“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.
I screamed. I tried to avoid hysterics with Dad—it was just used against me—but I needed whatever distraction Laurence could provide. Him simply emerging from his room might be enough for me to bolt.
Dad used his grip on my arm to hurl me into my room. I stumbled and hit the ground on my knees. The door slammed shut behind me.
“I’m protecting you!” he yelled. “That idiot will get you killed!”
I dove for the handle, but Dad must have been holding it shut.
“Veronica, get me that rope from the back.”
I froze. He was locking me in. I could handle Dad pounding the shit out of me before I made my escape, but if he made me miss my bus, it was all over.
I sank back on my heels, an unexpected blast of terror shooting down my spine. I’d been so scared to go, but now, faced with the possibility that I couldn’t go, I wanted to scream again. Tears pricked my eyes.
“What the hell is going on?” Laurence’s voice was right outside my door. My head shot up, and I wiped at the tears that had spilled down my cheeks. “Did you lock her in?”
“Don’t touch that,” Dad said. “I said don’t touch that!”
“Get off me!” Laurence yelled, followed by a grunt.
I tried the doorknob again. It twisted this time, but the door caught on something when I tried to push it open. Dad had tied it shut.
“Get off of—Veronica, are you going to help me here?” Dad yelled.
I heard more grunts, followed by another yell from Dad. He was bigger than Laurence, but my brother was apparently putting up quite a fight.
“You want your sister to go get herself killed?” Mom screamed.
More grunts.
I stared at the door. It wasn’t anything special—just a standard, white plywood door you’d find in any home. It wasn’t all that sturdy.
Why was I just sitting here? What if Dad knocked Laurence out? It wouldn’t be the first time.
I looked around the room. Shockingly, I didn’t keep anything in my room that would help break down a door. That was bad planning on my part.
I looked down at my boots. Those would have to do.
I scooted closer to the door. I lifted my feet up. I slammed them against the wood.
Pain rippled up my legs. I ignored it and slammed my shoes against the wood again.
“What is that?” Dad yelled.
Footsteps ran down the hallway. “Clara?” It was Mom.
I kicked the door again. The wood splintered. A victorious thrill raced down my spine.
“Clara, stop!” Mom screamed.
I kicked the door harder. I kicked it until a piece of wood began to split off, then I grabbed it and pulled it away. I bashed my boots against it a few more times. Another piece. The hole was finally big enough to crawl through.
I grabbed my backpack and threw it out first. Then I crawled through, hands first, then shoulders, then hips (barely), legs, and I was out.
I jumped to my feet and scooped up my backpack. Mom stood pressed against the wall, horror and astonishment on her face.
I turned to the living room. Laurence had Dad pinned face-down to the ground. Blood poured from Laurence’s nose, and he was breathing heavily, but his face broke into a smile when our eyes met.
“Run, Clara.”
I darted out of the hallway and across the living room. I flung the door open and dared a glance back at Laurence. Dad was struggling with all his might, wriggling and squirming on the ground.
I slammed the door shut behind me. My feet hit the pavement, my backpack bouncing as I ran. Dad’s screams faded behind me.
Part Two
Team Loser
6
I ran all the way to the bus stop, and then spent the entire ride peering out the window, heart pounding as I searched for Dad’s car. It never appeared. Tears pricked my eyes. I wasn’t sure if it was relief or fear.
I’d done it. I was seriously volunteering to fight scrabs. I took in a ragged breath.
I spotted the Grayson St. John bus as soon as we pulled into the station. A white sign taped to the back said RECRUITS, and a few people were in line to board.
My bus let me off at the end of the parking lot, and I gripped the straps of my backpack as I walked across it. A couple nearby was saying goodbye, the guy with a bag slung over his shoulder, the girl sobbing. He said something that didn’t seem to comfort her in the least.
Everyone had boarded the bus except for a balding man holding a clipboard. Another bus screeched to a stop behind me.
“Atlanta for tryouts?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Name?”
“Clara Pratt.”
He scanned his sheet and crossed something off. “You’re a minor? I need your consent form.”
I dug the forged consent form out of my bag and handed it over. He barely glanced at it before slipping it in a folder. I bit back a smile.
“You by yourself?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Perfect. I have one more spot on this bus. Hop on.”
I gripped the straps of my backpack and stepped onto the bus. A sea of faces stared at me.
Probably about 70 percent of the bus was male. And they were mostly big guys, with broad shoulders and muscles. A few had military-style haircuts. The women were all older than me, probably in their twenties and thirties, and some of them looked like they were also no strangers to the weight room.
People were talking and laughing, like they already knew each other. Were we supposed to enlist with friends? Or were they bonding in that way normal people did when they met someone with similar interests?
The only open seat was in the back, next to a girl about my age with pale skin and dyed black hair. She peered at me, didn’t appear to approve of what she saw, and turned back to the window.
I walked down the aisle and sat down, backpack in my lap. The girl wore leggings, an old white T-shirt, and, notably, handcuffs. They weren’t attached, a chain dangling from each wrist, like they’d been cut off.
It was jewelry. Probably.
She caught me staring and raised an eyebrow.
I quickly looked away.
* * *
“Hey.”
I turned at the whisper from across the aisle. We were five hours into the twelve-hour drive to Atlanta, and so far I’d spoken to no one.
It was the tall, ridiculously attractive Asian American boy seated in the row across from me. He had tousled black hair, long, lean limbs, and a smile like he’d never been so happy to see anyone as he was to see me. He should have been modeling skinny jeans, not joining an elite group of monster hunters.