“Forget about cigars! We’ve gotta run!”
“Hey, toots, where are those pretzels?” a drunken jock demanded.
“The bar is closed!” I said in his face. “Great service demands a great tip!” I grabbed his poker earnings and stuffed them into Becky’s purse. “Time to go!” I said, pulling her away.
“What’s in the bag?” she asked.
“Trash, what else?”
I pushed her out the front door. The nice thing about not having friends was there was no one to say good-bye to. “What happened?” she kept asking as I pulled her across the front yard. Her ten-year-old pickup truck sat at the end of the street, waiting for us like home base. “Where were you, Raven? You have leaves in your hair.”
I waited until we were halfway home before I turned to her with a huge grin and shouted, “I screwed Trevor Mitchell!”
“You did what?” she shouted back, almost swerving off the road. “With who?”
“I screwed Trevor Mitchell.”
“You didn’t! You couldn’t! You wouldn’t!”
“No, I mean figuratively. I screwed him so bad, Becky, and I have the clothes to prove it!” And I pulled them out of the trash bag one by one.
We laughed and shrieked as Becky turned a corner near Benson Hill.
Somehow Trevor would find his way out of the darkness. But he wouldn’t have his rich threads to mask himself. He’d be naked, cold, alone. Exposed for who he really was.
I would remember my Sweet Sixteenth birthday for the rest of my life and now Trevor Mitchell would, too.
As we drove along the desolate country road that twisted around Benson Hill, the headlights shone against the creepy trees. Moths attacked the windshield as if warning us to choose another way.
“The Mansion’s totally dark,” I said as we approached it. “Wanna stop for a look-see?”
“Your birthday’s over,” Becky said in an exhausted voice, keeping her foot on the gas pedal. “We’ll go next year.”
Suddenly the headlights illuminated a figure standing in the middle of the road.
“Watch out!” I yelled.
A guy with moonlight-white skin and spikey black hair, clothed in a black coat, black jeans, and black Doc Martens, quickly raised his arm to shield his eyes—seemingly from the glare of the headlights rather than the imminent impact of Becky’s pickup.
Becky slammed her brakes. We heard a thud.
“Are you okay?” she cried.
“Yes. Are you?”
“Did I hit him?” she yelled, panicking.
“I don’t know.”
“I can’t look,” she said, hiding her head on the steering wheel. “I can’t!” She started to cry.
I jumped out of the truck and anxiously peered around the front, afraid of what I might find lying in the road.
But I saw nothing.
I checked underneath the truck and looked for dents. On closer inspection, I noticed blood splattered on the fender.
“Are you okay?” I called out.
But there was no response.
I grabbed a flashlight from Becky’s glove compartment.
“What are you doing?” she asked, worried.
“Searching.”
“For what?”
“There was some blood—”
“Blood?” Becky cried. “I’ve killed someone!”
“Calm down. It could have been a deer.”
“A deer doesn’t wear black jeans! I’m calling nine-one-one.”
“Go ahead—but where’s the body?” I reasoned. “You weren’t going fast enough to catapult him into the woods.”
“Maybe he’s under the truck!”
“I already looked. You probably just bumped him and he took off. But I want to make sure.”
Becky grabbed my arm, digging her nails into my flesh. “Raven, don’t go! Let’s get out of here! I’m calling nine-one-one!”
“Lock the door if you have to,” I said, tearing myself free. “But keep the engine and the lights on.”
“Raven, tell me this…” Becky exclaimed breathlessly, gazing at me with terrified eyes. “What normal guy would be walking in the middle of a pitch-black road? Do you think he might be a—?”
I felt the pleasant tingle of goosebumps on my arms.
“Becky, don’t get my hopes up!”
I combed the bushes that went down to the creek. Then I headed for the hillside leading up toward the Mansion.
I let out a shriek.
“What is it?” Becky cried, rolling down the window.
Blood! Thick puddles in the grass! But there was no body! I followed the bloodstains, afraid bits of his corpse were strewn everywhere. And then I tripped over something hard. I looked down, anticipating a severed head. I apprehensively shone my flashlight on it. It was a dented paint bucket.