Page 12 of Endless Anger
“That cut on your neck,” he deadpans, moving my hand for a moment to inspect it. He clicks his tongue, then places the fabric back into place. “Keep that there until we get to the car. I’ve got a med kit—I’ll patch you up once we’re out of here.”
I nod.
“Now.” Turning, he faces the corpse. “One of the most important things I will ever teach you,” he says in a low, steady voice, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment, which I find fucking weird, “is how to properly clean up your messes.”
3
LUCY
SIXTEEN YEARS OLD
When we were babies,our parents put Asher and me in the same crib because there weren’t any other safe places for a colicky infant to nap. Our moms, best friends at that point, stayed in the room, making sure eight-month-old Asher didn’t stir and cause problems.
As the story goes, the intrusion did wake Asher, but only long enough for him to reach out and grab hold of the sleeve of my outfit, which they said had an immediate calming effect on me.
I was out like a light in seconds, and we’ve been inseparable since.
That small gap in our ages never really seemed like much—it’s a mere six months—maybebecausewe’ve always been together. But lately, as the spring rolls around and Asher’s being fitted for his graduation gown and doing grad prep, the divide feels impassable.
I’m sitting on his bed with my legs crossed, Keats purring in my lap, watching from the corner of my eye as he tosses another college brochure in the wastebasket by his desk. Floating shelves above the wooden structure are lined with various books—from classics likeMoby DickandBeowulfto manga and blank sketchbooks.
His black hair is a little longer than usual, falling limp when he leansback in his chair, shaking the strands loose from the collar of his plaid button-down. The sharp angles of his face are mesmerizing, but then he opens his mouth and ruins the illusion.
“You know, I’m starting to think my parents signed me up for some mailing lists,” he grumbles.
“Have you decided where you want to go?” I ask, trying to make it sound casual. Like I don’t mind that he’ll be leaving me behind.
If my parents had bothered having me earlier in the year, we’d be in the same grade, and I wouldn’t feel like I’m suffocating now.
Asher swings his gaze lazily in my direction. His eye is a purplish-yellow color from a scuffle at school last Friday, and there’s a hint of blood on the collar of his shirt.
Violence doesn’t faze him in the slightest, and as a pacifist I should probably care more that his solution to every problem involves his fists, but…they’re usuallymyproblems that he’s trying to solve.
There’s a small, slightly deranged, part of me that likes how he always has my back.
“According to these fucking recruitment letters, I pretty much have my pick of the lot,” he tells me.
Acid burns in my stomach.Must be nice.All three of the Anderson kids have had that experience.
“Yeah, but where do youwantto go? It probably won’t do you any good to just pick a random school.”
“All I want to do is draw,” he says, shrugging. “I can do that anywhere. Don’t even need school for it.”
“Sure, but?—”
“My mom didn’t finish her degree, your mom has one she doesn’t use, and they both seem to be doing pretty well,” he continues, propping his arms behind his head.
I catalog the bulk of them, which has increased in the past year or so, and I quickly look away as heat fans my face.
“So are you saying you don’t want to go to school at all?”
“Who knows. Maybe I’ll take a gap year and wait to see if somethingelse piques my interest.” His warm brown eyes meet mine. “Where are you wanting to go?”
“Avernia.”
“Ugh. Still? I thought Quincy’d convinced you to stay away from that stupid place.”
I frown, confusion screwing up my face, and dig my fingers into Keats’s fur. “What are you talking about? Your sisterlovesAvernia. She’s constantly singing its praises. Plus, it’s one of the only schools in the country to keep expanding its art and humanities courses where the others keep shrinking theirs.”
