Burn for Burn (Burn for Burn #1)

Burn for Burn (Burn for Burn #1) Page 15

Okay. Yes, I did, but it was the end of freshman year. When Rennie and I started going to parties, she’d drink beer, drink whatever was around. The guys called her Half Pint, because she was so little, but she could hold her own. Unlike me, I was so scared of getting in trouble, I’d sip from the same cup of beer all night long. “Quit trying to justify it! You lied to me. You straight up lied to my face, Nadia.” I fall back against the couch. I can’t believe she lied to me. “You’re on lockdown now. No parties, no hanging out with my friends, because you obviously can’t handle yourself. And if I find out that you drank more than you’re telling me, you’re done.”

“I’m really, really sorry.”

It’s not even about the drinking. “I didn’t think you would ever lie to me.”

A fat tear rolls down her cheek. “I won’t drink ever again, Lilli! You have to believe me.”

“How can I believe anything you say to me now?” I stand up. I feel like I’m going to start crying too. I walk out of the living room and go up to my room.

I never should have left her at that party. This is my fault just as much as it is Nadia’s. Maybe more. I’m her big sister. It’s my job to look out for her, to keep her safe.

*   *   *

When we got to the other party, there were a ton of people there. No one we recognized, mainly out-of-towners. College kids. There wasn’t a theme or anything. Just a bunch of people hanging out, listening to music.

The guys came and found us right away. It was flattering, the way they’d been waiting for us to show up, how they paid us so much attention. At first I kept looking at my phone to check on the time. I didn’t want to stay any longer than the hour Rennie had promised it would be.

They asked what we wanted to drink, and Rennie told them to make us vodka and cranberry with a spoon full of sugar, because she knew I could only drink if it was supersweet. Every time our cups were empty, the guys were right there to fill them up again. We were having fun, the four of us, and I stopped checking the time, stopped thinking about the other party we’d left to come here. I remember laughing over every little thing my guy, the tall one, said, even though nothing he said was that funny. I guess that’s how drunk I was.

Mike. That was his name.

*   *   *

Around eleven I knock on Nadia’s door. She doesn’t answer, but I can hear her TV on in the background. Through the closed door I say, “I’m trying to look out for you, Nadia. That’s my job.”

I wait a few seconds for her to answer. Whenever Nadia gets mad, she holds a grudge, and it’s for sure not easy to win her back. I hate when Nadia is mad at me. I hate it more than anything. But I have a reason to be mad too.

I let my head rest against the door. “Let’s ride to school together tomorrow, okay? I’ll drive, just us two. If we leave early, we can stop at Milky Morning and get raspberry muffins right when they come out of the oven. You love those.”

Still nothing from Nadia. I sigh, and go back to my room.

CHAPTER NINE

KAT

MY DAD, PAT, AND I ARE SITTING IN THE LIVING ROOM with our bowls of chili, watching some motocross show. It’s the third day of chili. When my dad makes his hellfire chili, we end up eating it for at least a week. I’m sick of it.

I stand up, and Pat goes, “You do the dishes tonight. I did them last night.”

“There were no dishes last night. We used plastic bowls.”

He turns back toward the television and rubs his bare feet on Shep’s back. “Yeah, and I had to throw them away. So it’s officially your turn.”

I give him the finger, then I put my dishes in the sink and leave them there. Pat is such a freaking scrub. He’s been living at home since he graduated high school two years ago. He takes a few classes at the community college, but he’s mostly just a scrub.

Back in my room I check my phone. No missed calls, no texts from Alex. Nothing. I actually did want to talk to him, about how his pal Rennie has no soul, how she deserved that loogey to the face. But I’m not going to be the one to make that call, not when he said he would.

Instead I call Kim at the record store. When she picks up, I can barely hear her over the noise.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Some indie record label party for a lame-ass band.”

“Can I come over? I had the worst day. I freaking hate my school, I hate Rennie Holtz, I—”

“All right, all right,” she says, and I grab my overnight bag and start throwing shit inside it. Who cares if it’s a school night? I can take the first ferry home in the morning. Or skip. I’m about to thank her, but then Kim puts her hand over the phone and says, “There’s another bottle of whiskey in the basement. Go ahead and bring it up,” and I realize she’s talking to someone else.

“Kim? Please?” I’m whining, but I don’t care. I need to get off this island tonight.

She sighs. “Sweetie, I’m not going to be done here until at least two in the morning. Just call me tomorrow when you get home from school, okay?”

“Sure, whatever,” I say. I mean, yeah, Kim’s busy. I get it. I get that she’s twenty-three and probably over all this high school BS. But I really need her. I need somebody.

When I stop and let myself think about what happened today, I can barely even handle it. I freaking spat in Rennie’s face. Pretty much the trashiest thing I could ever do. God, what must my mom think? My dad’s always worried he’s not raising me feminine enough, that my mom is disappointed from heaven. She was really ladylike, really gentle. She must think her daughter is a piece of shit. The lies Rennie’s been telling about me since freshman year, I just proved them true.

I bet that’s exactly what the witch wanted. To dig my grave and then lead me right into it. She knows my buttons. But you know what, I know her buttons too. It works both ways. No matter how shitty Rennie’s been to me, and she’s been plenty shitty, I’ve never sunk to her level. Why not? Who the eff knows. I’m realizing now that I should have put her in her place a long time ago.

I decide to go for a walk and have a smoke to clear my head. I put on my boots and head out the back door. I don’t need Pat bitching at me about the dishes again. I’ll do them when I get back. If I feel like it.

It’s dark outside, and the driveway is full of my dad’s woodworking tools, splinters, and bent nails, so I carry Shep in my arms until we reach the sidewalk. A rich couple commissioned one of Dad’s hand-carved canoes before they left Jar Island at the end of summer. It’ll be done by the time they come back next year.