Page 5 of Nightmare

“Fuck off.”

I laugh quietly, and Andie finishes her makeup, grinning like a maniac as she studies her handiwork. “Okay. Now you’re ready.”

* * *

We leave the car on the street opposite the gas station, and then the three of us start walking once we’ve bought as much alcohol as we can carry. Andie leads the way, with me and Nova trailing behind her, cutting through the lowest part of the bush on the side of the road. We follow the beaten path into the woods, using the flashlights on our phones to see where we’re going.

It’s freezing tonight—October through February in Black Ridge is cold as shit—and Andie won’t stop shivering and hugging her arms around her body. She hates the cold, whereas I love it. This is my favorite season. I’d live in fall forever if I could.

“Why do you never bring a jacket?” I ask, ducking under a low hanging tree branch.

“Because it would hide my killer outfit.”

I nod with a light laugh, and we carry on walking. We know these woods like the backs of our hands, having been coming out here since we were old enough to sneak out, so it doesn’t take us much effort to get to where we’re going. By the time we get to the party spot just after ten, Nova’s already ditched us and disappeared into thin air, probably through the huge crowd gathered around the small campfire. The flames keep us warm, but the alcohol and drugs will start to kick in soon and everyone will eventually spread out into the woods for the rest of the night, cold be damned.

People look over and clear the way for me and Andie as we walk, “Popular Monster” by Falling in Reverse playing loudly from the portable speaker on my left. Someone’s already hung a bunch of Joker masks from the trees to make them look like severed heads—probably Trystan, because he loves this shit. Multicolored fairy lights are lit and strung up in the trees as well—we don’t bring candles out here anymore, not after we almost burned this town to shit back in senior year—making it easy for me to recognize several familiar faces from college and our class from high school. The current high school students are here too, but we don’t mind them. They’re old enough to make their own mistakes, and it’s not our job to tell these kids to fuck off home to their parents. We did worse when we were their age; shit so stupid I’m surprised we’re all still alive.

“Yo, Violet!” Trystan shouts over the noise, walking over to meet us with that mischievous grin of his, tapping his fist against mine. “Looking fine, QB,” he says to Andie, winking at her when she grits her teeth at him. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

“Not here.”

“Really?” He feigns surprise. “I’m shocked.”

“Ha,” she deadpans. “Fuck off, Tryst.”

He smirks at her, but neither me or him bother saying anything else about it. I’ve learned it’s better to keep my mouth shut when it comes to Deacon Wells. He’s a college junior like the rest of us, smoking hot and loaded and smart as hell, but he’s probably the biggest douchebag I’ve ever met. He treats Andie like shit because he thinks he’s too good for her, but I think she’s the one who’s too good for him. I still can’t figure out why she stays with him, and I’m not the only one. Her dad doesn't even like him, and he likes everyone. Even Atticus. Which is kind of a big deal because nobody likes Atticus. My own parents wouldn’t even let him inside our house when we were dating in high school, and now that he’s gone, they just love telling me I told you so. Constantly reminding me what a mistake it was for me to fall for him and that I should have gotten rid of him years ago.

Don’t think about it.

Don’t…

Fuck it, just don’t think at all.

“I need a drink.”

Trystan opens his mouth to say something to me, but Andie cuts him off with a hard glare, shaking her head as she pulls me away by my hand.

“But, Vi—”

“Shut up, Tryst.”

“Fine,” he calls after us, laughing as he heads toward a group of college girls a few feet away. “Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you, QB!”

Andie ignores him and grabs us a solo cup each from the plastic wrapped stack on the bar—which is just a filthy, folding wooden table filled with cheap beer—taking the bottle of tequila from me to pour us a shot each. She hands me mine, and I quickly chug it down, holding my empty cup out for her to give me another.

“Are you sure you wanna be here?” she asks again, waving the tequila at me. “Just say the word and we’ll take this home and go to bed with a dirty audiobook. Fuck this party.”

“Andie.”

“Don't Andie me. I’m worried about you.”

“Why?”

“Why?” she repeats, shrugging when I give her a look that says just say what you wanna say and be done with it. “All right. Because your smiles are fake as shit. You drink every night. You haven’t seen your parents in months.”

“I'm busy getting my degree.”

“And you hardly ever show up to class anymore,” she adds, completely disproving my point. “And when you do, you’re either high or hungover. Mostly both.”

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