Page 76 of The Circus

And they are more than enough.

My grin broadens. Somewhere in the distance, a raven sings his eerie tune. Storm clouds gather in the distance. And I drop the proverbial other shoe.

“Which is why I am pleased to let said bullies know that the deans, presidents, faculty, and anyone of consequence at the schools you’ve all worked so hard to finally attend have been notified of your…extracurricular activities. With evidence, of course.”

Scant gasps erupt from the crowds, along with outbursts from angry parents, but my voice rises above them all.

“Because if I was able to be a good person despite my circumstances, then it is my hope that when your scholarships and acceptance letters are inevitably revoked, you will find it in yourselves to learn to be wholeheartedly good. Congratulations, graduates. Now your lives canfinallybegin.”

FORTY-FOUR

EDEN

“So,how does it feel tonotbe a graduate of Seattle Prep, eh?” Cash jests, elbowing me in the arm as he drives casually through Hangman Hollow, one hand on the wheel like the cool 80s throwback he is. Rolling my eyes to the dreary day, I bite back my bitter smile and consider how I really feel. Teddy and I both know we don’t have much of a conventional future ahead of us, one where diplomas and degrees will be useless. Sure, I’d love to attend college at some point, simply because I am a sponge for knowledge, and so long as I draw breath, that thirst will never be slaked.

We can cross that bridge when we get there, though.

So the decision was easy in some aspects, this last prank symbolic in more ways than one. Legally, there is nothing anyone can do to me, or Teddy. The faculty and board of Seattle Prep simply stripped us of diplomas we never held, and Dick has added to our debts considerably.

That, I could care less about. It’s the thought that I’ve somehow disappointed my father that hurts the worst.

“Fucking glorious,” I say, turning to grin evilly at him. His eyes dance and he chuckles with a shake of his head. “They should’ve killed me when they had the chance.”

He sobers a bit, pondering my words before he smirks, the corners of his eyes crinkling mischievously.

“Sometimes dead is better.”

My brows raise, and I nod, applauding his turn of phrase.

“Didn’t know you were so poetic,” I tease.

He gives me a funny look before returning his eyes to the road.

“Didn’t thinkPet Sematarywas considered poetic.”

It’s my turn to give him a funny look. The village-esque town is consumed by gauzy fog and trees slick with recent rain that shimmer in the silvery light as we get closer to the asylum. It’s so peaceful here, like being transported into a simpler time where magic was still just one thin veil away.

“What’s that?”

He turns his face to me, stunned.

“What’s what? You don’t knowPet Sematary?”

I shake my head gently, feeling that familiar flush of embarrassment creep up my neck. His jaw drops in slight shock, but he whips his attention back to the road as a logging truck barrels toward us on the other side. Hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled angst, he explains.

“Stephen King? Only the most notable and famous horror author to have ever lived?”

Frowning, I cross my arms, a debate prepared on the tip of my tongue.

“Actually, Mary Shelley was the best horror author, and here’s why?—”

“Oh, zip it, I don’t need you to vomit up one of your scholarship essays, kiss ass. Stephen King wrotePet Semataryand intended to never publish it. Thought it was too horrific a concept, even for a man like him. I’ll let you borrow it.”

“What’s it about?”

He smirks, knowing I’m intrigued.

“A guy who moves and finds this cemetery for pets but things can come back to life there. Jud Crandall’s famous line—Sometimes dead is better. You’ll see why.”

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