Walk the Edge

  Pigpen climbs the porch and Man O’ War lags behind on the grass. I lean against the house and stay the hell out of the way. Most people say my wires are crossed, but even I know to grant a wide berth when these two are pushed into irritable.

  Pigpen slides into the man’s space and goes nose to nose. To the cop’s credit, he doesn’t flinch.

  “He’s still in high school.”

  “Razor’s eighteen,” the cop bites out. “Legal age.”

  “Leave and don’t come back. You have questions, you bring them to the board. I hear you’re slinking around him again, you’re dealing with me.”

  “Is that a threat?” The cop cocks his head to the side like he doesn’t give a damn Pigpen’s in his face. What I find more interesting is that the two are talking like they’ve met before, or are at least familiar with each other.

  Pigpen grins like a crazy man. “Yeah, it is.”

  The cop slips a white card out of the file and holds it out to me, but I keep my arms crossed over my chest. With his eyes locked with mine, he drops the card and it floats like a feather to the porch.

  He walks down the stairs, across the yard, and within less than a minute his Chevy Caprice is crackling rocks under rolling tires.

  Pigpen releases a long breath and glances over his shoulder at me. “Am I going to want to know what that was about?”

  I shake my head.

  “Will the board?”

  The club’s board—the group of men who oversee the members. They tackle the day-to-day operations of the club and they tackle any problems that arise. The detective suggested the club killed my mom, so, yeah, guess they will want to hear about this. I incline my head in affirmation.

  “Shit.”

  Sums it up.

  “Get to orientation. I’ll set up a meeting with the board soon.”

  Pigpen swipes up the card, but I catch a peek as I head past him to my bike. The cop’s name is Jake Barlow, and not only is he a detective, but he’s part of a gang task force.

  We’re a legit club. We don’t dabble in illegal nonsense. We aren’t the clichéd MC that sells guns, drugs, or deals in prostitution. We’re just a group of guys who love motorcycles and believe that family can mean more than the blood running through your veins. This guy, he was fucking with me. Just fucking with me.

  “Razor,” Pigpen calls as I straddle my bike.

  When I meet his eyes, he continues, “Are you tight?”

  I’m not a talker. Speak only when I have something worth saying. Everyone knows this, but this silence is beyond my normal. My mind replays the image of Mom’s car. It was crushed almost beyond recognition. The cop said there were no skid marks, no signs she tried to stop. My lungs ache as if someone crushed me beyond recognition.

  Am I tight? Hell, no. I look away and Pigpen says, “Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out.”

  I nod, then start my bike. Not sure about the we’ll part, but I plan on getting some answers and getting them soon.

  Breanna

  I KNOW THAT the capital of Bolivia is Sucre. I know that the average distance from the earth to the moon is 238,900 miles. I also know that blue whales can go six months without eating. Random, bizarre stuff. That’s what my head is full of. Nothing that will boost my math scores on the ACT or secure me a date to prom. Nothing that will save me and my best friend from this being our last day on the planet.

  While my brain is obviously wired differently, there are certain commonsense rules all girls in town comprehend. It’s not knowledge that has to be taught, like when I was six and my oldest brother spent weeks teaching me to tie my shoes or how at four my older sister spared a few minutes from her overly important life to show me how to spell my name.

  In fact, sitting here on the top step to the entrance of Snowflake High watching this potential disaster unfold, I search my memory for the first person who warned me to steer clear of the Reign of Terror Motorcycle Club.

  There was no pamphlet handed out during health class. No sex conversation like the one my mom had with me in kindergarten because I referred to a certain male body part by the same name as a round toy. Stupid brothers teaching me their stupid slang.

  But when it pertains to the threat that is the Reign of Terror MC, it’s not learned, it’s known. Like how an infant understands how to suck in a breath at the moment of birth or how a newborn foal wobbles to his legs. It’s instinctual. It’s ingrained. It’s fact.

  “Do you think his motorcycle will work this time?” Addison asks.

  “Hope so,” I breathe out, too terrified to speak at a normal level in fear of drawing the scrutiny of the men wearing black leather vests who circle the broke-down bike. Reign of Terror arches over the top of the black vest, in the middle is a half skull with fire blazing out of the eye sockets and drops of fire rain around it. It’s ominous and I shiver.

  Addison and I sit huddled close. Legs touching. Shoulders bumped into the other. We’d probably hold hands if we didn’t have our welcome-back-to-school information folders gripped tightly to our chests. Because we can’t spawn eyes in the back of our heads, we lean against the large pillar of the overhang so no one can sneak up on us from behind.

  It’s edging toward nine in the evening, but the August sun hasn’t completely set. Darkness, though, has claimed most of the sky. Temperatures during the afternoon hit over a hundred and I swear the concrete stairs and pillar absorbed every ounce of today’s sunshine and is now transferring the heat into my body.

  Sweat rolls down my back and I shift to peel my thighs off the step. Why I thought it was a fantastic idea to wear the jean skirt, I have no idea.

  I take that back. I do have a clue for my clothing choice. Tonight was the first time my entire grade was together in one room since the end of last year. My goal for the year may seem simple to some, but to me, it sometimes feels impossible. I’d like to be seen, to be known as something more than freakishly smart Breanna Miller at least once before I leave this town. I’d like to somehow find the courage to be on the outside who I am on the inside.

  An annoying sixth sense informs me that I’m about to make a huge impression—on the evening news: two friends on the verge of starting their senior year vanish without a trace. Because that’s how motorcycle clubs would handle this—they’ll kidnap us and then hide our bodies after they’re finished with whatever ritual act they’ll use us to perform.

  My knee begins to bounce. Mom and Dad left after my failed attempt to convince them to let me attend High Grove Academy and they promised to return in time for pickup.

  The senior welcome session ended at eight and the parking lot cleared out by eight twenty. The straggling parents arrived by eight thirty and that left Addison and me alone with blond-haired biker boy and his dilapidated machine.

  He called his buddies around the same time I tried the various members of my family for the fiftieth time. His gang showed in a chrome procession in less than ten minutes. I’m still waiting to hear from anyone I’m related to.

  “What’s going on with your family?” Addison asks.

  Besides I’m child number five of nine? “Who knows.”

  Maybe Elsie needed medicine for her ears again and the pharmacy was behind schedule. Maybe Clara and Joshua split with the cars, thinking everyone was home. Maybe someone’s game went into triple overtime. Maybe my parents counted someone’s head twice and assumed it was me. It’s not the first time I’ve been forgotten in the car pool rotation. Won’t be the last.

  I don’t feel nearly as awful about being forgotten by my parents as I do about Addison having to call her father to tell him she was going to miss curfew. My left knee joins the other in a constant rhythm as I imagine what’s waiting for her at home.

  “I can have my parents call your dad,” I offer. “Make them take the blame.” Because this
horrible situation is their stinking fault.

  Addison’s mouth slants into a sad smile as she yanks on a lock of my black hair. “Stop it, brat. Don’t make me regret telling you.”

  Addison and I have been friends since elementary school and we met the last of our trio, Reagan, in sixth grade. While Addison and Reagan are more alike, both natural blondes and have a take-no-prisoners attitude, it’s me they entrust with the secrets. Like how Addison’s bruises are hardly ever from catching the fliers on her cheerleading squad.

  One of the gang members stands from his crouched position at the motorcycle and the guy we attend school with inserts a key, holds on to the handlebar of the bike, and when he twists it, I pray the motor purrs to life.

  My heart leaps, then plummets past my toes and into the ground when the motorcycle cuts off with a sound similar to a gunshot. Addison’s head falls forward, and I bite my lip to prevent the internal screaming from becoming external chaos.

  Addison pulls her phone out of her purse and taps the screen. “I’m texting Reagan. If we go missing, I’m telling her to point the finger at Thomas Turner and his band of merry men.”

  Thomas Turner. He’s the guy who swore loudly the moment his motorcycle’s engine died again. Thomas is the name called on the first day of school by our teachers, but it’s not the name he responds to. He goes by his “road name,” Razor.

  He glances over his shoulder straight at me and my mouth dries out. Holy hell, it’s like he’s aware I’m thinking of him.

  “Oh my God,” Addison reprimands. “Don’t make eye contact. Do you want them to come over?”

  I immediately focus on my sandals. As much as every girl is aware to keep a safe distance from Thomas and his crew, we’ve all sneaked a glimpse. Thomas makes it easy to cave to temptation with his golden-blond hair, muscles from head to toe and sexy brooding expression a few girls have written about in poems.

  My cheeks burn and there’s this heaviness as if Thomas is still looking. Through lowered lashes, I peek at him and my heart trips when our eyes meet. His eyes are blue. An ice blue. His stare simultaneously causes me to be curious and terrified. And I obviously have a death wish, because I can’t tear my gaze away.

  He raises his eyebrows and I lose the ability to breathe. What is happening?

  Addison’s phone vibrates. “Reagan said she heard you have to kill someone in order to be part of their club.”

  A guy in the circle clamps a hand on Thomas’s shoulder and tilts his head to the bike as he says something. Thomas returns his attention to his motorcycle and I draw in air for the first time in what seems like hours.

  “Killing someone sounds dramatic,” I answer. “There’s a ton of guys in the club, and with the low population of Snowflake the police would notice if that many people went missing.”

  “Phssh.” Addison squishes her lips together as she texts Reagan. “They wouldn’t do it in their hometown. They’re smarter than that. They’d go into a city. Their top guy was shot by another motorcycle gang in Louisville last month. And sometimes they do horrible stuff here. Everyone knows the Terror had something to do with the disappearance of Mia Ziggler.”

  Every small town has this story. The one girls tell late at night during a sleepover. The one mothers use to convince their daughters to be home by nine at night. Five years ago, Mia Ziggler graduated from high school, hopped on the back of a Reign of Terror motorcycle, and she was never seen again. Ever.

  “Anyhow,” Addison continues. “Have you noticed the patches on their vests? I overheard Dad tell Mom that the diamond one on the lower left means they’re carrying a gun.”

  My head inclines in disbelief. “Seriously?”

  Because that patch is stitched onto Thomas’s vest and he’s still a teenager...in high school. Everyone was shocked when Thomas started wearing his leather vest with the skull on it to school last year. It turns out the only requirements for membership in the club are to be eighteen and own a motorcycle. Oh, and commit murder.

  Addison looks up from her phone. “Seriously. I’m surprised you didn’t know that already. That’s not a random enough fact for you to remember?”

  Truth? I never heard what any of the patches on the Reign of Terror’s vest meant before, but because that was so random, I doubt I’ll ever forget. Instead of confirming or denying my freak of nature ability to remember weird stuff, I send a massive text to everyone in my family: I AM STILL WAITING ON A RIDE!!!

  I added an additional exclamation point in my head.

  “Just because you don’t acknowledge me on your memory,” chides Addison, “doesn’t mean I’ll forget what I said. Someday you’ll trust me enough to let me in your head.”

  “I trust you.” The reply is immediate because her words stung—stung because they’re honest. I love Addison, more than some members of my family, but I’ve never flat out discussed my ability to recall things. Being near me as much as she has—she knows.

  I avoid talking to Addison about this gift, or curse, because she’s one of the few people who make me feel normal, and there’s a comfort in fitting in, even if it’s just with one person. “I trust you more than anyone else.”

  At least that statement is a hundred percent true.

  “Then why didn’t you tell me how Kyle Hewitt cornered you in the hall and was trying to convince you to write his English papers for the year?”

  My stomach rolls as if it had been kicked. “How did you know?”

  She gives me the disappointed once-over. “I overheard you two when I was coming out of the bathroom. I stupidly thought that if I gave you enough time you’d tell me.”

  My mouth hangs open and my mind races as I try to formulate an explanation for why I didn’t tell her, but the words embarrassed and ashamed and terrified freeze on the tip of my tongue.

  Addison nudges my knee with hers. “I’m glad you said no. What did he offer in return for writing his papers?”

  Then she must have not heard everything. “Money.”

  “Kyle is such an asshole. Reagan heard U of K may offer him a football scholarship if he can raise his grades. His daddy and granddaddy are all proud and I guess Kyle is trying to cover his bases with his offer to you.”

  “Do you think he’ll talk crap about me now?” Because that’s what a lot of guys at our school do. They spread rumors. Some true. Some not true. Unfortunately, the truth doesn’t matter once people start talking.

  “Maybe,” she says with a tease. “But being the shining star in gossip is better than being invisible, right? You know what will help make you shine this year?”

  “Oh, God,” I mumble. “Don’t start this again.”

  “Cheerleading!” She lights up like a Christmas tree. “I’ll work my magic and get you on the squad. I’m not talking backflips. You can be the girl who holds the signs during the cheer.”

  I grin because how can I not when she resembles a set of Fourth of July sparklers, but before I can respond a motorcycle engine growls to life.

  Addison mutters, “Damn.”

  My head snaps up. I’m expecting to spot Thomas and his gang riding their bikes in our direction, but instead it’s a sight that can rival whatever damage they could have done if they had abducted us.

  Addison’s father’s impeccably white four-door eases to the curb. Dizziness disorients me as I imagine the expression he must be wearing beyond the blacked-out windows. I clear my throat. “I thought you told him you’d still ride home with me.”

  “He probably feels like being pissed,” she answers.

  The motorcycle engines cut off as Addison gathers her purse. I grab her wrist before she stands. “I am so sorry.”

  She yanks on my hair again. “You stress too much. See you tomorrow, brat.”

  Two steps down, laughter from the circle of men, and Addison pivots so fast her
blond curls bounce into her face. “I can’t leave you here by yourself.”

  She said the words loudly, too loudly. Loud enough that the men grouped near the motorcycle stare at us. Her father honks the horn. It’s a shrill sound in the quiet evening.

  “Go. I’ll be fine.” Though my palms grow cold and clammy.

  The car’s horn screams again into the darkening sky. Addison’s eyes widen as her gaze flickers between the club and me. I can’t go with Addison. Her father doesn’t allow anyone into their house, car or lives. Each second that passes without her behaving exactly how he expects means his wrath will be worse when she returns home.

  “Go.” I hold up my phone. “They texted.” A lie. “They’re less than a minute out.”

  “Okay,” she whispers, as if suddenly realizing she drew the attention of the people we’ve been attempting to avoid. “You text me the moment you get in the car.”

  I fake a smile a true friend will hopefully buy. “Promise.”

  Addison nods, then sprints to the passenger side of her father’s car. She opens it, slips inside and sends me one last pleading glance before shutting the door. Her father pulls away. Not fast, not in a hurry. Slowly. Very slowly. Methodical even. Which makes sense because that’s exactly how he is with Addison.

  As soon as the red taillights of the car disappear from view, I spam my entire family. I am officially alone with the Reign of Terror. If I die, I’m holding each of you responsible.

  A buzz and it’s from my oldest sister, who is working a full-time job fresh out of college a few hours away. Dramatic much?

  Me: No, I’m alone at school and there are at least six of the RTMC here.

  Second oldest sister, Clara: Them driving by does not mean you are alone with them.

  A pause, then she sends a second text. This is her lame attempt at attention. I win the pot. Told you she’d crack by her senior year.

  Another buzz, from my oldest brother, Samuel. It’s the middle child syndrome.