Page 84 of Riot House
I try not to let out a surprised laugh. “Yes, sir.”
“Then you ain’t from town. You got more money than sense and think the world still owes you?”
I shake my head gravely. “No, sir.”
“Then you probably ain’t from that school, either. I don’t know where he found you, pretty girl, but you look too nice for him. My advice? Get out now while you still can.”
I don’t even know what to say to that. I don’t tell him that Iama student at Wolf Hall, though. I feel like he’ll be less enamored with me if I correct his assumption. Wren stands behind me, growling under his breath. “Sheistoo nice for me, but that’s none of your damn business, old man.”
We order a disgusting amount of food and eat it out back on a picnic bench, away from the prying eyes of the four customers in the bar. Once we’re done, Wren ushers me back into the car and tells me we’re leaving Mountain Lakes altogether. For the first time since I arrived at Wolf Hall, I leave the town, and I don’t look back.
30
WREN
Pre-Elodie,my best behavior looked very different to this. I would have reamed Patterson out for his sass, and I would have probably kicked everyone out of the bar, too. There have been so many times since Elodie became my girlfriend that I’ve curbed my anger and not lashed out. It’s gotten to the point that I’m even doing it when she’s not around, plagued by a conscience that I’ve paid little heed to up until now. Behind every action, every thought, and every word lies the nagging question: what would Elodie think of me if she could see me now?
It’s a burden, this shift in attitude. It doesn’t come naturally; it requires constant work, and the new restrictions I’ve placed upon myself chafe like nothing else.
She didn’t ask me to change.
She hasn’t really asked anything of me, but this gnawing desire to make her happy, to make her proud of me, is ever constant. For her, I want to be better than my soiled, rotten soul has ever been before.
The drive is long enough to require music. I turn on the radio, and Elodie immediately changes the station from the grinding hardcore metal I usually opt for to something more mainstream and folky. I hate the hipster craze and all of the Americana crap that came along with it, but for the first time I don’t feel like I’m going to smash my fist into the dashboard when I hear the strummed guitars and the pretentious lilting lyrics. She seems to like it, so I like it, too.
I try not to react when she starts singing, her voice sweet and bright, always a second offbeat or very slightly out of tune, but my insides are rioting. She doesn’t care if she doesn’t hit every single note. She sings for the sheer enjoyment of it, laughing at me giddily when she catches me looking at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s everything good and light in this world and being in her presence is like emerging from a prison cell after so many long, dark years and finally feeling the sun on my face.
I’m so broken and corrupted that it’s always felt like the rough, jagged-edged pieces of me would never fit back together again. I never even dared think such a thought. But somehow, over the past few weeks, Elodie’s been putting me back together and she hasn’t even been trying.
We arrive at the estate just after midday. We’re two short hours from the academy, but we might as well be half a world away. The day feels full of possibility, bursting at the seams with potential. Elodie’s brow furrows with confusion as I drive us through the high metal gates and down the long, sweeping driveway toward the imposing structure up ahead.
“Monmouth House?” she says quizzically. “That’s what that plaque just said.”
“Plaque?” I pretend I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“Yes. The one that was mounted on that giant sign in front of the gates. Wren, what the hell are we doing here? Are we about to get arrested for trespassing? I can’t get a criminal record. Colonel Stillwater will kill me.”
She can be so melodramatic sometimes. I throw off the jolt of nerves that attacks me when I see the white G-Wagon parked in front of the house, giving myself a stern talking to.
Keep your fucking cool, man.
Since when have you ever been worried about what these fucks think anyway?
I am tense as hell, though. Denying it serves no point whatsoever. This is something very new for me, untrodden ground, and I have no fucking clue how any of this is gonna play out. I pull up alongside the G-Wagon, steeling myself for what’s to come.
“Wren, seriously. This looks like private property. Shouldn’t we—” She looks around, worry in her beautiful blue eyes. “Shouldn’t we find a hotel or something? I don’t think this place rents out rooms.”
“Not by the hour, anyway,” I say, smirking.
I twist the key in the ignition, cutting the engine. Right on cue, Calvin appears in the open front doorway, dressed impeccably as always in Armani. Elodie scoots down in her seat, doing her best to become invisible.
“Wren,” she hisses.
I wind down the window, offering a curt smile to the tall, grey-haired man who approaches the car. “Master Wren!” His greetings have always been warm, his smile always genuine.
I lean my arm on the door, grinning at him. “Hey, Cal. What’s up?”
I’ve known Calvin since I was five years old. He was there when my grandparents died. My mother’s parents. He was the one who consoled me when I skinned my knees. He was the one who used to sneak me cookies after dinner when I was sent to bed without dessert for not finishing my meals.
