Clouds of Violet

Chapter Five

Monday, September 8th, 15:41

"They want you to write an apology letter," Ms. Maria says, squinting at a paper. "For what you pulled at the cafeteria. They said to make it at least a page long, but that's too much for a food fight. Just make it three-fourths of a page and call it a day."

She hands us each a sheet of lined paper and I spend the next fifteen minutes trying to think of something to write. So far, I've written, I am very sorry for joining a food fight. I don't really know what else to write, because all I did was defend myself when someone decided to throw a fucking Cornetto ice cream at my hair. I hate that I got involved in that ridiculous food fight. It's not because I'm in trouble or because my hair was ruined that entire day. It's not even because my mom's still not talking to me.

It's because I have to write this stupid letter, and for what?

I swear to God, Demor wakes up every day and thinks of different ways to torture kids.

I look back at Max, who's already done and relaxing in his chair. He's looking up at the ceiling lights, one of which is blinking occasionally. His legs are up and he's leaning back in his chair. I want to ask how he's done while the rest of us are still writing, but we can't talk so I just stare at him like I'm an archaeologist who's just found dinosaur fossils.

"Kids, I'm going to the bathroom," Ms. Maria says. I watch her as she heads for the door, turning around one last time. "Behave."

The door slams shut and I turn back to Max.

"How are you already done?" I demand.

Max looks away from the ceiling and grins at me. He holds up his paper and I read what he's scribbled across the page in all caps.

I AM VERY SORRY.

"That doesn't count," I say, and some of the other girls turn to look at Max's paper. He flashes it to everyone proudly, with a smug smirk painted across his face.

"Yes, it does," he argues. "She said three-fourths of the page." He points at the empty space he left at the bottom. "Roughly three-fourths. She never gave us a word count." He smiles even wider and goes back to staring at the lights.

"Don't your eyes hurt?" Ayeza asks. "You've been staring at the lights for like, twenty minutes."

"Not really," he says. "I am starting to see blobs though."

"Blobs?" Blair, who wasn't paying attention till now, repeats.

"Y'know those dark blobs you see when you look at a light too long."

"Oh, those," Blair says.

The rest of detention goes by in silence and I barely write a paragraph. I mentally pat myself on the back for getting that much done and head out.

"Sky, wait up!"

I turn around and see Max walking toward me. He's slung his bag over his shoulder and is dressed like the 90s are making a comeback. A black and white horizontal shirt with plaid flannel over it and baggy jeans. I never noticed how old-fashioned his clothes were; I could've sworn I saw his sister wearing a pair of overalls my mom donated to a thrift shop.

"You're taking public, right?" he asks and I nod. "I'll join you. I always take public."

We walk to the parking lot, where Ayeza is fastening a helmet on her head and hopping onto a bike. I wave and she nods, which I guess is a greeting in her eyes. She speeds out of the parking lot. The sun is slowly dipping into the horizon as Max and I walk out of the parking lot and to the nearest bus station. A bright red bus is waiting by the station and we hop on right before it leaves. We sit in the back, me by the window and Max by the aisle.

"Can I come over?" he asks. "I kinda don't wanna be at home."

"I'm sorry, I'm grounded," I say and his face falls. "Otherwise I would've been more than happy to have you over."

"It's fine," he says, managing a smile. "I'll text Ezra or Aaron...so, have you heard from your dad?"

"No," I sigh. "I haven't seen him in a while. I don't know when he'll be back; he said soon, but that was a year ago."

"Well, at least he's doing something useful and good for society," Max shrugs. "Being in the military is no joke."

"Yeah," I agree. "I'll invite you over when he gets back. You know he loves you."

The little flecks in Max's eyes shine a little bit brighter than they did a few minutes ago.

Max's father left when he was little. He doesn't know where his father is or who he is. He doesn't even know if he's alive. He's a deadbeat father and possibly a dead father. He doesn't talk about it much and nobody really knows about it apart from a few of his friends. I think he's embarrassed by it, but it's more sad than embarrassing if I'm being honest. My father really loves Max. He misses him as much as he misses me, and he always used to ask about Max whenever he called.

Back when he still called anyway.

"This is my stop," I say, as the bus comes to a halt. "Bye, Max." I get up and head home. Once I'm standing in my front yard, in the path that runs down the middle, I don't want to go inside. I look at the perfectly polished windows and the blooming flowers. I look at the oak front door and the chimney that connects to a fireplace we never use. I look at the ridiculously green grass and the spotless white paint that's never once peeled off the concrete we built this house on.

I look at the sheer perfection of it all, how we've created this American dream.

And I'm the reason it might be falling apart.

Mom's been shut off for days and Owen's been a jackass and Dad hasn't been home.

And it's all my fault.

Somehow, I've managed to re-alive the cracks we sealed.

I sigh and open the front door. I slip off my shoes and head to the living room where Mom and Owen are watching TV. The five o'clock news is one and some pretentious-looking lady with a perfect blow-dry and too-red lipstick is holding a mic too close to her face. I sit on the armrest of the spare armchair.

"Just in, the police have found a sweater that presumably belonged to Camila Young, a fourteen-year-old girl who's been reported missing since last week," the pretentious-looking lady says. A picture of a torn lavender sweater covered in dirt. My eyes widen at the sight because that's the exact same sweater she was wearing on Thursday.

The day she went missing.

From the loosely knitted fabric to the V-line.

"But that's not all folks, there's a note that the police has agreed to disclose." The screen switches to a crumpled-up piece of paper. In capital letters, it reads:

YOU'RE NEXT

And it's written in blood.