Fuck no. I haven’t been to the beach since I was ten. Mostly because there aren’t any near where I live, but also because every time my parents suggested going as a family, I’d complain. I’m going to burn. What about sharks? I hate getting sand in my shoes. Instead of listening to me whine and stress out, my parents always opted to vacation at my aunt Carly’s house in Texas, about a day’s drive, or at some cabin in the mountains. Always somewhere with amenities, a controlled climate, and a place for me to sit comfortably with a book. Meanwhile, the rest of the family would go out hiking, swimming, shopping, and exploring.
Well, they used to.
No one wanted to do much of anything after Joy died. Losing her sucked the life out of everything, and it only got worse down the road.
The fallout—or lack of it—took that pile of festering shit and shaped it into a mountain. With rivers. Filled with evil crocodiles. Alligators? Whateverthefuck lives in fresh water. Doesn’t matter.
Joy’s death was like a stray bullet that punched a hole in every heart and major organ of anyone who’d ever known her. For those who hadn’t, they felt the sting of a town changed forever. Misery took the place of complacency, frowns took the places of polite smiles, and guilt took the place of hope. Joy’s murder was a stain that couldn’t be washed away.
Eventually, that stain became a dark cloud hovering over every house, building, and blade of grass.
Not that I feel bad for the town. People get what they deserve, in my book. Or at least they should. Doesn’t always work out that way. Like in Joy’s case.
River warned me not to get my hopes up about Manda and her friends paying for what they’d done, but I couldn’t believe that. Those girls are murderers. They would have to answer for their crime, no matter who their parents are. You just can’t walk into a locker room, beat an innocent girl to death, and then live your life like nothing ever happened. Right?
Wrong.
River’d been right. The families made it all go away with money, lawyers, and threats.
Even after Kyle won a seat on the city council, nothing was done about Joy’s murder. The sheriff said there were no witnesses, no evidence to charge anyone, and he refused to push further. Really? No evidence? Hard to believe. For a while, the town’s families demanded answers, but one by one, they were all silenced.
Not my parents, though. They said they wanted their faces to be a constant reminder to the town of what they’d done. The entire community was guilty of letting those psycho bitches get away with killing Joy, and until justice was served, no one would be allowed to forget. “If we have to live with the pain, then so do they,” Mom said.
Since then, she’s sat outside the church every Sunday with a giant picture of Joy taken from her senior yearbook that reads, This could have been your child. Justice for Joy!
But that’s my parents. Fighting Ferrises all the way. Kyle, too. But in private, we all struggle over losing the one person who was exactly as her name described: The joy of our family. Smiles. Laughter. A loyal friend. Joy never said a mean word to anyone who didn’t deserve it.
It was the reason Kyle filed a civil suit against the girls’ families, which got the attention of the media. It was enough to make Kyle Ferris a household name. Then, last year, he ran for congressman and won. The youngest person in the history of the state. Meanwhile, the civil suit drags on like a cancer in our lives.
Yes, it’s time to get away from this place. Somewhere I can start fresh.
“Hey! Earth to Huff. Are you still listening, or did you get lost in one of your checklists again?” says River over the phone.
I clear my throat. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. Had to make sure I packed enough pens.”
River laughs. “You know, they say people with compulsive list-making disorders are also compulsive masturbators.”
Probably true, then.
“Also,” she adds, “it’s a way of giving you the illusion of control—a superficial crutch. But really, life is just a series of events where the only things we control are our responses and emotions.”
“You’ve had two psychology classes, and now you’re going to analyze everything I do?”
“Yep.”
“Just what I fucking need, Riv.”
“I’m like your own personal mirror, baby. Who else is going to tell you your shit stinks?”
“Everyone. Absolutely everyone.” No. Seriously. What is it about me that makes people think they can take a crap on my head everywhere I go? The second high school I attended, in the next town over—for obvious reasons—hadn’t been any different than the first. Then came community college. Dicks, haters, and coldhearted bitches seemed to go out of their way to spew random insults: Hey, nice shoes, asswipe. As if Converse are offensive? Lots of people wear them. Or maybe they say my hair sucks. Usually, though, people just bump into me and scream, “Watch where the fuck you’re going, loser!”