Page 2 of Servitude to Serpents

Annoyance picks at my chest, but it’s only half as strong as the embarrassment festering there, the pungent smell of saltwater and memories surging back with it—ones that drown.

“Oh yeah, that’s wicked looking,” his friend chirps, and I can already see Clara’s sunny disposition flat-lining.

“Ah man, tell me you didn’t fill in your beard before you got here,” Brady chimes in from behind me seconds before Clara and I erupt into laughter. The guy laughs too, but it’s not genuine. I hike an eyebrow at him, making my most convincing sad face before he leaves the bar, shaking his head and muttering something about not being able to take a joke. Clara is still releasing residual waves of laughter as the bartender returns with our drinks.

Brady leans on the bar, his tall, lanky frame towering over us. “She’s underage,by the way.”

I gawk. “Am not!”

He just smiles as the bartender slides my drink back toward him. “I'm going to need to see your ID.” My lips pull up into a painfully wide smile as I shift through my purse, proudly displaying that I am most certainly not underage.

He nods toward me before sliding my ID across the bar. “Ah! Birthday girl needs a special birthday shot, I see.” When his eye catches Brady’s, something unspoken passes between them. Knowing him, Brady probably planned this whole birthday shot thing weeks ago when he started hounding me about the Sour Grape.

Clara leans forward with a smirk. “It’s my birthday too.” I shake my head as Brady and I exchange looks. My first sip of the Mint Julip really isn’t bad at all. Sliding up another shot glass, the bartender laughs, his long, ash-colored hair piled nearly higher than Clara's. Filling the glass with a sickly-sweet-smelling liquor and garnishing it with rainbow sprinkles, his hands fly so fast, it's nearly impossible to follow the diabetes-inducing ingredients.

This is most certainly going to mess me up, but I'm already here, and my entire head feels warm. I don’t plan on repeating tonight. I came once just to say I did it. Tomorrow, business as usual.

“Happy birthday to the pretty birthday girls.” He winks, sliding the shots over. We clank them together, Clara wagging her eyebrows at me before we tip them back. It tastes like alcoholic cake icing, but I think Clara was right: I’m caring less and less.Rapidly.

God, I’ve been here all of, what? Half an hour?

I keep my eyes down while the bartender and Clara shamelessly flirt. I’m wondering how long he’ll ignore the other customers waiting for drinks when Brady nudges me, and I look up quickly, my head swimming.

“Dance?”

Brady is a sweet guy—verysweet. Almost as sickly sweet as the birthday shot. I'm not proud of the fact that I’ve entertained his flirting more than I should. I don’t like him like that, but I wish I did. He’d be an amazing boyfriend. He’s justso…easy to get along with. Still, there’s notensionthere, and dating your boss’ stepson would never end well anyway. I laugh as he starts awkwardly shifting on his feet as we work our way into the middle of the dance floor. Once we arrive, he busts out in some kind of offbeat sideways shuffle dance I have to bite my bottom lip to try not to laugh at. He smiles at me, moving faster, even though he knows it looks ridiculous. The music has a heavy beat, and I can’t help but think about how well it would translate to piano. The alcohol drums through my veins, and soon, I'm feeling the music in all the right places, letting it carry my hips as we laugh at the other’s terrible dancing.

Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but I think this might be one of the best birthdays I’ve had since I was a kid.

Chloe Age 10, November 17th

The music is loud, but even so, it’s not nearly loud enough to drown out the giggles of kids I barely know and Grandmother’s needle-like voice as she scolds Dad for letting us listen to what she deemstrash music. She takes every chance she can to mention that she didn’t make it into the Philharmonic by listening to Kidz Bop—not that they had CDs back in the olden days.

Right?

“How old is Grandma, do you think?” I ask Renee as she tucks her bent arm close to her chest, using it to hold a marker we aren’t supposed to have as she finishes one of the maze worksheet games that came with the party decorations Mom bought.

“I don’t know. Probably a hundred or something.” She barely gives me the time of day as she drags the marker down the page, still getting the hang of writing like that. I frown as I watch the frustration grow on her face; neither of us understandswhy her physical therapist had such a problem with the way she held her pencils before.

“Why don’t you just hold it the way you like?” I ask, poking at a group of ants, my legs finally giving up on hovering above the ground as I plop down on the dirt beside her.

“Mostly because Mom is watching.”

I peek up, finding Mom is, in fact, watching. Her sweet expression traded for a glare as she gestures for me to stop playing in the dirt. I do, flexing my hands underneath my baby pink lace gloves, wincing at the way healing scabs pull with every move. It’s a reminder of why I wear these dumb things. It feels stupid wearing them all the time, sitting here while all the other kids play tag, tossing balls around, and having fun—all things I’m notsupposedto do, all things Reneecan’tdo. When I look back, it’s at the sound of the marker dropping onto the page. Renee’s clenched hand rubs against mine, her violet-covered wrist frills all disheveled and out of place. I lean in, pressing my forehead against her shoulder, letting it rest there.

“I’m bored. Want to sneak down to the water?” She muses, her eyes wide. Grandma always says she has eyes like she has been here before. I’m not sure what that means, but it’s creepy. Her green eyes are normal, like Mom’s.

“I got in trouble last time,” I whisper before her yelp interrupts me and pain blasts across my left hand. The wiffle ball kids have been hitting around rolls off my lap as tears bead in my eyes. The sound of Mom and Grandma’s footsteps are already in a race to see who will reach me first.

“Are you okay?” Renee asks, comforting me the best she can as my tears spill over.

“Oh, my God, her hand!” Grandma shrieks. “There is a concert tomorrow evening!”

“Control your mother!” Mom screams back at Dad as he helps Renee into her seated walker.

I just stare at the pile of ants I smashed, watching their friends flee from their bodies in a panic. It looks like how my chest usually feels: smashed, ugly…frenzied. All the kids gather around, and I cryharder.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to. Don’t be a baby about it,” John offers, bobbing down to grab the ball off the ground.

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