“Pay attention when I’m speaking to you,” my father shouts, banging his hand on the side of the van, and even Allison is freaking out now, saying she’ll call security if he doesn’t stop. Allison, who feeds me to the wolves every chance she gets, and oh, this is bad, this is bad, and his hand is still slamming against the van, and his spit is flying in my face as he screams at me about respect and duties and obligation and how I am falling so, so short of it all. He knocks the phone out of my hand, and it skitters across the ground, and there it goes, my link to the outside world, lost and cracked. I dig my nails into my hands and scrunch my eyes shut, and I wait and wait and pray he stops.

“Allison saw you at the Verona booth, Ridley. What were you doing?” And here comes the paranoia; I should have known.

“You followed me?” I ask, and Allison looks away.

“Come on, Mark,” Allison says softly. “Let’s go back inside.”

“What were you doing?” he asks again. “What did you tell her?”

“Nothing, I swear,” I say, my voice a near whisper.

“Don’t lie to me, Ridley.” He leans closer, panting harsh, furious breaths, and all I see is the smudge of white powder still stuck in the corner of his nose and the hate in his eyes, and Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ, okay.

tapouttapouttapout

“I think I have an in at Verona. I was checking it out,” I croak, my voice sounding tinny and garbled. Or maybe it’s just that my brain feels so far removed from this situation, which is both happening to me and not, which is both okay and not. And I feel cold, so fucking cold and heavy, like my blood turned to lead, and I just need to lie down.

Dad’s mouth opens and shuts, and he leans back a little. Enough that I can kinda slump down, that I can suck in air that doesn’t smell like booze and fear.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” I say, losing my nerve. I skitter to grab my phone, but he grabs my arm, not hard enough to bruise but hard enough to hurt, and I freeze.

“What do you mean, you have an in?”

dontdontdont

But it’s every man for himself in times like these, and I won’t go down with this ship. Except.

Except.

Her feather burns in my pocket, and I press my lips together in a tight line, one last-ditch effort to keep the words inside. But it’s not like I’ll ever see her again anyway. And she’ll probably stop texting me once she’s back home and busy with her real life. So if it’s her or me—