Misery Loves Company (REVAMPED)

Chapter 1: Enid

ENID [Origin: Welsh]

Meaning: Soul or life

But in this case a soul or life that was about to be cut short, because I was going to kill Enid Concepción Diaz! Slowly, and with my bare hands.

    "Uh...hello? If you're—" the deep voice beyond the front door hesitated like I expected it to. "If you're Misery Hayes, can you please open up?"

    Everyone always hesitated before saying my name for the first time. In the same exact way. In the same exact spot. It was like their mouths wanted to reject the word, and for a second everything they thought they knew got lost in the small valley of the "M".

    No one could believe my mom named me after an emotion Merriam-Webster defined as "extreme suffering", and sixteen years later, I still had trouble believing it too.

    Closing my eyes, I leaned against my soon-to-be murdered best friend's front door. It was aggressively pink, like the rest of the house. I gripped the door knob, palms sweaty, mom's spaghetti. Except I wasn't Eminem in 8 Mile. I had no idea what was going on, but I knew what would be said next.

    "Wait, that's actually her name?" It was a different voice, but that didn't surprise me since I'd seen four dudes when I opened the Diazes' door. The problem was I'd slammed it in their faces before I could get a better look at them.

    And I may have screamed.

    "That's what Anwir's text said." I guess First Voice had all the answers.

    If only I had some too. Instead all I had were questions like: who were they? How did they know my name? Why did I watch True Crime makeup videos before bed?

    "I wonder where on the psychopath scale a person would have to fall to name their kid 'Misery'?"

    "Jay." The third voice was even-keeled, but still managed to suggest his friend should shut up.

    "Eli. It's a valid question."

    "Another valid question is why did she scream and slam the door in our faces?" First Voice interjected. "I know Anwir and Webb are almost here, but maybe I should text them. Maybe we're at the wrong house."

    "This is the only pink house in the neighborhood," Jay pointed out.

    So, they were at the right house, but that still didn't explain anything. Like why their names sounded familiar. I decided to shoot Enid another text. It was only marginally calmer than my first, which read:

    IS THIS REALLY WORTH YOUR PAT MCGRATH PALETTES?! BECAUSE I'LL GIVE THEM TO KAREN! SHE'S WORKING 'TIL CLOSE!

    At least the second one included specifics and sounded less insane:

    This is a prank, right? Why are there four men on your doorstep? You said it'd take fifteen minutes to get your brows threaded. When're you and Paula coming back from the mall?

    Nothing. No response to either. And like any sane person, Enid didn't have her read receipts on.

    I looked through the peephole, because Enid's dad Eduardo had waged a personal war against home security systems, and refused to let her buy those doorbells with built-in cameras. He always got a horrible little smile on his face when he said the revolver he kept in his bedside drawer would take care of any "trouble" that came his way.

    Through the fish bowl of the peephole, the four guys on the other end didn't look threatening. Just— my eye widened— gorgeous. Really, really gorgeous in a way I hadn't noticed while I was screaming and slamming the door in their faces. I should've looked through the peephole before yanking open the door, but I'd thought it was Enid and her mom. A rookie move considering I fell asleep listening to Bailey Sarian and Eleanor Neale. They'd be so disappointed in me.