Page 12 of Necessary Cruelty

Four

I first metVin Cortland when I was eight years old.

My mother worked for his family during that halcyon time when she actually managed to hold down a job, right before she abandoned us completely. The Cortlands even treated her well, for a nanny and housekeeper paid under the table. Like every other founding family in Deception, appearances mattered to them. They wouldn’t ever be caught abusing their staff.

But Vin has always been the prince of the castle on the hill with me barely fit to clean up after him.

Once upon a time, my family could have been among the lucky few living on the Bluffs. We used to have money and status, but that was a long time ago. Long before I was born. Grandpa Milbourne talks about it sometimes, the glory days of Deception when there was still gold in the hills and fortunes to be made.

Nowadays, home for the Milbournes is in the Gulch, a stretch of barren land at the very bottom of the valley that floods in the summer and freezes in the winter. As much as anything can freeze in this part of California.

Zion and I live with our grandfather in one of the oldest houses still standing in the Gulch. The house was built back when there was still arable land here and it wasn’t a dumping ground for society’s rejects. According to Grandpa, the Milbournes used to own everything from one end of the valley to the other. Little by little, pieces were sold off until only the house remained.

My mother left a few years ago. The moment a random guy on a motorcycle blew through town who was willing to take her with him, she climbed up to ride bitch and didn’t look back. Supposedly, our father was a jazz musician who hung around just long enough to give my mother two kids before going back on the road when both of us were still in diapers. I’m exactly nine months older than Zion, but our father left before I formed any memories of him. She never even told use his name.

“Zaya, is that you?” Grandpa says as I open the front door. He rarely leaves the living room these days because of his illness, but he tries his best to keep up with us. His mind goes a little more each day, making him scrambled and forgetful of things I told him only moments before.

I rap the wall with the side of my fist in response as I climb the stairs.

Vin Cortland isn’t omniscient, and he doesn’t have our dilapidated house bugged. But it’s safer to play by his rules as much as humanly possible, even when he wouldn’t know the difference. Otherwise, I might let something slip at the wrong moment and suffer for it.

Sometimes, it’s just easier not to talk. It means that people don’t ask the uncomfortable questions I see burning in their eyes. More than one social worker has made the trek out to the Gulch to check in on us, spurred by reports from the school or someone just wanting to be a crank. None of our close neighbors would call the authorities for any reason, much less something as pervasive as child neglect. But ultimately, Zion and I wouldn’t be here if there were anywhere else to go. And any foster home willing to take us in would be significantly worse than this.

Zion won’t be home tonight. I knew that from the moment he left the cafeteria today. He’ll be off getting drunk or high, anything to forget that he walked away without putting up a fight. But I don’t want him to fight, not when the odds are so heavily stacked against him. He’d only get himself hurt, and I’d still be in the same shitty situation I always have been.

That’s guilt for you. It doesn’t understand reason, all it wants is to eat you up from the inside out.

The stairs creak as I make my way up to my room. I grip the banister so I can skip the step with missing subfloor. The house is falling down around us, and eventually there will just be a wall or two holding up the leaking roof.

That’s a concern for another day.

My room is at the far end of the hallway because it’s furthest from the others. According to Grandpa, girls need their privacy. But my room also faces the back of the house, with a great view of the scraggly forest leading up the mountain. Anyone standing in our backyard has a clear view of my bed and wouldn’t be visible from the street.

There isn’t much in the way of decoration, some pink gossamer curtains I found at a thrift store and pictures cut from library magazines taped to the walls. I can clearly hear Grandpa snoring downstairs, and wind whistles through the siding, sometimes making it feel like there’s a tornado inside the room with me.

My bag is heavy on my back. I sling it onto the rickety wooden desk in the corner.

I tell myself to get my schoolwork done. Decent grades and a scholarship to a state school are my only chance of finding a way out of this place. But there are days when even that modest dream feels as likely as winning the lottery when you’ve never even bought a ticket.

My stomach rumbles, the school lunch not enough to last an entire day. Emptiness gnaws at my spine and makes it difficult for me to think. The bed beckons me away from my work, slumber the only relief from the oppressive weight of my life.

In sleep, I can dream of something better.

At least until I open my eyes in the morning, back in the waking nightmare.

* * *

Thorns prick my skin as I push my way through the tangle of old rose bushes, most of which stopped flowering years ago. It’s Founders’ Day, and the whole town has gathered to celebrate. Even the black sheep are invited, including us.

I don’t always understand the whispers, but I know what the people in this town think of us. That we belong down in the Gulch with the day laborers and the riffraff.

But we’re Milbournes, and we have as much a right to be here as anyone, that’s what Grandpa always says.

Zion has wandered off to do God knows what with his friends and left me alone. I don’t like the crowds — all the people make me nervous and edgy. So I’m searching for a place where things are quiet.

The ground is littered with large stones that dig into the sole of my too thin shoes, making my feet ache. Thorns catch in the fabric of my shirt, some deep enough to poke my skin. But I keep going, drawn inexorably forward and unwilling to turn back.

I don’t mind pain when it serves a purpose

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