“Did you talk to him?”
I nod.
“And?” Wren chirps.
“A-and the ch-cheerleader is in with him now.”
“Oh,” Wren says.
“Yeah,” I say.
I’m an idiot.
Peck
When I was twelve, I went for months thinking I was dead. Everyone in my household ignored me. That was per my mother. “If she won’t speak, don’t speak to her,” she’d said. What she didn’t understand was that I wanted to speak. I wanted to speak with a desperation unlike any other. I wanted to unburden my mind. I wanted to talk.
I just couldn’t.
So I moved around the house, prepared my own meals, got myself on the bus and off, took care of my own laundry, and I spent most of my time in my room, since no one was going to talk to me anyway.
I thought I was dead. Because why else would they not speak to me? Why would they punish me like they did for something I couldn’t control? I must have died and someone forgot to tell me. I was a ghostly specter of myself.
My mother and her boyfriend spent more time away from home than in the small apartment my mom and I shared. He kept a place across town, and it became easier for her to stay there rather than come home. I didn’t mind. I was a ghost walking around alone anyway, right? I spent my nights alone and was grateful for the silence. Because it would still be silent even if she were here.
But then there was a problem one day at school, and I ended up in the emergency room and then had my appendix out. It took them four days to find my mother, and suddenly someone cared if I lived or died.
Her name was Mrs. Derricks, and she was the school counselor. She brought me into her office and changed my life that day, and every day since.
The door slamming behind me jerks me from my thoughts of Mrs. Derricks.
Why aren’t you dressed? I ask Lark in sign language as she drops her things on the couch and flops down.
“Dressed for what?” she asks, blowing out a breath.
For the funeral.
Her brow furrows. “What funeral?”
My hands fly wildly. Mrs. Derricks’ funeral!
“Oh, crap,” she says. She jumps up. “Totally forgot. Give me five minutes to change.”
I text Wren and Star to see where they are, but just as I hit send, they come through the door. They couldn’t be more opposite. They’re sisters, born one year apart. And while they look alike, they couldn’t be more different.
“You need to tie your shoe,” Star says to Wren.
Wren looks down. “Why?”
“Because you’ll trip over it.”
“Who cares,” Wren tosses back.
Star has her shirt tucked into a pair of nice pants, her creases all perfect and sharp. Wren, on the other hand, is wearing jeans and a T-shirt I think she stole from Emilio when we stayed over with him and Marta at their house for Christmas. It’s four sizes too big for her and hangs down almost to her knees.
Emilio Vasquez isn’t our real dad. He’s the man who “sprung us from jail” as he calls it. In reality, it was a group home, but he’s pretty accurate. He and his wife Marta couldn’t have kids, so they decided to use their millions to better the life of a child. And they ended up with five of us, all at once.
Emilio is a former rock and roll star who hung up his microphone when drugs and drinking destroyed his band. Marta is a former groupie he fell in love with, or that’s at least how he tells it. She smacks the back of his head every time he calls her a groupie. She’s a tiny little Latina fireball.
To us, they’re our parents. They’re the family we weren’t born with, but were lucky enough to grow into.
“I can’t find black gloves!” Lark calls from her room.
“Why do you need black gloves?” Wren yells back.
“For the funeral!” Lark bellows.
“Oh, shit.” Wren streaks to her room with Star right behind her. They forgot too, apparently.
Five minutes later, they all come out dressed in dark colors. Wren looks like a slouch, but a respectable slouch. Star looks like she could be walking a runway.
“Tie your shoe,” Star says to Wren.
“Why?” Wren asks.
Do we really have to do this every day? When we lived with Emilio and Marta, their solid presences kept the fighting down. But now that we’re on our own, my sisters snipe at one another like verbal fencing is their favorite pastime.
I tap my finger on the counter, because when I tap, I can speak without a stammer. “Has anyone seen Fin?” I ask.
Star shakes her head and squats down to tie Wren’s shoe.
“Can’t stand it, can you?” Wren taunts.
“Shut up,” Star grumbles. She pulls a brush from the tidy little purse she has hanging over her arm and goes toward Wren with it. Wren backs up and blocks her.
“You are not brushing my hair,” Wren says.
“Somebody needs to,” Star says. She holds the brush out and raises her brow.
Wren turns to the mirror, licks the palm of her hand, and slicks her hair down by dragging her wet hand through her pink-and-blue locks.
“That is so gross,” Star says.
Wren grins.
I shake my head and motion for everyone to go. We’ll just have to leave Fin. If I wait any longer, I’m going to be late for the funeral, and I simply can’t have that. Mrs. Derricks saved my life. She’s the reason I’m still alive. And now she’s gone. Tears burn my nose and I sniffle.
“Are you all right?” Wren asks quietly as we walk toward the car waiting out front. Our driver gets out and holds the door for us, and we all slide in.
Fine, I sign, holding my five fingers out in front of my chest. All of my sisters know sign language. It was the only way I could talk for a long time. Until Emilio put a pair of drumsticks in my hand one day and I realized I had a voice.
Suddenly, there’s a squeal of brakes as a red four-door coupe slams to a stop in the street. The car jumps the curb and lands with one wheel on the sidewalk.
“Sorry I’m late!” Fin yells as she jumps out of the car and runs toward us. She’s already dressed, so she just gets into the car. “Were you going to leave without me?” she asks with a huff, settling her black skirt around her as she scoots in the car.
Finch is her name, but we call her Fin. She’s perpetually late. Always. For everything.
“Yes,” we all say at the same time. We have learned through the years that if we wait for Fin, we’ll be waiting forever.
She grumbles something to herself. Then she reaches into her purse and pulls out a brand new pair of gloves. She tosses them to Lark and grins. “Thought you might need those,” she says.
“That’s why you were late?” Lark asks.
Fin nods, looking down her nose at all of us. “I went to get you black gloves. So sue me.”
“You suck so bad,” Lark mumbles. She turns away from everyone and pulls her gloves off, and pulls the new ones on. Lark never goes without gloves. Ever. These go all the way up to her elbows and the tips of the fingers are cut out. “Where did you get these?” she asks. “They’re comfy.”
“At that new shop on Main.”
Lark spins her hand in front of her. “Did they have more colors?”
“Only about a bazillion.”
“Nice.” Lark smiles. She looks at us. “We’ll have to forgive her for being late. She was doing a good deed.”
“If we have to,” Wren grumbles.
Fin flips her the bird.
The car stops in front of the church, and we all get out. We have a security team of two and they’ll be with us. Hopefully no one will recognize us, but you never can tell how people are going to react.
Marta and Emilio find us inside the church and come to sit with us. They kiss each of us on the forehead and ask how we’re doing. The two of them together—it’s like looking at newlyweds all the time. They’re so in love with one another that it hurts.
The service starts,
and I feel tears prick my eyes and my nose starts to run. Emilio pushes a handkerchief into my hand. I wipe my eyes and try to keep it together. But Mrs. Derricks saved my life. I don’t know where I’d be if she hadn’t found out about me and made it her mission to help me. I certainly wouldn’t have four sisters and two wonderful parents, that’s for sure.
The church is bursting at the seams with people, and right before the service is over, we hear the whispers among the crowd. They know who we are, which means there’s a good chance we’ll get mobbed when we leave here. The security guards keep us close, flanking us on each end as we walk out the door. But when we get outside, there’s an even bigger crowd.
Someone inside the church must have alerted social media that Fallen from Zero was in the building, because there’s suddenly a mob of teenagers who are blocking the door.
“Oh, shit,” Emilio says.
Shit is right. This is awful. We try to speak, say hello, and sign some autographs, but suddenly someone jerks my hair.
“I got some!” I hear a female voice yell as she lifts a lock of my hair, which she just jerked from my head. I press on the offended spot. That hurts like crazy. My sisters start to run when they realize that this crowd is out for blood. I run too. Hell, I already lost a lock of hair. I don’t want to lose my clothes. Yes, that does happen.
We’re almost to the car when someone’s shoe sticks out and trips me. I hit the concrete hard, so hard that my forehead smashes into the sidewalk. Holy hell, that hurts. Someone steps on my wrist, and I scream.
But suddenly the crowd parts, and I see five really big men with tattoos holding back the offenders. “Back the fuck up!” one of them barks at the overzealous fans. I hold my wrist, because it’s throbbing like crazy, and roll over onto my back.
“I got you, cupcake,” Sam Reed says as he pulls me up off the ground. He moves me around like I’m light as a feather, getting me quickly to my feet.
“Th-thanks,” I murmur. Then I realize he just heard me stutter.
“I want to be your knight in shining armor, swoop you up, and carry you the rest of the way, but…” He looks down at the crutches he dropped.
I’d like to see you try, I think. But I don’t say it out loud.
His brother picks up his crutches and hands them back to him. Sam looks like he’s in pain. “You okay, Sam?” Matt asks. Matt is the one with the long hair and the kind smile.
“I’m okay,” Sam says. “Get her in the car, would you?” He jams his crutches under his arms and walks with us, and Matt holds my elbow.
Matt scowls at Sam. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Well, I couldn’t just let them walk all over her.”
“Um-hmm,” he hums. “I think the four of us had it covered, but whatever.”
Sam winces as he maneuvers his crutches. You okay? I ask. Since Sam can sign, talking with him has always been so easy.
“Fine.” He winces again, though, and I can tell he’s hurting. His eyes suddenly jerk up to meet mine and he says quietly, “This wasn’t how I’d planned on seeing you again, cupcake.” He reaches out and touches the side of my face. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
I hadn’t planned on seeing him again at all. Ever. Not after the way we ended things.
“Can I call you?” he asks.
Best if you don’t, I sign.
He looks everywhere but at my face for a second. But then his blue eyes meet mine. “Why not?” he asks softly. He stares into my face.
I don’t answer. I see that the car door is open and I get in, still holding my wrist. The driver closes the door, and I fall back against the seat.
Emilio and Marta ended up in our car, and I’m glad of it. “M-melio,” I say. I try to move my wrist and gasp as pain shoots up my arm.
“What?” Emilio asks. He sits forward.
“I th-think I h-h-hurt my wr-wrist,” I finally get out.
He tells the driver to take us to the hospital.
I lay my head back and look out the back window. I can see Sam Reed standing in the street watching the car until it’s out of sight. He’s standing apart from his brothers and their wives, all by himself.
“I’m glad those boys were there,” Emilio says. “I’ll have to buy them a beer to say thank you.”
Marta clucks her tongue. “They’re going to get swamped themselves, if they don’t get out of there.” The Reeds are local celebrities, ever since their reality TV show started.
I touch the top of my head where I lost a lock of hair.
Marta leans forward and pulls my head down gently so she can look at it. “I think you’ll be okay,” she says. She pats my hair down flat. She leans close to my ear. “At least your head and your hand will. Not so sure about your heart.”
She turns to look back at Sam, but he’s a speck in the distance now, and that’s how he needs to stay.
Sam
I try not to wince as I hitch my crutches under my arm and make my way back to the sidewalk.
“You hurt yourself, didn’t you?” Pete says. He glares at me.
“I’m fine,” I say, but my leg hurts like a toothache, and pain shoots through my leg with every beat of my heart.
“Why the fuck did you do that?” Paul asks, shoving Pete out of the way as he comes toward me.
“I couldn’t just let them walk all over her,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. I saw her go down and I knew I had to get to her. But I don’t know how to tell them that.
“Do you need to go to the doctor?” Matt asks.
“No. Let’s go back to work.”
Matt shakes his head and blows out a breath.
“Did she look hurt to you?” I ask Pete. “She was holding her wrist.”
“And she skinned her forehead.” He looks at me and shrugs. “You didn’t see it?”
“No.” If I’d seen it, I would have done more than just help her up. I would have knocked the person who tripped her in the fucking face. I turn to walk back toward the crowd of teenagers but Paul steps in front of me.
“Oh no.” He stands there in front of me and it’s like going up against a bull. I might try it, if not for the crutches.
“But—”
He points toward the car.
Damn it. I fucking hate it when he acts like he’s my father. I fucking love it, too, but still. This isn’t a great time for him to do it.
Paul raised me. Well, he raised the four of us. He was barely eighteen when our mom died and our dad left. He took over, and I love him like crazy, but right now I want to trip him and then run from him. Only I can’t.
I was in a car accident a couple of months ago, and I broke my tibia, and I got a concussion from a nasty bump on my head. The wreck wasn’t my fault. I was in a cab and, in a nutshell, I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
My accident and surgery mean that I’m in the city with my family, when I should be playing ball. I play for the New York Skyscrapers, and I got drafted into professional football after college. But right now, I’m benched. And I hate it.
For the first time in quite a while, I feel like a boat without a rudder. Like a balloon without a string. Like a…nobody.
Of course, I can work at Reeds’ Tattoo Shop, and I have been. I enjoy it just as much as I used to, but I’d rather be playing ball. By playing ball, I make enough money to take care of things, and I get to do something I really like, even if I don’t love it.
We go back to the shop, and Friday looks up from where she’s inking a guy’s forearm. “Uh oh,” she says. “What happened?”
I wince as I sit down, and I pull a bottle of pain pills out of my pocket—pills I try not to ever take—but my leg is hurting like a son of a bitch right now.
“He tried to play knight in shining armor,” Pete says with a laugh.
Friday sets her machine to the side. “Who needed saving?”
“No one,” I say loudly, talking over Pete, who had just opened his mouth to say Peck’s name. I can see the
“P” on his lips. “There was a mob outside the funeral home. That’s all.”
“See,” she says, her voice getting louder, “I told you guys you should have taken security.”
“They weren’t after us.” Paul kisses her on the forehead and she tips her face up so he can kiss her for real. He tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear, and she smiles at him. “They were after his girlfriend.”
Her brow wrinkles. “Whose girlfriend?”
“Matt’s,” Pete tosses out. Then he laughs, because everyone knows that Matt would never have a girlfriend. Ever. He’s way too in love with his wife.
Friday thinks about it a minute. “Peck was there?”
“Ding-ding-ding!” Pete cries. “Give the girl a cookie!” He scrubs the top of her head as he walks by her.
“That must be why Emilio just called.”
I sit up. “What did Emilio want?”
“To invite us all to dinner tomorrow night.” She says it casually, but I can see her watching me out of the corner of her eye.
“What did you say?” Please say yes. Please say yes.
“I told him we would all be there.”
The clamp around my heart eases a little. “You did?”
She nods. Then she holds out her hand so I can give her five. “You’re welcome,” she says.
I grin. “Thank you.”
My brothers go to the back of the shop to get their supplies together. I can’t do tats because I just took a pain pill, and that wouldn’t be fair to the customers. I don’t do sloppy tats. Ever.
I get to my feet and put my crutches under me. “I’m going to go find a bed to crawl into,” I say.
“Hopefully, it’ll be your own,” Paul says, glaring at me.
Of course it’ll be my own. I have my eye set on a girl who doesn’t want me. But until I’m over her, I’m not even going to try to get her off my mind.
“You going to the apartment?” Paul asks.
I just got an apartment near his and Friday’s. They had plenty of room for me in my old room at their place, but I’m too old to live with my parents. Not to mention the fact that there are rugrats climbing the walls twenty-four/seven. You can’t even take a nap at their place. It’s wonderful when it’s wonderful, but it’s exhausting when it’s exhausting.