The Keys to freedom

The Cove

As the final school bell chimed, Oz mulled over three potential ways to gather the rent money:

1. Rob a convenience store.

2. Dance at the local strip bar.

3. Blackmail one of the rich housewives for her extramarital affairs. Of which she knew of at least three.

Exiting her final class, she mentally reviewed the list of potential crimes when she suddenly found herself lifted off the ground from behind. Before she could react, she was slung over a familiar shoulder.

"Grayson, you better put me down or you're getting the worst wedgie of your life!" she barked, already reaching for the waistband of his jeans.

He let out a deep chuckle and gently set her down. "Okay, okay! The last time, you ripped my boxers nearly clean through."

Adjusting her shirt and glaring up at him, she said. "Next time, I'll leave you with nothing."

He grinned, unbothered. "Then you'll have to lend me yours—these are my only decent pair."

Jessper gagged dramatically. "Ugh. I hope you at least wash them everyday."

"As someone who basically lives with him," James added, "I can confirm—he does not."

Their laughter echoed as they began to walk slowly down the halls.

"So, what do you say, gang? After our shifts tonight, are we swiping some liquor and heading out to Turtle Rock?" Jessper asks, wrapping her arms around James's bicep – not in a flirtatious way, but in a manner that reflects a friendship since they were kids.

"Sure, if we make 200 dollars in tips tonight, we can celebrate not being homeless for another month. But if we don't, then we can just drink the worries away," James replies, wrapping his arm around Jessper's neck.

"I'm glad you guys are taking this so seriously," Oz glares.

"Oh, come on, Lozziepop, you worry too much. I'll pitch in my tips. It will all be fine," says Jessper.

"Yeah, and I'll help too," Grayson adds.

"No one is pitching in anything," she replies hastily. "This is mine and James's problem to worry about, not yours."

Jessper sighs, "You know it won't be the end of the world for you to accept help sometimes."

"You'd have better luck assisting a mother bear to get its paw out of a steel trap," James laughs.

Oz frowned at him, but knew it was true, she didn't like the thought of owing a debt, even though she knew they would never come to collect, she still hated the idea.

They navigate their way to the busy parking lot, lined with fancy cars and affluent snobs eagerly awaiting their even more pretentious offspring.

"Need a lift?" Oz offers Jessper as they approach their worn pickup truck, lined with layers of dirt and rust.

"No, my mom's picking me up. I'll catch you at work, though," she replies with a smile.

"Sure, give your mom my best," Oz snarks.

Jessper blows her a kiss before disappearing into the crowd of vehicles.

Grayson held the door open as she climbed into the middle seat of the truck's cab, her backpack sliding off her shoulder as she settled in. The cracked leather was warm from the morning sun, the faint scent of pine air freshener lingering in the air. She glanced at up a faded photo of her, James and their dad clipped to the visor. For a moment, she imagined what it might be like—to be someone's priority. To have a parent who drove you to school, waited for you outside without complaint, who asked about your day even if the answer was always "fine." It was such a small thing, stupid even. But those were the things that hit the hardest. The small, quiet gestures. The kind of love that showed up every day without being asked.

Having a mother who thought of her existence as an inconvenience, she couldn't help but notice the small efforts that other parents made for their kids.

During the slow, bumpy commute to work, she pretended to read a book, her eyes barely skimming the pages as her mind wandered off into a fog of thoughts. James and Grayson were in the middle of some ridiculous back-and-forth, their laughter punctuating the air with noise she didn't even have the energy to process. Their words were a blur—something about a failed prank or a mess they'd made over the weekend. She tuned them out, sinking deeper into the quiet of her own mind, a place that often held her captive now a-days.

The truck screeched slightly as James pulled into the back lot of The Cove, a weathered crab shack perched on the edge of the pier. The scent of saltwater in the wind, mingling with the distant cry of gulls circling above. The Cove had seen better days—its paint chipped from too many storms and summers, its neon sign flickering and about ready to burn out. James threw the truck into park, and they all piled out, the sound of car doors slamming echoing off the surrounding docks. As they made their way toward the back entrance, the familiar blend of grease, brine, and raw seafood wrapped around them.

Inside, the clang of dishes and hiss of the fryer filled the air. They grabbed their aprons from the hook by the clock-in station.

"Have fun, guys," Grayson called with a smug grin, already halfway through the swinging kitchen doors. The heat and chaos of the back kitchen swallowed him whole.

James glanced at Oz and let out a long, dramatic sigh realizing the grueling shift ahead of them.

"It's gonna be a long four hours," he muttered, looping the strings of his apron behind his back.

She gave a half-hearted nod. "Let's just get it over with," she said, forcing a thin smile as they pushed through the swinging doors into the front of the shack.

The dining room stretched out before them—eerily quiet and almost completely empty.

James scanned the room, then exhaled heavily. "Well... shit."

She let out a dry laugh, placing her hands on her hips as she surveyed the ghost town. "Should've robbed that damn convenience store."