Page 65 of The Friend Scheme
“Ready?” asks Luke.
“Yep.”
We get out of the car.
I spot Tony, Vince, and his wife, my aunt Sara. Her dress is white, with black flowers on it. She seems nice, but she’s married to Vince, so I’ve always felt like it needs to be an act. No one truly nice could be married to someone who tortures people. It must require a hell of a lot of cognitive dissonance to even spend any time with him.
None of the older members of my family are here, like Grandma, although it seems like all of Dad’s generation is here. The only one missing is Dad.
It’s only Millers, though.
No allied families.
Meaning no Jason.
Phew.
I don’t want to see him here.
He’s my escape from this world. Seeing him here would make that way harder. I really like that, because of our deal, our friendship is totally separate from all this stuff.
So what if it’s a little like playing make-believe?
There are definitely worse things that people can do.
I have a feeling I’m going to see that firsthand tonight.
We approach our family. Vince is staring at me like I’m one of his victims. There’s this evil gleam in his eyes and in the curve of his smirk. He has his switchblade out, and keeps opening and closing it. The silver blade shines. I notice there are bloodstains on the white cuff of his shirt.
“You’re late,” says Vince. “I’m guessing it’s Matt’s fault?”
Luke scowls. “Don’t be a dick, traffic was bad on Palm Ave.”
“If you say so.”
Vince clicks his switchblade closed. His daughters are behind him. Even though they’re two years apart, they both have the same haircut, with bangs that cover their foreheads. It makes them look like twins.
I hate those two.
They seem way too into the fact that their dad tortures people.
It freaks me out.
As a family, we start walking through the shipping-containerarea. The containers are stacked on top of one another, so they dwarf us. It’s sort of like a giant metal maze. Vince leads the pack, and he seems to know exactly where he’s going. He keeps up a quick pace, still clicking his switchblade, and the crowd follows behind him.
“Hey, Matty,” says Becca, the older of the two. She’s fourteen.
“Hey.”
“You going to keep it together tonight, or nah?”
One time, years ago, Dad yelled at me at a dinner, after I spilled my soda on the dining table. I cried. They haven’t let me forget it.
“Back off,” growls Luke.
The two giggle, but then fall back out of step with us.
“Thanks,” I say.
