All the Inside Howling (Hollow Folk #2)(9)

“Get off me,” I growled.

“You’re going to listen to me. I guess this is the only way you’ll ever listen to me, if I can fucking hold you down and make you.”

“Get the hell off me.”

“So Becca texts me, and in this text, I learn that you are cutting yourself. On purpose. What the fuck is going on?”

I glared at him, so furious I couldn’t speak. And under all that fury was stark, naked fear: he was going to find out. He was going to realize the truth about me. And then he was going to leave.

A minute passed, and then another, and Austin set his jaw and shook his head. “You think I don’t understand that your life is hard. You think I don’t see that you don’t have anything, and that your dad is shit—”

“Shut up.”

“—and that you’re covered in scars—”

“Shut up!”

“I mean, I think you honestly believe I haven’t noticed. But I do notice. And I’m trying to understand. And it doesn’t matter because you couldn’t give a flying fuck. You’re too busy trying to stay safe and hidden where nobody can touch you or see you or know the real you. So here’s the deal. I didn’t come out for you. I came out because I wanted to. But I like you, and I want to be with you. If you’re not willing to take a risk, that’s ok. I just need to know.”

With a suddenness that surprised me, he stepped away. I sat up, rubbing my chest, trying to breathe because those tan walls were folding in on me tighter and tighter.

“Come on,” he said in a voice that left no room for discussion. “I’m driving you home.”

We drove in silence. When we got to my apartment—one in a string of shoddy apartments that shared a parking lot with Slippers, a gentleman’s club—the windows were dark, showing only the reflected red neon of the Slippers sign. If I was lucky, Dad was out, shooting up or smoking meth or banging a girl whose name he wouldn’t know five minutes after he left. And that was perfect. That was just the way I wanted it.

“Think about what I said,” Austin told me, just a silhouette against the glass and the neon haze. “But don’t call me until you know what you want.”





When morning came, I was balled up under a thin cotton blanket. My breath made white curls above the vinyl sofa cushions. Other kids woke up in houses with central heating, in real beds, without wondering if there’d be something to eat or who Dad brought home or if he’d still be high or drunk and looking to bash their brains out. I wasn’t other kids.

I peeled myself off the vinyl and started the day. The shower warmed the bathroom, and after I’d dressed I used the last of the milk for a bowl of cereal. The one-bedroom apartment was small, and even though I tried to be quiet, I knew the sounds carried. After all, I could hear everything that went on in Dad’s bedroom at night. Everything. Today I was lucky, because the door remained shut and he didn’t stagger out to try to take a swing at me.

It was Saturday, and I didn’t work until the afternoon, which meant I had the morning to myself. And what I needed to do was figure out how to patch things up with Austin. Because that was the only possibility I was willing to accept: we were going to fix things, we were going to make this work, we were going to get through one bad spot and the rest would be clear sailing. As usual, cutting myself had helped. It had given me back my balance, it had cleared my head. Now, in the morning light that painted the walls gray, I could see what I had been too frightened and upset to understand before: I wanted things to work out with Austin. No, it was more than that. I needed it to work out. Because everything else—my life at home, the way people treated me at school, and most of all, Mr. Big Empty—was bad. Everything else was darkness, pressing against me, choking me at night. Austin was the one good thing I had. And I wasn’t going to lose him. So I was going to tell him the truth. Just not all of it.

As I stepped out the front door, though, a brown Ford sedan trundled into the lot. Hunched behind the wheel, her shoulders compressed, her forehead almost bumping the glass, Becca parked and got out. Her hair, normally brushed and shining smooth, hung in a rough ponytail that looked like it had exploded halfway along its length. A smear of silver lipstick ran from the corner of her mouth, and her silver eyeshadow had smudged. In the morning light, flecks of glitter sparkled where they had settled across her forehead and cheeks.

Instead of coming straight onto the porch, though, Becca took a step towards me, paused, and took another hesitant step. Her ankle turned, and she fell and caught herself on the Ford’s hood, and for a moment I thought that was the end: she was going to drizzle down under the wheels and never reappear. But she shook herself, regained her footing, and slumped against the car. With two shaking hands, she produced a cigarette and struck a light, but the cigarette tilted at a precarious angle from between her slack lips.

“What am I doing?” she said, rescuing the cigarette as it started to fall and then yanking on her ponytail. “Vie,” she continued, looking at me, “what the hell am I doing?”

I shrugged.

“I’m going home. I’m going to sleep. I’m going to chalk it up to a bad night, just a bad night for everybody. A jinx, you know.”

“Are you ok?” When I reached her, her hands were still shaking, and I took one of them in mine. “What happened?”