away in my bedroom and celebrate my birthday alone. My very own pity party.

  “Bring it to the garage where my tools are and I’ll take a look.” Dawson’s face drops. “What?”

  “Mom will see me.”

  “Okay. You go inside and tell her you fell over and while she’s fixing your arm, I’ll shoot around to the back of your house and take it. Come back later.”

  How could I not help? Apart from Summer, Dawson’s one of the few people in the neighborhood who doesn’t treat my mom and sister like social outcasts. Probably because his family only moved here a few months ago after dad had already been arrested. I’m sure someone has mentioned it to them, but it hasn’t seemed to have have any impact since they weren’t here at the time everything went down, and his mom seems fine about him coming over here. Which is surprising seeing as she can be such a bitch.

  “Dawson.”

  We both turn our heads at the sound of Amy’s sing-song voice and watch her cycle toward us. I bought her a pink Big Wheel for her birthday, and she rides it all hours of the day. Given the opportunity, she’d take it to bed with her, I’m sure.

  “Hey, Amy,” Dawson says.

  Amy’s got a childish crush on him and always hangs around if he’s with me. She pretends to understand what we’re talking about. And Dawson’s good with her, doesn’t treat her like a baby.

  “What have you done to your arm?” she asks, frowning slightly.

  “Fell off my bike,” Dawson replies, puffing out his chest like it’s such an achievement. “I’m going home to clean it up.”

  He says good-bye, and we stand watching him cross the road and go into his house.

  After sending Amy into the garage, so she can leave her Big Wheel and go in to get ready for the dentist, I run over and take Dawson’s bike from near the shed in the yard. I inspect the damage and realize it’s not as bad as Dawson thought. The chain’s come off, and there are a few scratches and dents but nothing that can’t be fixed.

  It’s almost as good as new thirty minutes later when Dawson runs into the garage. He stops in his tracks and stares, open-mouthed, his eyes wide.

  “It’s fixed.”

  “Sure is. Your mom will never know.”

  “Thanks, Jed. Thanks.” He grabs the handles, swings his leg over, and sits on the seat, his toes just touching the ground. All the time, there’s a huge smile plastered across his face.

  “No problem. How’s your arm?”

  “Good. Mom washed it and put on a Band-Aid. I’d better go back. She doesn’t know I’m here.”

  What I’d give for my life to be fixed so easily.

  “Okay. See you around, kid.”

  I lock the garage door behind him and wander into the house. It’s silent, because Mom and Amy have left. Mom wanted me to take Amy, but I’m not old enough to sign if she needs any treatment. I think about going to the kitchen and starting dinner, then I think better of it. I have a can of beer in my closet that’s calling me.

  On my way upstairs, my phone vibrates. Glancing at the screen, I see it’s a text from Summer.

  be here in 5 taking you out

  I rarely go out these days, because I’m looking after Amy. But I sure as hell could do with getting away from here. And an evening with Summer will be cool. The beer can wait ’til later.

  I leave a note for Mom before leaving. She won’t care whether I’m in or out, but at least she can tell Amy where I am if she asks.

  Summer is leaning against her car when I get there.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “It’s a surprise,” she says, grinning. “Get in the car.” She opens the driver’s door and jumps in while I run around the other side and hop in next to her.

  She heads out of town, driving in her usual crazy way, foot to the metal and hard on the brake at the lights. Finally, we swing into a parking lot and drive to the far side, stopping in front of Paintball Adventures.

  “We’re going paintballing,” I say, grinning.

  I really love paintballing. Of course, there’s an element of luck involved, but it also involves strategy and skill, and that’s what I love most. And it’s a great way to forget about everything else going on in your life, because you have to focus.

  Summer’s face brightens. “I’ve booked us an hour, then we’ll go for pizza. Okay?”

  “Like you have to ask,” I reply, jumping out of the car, ready to annihilate the opposition.

  Maybe this birthday won’t suck after all.

  Chapter Seven

  Some week this is turning out to be. Yesterday, there was the non-event which constituted my birthday (apart from going out with Summer), and, today, Mr. Richmond, the school counselor, wants to see me. I knock on his door and stand there, tapping my foot against the leg of a small table close by. He’s allowed to see us at any time during the day, so I don’t know why he demanded to see me after school instead of during class.

  My free time’s mine. Not his.

  “Come in,” he calls.

  I push open the door and find him sitting behind a desk that’s piled so high with paper it’s surprising he can see over. My fingers itch to straighten everything; having to work in such a mess would drive me crazy. He’s short, almost as wide as he is tall, and he has a few long strands of dark hair combed over to try and hide his baldness. Freak. He should shave it all off.

  He’s sort of okay, though, except for the way he tries to be one of the guys with his trying-to-be-cool jokes. And, at his age, he should know better.

  “Sir,” I mutter.

  “Ah, Jed. Sit down. Sit down.” He smiles and gestures to a chair in front of his desk.

  I drag my feet slowly toward him, sit on a dark blue easy chair with wooden armrests and a frayed cushion, and slouch forward, wrapping my arms tightly around my legs.

  I sense his eyes boring into me, so I deliberately look everywhere except at him, focusing on the football trophies on the wall across the back of the room. Every time I’m in his office, my eyes are drawn to them, because surely they can’t be his. He couldn’t look less like a jock if he tried.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I eventually force myself to make eye contact. Okay, Weeble (that’s his nickname because he’s just like a gnome), get it over with and then I can go.

  Though, why I’m so anxious to leave beats me. It’s not like there’s anything waiting for me at home, apart from unbearable silence from Mom, crap food, and reality TV—Mom’s viewing of choice when she’s not “resting” in her room.

  If it wasn’t for Amy, you wouldn’t see me for dust. She needs me.

  “I’ve asked you in to talk about your grades, because they’re slipping.” He arches his eyebrow, no doubt waiting for some sort of explanation involving a poor me scenario.

  I could give him one, I guess. I’ve done nothing since it all blew up. Couldn’t focus on anything, nor did I want to.

  “Yep,” I say, shrugging.

  “And even when you bother to do your homework, it’s not good.” He nods slowly, as if he’s encouraging me to open up to him more.

  You think he trained to be this obvious? Don’t school counselors have to have some sort of therapist training?

  “Yep.”
<
br />   He sighs. “We’re all worried about you. I know it’s been hard these past months with so much going on, but this is an important year. You need to keep your grades up to get into… Which school are you applying to?” He glances down at the open file in front of him and shuffles through the pages. “Stanford?” A shocked expression crosses his face, and he looks up at me, pursing his lips. “Stanford?” he repeats.

  Yeah, make a mockery of it. So what if Stanford was on the cards before it all happened? It’s not now. They’ll never take me when they find out who my dad is. No one will. I might as well leave school and get a job. If anyone will employ me.

  “Maybe.” I lean back in the chair and fold my arms.

  “Hey, don’t be defeatist. You might’ve left it too late for Stanford, but there are other schools you can apply for. All you’ve got to do is climb back on the horse and…”

  Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Shut the fuck up. I don’t want to listen to this garbage. I’ve got better things to do with my time. Like… Like…

  “So, I suggest you go home and come back tomorrow with an action plan for how you’re going to catch up with… Jed? Are you listening?” The change in his monotone voice pulls me away from my thoughts. Luckily, in the back of my mind, I sort of heard what he’d been saying.

  “What? Yeah, sure. You want me to come up with an action plan for doing my work,” I say while nodding, so it looks like I’m happy to do what he wants.

  “Is it the trial?” he asks, standing up and coming around to the front of the desk and perching on the edge of it. My eyes are drawn to the way at least four inches of belly hangs over the top of his trousers. Not a good look. “You know, I think there are groups for people in your position.”

  “My position?” I shake my head. What the fuck does he know about “people in my position?”

  My position. Having a father as a serial killer and pedophile. Yeah, there’s bound to be a group of people in the same position. I mean, it’s so common, isn’t it?

  Hey I’m Jed, Ben Franklin’s son. Yeah, that’s right, he fiddled with young boys and then finished them off. What about you? Your dad chopped people into bits and then ate them. Yeah, I’d love to hang out. We can swap stories. How awesome would that be?

  Fucking idiot. Of course there won’t be a group for me to join. No one knows the hell I’m going through. And they can’t even imagine, however hard they try. How could they? If it hadn’t happened to me, I’d be as ignorant as them.

  You think you know someone. Really know someone. But you don’t. Everything he’s ever said and done is one big lie. And I trusted him. Loved him. And now I have to hate him. Do you know how hard it is to love someone one minute and hate them the next? And what’s worse is that, sometimes, I think I still love him.

  STILL LOVE HIM.

  How sick is that?

  For sixteen years and three months, he was my idol. Yeah, we used to fight. What normal guy doesn’t fight with his parents, especially when they try to impose their way of doing things, which he knows is wrong? But he taught me to play football. To ride a bike. He took me to my first baseball game. He gave me my first beer. The sorts of things all sons do with their dads. Normal guy things.

  Then I read in the papers all the things he’d done. Nothing normal about that. And even if the papers exaggerated by fifty percent, by a hundred percent, it’s still unbelievable. Still makes me want to vomit every time I think about it. And here’s Weeble, wanting me to open up about all this sort of stuff. No thank you.

  “Well, maybe not a group,” Weeble replies, embarrassment etched across his face, clearly showing he realizes what he said was fucking stupid. “Have you talked to anyone about it? A therapist? You can talk to me, if you’d like to.” Sweat forms on his brow.

  I can just imagine how he’d feel if I took him up on his offer. Which I won’t. We were all offered counseling after it happened. Of course, I refused. I wasn’t going to sit down with some stranger and talk about it, was I? Mom refused, too. And Amy was too young to know what was going on.

  “I don’t need to talk.”

  “Well, I’m here if you ever change your mind,” he says. “What about the action plan? Come and see me tomorrow after school, and we’ll go through it. Okay?”

  I nod my head then get up and leave. He must be fucking joking if he thinks I’ll be back.

  Chapter Eight

  “Hey, wanna go on a run?” Summer calls as I’m walking into our garage on the way home from school. She runs from her place over to ours.

  My mood instantly lightens. I love running. It’s one of the few times I can forget everything that’s going on. Nothing beats the adrenaline rush as it pumps through my veins while I push myself harder and harder, faster and faster. And, while I’m running, all I think of is the even pounding of my feet on the ground and the wind as it presses against my face, making my skin all tight and tingly. When I’m out there, it’s almost as if everything has gone back to normal.

  Almost.

  And Summer’s great to go running with. She has the stamina of a guy, and, because she’s tall, she can keep up with me, as long as I don’t go hard-out crazy.

  “Sure,” I say, grinning. Give me a couple of minutes to change, and I’ll meet you back here.”

  “Cool.”

  She smiles, two cute little dimples appearing in her cheeks, and her green eyes sparkle. Then she turns, and I watch as she runs back across our yard, jumps the low hedge, and goes into her house. She’s always so cheerful and optimistic. It’s what makes her so special.

  Has always made her special to me, anyway.

  When I walk into our house, it’s eerily silent. Usually, Mom has the TV or radio blaring. She’s probably picking up Amy from school. Hopefully, she won’t be late again. When I took Amy in the other day, the woman in charge bitched about it to me. I promised to mention it to Mom. When I did, all Mom said was “okay.” It made me want to shake her, just to get some sort of reaction.

  Heading toward the stairs to go to my bedroom, I glance at the small table near the front door, and my stomach plummets. There’s a letter from the prison. I can tell by the envelope. It wouldn’t be left there if it was addressed to Mom, so it’s got to be for me. I hate receiving letters from Dad. He’s written a few times since his arrest, the last time a couple of months ago.

  He never mentions what he’s done or the case, just writes pages of inconsequential crap. It’s as if he thinks that by pretending nothing has happened I’ll forget about it and only remember how things were between us. When he was a regular dad. Which he was. He never did anything to make us think he wasn’t normal. Like the time when the two of us went on a camping trip. We fished all day and cooked what we caught in the evening. We hung out with another guy and his son and had a real good time. I don’t remember Dad looking at the other boy in any sort of sick and perverted way. I’ve gone over and over it in my mind to see if there was anything I missed, but really there wasn’t. He was just Dad. Relaxed and fun. Which makes it all seem even crazier.

  Every time he sends me a letter, I read it over and over but never reply, even though there are things I want to ask him. Like, why? Like, how? Like, what was going through his disgusting mind at the time?

  But I’m not ready. Not yet.

  I take the letter and turn it over and over in my hand, staring at my name written so precisely in black ink. His handwriting’s almost identical to mine. Which was always good for forging his signature when I needed to, but not so good for reminding me that I’m related to a fucking sick bastard.

  Should I read it now, or wait until after my run? Unsure, I go to my bedroom and stand it against the lamp on my desk. After changing into my running gear, I decide to open it, which I do slowly, being hit by the smell of stale cigarettes in the process. Dad never used to smoke, that I know of. Then again, we now know there are a lot of things he did that I didn’t know about.

  I pull out a single sheet, which is folded in two and
has a sort of dirty feel to it. Taking a step back, I drop down on the edge of my bed and begin to read. His regimented handwriting, a typical reminder of his obsessive compulsiveness, taunts me. Again, it’s all trivial until I get to the end. After he signs, there’s a PS.

  Try to understand I’m driven to it.

  A shiver shoots down my spine.

  What the fuck?

  After all this time, he’s suddenly admitting it. Why? Does he want my forgiveness? No. No. He can’t believe that I’m going to forgive him. How could I?

  Suddenly, it feels like everything is closing in on me, and I’m overcome by the need to get out of here, so I toss the letter on the bed, grab my iPod, and run downstairs into the kitchen, through the garage and onto the street, where Summer’s already waiting.

  “Come on,” I shout, without even stopping as I pass her and head down the street in the direction of a small park where we often go running.

  “Hey,” she calls from behind, after I’ve run a hundred yards. “Where’s the fire?”

  I grudgingly slow down and jog in one spot, while turning on my music (which I’d forgotten to do), and wait for her to catch up. Her dark brown hair is swept back off her face in a ponytail and it swings from side to side as she runs. Already, she has a little red dot on each of her cheeks from the exertion.

  “Ready?” I ask when she’s close, eager to start pounding the sidewalk with a vengeance.

  “Wait,” she says, leaning forward, and resting on her knees.

  “You said you wanted to run. So let’s run.” My body’s tightly coiled, desperate for its release.

  “Yes,” she says drawing in several breaths. “But I didn’t say anything about breaking Olympic records. I was thinking a medium paced run, so we can talk. But clearly that’s not what you had in mind. And you ignored Dawson when he waved at you.” Her eyes narrow. “He looked really upset.”

  I can’t help but feel guilty. It’s like she has this knack of grounding me. Suddenly, I notice a tiny bead of sweat trickling down the side of her face and have to resist the urge to wipe it away.