Chapter 1
Jude
Looks like my new stepmother is still trying to prove she’s more than just a pair of fake tits. The scrape of cutlery against crockery is the only sound in Dearth Manor’s dining hall as the Dearths work their way through the expansive dinner she prepared: roast chicken, baked potatoes, green salad, and a garlic loaf on the side.
“So, how was your first day at school?” Diana sets down her fork, chewing as she studies my little sister. Rosie’s head stays bowed, but her movements become a little more erratic when she becomes aware of Diana’s sudden interest in her.
“Rosie? Are you listening, munchkin? I asked about your day?”
Rosie’s brown eyes fly to mine in absolute panic. She ignores Diana and makes a grab for a roast potato on her plate. Diana snatches her wrist. “Use your fork.”
Rosie tries to pull her hand away, but my little sister’s never been a fighter like me. When one small tug doesn’t make Diana let go, Rosie’s chin drops to her chest in defeat.
“Why can’t you just let her eat?” I ask before tossing down a mouthful of chardonnay. It’s still almost three years before I’m legally allowed to drink, but Father reckons if we’re going to do it anyway, we might as well do it as a family. So my stepsister and I get a glass of watered-down wine at dinner and sometimes an extra beer on the weekends. I’m not a big drinker, but I like the crisp taste of white wine, so I’ll have a glass most nights.
Harper must think she died and went to heaven. She was living in a trailer park before my father decided the Dearths had a mother-shaped void in our lives he desperately needed to fill with the Barbie Doll lookalike, Diana Sloane. Apparently, I needed another sibling too, and Diana was only too gracious to add her eighteen-year-old daughter, Harper, to the family.
“What time does the bus leave tomorrow, Mr. Dearth?” Harper asks my dad. “I want to make sure I’m ready on time.”
“The bus?” Dad’s voice drips with disgust. “Didn’t Jude tell you he’s taking you to school?”
“Don’t see why she can’t take the bus,” I mutter.
“The Dearths don’t take buses.”
“Rosie does.”
“That’s different,” he says. The slight pause makes me think he wanted to say “she’s” instead.
“Because it’s a special needs bus? How is that different?”
“Jude, don’t speak to your father like that,” Diana says in her nasal whine. I nearly give her a piece of my mind, but then Dad says, “We already discussed this, Jude.”
The tone of his voice implies many things. Among them that there’s a belt with my name on it if I keep pushing him in front of his new followers.
Ha, the cult of Dearth. How he loves his beloved worshipers.
We didn’t discuss anything. He told me that Harper was under my care, and if anything happened to her, I’d be held responsible. I was fine with that kind of shit when he was talking about Rosie—I’d do anything to protect my little sister—but Harper’s a grown-ass woman. Why the fuck is he acting like I need to hold her hand when she crosses the street?
“Thank you, Jude.” Harper looks over at me and gives me a frosty little smile as she takes a sip of her merlot, pretending she’s all sophisticated and shit.
That’s Harper’s thing.
It’s a pity. She’d be a catch if she wasn’t such a pretentious cow. Where I inherited my father’s tall, broad-shouldered build and dark hair, she takes after her mother with her petite frame. When mother and daughter are in the same room, it becomes obvious that Diana isn’t a natural blond. Harper’s blue eyes pop against her dark hair, but Diana’s baby blues look watery paired with her platinum locks. That’s not the only thing Diana’s faking. Diana’s D cups were definitely made in China.
Dad doesn’t realize he married a fake, just like Harper doesn’t realize the family living in this McMansion is far from perfect.
I ignore Harper and try to change the subject onto something that doesn’t involve my new stepfamily. “Still coming to the game tomorrow night, right?” I grab a cherry tomato and pop it in my mouth as I wait for Dad to answer.
Friday night games are Cinderhart High’s specialty. All this town produces is coal and football jocks. I wonder if it’s genetics, or if we were specifically bred so we could handle all the manual labor they had kids doing back in the day.
“That’s tomorrow night?” Dad lets out a weary sigh. “I’m sorry, son, I’ve already made plans with your mother.”
“So dinner at the cemetery then?” I quip.
There’s a collection of indrawn breaths from everyone around the table except Rosie. My little sister is oblivious to all these dinner-time undercurrents I have to deal with. Then again, she never knew her real mother—Bonnie was gone before Rosie’s first birthday.
“Whatever,” I say. “It’s not like it’s playoffs or anything.”
“Good. I’d have felt bad if I had to miss an important game.”
My jaw clenches, but I force my attention back to my plate so I don’t glare at Dad. He used to come to every single Friday night game. And I never got the feeling he did it because it was expected of him, although which father wouldn’t want to watch his son the quarterback thrashing the other team? Back then, Dad even made a point to bring Rosie, although I know he hates trying to take her out because he never knows what to do when she has a meltdown in public.
That’s why she takes a bus. Dad doesn’t have the patience to sit through a tantrum en route to her special needs school on the other side of town. Not that Cinderhart is all that fucking big to begin with. He’s just that unqualified.
Conversation moves away from football—not that it ever really sticks on it these days—and I pick at my food for a bit before I become aware of eyes on me. When I look up, Rosie is watching me intently. She takes after my real mom. Bonnie had fair hair, brown eyes, and the most infectious smile I’d ever seen. Rosie’s eyes are wide as saucers, staring like she’s pleading for help. She does this a lot these days.
I wish I could figure out why.
We all took it hard when Rosie was diagnosed with intellectual disability and hypertonia. As a baby, that shit isn’t as readily apparent as it is with a toddler. Rosie just took longer than most kids her age to sit up, crawl, walk. Speaking, especially, she found hard to do. The doctors say she’ll reach a plateau one day, her own mental peak—and that day isn’t far off. I can’t imagine being trapped in the mind of a ten-year-old the rest of my life but, luckily, Rosie wouldn’t know any better.
I smile at her and then move my gaze to her plate. She widens her eyes at me and shakes her head.
No.
I look up, staring at my father then at Diana before meeting Rosie’s eyes again.
No one’s looking.
Rosie takes turns looking at everyone around the table, and then back at me. She bites her lip, ducks her head, and pops a potato into her mouth.
No one notices.
No one cares.
Dad says something almost witty, making Harper and Diana fake-laugh. I pull a face at Rosie, scrunching up my mouth and nose like I’m going to puke. My little sister bursts out laughing, spraying half-chewed potato all over the roast chicken before she can clap her hands over her mouth. In the sudden silence that follows, her shoulders collapse like she’s deflating from the inside.