Page 14 of Wicked Games

I drop my bag and sit on the edge of his bed. Music kicks on downstairs, loud enough to vibrate the floorboards. People are already arriving, and I couldn’t decide whether to remain where I was or hide in Ian’s room, like he originally offered.

After only a few moments’ debate, in which he showed me the sign he hangs on his door, I followed him down the hall and allowed him to close me in.

I slide to the floor and dig through the bag, pulling out my phone. I’ve avoided it, but now I turn it on. I’m not expecting much. Maybe a courtesy text from the Bryans, or one from Ms. McCaw informing me of what I already know?

I’ve tried for years to avoid loneliness. To push away everyone and everything in an effort to fortify myself. I changedhomes frequently. At ten, I made attachments wherever I went. By twelve…

Past

Ms. McCaw was waiting for me when I got back to the DiMario house. The bus dropped me off at the end of the street, and sometimes they waited for me in their car. If Mr. DiMario wasn’t drunk, that is, and if the weather was bad. Their excuse was that they didn’t want a rain-soaked child dripping water across their floors. If he was drunk, then I walked to their house and tried to slip in undetected. Rain or snow or otherwise.

Anger. So much anger in one man.

She stood on the porch, typing on her phone. She seemed sad. Her lips were pinched, and her eyebrows pulled down in the middle.

“Hi, Margo,” she greeted me. “Let’s go, honey. Your stuff is in the car.”

In a trash bag, no doubt.

“Where am I going?”

She just shook her head. “A respite home.”

Respite. Temporary. A night, a week.

I was getting tired of this. Already. It had been two years—Dad was no closer to being free, Mom was gone. She had already been declared unfit anyway. But the fact that she didn’t come back?

“What’d I do this time?”

“The family said you were stealing.” She showed me a watch that belonged to Mr. DiMario. “I found this in your room.”

My heart pounded. He wouldn’t have called Social Services—he would’ve beat me silly. I’d been with the DiMarios for three weeks, but it was enough to instill fear. He hadn’t touched me yet, but the threat was ever-present.

“I didn’t. I don’t even like stupid old watches.”

She rubbed her eyes. “What am I supposed to do here, Margo? It’s grounds for removal.”

It was better this way. Mrs. DiMario stroked my hair until I fell sleep, but I was better off without them. Stronger without them.

I straightened my shoulders. I went to the trunk and waited for her to pop it. As soon as she did, I rummaged through the black plastic bag. Everything was there and accounted for—except one thing.

“Where’s the bracelet?”

She shook her head. “What?”

I ran back inside, down the hall to my old room. It was no larger than a closet with a twin bed on a low frame and a dresser against the wall. Everything was stripped, even the sheets. I jerked around, falling to my knees.

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“The bracelet,” I said. I was frantic. Blue and gold. Blue and gold.

It had to be here somewhere. I should’ve never taken the stupid thing off, but it frayed. I was scared it would snap if I wore it.

Someone at school might see it and yank, and then he’d be gone forever.

I was halfway under the bed when she grabbed me and hauled me out.

“Stop,” she said.

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