Read an Excerpt
Chapter One CHAPTER ONE
Drunk girls are the best.
I grin at the one next to me, who winds her elbow around mine and shouts about what sort of guy she wants to marry and why he’s very different from who she’s going home with tonight. The other girls are discussing what drinks they’re going to get and what club they want to go to after this one. They offer me hits off their vapes, and we make a joke of blowing the vapor in each other’s faces. When asked my name, I tell them August, and they laugh because that’s the month it is. I act like I lied and tell them the name on my ID instead. After five minutes together, we’re besties.
When we get to the front of the line, we show our IDs together. All nineteen. Legal. The girls make high-pitched pleas to skip cover, and the bouncer rolls his eyes and waves us in for free.
Inside, Stages is packed wall-to-wall with people jumping and dancing to the blaring music from the DJ, screaming over each other to be heard. It’s busy for a Friday night in the summer. Usually it’s slower around this time since the students aren’t back yet. But I guess this DJ is popular enough to draw a crowd. The tiled floor is sticky under my feet, and the crowd smells like too many combinations of perfume, cologne, and body spray, coalescing into one sharp, stinging scent that I can’t describe as anything other than “strong.”
I tell the girls that I think I saw someone I know. They head to the bar, and I wait in a corner and scroll on my phone for a few minutes. By the time they have their drinks, they’ve forgotten me. That’s the best part about friendships with drunk girls—they’re short-lived. I head by myself to the bar, where I’m asked for my ID again, which I flash. And it passes because it is real. It’s just not mine.
Another great thing about drunk girls is that they lose their IDs all the time. And no bartender is going to look too long with a throng of people pushing and shoving, trying to get served. It’s a Black girl on the card, and I’m Black too; good enough.
My phone vibrates, and I fish it out of my jeans pocket. The screen lights up with Bailey’s name. I ignore the call and check a text from Jules. He’s sent me some cheesy video of a dog using a voice command system to swear at its owners. This loser. He’s wanted a dog forever, but we moved too much so our parents always said no. And now he’s in the dorms and still can’t have one. So he’s pining over other people’s pets. I send back a video I watched on the walk over that’s not dog related because I wouldn’t be caught dead unironically sending that shit.
I accept the doubles of vodka-cran from the bartender, balancing the four plastic cups by squishing them together and holding the outsides between my fingers. I bring them to one of the small stand-up tables, where I down them all, one after the other, as fast as I can. I know it’s going to be a good night because I can taste the liquor. I order one more round before I finally go out onto the dance floor.
I don’t recognize the song, but it doesn’t matter. I can dance to anything. I just close my eyes and move. My braids sway and brush against my shoulders and back. I’m getting used to the changes in my body, bigger hips and butt, and folds of skin that weren’t there before. When I open my eyes, I spot a guy wearing the Queen’s standard club uniform of a hoodie and jeans watching me. It’s the sort of attention I always get when I dance. I was sure that wouldn’t be a thing anymore now that I look different. There were a lot of things I was convinced I would lose that never went away. Not for that reason, anyway. I close my eyes again.
Time slips and curls around me. Dancing for myself means that no one else matters. It’s like being in my bedroom when I was ten, music blasting, hairbrush in hand, feeling like a rock star. Nothing in the world could deny me that truth in that moment. I could be anything and anyone. I wasn’t pretending. I just was.
I could do this for hours.
And I do.
I’m downing another round when the bartender makes last call, and everyone surges to the bar. I’ve already got the spins. But I’m still pressing the plastic cup to my lips and slurping the drink down. I stopped tasting the vodka a while ago. I fumble with my phone and there are dozens of messages now. Not just Bailey. Jules, too. I finally notice the time at the top: 1:45 a.m.
Fuck. I missed the last ferry to the island.
I tip the rest of my drink into my mouth and stare at the other three I ordered. In the crowd, I spot the girls from the line. They aren’t bothering with trying to get to the bar and are lounging against the railings that line the upper level. But they look over when I call them, squinting as they try to place me.
I remind them of my fake name and recognition spreads across their faces. I say, “My friends had to leave so I have extras. Do you guys want them?” My voice is slow. It’s like everything I say is coming out on a delay.
The girls share a moment of hesitation. I get it. I’m technically a stranger. But they must decide I’m trustworthy enough because they accept the drinks and continue our conversation from the line like no time has passed. I start to move away from the table when one of them grabs me. “Do you have someone to walk home with?”
“I’m fine. My brother lives on campus.” Jules isn’t expecting me, but he’d never turn me away. He’ll make his “serious face,” which has never been that serious with me, and fold anyway. He always folds. Unlike Mom, who’s an iron wall. Sometimes Dad can be won over. Not anymore, though. He’s reached his limit with me.
The girl bites her lip. “Shit. We’re north of Princess.” I vaguely understand that she’s talking about Princess Street, the main road that goes through downtown. Most students live south of it, closer to campus. “You’re a student, right? I can call Walkhome.”
“I’m not a student,” I snap. I don’t mean to, but I do. I do a lot of things that I don’t mean to now. Everything used to be reined in so tight, but not anymore.
I can’t tell if she’s too drunk to notice my tone or if she doesn’t care. “This girl went missing like a week ago walking home. You shouldn’t go alone.”
“I’ll call a friend outside.”
I don’t think she believes me, but she lets me go. I leave the club and start walking, trying to find my way back to campus. The streets are filled with people milling around in groups, making their own way home, their loud conversations and shouts filling the air.
I’m unsteady on my feet, but I’m wearing my Docs, so it’s better than if I were in heels. I like to think that Mom would prefer it. She always asked where I was going dressed like I was grown when I wore heels and tight dresses to parties with my friends.
Now Mom is gone. Has been for almost nine months. And I don’t have friends anymore.
I look around, trying to remember where Jules’s dorm is. Queen’s University looks like someone took a chunk of Victorian England and dropped it in the middle of a town in southern Ontario. There are cobblestone streets and ivy crawling up brick buildings. It has winding paths through campus lined with trees and carefully manicured shrubs. But there are enough modern touches to remind you of where and when you are. Still, it’s hard for it to not feel like its own world apart from the rest of Kingston. Especially with so many of its buildings clustered in one place.
And unfortunately for me, I’ve found myself on the outside of that cluster. I’m at the edge of campus next to a park. It’s basically abandoned. There are tents set up, but even those are quiet.
I yank my phone out of my pocket and search for a bench. I find one and drop onto it, resting my head on my knees and squeezing my eyes shut. Even with them closed, the world is still spinning. I force them open and send a text to Jules asking where his dorm is. I want to lie down. And throw up. Actually, I can do that last bit right now.
There’s a crunch behind me. Feet on grass. I don’t bother looking back. It’s a park. I doubt I’m the only person here.
“Hey, you doing all right?” I turn toward the edge of campus, and a group of three guys are ambling toward me. But not from behind where I heard the sound. They’re the same white guy in different fonts. All wear jeans and hoodies. Do these guys never look at each other and think they should maybe diversify their wardrobe?
“Fuck off,” I say.
The guy who spoke reels back. “Wow, okay, chill. We’re trying to be nice, right?” He nudges his buddies.
“She’s not worth it,” one of them says, without bothering to lower his voice.
I stand to leave and sway in place. Their ringleader grins at me. His hoodie is navy blue with QUEEN’S embroidered across the chest. “Why not? She looks like she’d be down to f—”
I’m not thinking about it. Not really. I reach under my shirt to the belt at my waist, pull the knife there from its holster, and throw.
Mom would say, “Don’t give yourself time to doubt what you’re doing. If you have to spend time on anything, use it to make sure your aim is good.”
And then I would hit the bullseye. Because I was the perfect daughter until I wasn’t.
The guy screams as the blade clips his ear and embeds itself in the tree behind him. “What the fuck?! You bitch!”
I’m still drunk, but the experience sobers up his friends, who start pulling him away. Though he’s fighting them.
I reach behind me again. “I have more.”
I don’t. But they don’t know that.
The ringleader spits at me, the saliva falling short and leaving drool on this chin. He and his friends flee to campus, and I lean forward and puke like I’ve been wanting to, tasting cranberry on my lips. I spit for good measure. Mine comes out of my mouth properly because I’m not an amateur.
That sound again. Footsteps on grass, but not from the direction the guys went.
I shuffle back to avoid my puddle of sick and look around the park. There’s an empty children’s playground, tents, and trees, spaced out enough that you can see most of the area from wherever you stand. It’s how I spot the person hunched against the shadow of a tree, their head bowed. Slowly, they look up at me, a black bandanna wrapped around the lower half of their face. In the dark, it’s too hard to see their features, but there’s no mistaking the careful way they close one eye, lowering the lid with perfect precision, and then open it.
A wink... as if the two of us are sharing a private joke.
“There she is!” a voice shouts, and I jerk toward the sound. The guys from before are coming back, and this time they’re followed by a man in a bright yellow vest that says CAMPUS SECURITY.
That is less than ideal.
I sprint across the park to the baseball diamond, trying to put as much space as possible between us, then dart toward the residential area, spying a house whose white barn-style doors are cracked open. I take the opportunity, slipping between them and ducking into the small garden area, shutting the doors behind me. The walls around it are stone, so I can’t see what’s happening, but hopefully that also means they can’t see me.
I turn around, meaning to try to sneak out via another entrance, but the motion throws me off balance, and I vomit again.
“You’re trespassing. We have you on the cameras.” I jerk my head toward the boy leaning against the side of the house. He stands with his hands tucked into the pockets of what I think are actual silk pajamas. His skin is a smooth and rich brown, and he towers over me, his curls short and lined up with a fade that looks fresh. Meticulous, even. The guy’s built like a football player—stocky in the arms and thick in the chest and stomach. Perched on his nose are a pair of oversized circular glasses. His whole look is manicured. Like even in the middle of the night, he’s considered his whole ensemble.
The worst part is that it’s working for him. He’s like a hot librarian jock hybrid.
And I just threw up in front of him.
In a bid to leave with whatever dignity I have left, I return to the barn doors, peeking through them. The guys and security have disappeared as far as I can see. My phone vibrates, and I fumble to get it out of my pocket. Jules sent me a pin. I open it and realize I’m on the other side of campus from where he is.
I push against the gate.
“Did you seriously come in here, casually expel the contents of your stomach, and now you’re leaving without saying anything?” He waves at the cranberry-colored puddle soaking into the spaces between the patio stones.
I shrug. “Sorry?”
He rolls his eyes, then glances over my shoulder. “You shouldn’t throw knives at people.”
“You shouldn’t throw knives at people,” I repeat in a mocking voice. His jaw drops. “Obviously! It’s too late now. How did you even see that?”
He points at the cameras mounted on the side of the house. “We have monitoring. They saw you and sent me outside in case you proceeded toward the property. Also, why are you acting like you couldn’t have just not thrown a sharp projectile at someone?”
I thought security cameras could only see things at short range. What sort of high-tech 50x zoom shit does this guy have? Fucking rich people. “Are you going to report me or something?”
He just stares for a moment. Finally, he shakes his head. “I would suggest avoiding the park.”
“Planning to.” If security decides to come back, that’s where they’ll go, and so that’s the last place I want to be.
“Be careful,” he adds as he turns back to the house.
“You can keep your concern.” I leave, letting the white barn doors slam shut behind me.
