“But also a safety issue. Hey, speaking of Whit, I wanted to tell you he texted. I accidentally grabbed your phone, thinking it was mine, and saw his text. Something about someone named Lucy? I didn’t read it--I just saw the words “goddess devilspawn”. They kinda jump off the screen, you know?”
“Yea, they kinda do. I’ll check in with him later.” My words are calm, but my heart is racing. Because if Phoebe had picked up my phone when a text from my mom came in? My world would have imploded. My first thought is that I need to be more careful, but no, I don’t think that’s it.
I can’t keep up this pace. Something’s gotta give. And it’s not going to be me or my relationship with Phoebe.
Chapter 17
Phoebe
We’ve been back from fall break for a week and I’m ready for another vacation. Midterms are right around the corner, fall is in full swing, and life is teetering on the brink of overwhelming.
What is it about professors that makes them assign a crapton of work all at the same time? Like, shouldn’t they be coordinating this a little better?
My art history midterm also has a presentation that goes along with it. I need to give detailed project updates for my ceramics class. There’s a test and a lab for bio, and don’t get me started on my Jane Austen class. We have two--two!--in-class essays, as well as a proposal for our final paper.
I feel like I’m drowning in work. Add in all the things I want to make and do for the kids at the childcare, and I’m exhausted--both mentally and physically. I can feel a crash coming on. When this happens, I try to make a little room for it. At my old job, I could switch shifts with someone, or plan to miss a class. But here? Going to college full-time and working as the after-school coordinator? Yea, that’s easier said than done.
Maybe I’ll make it through midterms unscathed. I’ve been falling asleep at Ty’s for hours at a time, so that’s a good sign. Or maybe I should give in and take meds for a few days, get some good rest. But ugh. Then I’m like a zombie.
I’m in the studio finishing up the details on a pitcher I’m making. I set it to air dry on the rack. I’ll come back tomorrow morning, wet it a little, and let it keep air drying slowly and gently. I wash up and head over to Drip for a break before I’m due to meet Ty at the writing lab.
Strangely, neither Ian nor Mel is working today, but the new girl is there, training. I figure I should introduce myself, since I’ve heard Ian gush about her. Apparently, she’s his favorite employee and she’s only been there for three days. Mel likes her, too. I step up to the counter and smile. “Hey, can I please get a small iced caramel macchiato? And a sesame bagel with plain cream cheese?”
“You’re Phoebe?” she asks.
“Yes, and you’re…”
“Willa,” she says, smiling. “Ian said you’d be stopping by sometime today.”
“Yea, this is my usual time. I grab a quick bite and go to tutoring at the writing center. My lit class may just be the death of me.”
“Yea, Ian said something about that, too. Well, here’s your drink. And good luck. I’m no help, though...I’ve only ever watched Jane Austen movies.” She shrugs.
“That’s what I said until I started this class. Anyway, thanks,” I call as I pick up my food and grab my drink. It’s chilly outside, so I grab a table indoors and scroll through my phone as I eat my bagel. I’m halfway through a video about dying fabric with natural sources like plants--I’ve always wanted to try that--when I get a text.
Sam:Call your mom.
Sam:Everything’s ok. Just call.
Sam:Well, everything’s not ok. The Bastards strike again. But your mom’s ok.
This can’t be good. I mean, my mom has been on an upswing lately. Her meds are working, and since she’s been honest about her relationship with Sam, things are getting better. She seems calmer, less afraid in general. But any mention of The Bastards is not a good thing.
That’s the code name we have for Brett Givens and his parents. My brother’s death was a tragedy. An accident. And certainly, I know Dylan took those first few drinks. He was a fraternity pledge who thought he knew what he was getting into. He figured he’d get shitfaced with a bunch of other guys, pull some stupid pranks, and then get a sweatshirt and twenty guys who called him their brother.
But that’s not what happened.
He entered that frat house thinking he’d wake up the next morning with the mother of all hangovers.
Only, he never woke up.
And he didn’t just down a few drinks. There were stations he had to visit, each getting the pledges drunker than the previous one. And the pledge master, Brett, organized all of it, including adding extra shots to the concoctions they were handing out. So, just when a guy thought he’d had six, he’d really had nine or ten.
But that’s not the worst of it, not at all. They plied my brother and his pledge class with copious amounts of alcohol and had them run an obstacle course through the house. Standard stuff, right? Stupid, but standard. But when Dylan fell down the stairs while trying to jump through fucking pylons while wasted, they left him there. Left. Him. There. He lay at the bottom of the stairs for hours. A couple of the guys tried to call for help, but Brett wouldn’t have it--said the frat could get in trouble. And then, the next morning, when he was convulsing on the floor, Brett instructed a couple guys to take him out of the house and put him in his car, so it would look like he was never even at the party. He figured campus security would find him slumped over the steering wheel of his own car and never think the frat had anything to do with it.
Brett orchestrated erasing all the camera footage.
Brett ordered all the brothers to delete their texts.
