You Don't Know What He Did to Her

Chapter One

I exit my car, my feet hitting the pavement. The night air surrounding me is cool and a breeze blows my hair across my face. I walk to the point on the road where the pavement meets grass, and I'm hesitant as I know my shoes will get wet due to the condensation. Not seeing a sidewalk nearby, I continue walking until I reach the front door. I feel the bass of the music vibrating through the ground as I stand on the doorstep of my first-ever house party. This is it, I think to myself. Knock, knock, knock—the sound disappears into the night, masked by the loud music coming from inside. Just open it, I tell myself. And I do.

As I step inside, the air around me smells of skunk spray and alcohol. I'm greeted by a blonde-haired boy with two cups in his hands. "Hey," he says, nodding his head once.

"Hi," I respond shyly. First party. Don't be lame. I clear my throat. "Hi, how's it goin'?" Louder this time, but still lame.

"Here," he says simply, offering me a red cup. I look at the proffered cup and then back to him.

"Should I take my shoes off?" I ask over the loud music. He looks at me with confusion. "They're wet. From the grass. Dew. Should I take them off?"

"No," he answers while chuckling, still holding the cup out for me to take. I take it so I don't seem incompetent.

"Thanks," I say, and I proceed to take a drink from it. I grimace as he walks away, the liquid burning my throat on its way down. "Jesus, this is awful," I say under my breath. I walk into the room to my right and set the cup on the first table I come across. No more drinks, I vow to myself.

I sit down on the left side of a grey two-person couch, and I admire the dim lighting in the room. Wow, this is just like the parties in the movies, I begin thinking, but my train of thought is rudely interrupted by someone plopping themselves down onto the couch. I turn to my right, and there sits a boy with brown, wavy hair that's nearly down to his shoulders. And between his fingers: a cigarette. He pulls a lighter out of his jacket pocket and proceeds to light the cancer stick he's holding. He brings the filter to his lips and inhales, puffing out smoke a few times and then exhaling completely. The smoke swirls around him in elongated coils, moving up toward the ceiling. His face is relaxed as he watches the other partygoers dance in a group.

"People really still buy those things?" I ask no one in particular, grimacing at the thought of tar-coated lungs.

"Not 'people'," the boy responds, "just me."

"And who is this boy with a death wish?" I turn to face him and I finally look him in the eyes. They're a mixture of hazel and green, and there's a mischievous glint in them.

"Connor," he pauses. "Michaels." He takes another drag from his cigarette, looking me straight in the eyes as he does so. Watching the smoke swirl past his shadowy eyes gives me chills. Unsettling chills. He extends his arm toward me, opening his hand for me to shake. As I grasp his hand, I introduce myself.

"I'm Violet. Violet Gray. My mom thought it would be fun to have two color names," I explain, gently shaking his hand all the while.

"Thoughtful mom," he manages, his cigarette hanging from his lips.

"Connor is a nice name," I say, cringing internally at how socially awkward I am.

"Extraordinary conversational skills you got there, Violet," he teases with a smirk, smoke leaking out from between his lips as he talks. He's facing forward again, watching people dance. "I'm going to forget you said that. Let's try again. I'm Connor Michaels, you're Violet Gray. Now, I'm going to ask you a question, and you're going to answer it."

"Okay," I say, and I roll my eyes while he's not looking.

"What would you be doing if you weren't here right now?"