Page 18 of Of Angels & Absolution

“Oh please. You want so badly to be edgy and different, but let’s face it, we’re outcasts by choice,” Ronique says. “You’re a witchy goth, and he’s a bitchy gayth, and I’m a vegan metalhead. We’re an exclusive clique of our own making. I bet half the kids on campus wish they could hang out with us.”

“Too bad they’re too straight-edge to be themselves, or we’d let them,” Annabel Lee says.

“Is that what I’m doing here?” I ask. “You asked me to sit with you because you think I’m a freak?”

“You’re the most straight-laced of them all,” Manson says. “Obviously not a freak, and definitely not being yourself.”

“As much as any of us are,” Ronique mutters, glancing at my clothes—cable knit sweater, floor-length linen skirt, clogs.

“How are we not being ourselves?” Annabel Lee asks, her brows drawing together. She’s usually so cool, it’s disconcerting to see her show emotion, and anger is not the one I’d have chosen. But maybe that’s only because I know who her family is. She’s always intimidating, but it’s not in the same way that the Sincero sister is. Instead of looking tough and tattooed like the guys in her family, Annabel Lee is tall and slender, with a dark elegance that belongs in another age, like an ink drawing on the cover of a gothic novel or a woman in mourning in an impressionist painting, a skeletal parasol held aloft in one long-fingered, black-gloved hand.

“For starters, your family controls half this town,” Ronique says to her before turning to Manson. “And yours must be the richest family in Arkansas, aside from the Waltons. You have a freaking helipad. That’s not normal, Manson.”

“That’s our families, not us,” Manson argues. “Besides, lots of people have helipads.”

Ronique rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

Annabel Lee gives her boyfriend a grateful look. “He’s right. Just because my brothers are gangsters, it’s not like I’mdoing drive-by shootings in my spare time. If someone tried to fight me, I’d let them knock me out before I’d throw a punch.”

“Exactly,” Manson agrees, reaching across the table to stroke her pale, slim fingers. “Can’t risk these treasures.”

“Besides, my mom is a teacher at a public school,” Annabel Lee says. “It’s not like we’re all criminals. I just happen to embody my name, while my brothers embody theirs.”

“Okay,” Ronique says, clearly unconvinced.

Meanwhile, I try to recall the names of Angel’s other cousins, but I can only remember the oldest one, who everyone called Mad Dog. I shiver and open my book, trying not to imagine what kind of person embodies a name like that. Though I’ve met all the North cousins in passing once or twice, and I could pick them from a lineup easily enough based on likeness, I don’t know anything about them aside from what my parents said when they warned us away, calling them ‘bad news.’

Angel never really talked about them around us, though I know he’s close with his whole family. He always kept that part of his life separate, as if he knew their reputation would make us uncomfortable. Or maybe he liked the reprieve from having to act tough or live up to his family name. Around us, he could be himself, a normal boy who liked basketball and orange Fanta and snuggling on the couch during movies.

A normal boy who’s just entered the library on one side of my brother, while Heath takes up his usual position at his other side.

“Saint Soules,” Ronique whispers with a reverence of which I wouldn’t have guessed her capable. “I need to lie down.”

Apparently even the most pragmatic girl loses her mind around my brother. Grabbing my stuff so fast I fumble it and nearly drop it, I catch it at the last second and dart away from the table and up the staircase that winds slowly up the side of the circular room. I curse the design, which leaves me exposedto the view of everyone below. Ducking my head, I pray the boys aren’t in the mood for games today. They’ve left me alone lately, since the encounter with Angel, though I see them watching me. Maybe they’ve given up on getting me to drop out and are content with what I’ve given them.

I wish I were too.

“Well, if it isn’t my cousin Al,” Angel drawls behind me. “Taking in another stray for your menagerie?”

“The only animals I see here are y’all,” Annabel Lee drawls back.

“Freak show,” Heath sings out, and I hear a few snickers echoing in the silence of the study room.

“Baby boy, you have no idea,” Manson says. “There’s a reason it’s calledgetting freaky.”

“Mercy is ours,” Saint growls.

I peek down from the corner of my eye and see that every head has turned their way as usual. The girls all look starstruck, while the boys’ expressions range from jealous to resentful to worshipful to petrified. Ronique looks like she might be having a stroke.

“That’s between her and y’all,” Annabel Lee says. “But even your girlfriend needs a place to sit.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Saint snarls, the veins on his forearms popping out when he rests his hands on the edge of the table and looms over her. “She’s my sister.”

“Whatever you say, Fabio,” Annabel Lee says, sounding bored.

I tear my gaze from the obscene display of my brother’s bare forearms and creep up the stairs, praying the old wood won’t squeak and draw attention to me. My heart is hammering, and a funny feeling is throbbing in my lower belly. Why am I like this? Normal people don’t get wet from seeing someone’s arms.

Do they?

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