All These Monsters Page 3

  “I’m dumb. I failed. As expected.”

  “You’re not dumb,” Laurence said. I threw him an annoyed look. There was no need for lies just to make me feel better.

  “Spare us the pity party,” Dad said. “You just need to focus on studying, not . . .” He trailed off, because he had absolutely no idea what I liked to do. I’d been marathoning all eight seasons of Game of Thrones when I should have been studying for my physics final.

  “Boys?” I guessed.

  “Exactly.” He held out his hand. “Your phone, please.”

  I peered at Mom. He gave me a concussion, and the first thing he did upon returning was punish me?

  Mom twisted a towel in her hands and swallowed.

  “Come on,” Dad said, opening and closing his fingers.

  I stared harder at Mom.

  “Clara, maybe it’s better if you don’t have any distractions this summer,” she said quietly.

  Behind Dad’s shoulder was a framed picture of a stream, and I couldn’t remember which hole it covered. I didn’t know if it was the time he punched it in a rage about something Mom had done, or if it was the time he’d hurled a chair at the wall when I came home late. I wondered if, one day, I’d forget what the painting of Texas was covering up. Would I be like Mom, who swore up and down that Dad hadn’t been aiming that chair for my head? I already wasn’t sure if I had really ducked, because she so adamantly claimed it didn’t happen. How long until my reality bent the same way Mom’s did?

  I dug my phone out of my pocket and put it in Dad’s outstretched hand, but my eyes stayed on Mom.

  She looked away.

  4

  After midnight, when Mom and Dad were asleep, I slipped out of my room and into the backyard. I sat on the edge of the porch, feet in the grass. It was early enough in the season for the weather to be pleasant this late, almost cool now that the sun was gone. In a few weeks it would be miserably humid every hour of the day.

  France probably had better weather. It was a terrible reason to run off to fight scrabs, but I’d always hated the summer. I hadn’t even known that other places were cool at night, even in the summer, until I visited Mexico.

  The door slid open behind me, and fear gripped my chest so intensely that I couldn’t breathe until I turned to see that it was just Laurence. I let the air out of my lungs slowly.

  Laurence had something square tucked under his arm, and he used his elbow to keep it steady as he lit a match and held it to the cigarette in his mouth. He hadn’t noticed me yet, sitting at the far edge of the porch.

  “Laurence,” I said.

  He jerked like I’d startled him and almost dropped whatever he had under his arm. He adjusted it and tucked his lighter in his pocket.

  “Hey,” he said, blowing out a breath of smoke. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Nothing.”

  He watched me for a moment, like he was debating saying something. Laurence’s words were never an accident.

  He settled for silence and strode across the yard to where an old drum sat on top of two concrete blocks. He removed the lid.

  “The neighbors hate it when you do that,” I called.

  “Life’s full of disappointment.” He peered inside the barrel, then grabbed the matches from his pocket and lit one. He dropped it in and added leaves until smoke began to rise.

  I stood, dead grass crunching under my feet as I walked to him. He took the square object out from underneath his arm and dropped it on the ground. It was the painting of Texas.

  He slammed his foot down on it, cracking the wooden frame. He picked it up again, another crack echoing across the yard as he folded it in half. He dropped it in the barrel.

  I stopped next to him, watching the black smoke curl up from the fire. “Didn’t like that painting?”

  “You kept staring at it.”

  He said the words to the barrel, not meeting my gaze even when I turned to him. The flames lit up his expressionless face in the darkness. I said nothing, because sometimes if you waited, Laurence would finally choose the right words.

  “They should have to look at that hole,” he said after a silence so long the flames were almost gone, leaving nothing but smoke. He tossed his cigarette butt in with it. “He almost killed you. They should have to look at the evidence.”

  Mom would just buy another one—that painting was ten dollars at Walmart—but I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything, because the words he almost killed you were vibrating through my brain. Laurence had never acknowledged the danger I was in out loud.

  “I’m going to stay,” he said. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, shook it, and sighed dejectedly. He tossed the empty pack in the barrel.

  “Why?” I asked, even though the answer seemed obvious. Obvious, but unexpected.

  He met my gaze and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Unless you’re leaving too, I’m going to stay.”

  “I didn’t ask you to protect me,” I said.

  “I’m going to do it anyway,” he said.

  You’ve done a terrible job so far, I didn’t say.

  “Unless you’re leaving?” It was a question this time.

  “What about the job?”

  He shrugged. “There will be others. Dad can feel smug, at least.”

  The wind shifted, blowing smoke in our faces, and we both stepped back, in opposite directions. I stared at him through the smoky haze; his eyes fixed on a point at the other side of the yard. When I looked, there was nothing.

  I wondered if there would always be an excuse not to go. Maybe Dad had planned to leave when he was twenty. Maybe there were jobs in Oklahoma or road trips planned but never taken. A different life plotted but never lived.

  I thought of the street kids at the church, the group home I could be placed at with one phone call, of Grayson St. John and beating a scrab with a plastic vacuum attachment. There were good reasons not to do all of them, to stick with the danger I knew. It would be so easy to get stuck forever.

  “Can I borrow your phone?” I asked.

  Laurence handed it over without question and then turned and walked back inside.

  I went to the website. I pressed my finger to the phone number. I was actually doing this.

  “What’s up? You got the Grayson St. John fight squad hotline.”

  The man who answered the phone sounded like he was having the best day of his life. I scurried to the far corner of the yard, as far away from the house as I could get.

  “Um, hi,” I said quietly. “I’m Clara. I’m interested in joining?”

  “That’s awesome. I’m Victor.”

  “Uh, yeah,” I said.

  “Where are you?” Victor asked. “Did you look at the list of charter buses on our website?”

  “Yeah. I’m in Dallas.”

  “Perfect. You’ll go to Atlanta. So here’s how it’ll work. I’ll get some details from you—age, race, gender, current address, combat background, all that jazz, and you’ll be all set to try out when you get here. Do you have a passport?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perfect. We’re asking that you bring that with you to Atlanta. If you pass, you won’t be returning home before going to Paris. Do you have any questions?”

  “Um.” What are my chances of dying? Have I lost my mind? Are you people sure you know what you’re doing? “It’s not a problem that I’m only seventeen?”

  “Nope. As long as your parents are cool with it, we’re cool with it.”

  “How are you going to know if they’re cool with it?”

  “I’ll email you a consent form. Just have a parent or guardian sign it and bring it with you or email it back. You’ll need to include their phone number too. We’ll call to follow up.”

  There was no way that Mom or Dad would sign a consent form.

  But there was also no way for anyone on the St. John teams to know if I forged the signature and put Laurence’s number down instead. He never answered his phone anyway. And his
outgoing voicemail message just said “leave a message if you want, but I don’t check them.”

  “Cool?” Victor said.

  “Cool,” I said. “Where will we be going? If I make it, I mean.”

  “I can’t answer that one. Certainly not the US, but other than that, it depends on where your team is assigned. You’ll all start in Paris, but we’ll have teams in the UK, certain parts of Europe, and China.”

  “OK.”

  “And be aware that the US government is extremely skeptical of what we’re doing, and they are monitoring our activities very closely. The NSA is probably listening to us right now.” He raised his voice a little. “What’s up, NSA? How’s the weather over there?”

  I laughed, then quickly covered the phone so they couldn’t hear it. Maybe you shouldn’t laugh at the NSA.

  “But most importantly, we need you to understand that this is a one-way ticket. We won’t pay for return tickets until you’ve been with us for at least a year. You’ll have to get back to the States on your own if you want to leave before that, and plane tickets to the US are outrageously expensive and hard to come by these days. Once you’re there, it will likely be very hard to get back.”

  That might have been the most appealing reason to do this so far.

  “Why don’t I get some information from you while you’re thinking about it. We’re gathering info on everyone who calls us. Voluntary, of course. And keep in mind that our buddy at the NSA is getting it all too.”

  “Sure,” I said, suppressing another laugh.

  “Full name? First, middle, last.”

  “Clara Rivera Pratt.”

  “Gender? This one’s optional, if you’d rather not answer.”

  “Female.”

  “Race?”

  “Hispanic and white.”

  “I don’t know if I can click more than one . . . Oh, I can! Perfect. Date of birth?”

  He asked a few more questions and hummed as he inputted my info. I gripped the phone, wondering if I’d lost my mind.

  “The Dallas bus leaves tomorrow at ten a.m.,” Victor said. “If you miss it, you can find your own way to Atlanta, but we can’t help.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Sorry, it’s after midnight, isn’t it? I mean today. Saturday.” Keys clicked on a keyboard. “So what do you think, Clara? Should I sign you up?”

  I looked at the house. It was dark except for the small barred window of Laurence’s bedroom. It wasn’t a bad house. There were worse ones in the neighborhood.

  Mom always liked to point out how things could be worse. We could be homeless, or run out of food at the end of every month, or we could have been born in the UK or Europe, where scrabs attacked constantly. We might get slapped around occasionally, but there was always someone who had it worse.

  But this felt like the worst. The things that my mom had decided to accept were as bad as it could get for me. This house with the man who was allowed to terrorize us, over and over, was the worst thing I could imagine.

  Victor had remained quiet, even though it had been at least thirty seconds since he’d asked his question.

  “It can’t be worse than this, right?” I whispered.

  I thought he’d laugh, or make a joke about how fighting scrabs was no picnic. Instead, he let out a breath of air that sounded like agreement. “Yeah,” he said. “I know what you mean.”

  5

  After a few hours’ sleep, I stuffed my backpack with clothes, underwear, and my sneakers. The confirmation email Victor sent me said to pack lunch and snacks, but when I checked the kitchen late last night, the only snacks I found were some very brown bananas. Mom didn’t keep the pantry well stocked when Dad was away.

  I could live without food for a day, but I really wanted my phone. Dad would cut off the service as soon as I disappeared, but I could still use it with Wi-Fi. I slipped out of my room and walked to Mom, putting on my best pitiful face.

  She smiled at me. “Morning, mija.”

  “Good morning.” I sat down next to her. “Do you think I could have my phone back, just for a few minutes? I want to text my friends and let them know why I’m not responding to them. They’re probably worried.”

  She patted my leg and smiled. Mom didn’t know I had no friends. “Your father is still asleep, so I don’t see why not. I’ll go grab it. Just be quick, OK?”

  “Sure. Thanks.” Mom never seemed to care about whatever rule or punishment Dad had doled out. She was perfectly happy to be on my side, as long as Dad never found out.

  She disappeared into their bedroom. The television was on, the news playing at a very low volume.

  “And St. John issued a statement saying he would abide by all UN rules regarding scrabs,” the anchor said. “It is currently illegal to transport any part of a scrab, including blood samples, and any scrab kills must be immediately reported to local authorities so that the body can be disposed of properly. St. John says he will ensure that all recruits abide by these rules.

  “But the Monster Defense Group continues to criticize St. John for his plan to take inexperienced Americans overseas. The private security firm pointed to their own training program, which is rigorous and highly competitive, and they claim that St. John will simply cause chaos and get people killed.”

  “They’re not wrong,” the blond woman next to him said. “MDG is a fairly new company, but they gained several new high-profile clients recently after providing protection to Taylor Swift while she was on tour in Europe, and a lot of people have been impressed by their methods and training. If St. John is so determined to help, he should have just applied to join MDG.”

  “St. John has actually been highly critical of MDG,” the anchor said. “He pointed out that MDG’s protection services are extremely costly, and that MDG doesn’t fight scrabs unless it’s to protect a client. This seems to be St. John’s main goal—he’s mentioned several times that he disagrees with the decision to pull all US troops out of scrab-infested countries.”

  “Well, he’s in the minority there,” the blond woman said.

  “You think so?”

  “Yes! The president campaigned on a promise to put American interests first, close our borders, and let our troops focus on keeping the US free of scrabs. Our military is already stretched incredibly thin, and we can’t spend resources in countries that, frankly, haven’t done enough to combat the scrab problem themselves.”

  Mom returned with my phone and plunked it into my hand. I jumped to my feet, gave her a quick smile, and darted back to my room. I’d hoped to get Laurence to drive me to the bus station, but he was still asleep, and I needed to get out of the house before Dad woke up. I had just enough quarters for the bus tucked into my backpack anyway.

  I slipped my phone into my pocket, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and took one last glance at my room. My purple comforter had been picked out by Mom, my desk was Dad’s old one, every poster on my wall was put up knowing that Dad would see them. The room had never really been mine.

  I put my hand on the doorknob.

  “Good morning, baby.”

  I froze. Dad’s voice was close, from the hallway. He’d just walked out of the bedroom.

  Mom murmured a reply. They both laughed.

  I turned, pressing my back to the door. I’d have to make a run for it. Dad wouldn’t be able to catch me if I made it out of the house. Running was one of the few things I was good at.

  I gripped the straps of my backpack. Deep breaths. I could do this.

  I opened my door and stepped into the hallway. Mom stood in the kitchen. Dad was sitting on the sofa. I’d have to pass right in front of Dad to get out. He hadn’t noticed me yet, and I walked as quietly as possible, hoping he wouldn’t see me until the last possible second.

  My phone dinged in my pocket. Shit. I should have silenced it.

  Dad’s gaze shifted to me.

  Danger.

  “Why do you have your phone?” he asked. He stood, doing a quick survey of m
e. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  In the kitchen, Mom was silent. She would never own up to it. I didn’t want her to.

  I just stared at Dad. There was no explanation, lie or truth, that would make this better. Nothing ever made it better. I was done trying.

  I darted around Dad, dodged the edge of the couch, leapt over the coffee table, swerved—

  And a hand grabbed me. Dad grabbed my arm so hard I was lucky he didn’t pull it out of its socket. I yelped and tried to twist away. He held tighter, using his other hand to dig into my pocket.

  “What is so important that you need . . .” He trailed off as he turned my phone to peer at the screen. His face went red.

  “You signed up to fight scrabs?” Dad yelled.

  “What?” Mom gasped. “No, Clara wouldn’t do that.”

  “It’s right here, you moron,” Dad said, throwing the phone at Mom. “They’re texting her confirming she’s headed to Atlanta today.”

  “What do you care?” I said evenly.

  Dad actually had the nerve to look insulted. Like I was supposed to believe that whatever it was that he felt for me was love.

  Then he was pissed.

  He slammed me against the wall—not hard enough to leave a dent this time, which was good, since we were down one painting.

  “Are you stupid?” Dad spat out the last word.

  “Clara, that is far too dangerous.” Mom pressed a hand to her heart. I didn’t even try to suppress an eye roll. She had the decency to look ashamed. We both knew it wasn’t any safer here.

  “Do you want to die? You will DIE.” Dad’s rage was barely contained in his body. He was shaking with it. Mom started to cry.

  I hadn’t realized that Mom and Dad were so concerned with my well-being. I was skeptical, to be honest. I wasn’t sure what it was that had them so upset, but it seemed unlikely that this display was all about my safety.

  “You are not going,” Dad said through clenched teeth.

  I tugged harder against his grasp, but he was too strong. He was holding my arm so tightly that it was hard not to cry out. It would leave a bruise.

  He dragged me in the direction of my bedroom. I eyed Laurence’s door. He slept like the dead.