The Wicked Blessed

I CHALLENGE GOD BECAUSE I HAVE NO DEMONS

My newfound crew saves me a seat during lunch, gladly pointing out that the Bourgeois eat outside on picnic blankets surrounded by their flock of courtiers. The message is clear: those that aren't invited to dine with them have to sit back and wait. Though I never see their faces again that day.

And to be honest, I don't care.

My study period resides after lunch so it's just me in an empty hallway shaving down lead to capture the joyless faces of the students that pass before me. I'm left to indulge my own thoughts, making caricatures of people I don't know, until River shows up to walk me over to the extended Culinary building. I wasn't much of a cook back home and that certainly hasn't changed now. Mrs. Crawford appears to pick that up as we go along, eventually assigning me to dish duty, which in the face of everything, I don't mind.

Despite that, the highlight of today is not having to ride the bus alone with Kaycee. She's cool, don't get me wrong, but her constant need to fill in the silence with random questions irks my nerves, especially when it seems like she doesn't care what the answer is.

"See you around, Ethan!" August salutes me as I close the door to his silver sedan, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. I don't bother a wave at Kaycee who's typing away at her phone—her lifeblood.

All except for Blu, the people I've met live relatively close to one another, me included.

Lydia's leaning on the dining room table when I shut the door behind me, a remote in one hand and salt and vinegar chips in the other, eyes glued to the TV above her fireplace. I never pegged her as the type of person to watch the news. Then again, being a journalist probably puts her in that sphere of influence all itself.

I grab a cinnamon roll off the counter (made by someone named Karen Mathews according to the semi-peeled-off sticker stuck to the aluminum foil) and settle into a chair adjacent to my cousin and the TV. Her forehead furrows, irked.

"School was great," I say idly. "Met some cool people. Did drugs, ditched class, made flan."

Lydia raises an eyebrow, looks at me, then back up again. "Was it good flan?"

"Could have been better if I'm being honest."

"Anyone, in particular, stand out?" She plays along. "I mean, amongst the drugs."

An ambulance races across the TV screen followed by footage of a forest clearing and then a gurney fitted with a pale blue sheet. A casualty. The words "first-degree murder" and then "second time this year." Right here in Whitefish. A shiver runs through me.

"You ever hear of the Bourgeois?" I ask loud enough for her to hear over the sound of the TV blaring across the living room. She turns it down and then turns to me, surprised.

"Better question, when haven't I heard of the beloved Bourgeois?" Lydia props one leg up on the table and fixes her eyes on me, popping chips into her mouth all the while. "They're rascals with no sense of self-preservation or restraint."

"Descendants of fame?

My cousin laughs, "Yeah, right. This is a small town and they moved here from the French Riviera not too long ago. Not to mention they think that their beauty deserves nothing but adoration and utter allegiance that can bypass the law. Like I didn't grow up in Los Angeles dealing with overrated notoriety and punks who think good looks and cash can cut through red tape."

I've heard her talk like this only a few times before on the phone, usually when an interviewee doesn't feel like complying with her questions or breaks down in tears before she can finish writing her article.

"Like what?" I ask, feeding the flames to her passionate speech.

Lydia starts listing off on her fingers, "Well the oldest, Alphonsine, managed to uproot every stop sign in town. She caused almost two accidents and got away with a misdemeanor. Another girl, Lorelei, convinced two Garden Grove students to fall in love with her and duel for a chance to ask her to homecoming last year. With actual swords. I had to trace their origin across the Atlantic to a Museum in Marseille, which wasn't easy getting back by the way. Then there are the twins Aries and Leo who persuaded the female swim team into skinny dipping with them at the waterhole in twenty-degree weather. They're lucky no one got frostbite or worse, died. And the last one...well, they're no saint but they're close to it. But every time something happens I'm the one that has to do a report on it. Like there aren't more important things in the state of the world than doting on underage teens who like to cause trouble. For example, the missing persons case files no one wants to get their hands dirty with. But that's what I get for being a small-town newspaper journalist I guess."