Page 12 of The Truths We Burn

Silas pulls the glass door open, stepping onto the checkered floor, and when we cross the threshold, all voices cease to exist. The fully packed diner becomes quieter than a mouse’s footsteps.

We are the things that don’t belong entering a place we are not welcome.

It’s as if we’ve just walked into church or some place of worship.

And everyone knows, holy ground burns the feet of the damned.

I grab Silas’s shoulder. “What? Is there something on my face?”My voice rings through the space, crackling and popping in their ears.

Some of them stare openly in shock; others hide their gazes, fearing that we’ll make eye contact with them and possess them or do something wicked. Women grab their purses, men slit their eyes, girls tighten their thighs, and boys try to act tough.

Silas starts moving, stalking towards his girl with purpose. Her body is tucked into a small booth by herself. He wasn’t joking when he said he wanted to get in and get out—he hates being around this many people. Even if he’d never said it out loud, I can see it in the way he holds himself.

I follow behind him, watching as her gentle eyes raise, meeting her boyfriend’s. Everything fades for the two of them, the anxiety drops from her shoulders, and relief washes down his back like water.

Jealous isn’t the word for what I feel about them. I don’t like Rose like that, and I can admit when guys are attractive, but Silas doesn’t do it for me like that.

But sometimes, very rarely, I wonder what it would feel like for someone to look at me like that.

Like I’m more than a problem. A mistake. A monster. Lucifer.

Someone who looks at me like I’m human.

Rose gathers her things quickly, sliding from her place in the booth, bringing my attention to the others around her. Members of the football team sit together, some of them on top of the booths themselves, their flavor of the week dangling on their arms.

In every way besides monetary, they are our opposites.

We are all rich, and that’s where the similarities stop.

If there was a wrong side of the tracks in Ponderosa Springs, we’d be over there. All the while they stare over at us from their balconies and perfectly trimmed lawns, looking at us as if our clothes don’t cost just as much, as if our families aren’t just as affluent.

None of that matters because our wealth is covered by the stench of danger. Ruckus. Violence.

We’re the people parents warned you about when you were growing up, the boogeymen beneath your bed. We are abominations to this merry-go-round town where everyone plays their part.

And nobody plays their parts better than the prince of all things high-and-mighty and his darling little princess that sits by his side.

“Hey, guys, ready to leave?” Rose mumbles, throwing her book bag over her shoulders as Silas pulls her into his chest, holding her to his body.

“Hey, Rosie girl.” I reach forward, ruffling her hair. “Let’s go find some trouble to get into, yeah?”

I’m joking obviously. Joking is the way I cover up the hollowness inside my chest. No one knows how the laughs echo inside of me. Because I have nothing left.

There is a light cough, followed by, “Lowlifes.” It’s low, muffled, and it causes the group to laugh under their breaths.

I roll my match across my upper row of teeth, grinning around it.

“Sorry, couldn’t hear you with those cocks in your mouth. Wanna say that a little louder, Sinclair?” I step past my friends towards his side of the booth.

Easton is as pretentious as Gucci flip-flops.

I’ve hated him since I met him—we all do. This mentality he carries that he’s a god amongst others. The way people think he walks on water, and he fuels that kind of attention.

Whoop-de-fucking-do.

His father is the dean of an overpriced university that’s sinking into the soggy ground. Hardly anything to brag over. But like most, Easton knows how to play the people here.

He smiles for the papers, wins football games, pretends he’s hot shit.

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