Spite Club (Mason Brothers 1)

“It’s no big deal, Mom,” I said.

“It sounds fun,” Trish said. “I’d rather box than play volleyball.”

“You’re playing volleyball,” Mom said firmly. “It’s respectable.”

Trish went quiet, and I looked at her, feeling a chill of unease. Mom had said that to me plenty of times—the job at the bank is respectable, college is respectable, that boy you’re dating is respectable. I hadn’t thought anything of it. But hearing it said to Trish made me unhappy for some reason. “You don’t have to be respectable,” I told her.

“Yes, she does,” Mom said, as if Trish weren’t in the room. “She’s in high school. It’s a difficult time. I don’t want her making bad decisions.”

I heard my fork bang down on my plate before I realized I’d slammed it down. Bad decisions. I’d heard that one, too.

Next to me, Nick sat back in his chair and looked across the table at Trish. “What bad decisions are you gonna make?” he asked her.

Trish was sullen and glaring now, but her gaze went a little unfocused when she looked at Nick, like he’d hypnotized her. I knew the feeling. “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “Mom thinks I’m, like, going out every day and doing something stupid. And I don’t.”

I couldn’t say anything, because that was my fault. I was the one who did stupid things, not her. My dinner went sour in my stomach.

“Trish,” Mom said in her Mom-voice.

But Nick ignored all of us. “You flunk any classes?” he asked Trish.

Trish looked shocked. “No.”

“Get detention?”

“No.”

“Get in a fight?”

“No.”

“You sound pretty good to me,” Nick said.

“What is this?” Mom had put her fork down and was watching their exchange with worried eyes.

But I knew. I watched them and I knew. Nick was digging past the surface, because that was what Nick did. Somehow he knew what was going on, even though I’d never told him about Old Evie and the bad old days. I watched it like you watched a roller coaster that was about to go over the top part and down—like something you know you can’t stop. Frightening and fascinating at the same time.

Nick picked up his unused dessert spoon and spun it over his fingers, then put it down again, the same gesture I’d seen in the diner the first night we met. “You ever get drunk?” he asked Trish.

“No,” Trish said, but she looked uncomfortable. “Not really. Only a little.”

“Trish!” Mom said.

“It was two wine coolers!” Trish nearly shouted back. “Jenny Cramer had them in her backpack! I’m seventeen, Mom. It isn’t like I buy the weed that Peter Hadigan is selling.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Mom sounded truly shocked now. “Someone is offering you marijuana at school?”

“I just told you I don’t buy it!” Trish said.

“That’s it.” Mom picked up her napkin, then put it down again. “I’m putting you in a different school.”

“Do you even know what year it is?” Trish was shouting now, all teenage drama.

I came out of my stupor. “Calm down,” I told Trish. “Mom is just trying to look out for you.”

“No,” Trish said, turning to me. “She’s just doesn’t want me to be you.”

There was dead silence at the table.