Our Own Little Underworld

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© ٢٠٢3 Paige Lavoie

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in part, in any form, without the permission of the publisher.

Orange Blossom Publishing

Maitland, Florida

www.orangeblossombooks.com

[email protected]

First Edition: June 2023

Library of Congress Control Number: XXX

Edited by: Arielle Haughee

Formatted by: Autumn Skye

Cover design: Sanja Mosic

Print ISBN: 978-1-949935-71-4

eBook ISBN: 978-1-949935-72-1

Printed in the U.S.A.

Dedication

To my darling husband Matt who makes

everywhere we go feel like home.

1

HAYDEN

If I wanted to spend the last weeks of summer making friends, I wouldn’t be in a cemetery. But my heart has been set on sketching the way the first light of day hits the old tombstones and d ewy moss.

It’s not exactly the usual reason a senior would sneak out of the house before dawn.

When the sun’s glair bounces off the white of my sketchbook directly into my eyes, I realize it’s been hours. A light summer breeze ruffles the pages, and my mouth falls into a grimace. Despite all the work I’ve put in this morning, my shading still looks like garbage.

I un-pretzel my legs, shaking out the pins and needles before tucking my pile of art supplies under my arm. Contrary to the rumors around school, direct sunlight won’t turn me to dust, but it will give me one hell of a sunburn if I don’t opt for a spot in the shade soon.

There are a few Michigan cherry trees by the back gate. They won’t be in bloom this late in the summer, but today the branches will be just full enough to provide a little shade to continue sketching.

My heavy boots thud as I move through the tombstones carefully. There’s old Otis Smith, not sure why, but I’ve always liked him. I pat my hand over the top of the old stone as I pass. The grave looks forgotten—it’s covered in moss, and I’ve never seen flowers or life near it. There isn’t anything out of the ordinary about the old gravestone really: Otis Smith 1900 – 1960. I don’t know anything else about him. What I do know is Otis seemed like a cool name for an old truck, so I used it for mine.

I asked first, obviously. Just because he’s dead doesn’t give me an excuse to be rude. Predictably, Otis didn’t have any objections. Personally, I think if he met my truck, he’d be honored.

The lonely looking headstones are the ones I usually try to sit and draw by. If ghosts do exist, I’d like to think they enjoy the company, but who the hell knows. They could all be sick of me by now. Every day I walk by with my sketchbook, the ghosts might whisper:

Oh, not this kid again.

God, I hope not.

I turn the corner, my body freezing in place. Just down the hill, there’s a funeral procession.

Great.

One of the high points of being the son of a funeral parlor owner? I always know when it’s safe to go to the cemetery. Contrary to popular belief, sneaking or lurking around the cemetery isn’t the preferred way to travel.

This is why Mom always tells me to look at the calendar before I leave the house. I don’t want to deal with another complaint—or more funeral crasher rumors bubbling up in the hallways at school when it starts in a few weeks. I’ve been hoping things have calmed down since last year, all sins washed away by summer vacation.

Sinking back behind the thick base of a tree for cover, I think, this time at least I’ve remained remotely unnoticed. By the look of the group, it’s hard to tell if they’re just getting started, or if they’re near the end of the service. This one is about an old woman with a full-sounding life. Beloved mother, grandmother, creative and kind. She sang in choir and taught Sunday school, and from the sound of it, she’s not someone who will be easily forgotten.

Good.

After what seems like an eternity of listening to a muffled sermon, I peek out from my hiding spot.

My heart twists in my chest.

In the crowd of mourners, there’s only one person who isn’t wearing black. Standing in the center, a girl, about my age—a senior, I think, or junior maybe. It’s hard to tell this far away. She stands in the crowd of monochrome wearing a light blue dress that flutters around her with each gust of wind. Her ginger hair hangs long past her shoulders, pale freckled skin gleaming in the sunlight.

She looks like she just stepped out of a painting, one where she’d be in a park having a picnic, next to a river bend, with a bunch of tiny sandwiches surrounding her. Instead, tears flow down her face. With the elegance of a dancer, she drops a flower onto the casket. It glints shiny white in the sun. Someone sings while it’s lowered into the ground. The beautiful girl with red hair starts to cry, along with everyone else gathered.

I wonder who she’s crying over—a grandma, a great aunt, a teacher—then suddenly wish she wasn’t crying at all. I don’t mean to touch my pencil down to paper, but before I can help myself, I’ve drawn the lines of her hair and dress in a few quick gestures. My teeth chew into the flesh of my bottom lip as I try to figure out the shape of her face—a pointed chin, a button nose with dark eyes that suddenly shift towards mine. Even from far away, the gaze strikes me right in the chest. Our eyes meet for just a small moment, and it’s enough to knock the wind from my chest.

What am I doing? I’m being an absolute creep.

A total and absolute creep.

I run, ducking behind the old mausoleum. It gives me a little more cover than the oak tree did, but I still feel like an idiot. This girl is in mourning. What am I doing?

Drawing her billowing dress. Dammit. There’s no way I’m going to be able to explain myself. My only hope is that I never see this girl again.

You’d think hanging out in a graveyard would mean finding fewer opportunities to make a god-damn fool of myself, but, you know, here we are. The worst thing is, every bone in my body is being pulled back to her like a magnet.

I force myself to stand still, clenching my muscles until I’m as still as the stones that surround my body. Of course, I don’t. I listen for the sound of quiet, but instead, the murmuring of a sermon comes to a close. There’s movement, voices, even laughter. Just a little bit longer, and I’ll go back the way I came.

Hi, a voice calls suddenly.

Agh! I jump to my feet ungracefully, my legs tangled. I make a stumbling motion forward before barely catching myself.

It’s her.

Look, I didn’t mean— I ready an apology, though I’m not sure what to tell her. I didn’t mean to spy on them. I didn’t mean to be a total weirdo. The truth is I couldn’t… I can’t stop staring at her. Why haven’t I seen her in school before? Maybe she’s from out of town.

I, um… the girl interrupts, walking a little closer. She’s about a foot shorter than me. She cranes her neck up to meet my eyes, her own eyes dark and puffy from tears. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. She fiddles with her sleeve.

I should be the one apologizing! I say all in one breath, I didn’t mean… I was just walking, and—

Do you walk around here a lot? She interrupts for a second time, and there’s a sense of urgency to her voice. She’s here for a reason, though if it isn’t to chew me out, then I’m not sure.

Uh, sure, I guess, yeah. I pick up my sketchbook, tucking it under my arm. Why does it seem like with every moment, she inches even closer? We’re just a few feet away from each other, and her dark eyes look into mine.

It’s my first time here, she says with a frown.

Yeah, you’re not really dressed for it, I say. She makes a face, and I realize it’s not the time for jokes.

I’m sorry for your loss. Why is she talking to me? Doesn’t she have anyone in that big crowd she can have this conversation with? Someone who isn’t going to royally mess it up at every opportunity.

It was my grandma’s favorite, she says with a sad smile, holding the skirt out. It’s light blue with navy flowers, a square neck with lace, and billowing sleeves. It’s prettier up closer. Then again, so is she. I thought maybe I shouldn’t wear it, but my mom said Grandma would like—I’m sorry I’m bothering you. She stops and looks at me with wide eyes.

Not at all… I’m, um… I’m sure your grandma would be happy you’re wearing it. I have no idea what else to say. Maybe I fell asleep.

Maybe this whole thing is a weird dream.

You just sit and draw, sitting next to different graves?

Wow, it sounds weird to hear her say it like that. Still, there isn’t judgment in her voice, and her dark eyes meet mine with what I guess might be curiosity. Something about the way her small frame bends forward with her hands clasped tight suggests she’s going to ask me for a favor.

Most days of the week. I take a deep breath, and a leap of faith hoping the truth won’t seem too strange. I like to keep them company, especially the ones that look a little lonely.

This, for whatever reason, seems to be the answer she’s looking for.

Would you, maybe, keep my grandma company, too?

The girl looks up at me with dewy eyes filled with a sad kind of hope, and my heart shatters in response. What about me has given her the impression that I’m trustworthy enough for such a task?

She always loved art, and so when I saw you, I just thought—well, I don’t know how much I’ll be able to visit, and I’m sorry this is so strange of me, you just, um…

The girl’s eyes cloud with tears, and she can’t finish the sentence without choking up. I don’t blame her. She just had to say goodbye to someone who was clearly important to her. Strands of red hair obscure what I’m sure is becoming a tear-stained face.

I can do that, I jump in, hoping my reply will do something, anything, to comfort her. Most people would see my dyed silver hair, black clothes, piercings, and be put off, but when she looked at me, the most important thing was my sketchbook. A grandma who liked art? Yeah, I can visit anytime.

Really? For a second, I think she might hug me, it wouldn’t be entirely unwelcome—strange, sure, but this whole meeting has been weird.

I’m here a ton anyways. It’s not a problem. I offer a weak smile because I’m not sure if that’s a thing I should admit or not. Of all the places to meet a girl. I should ask for her number, but given the circumstances, it would be inappropriate. Then again, I don’t want to just hope we’ll run into each other here again.

Are you from out of town or something? I ask. It might be why she’d ask a total stranger a favor like this.

We… no. She twists her sleeves around, her eyes nervously searching the ground.

If that’s not it, then why?

Priscilla! A voice interrupts the two of us. Down the hill stands a woman, arms crossed and impatiently tapping her foot on the ground. The girl’s mom, maybe? Geez. Even with her sunglasses on, I can tell she’s glaring at me.

Be right there! Priscilla calls back. She turns back to me apologetically and starts back down the hill, the blue of her skirt billowing around her like clouds in the sky.

Thanks again! she shouts over her shoulder, then pauses, looking back at me with a spark in her dark eyes.

Do you go to Meadowbrook?

My blood turns cold. Why did she have to ask me that?

She smiles up at me.

I start in the fall. Maybe we can—

For your sake, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I cut her off before she has a chance to finish. Visiting her grandma’s grave isn’t the only favor I can do for her, although this doesn’t feel as easy.

Disappointment crumples her face.

Priscilla! We’re going to be late, the woman’s voice echoes up the hill.

Mom, I was just asking him if—

Boys like that are always up to no good.

I slip away, and a pang of guilt eats through my chest. I can’t really blame her mom for being protective. We’re in a graveyard, and I’m more than aware I’m off-putting to a lot of parents.

I’m glad I pushed her away. If talking to me here is getting her into trouble, God knows what it would be like at school. It was the right call to make, acting like a complete jerk. It’s better this way. Being the new kid is hard enough. I don’t know this girl, but I know that falling in with me would be something she’d most certainly regret.

2

PERCY

six months later.

P ercy! You HAVE to go to the winter formal, Anne shouts across the table. I shrink behind my lunch, hoping the brown paper bag will obscure the growing blush on my face. Her boisterous tone catches a few glances in the busy cafeteria, and though it makes me sink in my seat, it’s Anne—she never worries what other people think. My best friend tucks a strand of her choppy hair behind her ear. It’s the most recent in a string of new self-given haircuts. I never really know what look she’s going to come to school with next. Against her golden skin, the newly bleached tresses appear almost white, with little sunshine yellow threads woven in. I bet she has her dress for the dance all pi cked out.

Everyone is going to be there! You need to be there. She stabs her spork into her pasta salad with a huff. Seeing her fired up like this is kind of flattering. I’m never able to go to anything. I figured she’d count me out for the dance right away.

It’s because of your mom again, isn’t it? Her words cut into me sharper than the spork she wields in her hands.

Your mom again.

It’s not the first time the mere threat of my mom has kept me from going out—particularly with anyone from school. Every time Anne asks me to go to outings, events, or even just over to her house, I have to say no.

Anne’s glare bores into me, like two light-amber flames. It was a big enough task getting Mom to agree to let me go to public school for my last year. I’d been begging her since middle school to let me at least give it a try, and senior year was my last chance. The problem however is she may have said yes to high school, but she’s said no to all of the extras. Every dance, field trip, and almost every off-campus jazz choir concert—which is where I met Anne. She’s helped sweet talk Mrs. Bailey, the choir director, into letting me stay in the group despite not being to make all the performances. Most of the time that means I don’t get to sing any big parts, but I don’t mind. Still, she was quick to give up her solo just so I could have it for our winter performance. Anne makes me feel like I’m in the high-school sitcoms I used to watch growing up.

We’ve gotten closer in the last year, however, despite all of Mom’s rules to keep my new best friend at arm’s length. I’ll never forget the series of panicked phone calls I got when I dared to step off campus for lunch with the rest of the choir kids.

Part of the conditions of me having a cell phone was that we had a family app. I didn’t realize it would notify her if I so much as went down the street to the Starbucks. Ever since then, I’ve been even more careful. I can’t be too upset with her. Grandma always said it’s grief that makes her this way. Mom lost my dad when she was young, and the thought of losing me is too much for her to bear. I have to be understanding of that.

If you’re supposed to be at school, I want you at school, nowhere else. Mom’s voice still reverberates in my head when I think about it. It was a month ago, and I don’t think I’ve earned her trust back yet.

I can’t imagine she’ll say yes to a dance—though I technically wouldn’t be off school grounds.

What if she was a chaperone or something? Trevor chimes in, running his fingers through his burnt-orange hair. Being two of the only gingers at school, we both gravitated towards each other. We get asked if we’re siblings at least once a day—something I was surprised he embraced. He started calling me his little sister after our second month in choir together. Even though we’re not that close, I don’t correct him. Being an only child, I like the idea of having an older brother, and from what it seems, he wouldn’t be a bad one. I bet if I did go to the dance, he’d look out for me.

Ew no, we want Percy to have fun! Anne shrieks holding a hand to her chest. No offense Percy, but your mom would kill the vibe.

I freeze. It’s not right to talk badly about family members, but I can’t exactly argue with her.

She’s probably working anyways.

We’re all probably going to ditch early and go to IHOP, he continues, shrugging his shoulders as if gathering around a large table with friends and pancakes wouldn’t be the best night of my life. It sounds like something out of a teen movie. But going to an event, and then leaving for a second location? No, this addition doesn’t help my case, it hurts it. I meet their eager eyes and bite my bottom lip.

You can ride with me, Anne offers. She lives right down the street. She’s come over to study a few times, but I don’t think Mom likes her very much.

She’s going to say no, and even if she didn’t, I can’t buy a new dress. I just had to get a new one for the concert coming up. There’s a big fundraiser for the art department two weeks after the dance, and I needed a new black dress to match the rest of the girls. It wasn’t cheap, but Mom was happy to buy it. Even though she doesn’t let me travel for the concerts, she still loves to see me perform here at school or at church on Sundays.

GIRL! Anne shouts, Do you realize what my closet looks like?

No…? Anne wears jeans and nerdy t-shirts to school every day. I expect her closet is much of the same.

You can borrow something from me, she continues. My family is giant. I go to a wedding like once a month. I have so many fancy dresses, it’s ridiculous, and my parents won’t care.

The thought of wearing a giant sparkly gown has me floating on clouds, but I don’t want to disappoint her or make more of a scene, so I nod. Trevor and her both look at me with hopeful eyes. My chest feels tight all of a sudden. They are all going to have an incredible night, and I want to be a part of it for once.

I’ll try.

The bell rings, we split off, and I start to walk to my least favorite subject, math. The numbers always jumble around in my head and on the page. But Mrs. Rodriguez, who happens to be Anne’s mom, explains things a little more clearly than the books did when I was homeschooled. In class, Mrs. Rodriguez is always calm and well-spoken. She’s easy to talk to about homework and has stayed after class to help me with some of the assignments that have gone over my head. I think Anne is lucky to have a mom like her, though she doesn’t always seem to realize it.

With every step down the hallway, my shoulders shrink at my sides, as I make myself smaller with each stride to avoid bumping into the rush of people. Anne calls it the introvert’s tango when she walks next to me. I don’t think that’s true, about me being introverted that is, I just hate being in the way more than I love people. When I arrive in front of my locker, I fumble with the combination. It’s been getting stuck lately, but normally with a few strategic wiggles I can have it opened no problem. The large clock on the wall ticks and ticks as the noise in the hallway begins to die down. Still, the thing won’t budge.

My heart races. What happens if you’re late to class? Will I get detention or sent home with a note? That can’t happen. On a typical day, getting into trouble would be bad, but considering I want to ask Mom a favor—no—nope—I need this lock open now.

Is it stuck? A deep voice comes from behind me, I turn and am met with a pair of ice-blue eyes.

The boy from the cemetery. Hayden Addams.

The one person I know for certain does not want to be my friend, and yet fate decided to put our lockers next to each other. For months he’s avoided me, giving me nothing more than an apologetic smile, or soft hello, unaware that every time he’s next to me my heart races.

The feeling is not mutual in the least. On the first day of school, when he spotted me, he looked like he’d seen a ghost. Since then, he’s been careful to never linger by his locker for too long, though I can’t help but steal glances at him and his blue-gray hair messy-falling down onto his forehead. The color makes his eyes look even brighter. His face gleams with piercings, two on the corner of his bottom lips, the bridge of his nose, and left nostril, and all the way down his ears. A little hanging bat dangles from his right ear. He always seems to have the most unique jewelry. I sometimes wonder where he shops for it, though I would never ask. He only ever speaks if I attempt to talk to him first (which both Anne and Trevor have told me to stop doing). If we had the same lunch hour, I’d invite him to sit with us, even if they’d be horrified, not that he would ever say yes.

Demon boy, someone mutters, clocking his shoulder hard as they pass. He doesn’t budge.

It happens so frequently, Hayden’s expression is unchanging. I don’t think it’s nice to call anyone names. There’s also a rumor saying he tried to drink a girl’s blood on a date. I’ve also heard whispers he’s into witchcraft or worships the devil. I have a hard time believing any of the rumors. Even with the scar cutting straight down his left eye, Hayden has a kindness about him. It’s been months, and he’s stayed true to his word. When I visit my grandma’s grave it’s always clean with fresh flowers, or a drawing adorning the ground. I don’t think he can be all bad.

Mom always says I see too much good in people. I’m naïve. Maybe she’s right. Despite the urge to shrink in public, I can’t help but smile at strangers, never knowing their intentions. She reminds me all the time that I trust too easily. She doesn’t want me to get hurt. I didn’t hear the end of it after she caught me talking to Hayden in the cemetery.

Have you forgotten why we’re here? she snapped once we reached the car. The memory of her voice rings through my ears as I struggle with the door to my locker. Why won’t this thing just open? I don’t want to know what she’ll say if she finds out I’m late for class.

Hayden is still standing there, lips pressed in