“Are you high?” Derrick asked, cocking his head to look into Leg’s eyes.
“Lettering in prom, man!” If possible, Leg was even more excited now. “Like, if you go to prom all four years, they give you this sweet-ass engraved martini glass and it’s a really big deal.”
Derrick turned to God who, almost regretfully, confirmed.
“Big deal might be an overstatement.”
Leg slapped at his arm playfully and said, “Don’t you dare denigrate prom.”
“So, this is a real thing?” Claire asked. “Isn’t prom, like, months away?”
“Hell yeah, it’s real, and we’re at threat level red, yellow, midnight—whatever’s the worst.”
“He can’t find a date,” God said, answering Claire. “And I told him he should just go by himself. You’re still going to prom, even if you’re alone. And bro, nobody starts looking for a date in February.”
This time God punched Leg, who ignored it and reached down to pick up Claire’s toast. He took a bite and said, “Against the spirit of the award, bro. We’re seniors! And besides, if I don’t act soon, all the good dates will be gone.”
“By good he means, any girl that would go with him,” God once again clarified.
“Whatever,” Leg said, finishing off the toast, “I’m not getting this close only to go down like a chump.”
Derrick, clearly amused, realized that God and Leg had essentially just appeared in their living room, because he kind of shook his head and gave each of them a look.
“So, I’m confused. Are you here to ask one of us to prom?”
Leg didn’t hesitate. “Would you go?”
“Sorry, bud.”
“Just take your cousin like last year,” God said. “Anyway, are you ready?”
Claire was too befuddled by the conversation to realize that God was talking to her. And that’s when Derrick got interested, too.
“Ready? For what? What’s happening here?”
“We’re going to the Lair,” Claire explained, unsure how Derrick would react.
And it took him a few seconds. He gave God and Leg a deeper look, as if he were trying to discover any ulterior motives. Whether they might actually be high. Whether “lettering in prom” was some kind of euphemism. But eventually, he relaxed and he smiled.
He gave Claire one more quick glance before he said, “Just be home before midnight.”
The Lair was busier than she’d ever seen it, which made sense. She and Derrick intentionally went during off times, when the lines would be open and the chances of her accidentally colliding with another skater were at their absolute lowest.
Now she could barely make it through the door to the main room, let alone find a comfortable place to drop in and ride.
“Is Dark here?” she asked as God was tying his shoes. When he was finished, he checked his phone and then said, “Up on the couches.”
Claire looked and saw Dark sitting next to another kid but obviously wishing he was alone. He was head down, furiously scribbling in his notebook.
“I might go up and talk to him,” Claire said, taking another wary look around the packed room.
“Don’t get entranced by his innate charms!” Leg said, cackling as he and God rode off into the crowd.
It took Claire nearly five minutes to make it down the narrow hallway that was barely big enough for a couple of wiry skaters, let alone the thirty who were trying to push in different directions.
She finally made it up to the couches just as the boy who’d been sitting there was carrying his board to the lip of the ramp. With a loud whoop, he dropped in and began zipping around the park. Dark barely looked up when the boy yelled out, so he didn’t notice Claire at first. When he did, he closed his notebook quickly and nodded at her.
“Hey,” he said. “They said you were coming.”
“I’m supposed to apologize,” Claire said, sitting down next to him.
Dark smiled awkwardly and all he said was, “No.”
And then he sat there, quietly watching the rest of the room. Claire wasn’t sure he would speak again until he said, “So what did I miss?”
“What?”
“At school. Did anything happen. Besides, you know, the entire place being overrun by fascist police officers looking to wield what little power they have against children.”
“Oh, wow.”
“Sorry,” Dark said, suddenly embarrassed by the outburst. “But I mean . . .”
Dark looked as if he wanted her to agree—to give him permission to continue. But Claire wasn’t sure how to respond so she said, “Do you have Dr. Palmer? She gave everybody a different book to read. Plus, a project.”
“I had her last year. Have you seen her YouTube channel?” Dark fumbled with his phone, trying to pull it up. But the Lair was like a concrete box—no service. “Anyway. It’s about, like, weapons. Old weapons, so not the good kind. Anyway, what did she assign you?”
A momentary panic washed over Claire. Not the good kind was the sort of comment that she might not have paid any mind before. The boys at Ford High School—hell, half the girls—were gun obsessed. And maybe it wasn’t obsession, but something different. Hunting, clay shooting, target practice—guns were sewn into the fabric of the school, the town, the entire culture.
But not the good kind would never just pass by her now.
“You okay?” Dark said, looking like he was worried she might stroke out again in front of him. She shook her head, clearing her mind, and then nodded.
“Sorry. Frankenstein. That’s my book,” Claire said. Before she could say anything else, Dark cut her off.
“You know Frankenstein is the scientist and not the monster.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Uh, yeah. I’m not an idiot. Jesus.”
Dark dropped his notebook and then his phone when he tried to pick it up. When he had them both in his hands, his mouth was obviously trying to form an apology, but he was so flustered he just sat there looking like a grounded fish sucking for air.
Claire swallowed her irritation.
“I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I know that book. Better than most people,” she said. “And I haven’t really, you know, talked to people in . . . well, in a long time.”
“So, what’s my excuse?” Dark asked.
He smiled and then became embarrassed again, turning down to his notebook, which he opened and began flipping through the pages. When he found the page he wanted, he paused, looked up at Claire, and then cautiously passed her the notebook.
The page was filled with thick, black lines that swirled together, crossing over one another in an almost manic collection. Upon first glance, Claire wasn’t sure it was anything more than a poor attempt at abstract art. But when her eyes began to focus, when she could really make out the specific choices—a scar above what looked like an eye, a gruesome mouth—she could see that it was a drawing, a furious drawing, of a face staring off the page.
“It’s the Monster,” Dark said.
Claire was in bed, staring at the wall above her head, the overly ornate woodwork that lined the edges of her ceiling, when she finally found the words she’d tried to say to Dark.