“It’s in Oklahoma,” he finished.
Right. There was the Laurence I knew. Perpetually disappointing.
“You’re moving to Oklahoma?” Mom abandoned her mixing and gaped at my brother.
“It’s a good job,” he said apologetically. His gaze met mine, and he quickly looked away.
If I were being reasonable, I’d say I couldn’t blame Laurence for wanting to leave. He was twenty years old; he was supposed to move out on his own, not hang around to help support his mom and little sister. Objectively, he was allowed to have his own life.
In reality, I resented him. I wanted to ask him to stick it out for one more year, because surely—surely—I could figure out a way to escape when I was eighteen.
But I said nothing. I’d never been able to ask Laurence for anything. My brother and I barely spoke at all.
“When?” Mom asked.
“Next week,” Laurence said.
Mom nodded. “Call your father and tell him.” She paused. “And let me speak to him.”
My heart sank.
* * *
I retreated to my bedroom and didn’t listen to Laurence’s and Mom’s conversations with Dad. I didn’t need to. I’d heard it a dozen times. Mom always kicked Dad out, and she always asked him to come back.
This was my fault, anyway. It was my fault for thinking this time would be different just because Dad put my head through a wall. If he’d put only a tiny bit more muscle behind it, he could have killed me. Mom had lost it, screaming at him to get out with such ferocity I was surprised she didn’t damage her vocal cords. The world was still tilted as I listened to her throw his clothes out the window, and Dad was gone before I’d fully regained consciousness. But the horror of that incident had faded, like it always did. It was naïve to think otherwise.
And it was my fault for not being able to pass classes that, honestly, weren’t even that hard. My school was regularly ranked at the bottom of Dallas public high schools. Failing at my high school was a truly embarrassing feat.
My phone dinged again, and I finally pulled it out. The top news alert was in all caps. GRAYSON ST. JOHN POSTS RECRUITMENT VIDEO.
I clicked on it.
Grayson sat in front of a white background. He was a blond man in his early twenties, and handsome in a way that was almost unappealing. He was so good-looking that he’d circled right back around to ugly.
His blue eyes sparkled as he smiled at the camera. He was well lit. Grayson St. John was no stranger to the camera. I’d heard of the dude for the first time two days ago, and I’d already figured that one out.
“Hello, friends,” he said. “I’m Grayson St. John. You’ve probably heard of my father, the former CEO of St. John Technologies, Gregor St. John. Our company provides weapons to soldiers fighting scrabs in the US.
“I’ll get right to the point. I’m going to go kill some scrabs. My father died in Prague trying to fight these things, and I’m not going to let his death be in vain. He wanted Congress to act, to send any kind of help, but they’ve just voted—again—to stay out of the fight overseas. Parts of Europe and Asia are under constant siege, and I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of sitting here while people die. Our government has closed its borders, and our president has repeatedly said that America must come first. Well, I say screw that, and I know many of you agree with me.
“We’re forming fight squads. Training and weapons will be provided. You don’t need a military or police background, just a desire to help, though if you’re one of the young people who received combat training in school, we’d love to have you. We have cutting-edge technology that helps us track scrabs, and we’ll be partnering with local law enforcement or military wherever we are. Most fighting will be hand-to-hand, so please have some skill in that area.
“We’ll cover all your expenses, and you’ll get stipends that increase every week you spend with us. And because they said I have to set a minimum age, you have to be sixteen.
“We do value your safety, so we’re holding tryouts to make sure you’re equipped to fight. If you live in America, tryouts will only be held in Los Angeles and Atlanta, but we’ve chartered buses from several major cities to help you get there. Everyone else, there’s a list of cities around the world where our trainers will be holding tryouts. If you pass, you will be assigned to a team, and we’ll pay for your transportation to Europe or Asia.
“Call the number on our website, and we’ll get you sorted. We won’t be paying for any return airfare if you change your mind, so please be sure before you hop on that plane.”
He leaned closer to the camera. “More information at the link. Please contact us even if you don’t have a passport. We’re working it out. I hope you’ll join me, friends. We can be better than our government.”
The video ended, and I lowered my phone. I understood suddenly the kinds of people who were going to show up in Atlanta and Los Angeles—a few thrill seekers, sure, but mostly do-gooder types. Humanitarians and charity workers and the sort of people who went to foreign countries to build schools for orphans.
Not me, basically. People probably didn’t join just because they were flunking out of high school and they were scared of their father. Those sorts of people simply ran away from home. I saw them living on streets, popping into the church a few blocks over for a free meal and a shower. Some of them looked like they were doing fine. Some of them didn’t.
I knew my place. It was here, trying to make ends meet with my mom, or it was with the street kids, or it was in one of the group homes a few of my grade school friends were always cycling through. It wasn’t in Europe, fighting monsters because I had a burning urge to save people. The only person I wanted to save was myself.
Not to mention, just setting foot in Europe was a terrifying prospect, much less going there specifically to fight scrabs. You couldn’t even tell when they were approaching, because they dug elaborate tunnels underneath the ground for travel. They’d spring up in heavily populated areas, like they were hoping to inflict as much damage as possible. And they did.
Scientists were still unsure about their intelligence levels, but they were pretty sure that all scrabs had the same goal: destroy. Human, animal, plant, building—it didn’t matter to a scrab. If it was in their way, they demolished (or ate) it. It was like they were trying to clear the Earth of every obstacle until they were the only thing left.
And I didn’t want to spend every waking second worrying about the ground beneath my feet.
A knock sounded on my door, and Mom pushed it open. I knew what she was going to say before she opened her mouth. Her face was determined, but a little abashed.
“I spoke to your father,” she said.
My stomach dropped to my feet. “OK.”
“He’s really sorry.”
“OK.”
Mom pressed her lips together like she did when she was trying not to cry. “Clara, please don’t be like that.”
“Like what?”
“It’s been hard around here without your father. I can’t . . .” She gulped. “And now you’re flunking out of high school and Laurence is leaving. I can’t do this by myself.”