Devil May Care (Boys of Preston Prep 1)

She turns back to the kitchen, metal tongs turning the chicken. “Okay, but if he says anything—”

“He won’t.” Mom and Dad both look at me with concern. I sense Brayden paying too much attention, as well. Six months ago, I would have set fire to the school before being alone with Hamilton Bates. Hell, he probably would have, too. I assure them all, “Seriously, it’s fine. We’re both busy and honestly, it’s kind of funny watching him try to perform manual labor. It’s like watching a monkey try to use a screwdriver.”

Michaela honks a laugh at that, and I go about the business of taking the food to the dining room table, feeling better now that they know about the detention. I have plenty weighing on me, and at least that’s one less thing. Luckily, it’s not brought up again during what’s shaping up to be a civil dinner. There’s no talk of Chakras or karmic balance or how eating food grounded in the Earth can help center your mind. Sometimes that ‘woo’ stuff can get really grating, as if our parents make sure we’re so well educated that we can argue with them over the table about how science, like, exists. But conversation this evening mostly revolves around Micha’s upcoming dance performance and Brayden being promoted from sentient toilet scrubber to hesitant apprentice at the garage.

We’re clearing the table when Mom says, “Oh, I talked to Sky this morning. She’s sad she can’t be here but wanted me to tell you she’s doing well. And Michaela, she said to tell you that she got to ride Chestnut today. She sent a picture.”

My sister is meticulously picking out slices of strawberry from her bowl of fruit, strategically avoiding all melon. But at this, her face lights up. “Really?” She hops up from where she’s attentively not helping and runs over to see the phone. Sky’s residential program is on a ranch in Texas and taking care of the horses is part of the therapy. Michaela has been green with envy for months. It probably helps that she has no idea why Sky is even there. “Look, Gwen! Isn’t it so pretty?”

She thrusts the phone at me, the screen showing a photo of a horse with a tan coat and a flowing blonde mane. My eyes skip over the horse and focus on my sister. She’s smiling in the picture, green eyes bright and crinkled in the late fall sun. Her hair is longer now, blonder even, almost matching the horse’s mane. For a moment, I’m struck with a random memory of her sitting on my bed, her hair catching a halo of light from an open window as I braid it so carefully, the way her nose would crinkle with a laugh, the sharp scent of nail polish as she begged me to choose between Lavender Luck and Woman Scorned.

I hand the phone back to my mom. “She looks good. Sky, I mean.” I promise Michaela, “The horse is nice, too.”

Mom smiles, and something in the sadness of her eyes makes me suspect she knows that I was remembering the better times.

But she doesn’t know that I often wonder just how much better those times even were.

“She sounds so good during our phone sessions, too. Really balanced. I think the dry heat really helps her.” Mom and dad have weekly family therapy via video with her. “Next week she’s supposed to have a call with Amanda.”

“Amanda,” I repeat, going still. Amanda is Sky’s birth mother—the one with the boyfriend and the cigarette burns and everything else. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Mom shrugs, spooning the leftover green beans into a container. “You know I’ve always encouraged a relationship between you all and your birth parents.”

I glance over to make sure that Michaela has joined my dad and the boys in the living room. “Yes, I do know that. I also know it doesn’t always turn out for the best.”

Obviously, Brayden’s relationship with his birth mother hadn’t been successful, but there’s also the twins. They were meeting with their birth mother once a month for a long time. It went pretty well until, one day, Micha showed up wearing a skirt, glittery sneakers, and a long stack of plastic bracelets on his arm. His mom threw a complete fit, calling him names, making fun of him, throwing around slurs. The whole thing was awful and probably scarred the poor kid.

“Amanda is clean now—”

“So she says.”

“And is getting her GED.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course, she is.”

My mom gives me a look. “Gwen.”

“Mom,” I reply, “it’s like you never learn. There’s a reason these people gave up their kids. At the very best, they don’t want to be parents. At worst, they literally just don’t have what it takes to try. Why can’t you just accept that?”

She wipes her hands on a dishtowel and looks at me with kind, loving eyes. “Gwen, I’ve been reading more and more about how the bond between birth mother and child is so important. You all lived and breathed in another woman’s womb. It’s a role I wish belonged to me, but it doesn’t. I want you to feel free to nurture that part of yourself.”

I swear to god, if she breaks into some kind of hippie-mother Earth song or waves incense over my head, I might actually stab her with a dinner fork.

“Don’t you get it?!” My voice is almost at a growl at this point. “Skylar is incapable of making decisions that are in her best interest! Do you think she can even say no to that woman? Did it ever occur to you that she’s a big part of the reason Sky let all that shit happen to her last year?”

She frowns. “You know I don’t like that kind of dirty language. It’s the lowest form of expression.”

“Oh, that?” I laugh in frustration. “That is what upsets you? ‘Shit’ upsets you, not exposing your emotionally and psychologically compromised daughter to the person responsible for her abuse. Maybe we should get the Devils in on the call, too. Some of the Northridge boys even, why not?”

“Gwendolyn!” My mother’s eyes are alight in anger now, too. “That is quite enough!”

I drop the stack of plates I’m holding on the counter. “I don’t know why we’re even talking about this. It’s not like you ever listen to me anyway.”

I storm off, stomping up the stairs to the second floor. I pass the long hallway lined with photos of all us kids, years' and years' worth of school and family photos, lifetimes of progress and adjustments captured in time. It’s like it means nothing.

I enter my bedroom, slam and lock the door, and then turn to thrust two middle fingers at it.

How’s that for expression?