Page 4 of Enemy Crush
Mom came to a standing halt, leaving my suitcase at the bottom of the stairs. Her chest heaved as she drew in a deep breath and sucked in her lips.
But her voice was firm and her nose tilted upwards. “You’ll find things are going to be a bit different from now, Quinn. It’ll be hard, but we’ll get through it. Okay?”
I frowned, scared by her words.
“You’re a Devereaux, so we stand tall and proud and we stay that way. Ambrose Manor is your home and I’ll do my darnedest to keep it that way. But I’m afraid, in simple terms, the truth is...”
My heart beat faster as Mom’s eyelids fluttered and her chin creased momentarily, and I recognized it as the same emotion running through my veins—fear.
Her voice dropped to an uncharacteristic whisper. “The truth is...we’re broke.”
A chill ran down my spine, those two words filling me with a dread that was inconceivable. Money had never been an issue for us. Ever.
In a kind of daze, I ascended the stairs with one suitcase, randomly attuned to the lack of cleanliness. Dust clung to thehandrail and cobwebs hung from the walls and ceiling like Halloween was nigh, a sickening indicator that Jillian, our housekeeper no longer worked here. I pushed open my bedroom door, checking that everything was indeed in its place, that she hadn’t sold any of my stuff from under me—my four poster bed, my antique dresser, my collection of Baby Yoda toys and figurines, and my treasured Squishmallow collection, now in the hundreds, lined up on shelves. Thankfully, apart from a freshly made bed, my room was exactly as I’d left it.
But I had a sinking feeling that it was going to be the only part of my life that hadn’t changed.
Chapter 2
MILLER
Ilet out a groan as my phone alarm beeped, already awake but dozing in that state of procrastination about lifting my head off of the pillow and getting out of bed. It was the first day of school but my hesitation to start the day had nothing to with my senior year, rather the trepidation of my brother starting his freshman year.
It was going to be difficult for Mason; I knew that. And I was determined to watch over him and protect him, but I also couldn’t be his keeper every minute of the day. High school could be brutal, but for any kid who didn’t fit into a certain mold, it could be a daily torment. And it didn’t have to be any major or outstanding feature for you to be a target—you might just prefer to wear suit jackets and ties, or like classical music or have orange hair or be too skinny...and someone would find a way to make your life a misery.
Mason had been a preterm baby, born two months too early, and his whole life he’d been playing catch up. He’d always been small, short, a lightweight. No matter that he tried to eat as much as he could, he was under five feet tall and barely weighed 85 pounds. Dad was full of encouragement, confident that he’d shoot up six inches when he hit 15 or 16, but that was no consolation in the here and now when kids called him Stick Boy. Or Wheezy. He used an inhaler to manage his asthma and that seemed to be another reason for kids to bully him. Which had made him avoid sports and gravitate to books. And yeah, youguessed it, reading books got you called a nerd. The boy couldn’t catch a break.
And it meant he became more introverted, burying himself in his books. I suspected there were things he never told us, but I remembered the times he’d come home with mud-stained pants (when it hadn’t been raining), his backpack covered in graffiti, a missing shoe (located but never retrieved from the branches of a tall elm), torn books, paint in his hair.
There hadn’t been much I could do at middle school, but now I’d have my eyes and ears peeled and if anyone hurt my little brother, they’d have to deal with me.
“Miller!” Dad’s sharp tongue was accompanied by a cranky knock on the bathroom door. “Get a move on. Some of us have to get to work!”
I spat out my toothpaste and rested my toothbrush on the shelf. I quickly inspected my teeth, ran my fingers through my disheveled hair, rueing the fact that I hadn’t gotten a haircut. I’d put it on my To Do list for this week. Summer break had gone by too fast, what with working on the Mustang, hanging with my brother and helping out at the Hamlin’s farm.
I unlocked the door to see Dad glaring. “Keep your hair on,” I said with a grin. “Aww, that’s right, you don’t have any.” I cracked up with laughter as I reached to rub his closely shaved head, his preferred style since he’d found his hairline receding at an alarming rate.
Dad scoffed, mussing my hair, returning the jibe. “Ha! Like father, like son. Enjoy it while you can!”
“Hey, how’s it going?” I said to Mason as I came back into the kitchen. He was eating a bowl of cornflakes, a book propped against the cereal container.
“Otis found an ancient sword in the cornfield and now he has magical powers,” he said without looking up.
I hadn’t meant about the story, but said, ”Okay. Cool.” I stood at the window and filled the sink with water and dish soap, pushing back the net curtain a little. There was no sign of movement from across the street, so I quickly washed the dishes.
Dad came in the room and picked up his keys. “You boys all ready? Got your lunches made? Mase, you ready for your big day?”
He nodded, then his mouth rounded. “Oooh, Otis has the ability to see in other dimensions when he wields the sword around.”
Dad and I glanced furtively at each other; both of us had the same concerns but we didn’t want to alarm Mason.
“You better hurry with your breakfast, buddy,” Dad said, reaching for the book. “Don’t wanna be late for the bus, yeah?”
Mason picked up his bookmark, which looked like an old envelope and marked his page. Dad ruffled his hair and kissed the top of his head. “I gotta go, but you have a great day, Mase. I’ll hear about it tonight. Have fun, now.”
“I will, Dad,” Mason said. “See you.”
“Yeah, see you tonight,” I said, one eye still on the window, wondering if Quinn Devereaux had already left for school. She lived across the lane and usually left early for the drive to Brizendine Prep over in Pine Ridge, the next town over.
