Chapter 2 : Fireworks

Ash's POV In retrospect, maybe it was a little stupid for an asthmatic to do a 5K marathon, but the weather was clear and it was warm enough that when I doubled over panting, no fog frosted out in front of me. There were too many people out on the damn fairgrounds, but that was to be expected given that the festival was in full works today and on its last leg before it closed tomorrow. Every man, woman, and child from Lonton was in attendance for last-minute merriment, out laughing and walking between rows of food stalls and games. To the left of the grounds was the parking lot where people would camp out to watch the fireworks. Just getting to twilight, and already half the cars were filled. In the flatbeds of some trucks, I saw scores of my peers. Reminding me of how alone I was. I hacked up some phlegm, clearing my lungs with a heady arc of spit, and fished my inhaler from my pockets. The smell of slippery elm filled my nose with the sweet scent of butterscotch and my shoulders sagged as my lungs stopped feeling like they were going to pop in my chest. I leaned against a closed stall, breathing deeply and even. And then I spotted her. Suzy Sykes, the most popular girl in school, and, consequently, a girl whom I'd had a crush on since the first grade when she passed me a tissue for my nosebleeds. And she didn't have her scum fuck of a boyfriend David Hurt anywhere near her. Goddess above, Suzy could have struck down Aphrodite dumb, deaf, and blind with her looks! Her hair was a vision of fire frozen in cascading liberty curls that bounced across her gray jacket gaily as she walked. She'd paled in the winter—a powdery peach that only made her freckles stand out more, and a dusting of brown sugar across her nose that edged wonderfully across her arched brows and strayed near her pomegranate lips. She wasn't built like an Omega woman; she was the petite gracefulness of a Beta in her prime, with neat dainty breasts and long graceful legs. Suzy laughed, a large white shopping bag clutched between her hands, surrounded by the other cheerleaders of Scared Heart High. In the bronzed sunset, she looked like an angel descended upon us mere mortals of Dustland. A nickname as well as a bemoaned judgment cast onto us by tourists who'd rather drive through than stay, on their way to bigger and better desert towns. Places that a woman like Suzy should have lived. Wasted on us, though I wasn't going to complain in the least. And for a moment, our eyes met, and I felt the urge to use my pump again. Breathless. I waved, as stupid as the grin that was splitting my face in two, and she wiggled her fingers back, as friendly as always. And then, to my absolute panic, she was coming over. "Fuckity fuck," I said under my breath as I steeled myself against the judgmental looks of her friends as the distance between Suzy and I shortened. "Oh, he-hey." "Hi," her voice was sweet like a bite of a Honeycrisp apple, and I knew I was a blotchy mess between my run and her presence. "I didn't think you came to these kinds of things?" I didn't, but Suzy didn't need to know that. "Oh yeah, I—uh—am a real—um—regular cone-connoisseur of residential carnivals." Oh real smooth, jackass. You are really showing her that eloquent honors student charm! I fumbled with my hands before I settled on crossing my arms, trying to jut my chin out in an air of confidence I knew I was sorely lacking. Her friends erupted in a fit of cruelly girlish giggles, and I tried not to deflate like an oversized balloon. Suzy shot them a frosty look before she rounded back on me, coming even closer. I stared at her slack jaw as she came close enough that I could count each individual eyelash. It was entirely too close. My heart gave a painful twist, and I shut my eyes to block Suzy out. If this was all part of some elaborate prank I didn't want to be privy to it. Let me pretend a moment longer that the feeling was very much mutual. Something heavy draped around my neck. My eyes opened on instinct, and I was greeted with about two tons of multicolored yarn trying to strangle me in its soft plaid grip. I looked up at Suzy, bewildered, and she flushed a pink so fetching I thought I'd die on the spot. "You looked cold." She was looking away, tugging at a button on the wrist of her jacket with gloved fingers. A bag from presumably the scarf came from at her booted feet. "And David's already told me he hates it." Ah, pity and practicality. My two favorite Ps. "I like it." It was still a thoughtful gesture even if it wasn't a declaration of love like I stupidly imagined. I nuzzled into the scarf as I tucked it down my coat front. I was a lot warmer, but I'm not sure it was all of the scarf's doing. "Thanks, Suzy." "Any time, Ash," she chirped, and that seemed genuine. "Hey, would you like to—" "Suzy, we got to go!" One of her friends—I think her name was Becca—tugged on Suzy's arm, leaning back with the type of trust good friends have. Or, strong ones at least. "Hurry up! We wanna get a good seat before everyone takes them all!" "All right, okay, we're going!" Suzy rolled her eyes, more good-natured than actually irritated, and my heart melted further. She ducked down to whisper in my ear, "I'll see you later?" "Of course," I dreamily said and watched as they scuttled down the mountain, chatting to themselves as I lost them in the crowd. Only to notice that she left her damn bag with me. "Fuck," I scooped up the bag, heavy with knickknacks and apparel. I looked this way and that, but I caught no sign of her fiery mane anywhere. "Shit!" Well, she couldn't have gotten away that fast. I flipped up my collar and braced myself, pushing into the swell of Dustland's finest. *** She was nowhere to be found—it was as if Suzy and her gang hadn't existed at all. "Son of a bitch," I hissed, shopping bag smacking into my knobby knees as night descended and I could smell gunpowder in the air. "Fucking shit!" "Language, young man!" "Sorry, Mrs. Stevens." The old crone glared at me with coke bottles thicker than my own glasses; her grandkids scattered around her blanket like a game of fifty-two pickups. "Just trying to find Suzy Sykes is all." "What business do you have with the preacher's girl?" Mrs. Stevens eyed me like I'd just stripped naked and proclaimed myself president of the world. "You're a bad influence." "How so?" I snapped because I knew what she meant. Casteless. I could not shift like the other wolves around me. Painfully human with no designation. A certified Freakshow with a capital F! Oh, but she'd never say it aloud where polite society might hear her. "You just are! All you're kind are! You were born that way! Sign of the Devil, Satan's child." Mrs. Steven's son bristled, catching a grandkid swaddled in so many layers their arms stuck out. "Besides, it'll do you no good to mess with that sweet girl, heathen. She's with Sheriff's son, so you just leave her be." "David," the name coated my mouth like oil—thick and disgusting "Where?" "Why? What business is it of yours!" "What's it of yours!" I shot back, voice low. I didn't want a crowd, and Dustland was boring enough that even this little spat would be newsworthy to the whole town. 'Local Freak In A Verbal Sparring Match With The Elderly: Youthful Rebellion or Growing Danger?' The headline practically wrote itself. "For Goddesses' sake, Marty!" Mr. Stevens poked his little bald head out of the little cab of their black Dodge Pickup. "Stop heckling the kid and tell him where they're at. People will talk!" Well, that got her going. "They're by Sugar Stump." And my heart sank to my ankles. Sugar Stump was what remained of one of the oldest Joshua trees in the United States, and was the only claim to fame Lonton had before everything dried up into Dustland. Now, the stump was a popular make-out point that most adults warned you of but didn't exactly stop. Neutral ground, and apparently neutral enough for even a preacher's daughter. Talking indeed. "Thanks," I said to Mr. Stevens and he waved me away to turn up the radio, listening to the start of New Year's Rocketeers. It didn't take long to cross the expanse of the makeshift parking lot to Sugar Stump. For a place that was held in such reverence, it was surprisingly mundane. Nothing around but the stump and a spattering of some lesser trees. I had to squint, human eyes at a disadvantage in the near black of night, relying on the silver of the crescent moon to guide my way as I tripped in the dark. There! A cherry red brand spanking new Lincoln Cosmopolitan was parked with the roof down, and I could see the bulk of David Hurt's shoulder over the edge, letterman jacket still on. The sound of wet kissing filled the air, louder than I thought was normal. Deeper too. I turned red, feet shuffling dumbly as I tried to figure out what to do. Well, I couldn't exactly just go over and interrupt. Number one, I didn't want to see Suzy that way. Two, if I didn't want to see Suzy that way, I really didn't want to see David that way. And three, if I survived seeing them that way, David would make sure I didn't afterward. I wasn't well-liked by any means, but David—Oh, David Hurt downright hated me. Had since Suzy had given me that tissue and he'd waddled over, already a head bigger than the other kids at age seven, and punched me square in the jaw. The rest, as they said, was history. So, pardon me, if crush or no crush, I wasn't too keen on getting my lights clocked out over a little bag of bullshit. I dropped the bag as quietly as I could, nervous that either one of them might hear me; thankful that the Goddess had taken pity on me and shifted the wind to knock my scent away from the pair. I was all set to leave when David lifted Suzy with a broken-off moan. And— Holy Shit! That was not Suzy Sykes! "Damn, you're fucking eager tonight," came a smoky drawl I knew came with a crooked smile. An olive-toned hand pushed back jet-black locks from a sweaty forehead, as the sound of belt buckles chorused in the air with the sound of my own heart. "Lose a bet or something?" "Quite," David groused, and I heard the slap of a calloused hand on a bare ass. "Aye, aye, Captain," and the laughter could be heard clearly in every syllable. "You're in char—FUCK!" "Knew that would shut you up. Now hold on. I'm about to give you the ride of your fucking life." Kenny fucking O'Rourke. That was Kenny fucking O'Rourke, resident black sheep and rebel of Sacred Heart High getting dicked deep by his supposed worst enemy and loving it. If the—ah—moans were anything to go by. "Goddess above." I backed up, back hitting a nearby tree trunk, eyes stuck on the impossibility before me. "Preserve me." And then, like a fool—like an absolute goddamn fool—my heel snagged on a stray branch and cracked it. Kenny's eye found mine with no problem, an electric hum to his normal stormy blues. Shit!