My fingers twitch. I’d take the drink, but my father enjoys being sneaky. It could all be a test—more ammunition to use against me.
“Take the drink, boy.” He sighs with a shake of his head and sips his drink. He swallows loudly, grating my already frayed nerves.
Steeling myself for the backlash, I snatch the offered drink and gulp two swallows before I sputter at the burn. I cough until my eyes water, and I set the cup back on the desk. My throat works with each swallow of the lingering nasty taste. I swipe my mouth with the back of my hand and consider licking my jacket sleeve to get the taste off my tongue.
“Honest reaction,” Dad mumbles. He sips his alcohol and places his cup down, then faces me and folds his hands. His thumbs steeple while he studies me for a moment. “Mickey Richards’ father wanted to hold you accountable. You don’t understand whom you laid your hands on.”
I don’t care who Mickey Richards is to society, nor do I care about his father. Their status means nothing to me.
“You’ll find out soon,” he says. “It’s time for you to understand your role in Exodus.”
I frown. Exodus?
Dad catches my confusion because he says, “You were born into the secret society called Exodus. Every ten years on October tenth, we have a celebration. Despite you being a Disciple, I need you to prove to me that you accept this role. In the meantime, I’ll teach you everything you need to know.”
“Like what?”
Dad sips his drink, swallowing loudly again, and my eye twitches. “How to kill,” he finally says after a long stretch of silence.
I grind my molars together. I don’t know if I’m screwed and have to be a part of this society or if I can opt out. Either way, if he wants to teach me to fight and kill, then I won’t pass that up.
“What’s the real reason you beat up that boy?” Dad asks.
I keep quiet, refusing to explain myself. My father has a knack for finding the truth with little effort. I don’t believe for one second he only talked to Principal Johnson when he was in his office. The cuts on Dad’s knuckles prove it.
“He’ll want payback. You know that, right?” Dad says, and swirls his amber drink. He doesn’t look away from it, which relieves me, since that means I don’t have his piercing stare on me. “I won’t keep fighting your battles.”
I never asked him to.
“You and your sister seem to be getting along.” Dad’s thumb swirls over the glass rim, and he looks me straight in the eye, searching for the secrets I keep from him. “Don’t let some girl make you lose your mind. Even if she’s your sister. Do you hear me?”
The small portion of alcohol I consumed creeps up on me.My head swims, and warmth spreads through me, starting from my stomach. I bite my tongue to hold back from telling him that my sister has a name.
The corners of his eyes wrinkle with a knowing smile. I pretend to be relaxed and hide the momentary worry that he knows my deepest desires and thoughts I have about Dahlia.
His thumb stills, and he tilts his head. “I asked you a question, boy.”
“I heard you,” I say, my words slurring.
His eyebrows dip low on his forehead. “You won’t get into any more fights with him, yes?”
I nod, probably looking like an idiot because of how jerky the small movements are.
Dad relaxes in his chair, downs the rest of his drink, and turns away from me to face his computer. “You can go now.”
I peel myself from the chair and walk out of his office, leaving the door open behind me. My legs move like Jell-O as the alcohol hits harder and amplifies each passing minute. I stumble upstairs and pause outside of Dahlia’s room.
She left her door cracked open, and her lights are on, but I don’t hear her. The pull to go into her bedroom and make sure she’s okay tugs against the other side that demands to leave her alone. I scared her the last few weeks, and especially during lunch. I don’t want her to see me like this, unable to stand without swaying and breathing hard from being drunk.
Forcing my legs to move, I go into my bedroom, crawl onto my bed, and pass out as soon as my head hits the pillow.
Now that I don’t have to worry so much about the bullying at school, the months fly by. I no longer have to duck my head and slip past people, hoping the bullies don’t notice me. Ever since Jaxon stood up for me, everybody steers clear.
“What are you doing?” I ask Jaxon. I linger outside his bedroom door, curious about why he’s putting on his boots when it’s nine in the evening.
He looks up from his spot on the bed, bent in the middle as he fixes his bootstraps. “Going out.”
My eyebrows rise up my forehead, and I timidly step forward, hesitant to go any closer. “Where are you going?”
