Devils' Day Party: A High School Bully Romance Page 2

  This area is rife with German influence, brought over by early pioneers, and our school reflects it. The damn thing looks like the fucking Matterhorn entrance at Disneyland, with wood shutters painted with tiny flowers, white stucco walls, and decorative half-timbering.

  I’ve never hated a single locale more.

  Glancing back at Luke, I find my painted lips pulled down into a severe frown. She’s still laughing at me, stuffing a powdered donut between her lips and grinning.

  “Regardless of why you did it, or whether it’s a good idea, it’s still funny. I can just imagine Calix’s stupid face all squinched up with rage. How dare the poorest girl in school stand up to him and his ultrarich friends?” Luke rolls her brown eyes and stands up, stretching her arms above her head. Despite her preference for pants—shorts, actually, even in winter—the school forces Luke to wear the girl’s uniform, complete with pleated wool skirt. “Well, are you going to sit here and sulk all day? Or are you going to stride in those doors like you own the place? I mean, you started the day off with a bang. Don’t disappoint me, Karma.”

  Luke pulls out a grotesque, goblin-esque mask with a hooked nose from inside her book bag, sliding it over her face, and then grinning at me. The effect is eerie as hell, especially with the fall leaves whispering in the cool breeze all around us.

  “God, this town is weird,” April murmurs, resting one hand on her swollen belly and looking between me and Luke as I pull my own mask from my bag, studying the glittering black tree antlers that protrude from the top. “And this whole Devils’ Day thing is even weirder. Do you just get used to it after a while or something?”

  “You never quite get used to it,” I say, slipping the mask over my face. “You just try to survive.”

  I’m just one devil among many, situated in the back row of my first period French class. There isn’t a student on campus that isn’t wearing a mask—not a single member of faculty either. No, we take our Devils’ Day celebrations seriously here.

  “How do you say you’re going to burn in hell, bitch, in French?” Raz asks, leaning forward and planting an elbow on his desk. He cups his handsome face in the palm of his hand as the fourth member of Calix’s rotten little crew—a girl named Sonja—sneers at me from beneath her red leather mask. They’re all wearing matching masks—Calix, Raz, Barron, and Sonja. The only difference is that Calix’s mask is black while the others all wear bloodred, complete with horns wrapped in dark ribbons, their wicked mouths the only part of their faces still visible.

  “Tu vas brûler en enfer, salope,” I answer, before our poor French teacher—Madame Dupré—can react. It’s hard to read her facial expression behind the far-too-pretty white mask she’s wearing. If the whole purpose of Devils’ Day is to confuse the dark spirits, Mrs. Dupré has clearly missed the point. “You might also say va te faire foutre Raz, sale queutard contaminé.”

  “Mademoiselle Sartain! Monsieur Loveren!” Mrs. Dupré chokes out, but as horrified as she is, that’s nothing compared to the dark gleam in Raz’s red eyes as he narrows them at me. He might not know what I’ve just said, but Sonja does. Get fucked, Raz, you diseased slag. As I watch, she leans over and whispers in his ear. For years, we’ve been trading insults, bone-deep thrusts of verbal swords that sever bits of the soul. But in the last year, Raz has really amped up his game; I’m almost afraid of him now.

  The way his mouth twists to one side makes my stomach roil with nausea. His eyes shine like rubies behind the mask, as red as the blood on my steering wheel.

  “Oh, you’re going to regret that later,” he purrs as Mrs. Dupré writes us both up and resumes the lesson, her thin lips pinched just a little tighter beneath her fluffy white mask.

  I stare Raz down because Luke is right: I already started this morning off on the wrong foot with Calix and his minions, so why not go all the way? Sonja smirks at me, her lips as red as her mask, before the bell rings and both she and Raz rise to their feet and disappear out the door together.

  The way he looks over his shoulder at me, I know I better be prepared.

  Their Devils’ Day tricks are legendary, and I’m prepared to be on the receiving end of all of them.

  The walls of the school are plastered with posters advertising a lock-in for teens at one of the local churches—and trust me, there are many out here, in every possible faith. This one’s being held at Thorncrown Chapel, a tourist destination with exterior glass walls that proclaims it’s open to all people. Starting at seven tonight, they’ll lock the doors and have a chaperone-filled evening of sober fun inside their glass house of worship.

  Hah.

  Every student at Crescent Prep knows where the real party’s being held: in the middle of the fucking woods, at a spring known as Devils’ Den. There’s a cave there that leads deep into the earth, to a beautiful trickling stream and bottomless pool that, inevitably, will be filled with drunk, naked teens before the end of the night. Last year, right before the climax of the party, Calix approached me at the edge of the spring and said he wanted to talk.

  Like an idiot, I believed him.

  That’s how I ended up losing my virginity, in one of the off-season treehouses nearby.

  Gritting my teeth, I walk past his little group and ignore their stares, eerie behind the leather of their masks. Today, I’m wearing two masks: the one on my face, and the one that is my face. I can never be my true self within these walls, not without risking everything. And it’s not just Calix and his friends who make my life miserable: it’s everyone. This entire school is filled with monsters—monsters with trust funds and credit cards and malice scribed into their wicked, black hearts.

  “Tu vas avoir des problèmes toi ce soir, Karma,” Calix whispers as I pass, his dark eyes flinty. I ignore him, but his words follow me down the hall like an arctic breeze: you’re in for a load of trouble tonight. Thankfully, I manage to get past the Knight Crew without showing my unease, but as soon as I round the corner, my shoulders slump, and I swipe a sweaty, trembling hand down my face.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Luke says, the goblin mask turning her pixie-like face underneath into something truly grotesque. Since freshman year, Luke’s gone out of her way to find the creepiest, ugliest mask in town.

  “Worse: the Knight Crew,” I say, licking my lips and glancing over my shoulder as they come around the corner in a group, dressed in the white and purple of the academy uniform, the Crescent Prep logo stitched in silver across their breast pockets. It’s a crescent moon, tilted slightly to the left, skewered with a crossed knife and rod, backed by stars. It’s been the same logo for over a hundred years, when the official motto of the school was spare the rod, spoil the child. Goddess only knows what the knife represented.

  Luke grabs my arm and drags me into the classroom, moving into the corner to sit by April while the Knight Crew takes their seats in the front row. Sonja glances over her shoulder, making eye contact with Luke. The two of them have been playing some bizarre cat and mouse game for years.

  “Don’t encourage her to look this way,” I grumble, crossing my arms over my chest and knowing that I can’t fault Luke for having a crush on Sonja when I’ve had a crush on each of the other members of the Knight Crew at some point over the last three years. This year, senior year, it has to be different. I’ve only got nine months left, and I’m out of this nightmare forever. I’ll move somewhere big, coastal, someplace where my purple hair and Luke’s Pansexual Goddess t-shirts and April with her baby don’t make people hate us.

  “Why not?” Luke asks, dark brown eyes studying Sonja’s bloodred hair and matching mask with interest. “You let Calix trick you into bed last year. Why can’t I let Sonja trick me into the same thing?” My mouth tightens as I turn a glare on Luke, the ugly words I want to say dying on my lips before I can spout them. She’s right: I did let Calix trick me into bed, even when I knew his words were a lie, his intentions rotten, his love a trick.

  “It’s your funeral,” I murmur, pausi
ng as the door opens and the Devils’ Day committee comes in, bearing sweets and crystals and jewelry made from invasive insects. Shiny green beetles—called emerald ash borers—as well as brown gypsy moths and Asian long-horned beetles are encased in resin and hung with pretty silver, gold, and black chains. Others are pinned behind glass and framed like art, shiny exoskeletons gleaming in the overhead lights.

  It’s a bit macabre, giving out insect corpses as gifts, but Crescent Prep has been doing it for years, since long before Mama Jane even attended. I’ll admit, dressed up and mounted as they are, some of them surrounded by crystals and beads and even precious gemstones, they’re beautiful.

  “Lucille Perdue,” one of the masked students calls out, their mask dripping with leaves and bits of dangling vine. Luke rolls her eyes, but raises a hand anyway, and the student places a red velvet cupcake, complete with jewel-toned ruby frosting on the desk. Beside it, she sets down a pair of red jewelry boxes. Luke cocks a brow at me, and I grin.

  “Only one of those things is from me,” I say as she carefully lifts the lid on one of the jewelry boxes. Inside, there’s a bracelet made from black tourmaline, a crystal that’s supposed to protect the wearer from negative energy. Yeah, we’re a little weird over here in Devil Springs, Arkansas, population two thousand and seventy-six. “Just be careful with it; black tourmaline breaks easily.”

  “Oh, I love it,” Luke croons, slipping the bracelet onto her thin wrist. “But if you sent me this, then who’s the cupcake from?” She pulls the little napkin out from underneath the plastic container and smiles at the petite, feminine handwriting. “April.” Luke passes the napkin over, so I can read the note. When I was desperate and alone, only your smile shone through the crowd.

  “Aw,” I murmur, feeling a genuine smile tilt my own lips as another student volunteer calls out my name—Karma Sartain—and gives me a cupcake of my own. So glad we’re having a baby together. Chicks over dicks. Love, April. I chuckle and tuck the napkin into my pocket for safekeeping as another set of jewelry boxes is set on my desk, and I quirk a brow of my own.

  “Again, I only sent one of those things,” Luke says, opening her second jewelry box and pulling out a beautiful brooch made from the shiny green body of an emerald ash borer. She frowns and checks the card, face flushing as her dark eyes flick up to find the back of Sonja’s head. Luke reaches up to ruffle her anime-blue hair and then glances toward the row of windows on our left. I decide not to press, but if one of the Knight Crew sent a present, then we’re in for a really fucked-up Devils’ Day Party.

  I open my own boxes up, the first one a present from Luke: it’s also a black tourmaline bracelet. Laughter escapes in a rush as she turns back to look at me, and I hold up my matching bracelet.

  “We’re so similar it’s scary.”

  “Basically the same person,” Luke agrees, taking the bracelet from my hand and cocking a brow. “May I?” She slides the bracelet onto my arm as we grin at each other. “I sent one to April, too. You?”

  “Yep. It all works out though, right? One bracelet to protect her from negative energy tonight, and one to protect the baby.” I wink and pop open the top on the second box, frowning as I peer down at the butterfly inside. It’s black, with orange-tipped wings, and it’s most definitely not on the list of invasive species that the Devils’ Day Committee uses to make their jewelry and shadow boxes with.

  “This is a Diana fritillary,” I tell Luke, holding out the box for her inspection. “Not only is it the state butterfly of Arkansas, but it’s endangered.” My teeth clench as I look down at the necklace, the butterfly encased in what looks like amber, its wings speckled with red that could very well be blood. Or paint. It’s probably paint, right? “Who would send me this?” I check the box for a note, but there’s nothing. Pushing up from my chair, I head out the door on the heels of the committee.

  “Karma!” Luke calls out, but it’s too late. The door closes behind me, and I grab the shoulder of the girl with the leaf mask. She turns back to look at me with a raised brow. Pretty sure she’s the heiress of some big hotel chain or something. For the life of me, I can’t remember her name. Unsurprising, considering nobody in this school has ever bothered to remember mine.

  “Who sent this?” I ask, showing her the butterfly necklace, still carefully tucked inside the red jewelry box. The girl frowns down at it before lifting ice-blue eyes to mine. “And how did this end up in the committee’s Devils’ Day sale? Culling invasive species to make jewelry, I get, but this is fucked.”

  “We never sold any of these,” the girl says, taking the box from me and then lifting her eyes accusingly to mine. “Mr. Aldrich would never allow it.” She tries to hand the box back, but for some reason, I’m hesitant to take it. The butterfly’s still form stares accusingly up at both of us. Mr. Aldrich is one of the biology teachers on campus, with doctorates in entomology and environmental science. He most definitely wouldn’t have allowed his students to kill and display an endangered species. “Is this a Devils’ Day trick? Because I’m not in the mood.”

  The girl drops the box when I refuse to take it, and the amber casing around the butterfly shatters to pieces as she tosses raven hair over her shoulder. I drop to my knees, scrambling to pick it up as I stare at the torn wings in horror. The damn thing was already dead; the least we could’ve done was respect it.

  “I’ll let Mr. Aldrich know about this,” she says with a smirk, kicking the rest of the pieces aside with her shiny shoe and then leaning down to get in my face. “And don’t think he won’t roast you for this. It might just be a stupid bug, but he takes this shit seriously. Here’s to hoping you get expelled, Trailer Park.” The girl moves down the hall, the long vines on her mask trailing behind her.

  I clench my jaw as Luke steps out and bends down to help me clean up, my own hands shaking with rage. I shouldn’t be surprised at this sort of behavior. After all, I’ve lived with it for three years now. You’re almost done with this shitty school, I tell myself as Luke and I gather the pieces together and tuck them back in the box. The necklace is ruined, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. I don’t even know who sent it to me.

  “The Knight Crew?” Luke suggests, before I can even bring it up, lifting my gray eyes to hers. “That’d be just like them, to find an endangered animal to kill for fun. They probably kick puppies on the weekend, just for the laughs.”

  “If it was the Knight Crew, they’d send a note,” I say confidently, tucking the box into my back pocket. “They like their cruelty to be acknowledged. It’s always better with an audience.” Except for that one time, I add, but so only I can hear it. Luke already knows what happened with me and Calix. “It doesn’t matter. It’s Devils’ Day, isn’t it? I’d be more surprised if strange shit didn’t happen.”

  Luke doesn’t look convinced, but at least she nods and holds open the door to the classroom for me. As I head back inside, I take note of the Knight Crew and their desks, piled with gifts from their many admirers.

  Calix has the most out of all of them, smirking at me with an expression that reminds me of spiders and dead things. Raz watches me, too, but Barron refuses to even acknowledge that I exist. If we’re in the hallway together, he’ll walk right into me, knock me out of the way and then move on like it never happened. Sonja chucks her cupcake at me, bloody frosting hitting me right in the chest and staining my uniform.

  Our teacher, too occupied with a haul of Devils’ Day gifts on her own desk, doesn’t notice.

  With a snarl, I take my seat in the back and decide that maybe, just maybe, I did hit Calix’s car on purpose this morning.

  For years, I’ve endured whatever they could throw at me, fighting back just enough so they wouldn’t see me as a victim, but not so hard that they’d see me as an adversary.

  I’m just not sure I can take it anymore.

  “Don’t do something you might regret,” Luke whispers as I glare at the backs of their heads.

  “I won’t,” I reply easily, but I
’m pretty sure I’m lying.

  No, I’m certain of it.

  The town of Devil Springs where I was born and raised is, on most days, a fairly religious, conservative place.

  But not on Devils’ Day.

  On Devils’ Day, things get weird.

  At lunch, I sit with Luke and April in the outdoor courtyard at the back of the school. Weather permitting, there’s a large window that opens up from the kitchen, allowing students to line up for food outside. Beyond the tall, black chain-link at the back of the campus, the Diamond Point forest sweeps up and away, blanketing the hills in red and orange leaves. Deciduous trees dominate the woods here, with occasional loblolly or shortleaf pines dotting the landscape with green.

  On the opposite side of the courtyard, one of the girls sits painting pentagrams on the foreheads and hands of her friends while the others unzip duffel bags and show off diaphanous dresses in red or black silk, sack-like white gowns that look like they’re meant for a witch on her way to the stake, and crowns made of thorny branches or antlers.

  “I wish it were Devils’ Day every day,” Luke says with a sigh, face planted in the palm of one hand. Her goblin mask is pushed up above her pixie-like face, dark eyes focused on the girls dancing in the center of the courtyard, the colorful ribbons in their hands knotted and tied with dried flowers. “This is the sort of world I want to live in, where people like Cami Alhambra wear gauzy fairy wings to school, and Barron Farrar sits and sketches like he’s an artist instead of an asshole.”

  I glance over and find Barron—tall, broad-shouldered Barron with his short, rainbow Mohawk—sitting on the bench of one of the picnic tables, a sketchbook on his lap, charcoal smeared across the side of one hand. His dual-colored eyes (he has heterochromia, meaning one is brown while the other is blue) are focused on the page, but when he senses me looking, his gaze lifts up and catches on mine. The leather mask on his face turns his cold expression into something dangerous, like an icicle ready to fall and impale me. I turn away, but not before noticing the angry red gash on his left hand. Interesting.