Page 14 of Little Stranger

I narrow my eyes. “I do not snore.”

“Yes, you do, angel,” Dad says, chuckling.

“It’s quite unladylike, dear,” Mom adds.

Fuck everyone in this car.

“Okay,” Dad starts, unclipping his belt and turning to us, and I sit up straighter. “Malachi, do you want to share with me or your sister? We have two two-man tents.”

It’s a little weird for him to ask. Why would he share with the dad he doesn’t get along with? They don’t talk often, if ever, so instead of signing, or even looking up from his phone, he points at me and goes back to typing with his thumb.

“Okay. The kids together. And me and you.”

“Why didn’t you buy one big tent?” Mom asks.

They then fall into a debate about tents, while I try to look at the group chat Malachi is talking in, but from my angle, I only see emojis and a meme one of his friends has sent.

They’re all quite scary to talk to. I picked him up once when he was drunk, and they had heavy metal music playing, their hair spiked up, and piercings all over their faces.

I stood in the driveway in my cheer uniform, and they stared at me like I was the one who didn’t fit in. Not like when we were all at school and they were the outcasts.

Malachi punched one of his friends who tried to flirt with me that night—now they all steer clear of me like I’m a disease. He can be quite… violent.

Is it weird that I like it when he’s angry and beating people up for me? Except Adam—he did nothing wrong, and he’s been very sweet on our dates. Nervous, but sweet. I still have no idea why Malachi attacked him.

Once we have both tents set up, a little fire built between them, and our designated toilet spots organized, we warm up around the flames, darkness falling over us as the stars shine bright. The cracking of the wood fills the silence. Mom has a sleeping bag wrapped around her shoulders; she smiles as she watches me and Malachi try and fail to toast marshmallows on the fire.

His thigh is pressed up against mine, and I’m so aware of it. I wonder if our parents can see it too. But they don’t say anything if they do—they just chat between themselves while Malachi helps pick the largest marshmallow and puts it on the end of the stick for me.

“Who wants to take a walk?” Dad asks, and Mom’s hand shoots up. “Come on. I think we can get a better view of the stars near the cliff. Are you coming, kids?”

We’re eighteen and nineteen, and he still calls uskids. We both shake our heads.

As soon as they’re out of view, Malachi pulls out his cigarettes and lights one—blows a cloud above our heads and leans his elbows on his parted knees.You aren’t allowed one, so don’t ask, he signs when he sees me looking at the cigarette between his lips.

“I don’t want one. Smoking is bad for you,” I say, as if he hasn’t been smoking for the last two years. “It’s like paying to die.”

He laughs silently and takes a long drag.

Silence, and then as if something switches within him, he flicks the half-smoked cigarette away and stands. My eyes follow him, and he doesn’t give me a second to think or move before he grabs my hand and yanks me to my feet, pulling me towards the tent we’re sharing.

I nearly trip up, but his grip on me keeps me on my scurrying feet.

He keeps my hand in his as he unzips the tent, holding it open for me to go in first.

“What’s happening?” I ask, glancing around to see if our parents are coming back.

Get in,he signs,or I’ll drag you in.

I huff and cross my arms, arching a brow at his threat. “No, you won’t.”

He follows through with the threat as he snatches the front of my sweater and throws me inside, dropping me on the sleeping bag.

“Jesus, Malachi! Do you need to be so damn rough?”

Yes,he signs.You never listen, stubborn ass.

“Rude. What are we doing in here? Are you still hungover and need to sleep?”

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