Page 246 of Small Town Firsts

“My dad died when I was eight. I don’t even think grass had grown over his grave dirt when my mom remarried.” My heart constricts painfully in my chest, aching for a man I hardly remember. “Robert, my stepdad, he was okay. Rich as the devil. He never really paid me much mind.”

I shrug and then drain my mug, leaning forward to place it on the coffee table. “His son, Rob, on the other hand... he took notice of me, and not in a good way.”

Memories better left dead and buried assault me, flashing through my mind like some D-List horror movie reel.

“How old are you anyway?” asks the little boy with an angry mouth from the top of the stairs. He stands up there like some kind of lonely king, lording over the manor.

“Almost nine,” I tell him, glaring.

“So, eight then. A baby.”

I stomp my foot on the cold marble floor. Mother told me he’s a pre-teen, so we’re almost-kinda-sorta the same age. “I’m not a baby!”

“Then prove it.”

“How?” I ask, wanting more than ever for my new brother to like me.

I’ve always wanted a sibling, but Mom says you couldn’t pay her to have another baby. So, if a stepbrother is all I get, I’ll take it.

He starts down the hall. “Follow me,” he says, looking at me over his shoulder, his eyes daring me.

I dart up the stairs after him, my Mary Janestap-tap-tappingasI run. “Hey! Wait up!”

“I don’t wait for babies.”

Huffing, I push my little legs faster. “I’mnota baby!”

“Yeah, you said that.” He slows his pace as we near a section of the house I’ve never explored. “Time to put your money where your mouth is.”

“What’s that mean?” I ask, trying to peer around him.

He smirks in that way boys do before they pull your pigtail. “It means you gotta show me you’re brave. Because I don’t hang out with losers.”

“Well, I’m not a loser either!”

Rob turns his back to me and steps into a small alcove. I notice a door to the right; it’s one of those tiny ones that even I have to duck down to walk through. His lips twist in a way that makes me question if I should trust him or not.

“Get in,” he says, opening the door.

“In there?”

“Unless you’re... scared.” He spits the word like it’s worse than cold broccoli dunked in puke.

And I am. Scared, that is.

The dark is where all of the big-bads hide, but I’d rather get grounded for a month than let him know I’m scared of the dark.

“Fine,” I say, my voice shaking.

I step into the small, dark room. The air is hot and smells like my grandma’s closet. I don’t like it.

“There!” I shout triumphantly. “I did it!”

“Not so fast,” he says when I try to step back into the alcove.

“What?”

“Just walking inside is lame. You gotta stay inside.”

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