"You're still going to follow him?"
Clara sat down beside her friend. Students were rushing inside the classroom, getting in their seats as the bell rang. Their teacher was already scribbling down terms on the board for the outline of their lesson.
"Yes. I'll say I'm sick."
Ella nodded, already knowing that she won't be able to cut class. "I see."
"Watch me."
Ella raised her eyebrow and watched her friend walk to the front of the room. It wasn't going to work. She already knew that since she had tried it once.
"Mrs. Miller?" Clara called, making her face looked pained. She made her voice sound weak like she was actually sick. "Mrs. Miller?"
The lady turned. A girl was standing in front of her, looking feeble. She looked at the class settling in their seats, and back to the girl in front, asking with a blank expression, "Yes, Ms. Auden?"
"I feel sick," the girl croaked.
The lady examined the student from head to toe. She hadn't looked sick when she saw her earlier. "Feelings can be endured, right?" She was used to students faking their health to get away from her class. But she wasn't expecting Clara to try the stunt on her. Has her brother influenced her innocent mind?
"Mrs. Miller," Clara pleaded with her eyes. "My head is aching and I think I'm gonna vomit."
The lady spun back to the board, and resumed her writing. "Are you pregnant?"
Clara gaped, and blinked several times. "No. I'm sick." She heard Ella's muffled laughter, and she turned to glare at her. Some of the students who heard the comment were chuckling under their breaths.
"Clara, if you want to be actually sick, sit down," the lady suggested after finishing her work, knowing that Clara was still behind her. She faced the room with a bored expression. "We are going to have a pop quiz."
The whole class groaned.
"But I'm really sick," Clara pushed.
"And your brother is too. Suspicious. Ms. Auden, I don't see you as this type of student. Sit down."
Clara tried to convince her again with her eyes. She sighed, dejected, and nodded her head. She sniffed as she dragged back to her seat, hoping one last time to make her teacher believe. Of course, that wasn't going to work. Nothing moves Mrs. Miller. Clara has never been sick in school, so she thought her teacher would consider. Her shoulders sagged as she sat back beside her friend. Now, she felt she was actually going to get sick.
"You did great, friend," Ella patted her back. "Now, help me with the quiz."
×|×
Clara slumped on the couch of their house after throwing her bag and shoes on the floor. She was exhausted and hungry. The pop quiz was a sore. Ella had poked her side for several times, asking for answers, and she was nervous giving her some since Mrs. Miller was eyeing her like a hawk. They both passed though. All thanks to Clara. And in return for her benevolence, Ella had bought her ice cream, and gave her a ride back home since they haven't seen Kent's car in the parking lot.
Speaking of Kent, Clara was annoyed. She could have followed him earlier if Mrs. Miller had just been kind and caring. Well, even if Mrs. Miller had let her, she was clueless on where to find him. She hadn't seen him after he had left the cafeteria.
She glared at the ceiling, more annoyed. And to actually think she had helped him ditch class.
The sound of a car engine dying vibrated outside. It must be him.
Clara craned her neck to the door. Her brother walked in, grubby and face red. He had fought again. She quickly sat up.
"What happened to you?"
A cut was visible on his left eyebrow, and his fists were bleeding. His shirt was covered in sweat and dirt. There was also blood. What else would Clara expect? Her brother mostly came home looking like that.
"Hey," she called, but her brother had turned his back on her. "Idiot."
Kent entered the kitchen. He went to the fridge, and drank a whole pitcher. He was thirsty. He glanced at Clara who was watching him with eyebrows raised and hands in the air, trying to get his attention. He could never get why they were related. She looked like a monkey for all he cared.
He placed the pitcher on the counter, and walked upstairs to his bedroom, completely ignoring her.
"Idiot," Clara shouted. "He never listens. And now, look at him-ugly as always." She stood up from the couch, and grabbed the pitcher on the kitchen counter to fill it with water. "He should be paying me for all the work I've done for him," she grumbled.
Her stomach groaned. "Even my stomach agrees," she patted, and placed the pitcher back on the fridge. "I'm hungry."
She checked her phone. Their parents would be arriving any time soon. And by then, she could gobble up and fill her stomach with food.
Walking back to the living room, she picked up her bag, and kicked her shoes towards the wall beside the door. It landed and rolled upside-down, irritating her. It was supposed to place itself neatly. Sighing, she collected her shoes and stomped to her room.
Her eyes flickered to her brother's room. Loud banging echoed from it. She grabbed the knob of his door, tempting to twist it open, but took a step back, and cranked open her door instead. She had learned not to intrude her brother when he was in the middle of steaming off. Maybe it was a good thing he was only throwing things on his room rather than on someone's face.
After changing her clothes, Clara walked to her desk. There was nothing much to do, except for a few paperworks in Algebra, English Literature, and Economics. She stared at her bag lying on the floor, and placed her head on the window. Even though she does well in school, thoughts of quitting visit her mind. Why study? She'll end up forgetting the lessons anyway. And what does those complicated formulas have to do with paying for pizza? Does P(x) = ax² + bx + c actually make life any easier?
Her brother's room-situated beside hers-was not giving her any piece of mind. Her wall kept vibrating. She could not imagine herself punching walls, afflicting pain to herself. But everybody has their own kind of pacifier.
The unmistakable sound of a glass breaking got her to her feet. "I can't take this."
Kent punched the wall again. He was upset. His fist collided the hard structure. The pain didn't bother him. He was used to it. He had almost, almost got his hands on the answers. If he hadn't-he groaned, and punched again.
There was a knock on his door. "Yow," he heard his sister called. He ran a hand to his hair, frustrated.
"Hey," Clara smiled as she slipped inside his room. And as soon as she did, mess greeted her. Clutters of books and other things lied on the floor. His desk chair was broken, and his lamp lay in pieces beside his nightstand. His sheets were crumpled on his bed, and the pillows had been thrown around the room. All in all, it looked like a hurricane visited her brother's room.
"How's life?" she asked casually, closing the door in case their parents suddenly arrives. Their dad wouldn't be happy seeing the mess.
She scanned the room. Small drops of blood were on the floor. Posters were ripped off, and red stains marked the wall, marring it.
"What happened? Who's the poor guy?"
Kent didn't speak.
"Can I at least know what got you riled up?"
Kent could sometimes look as scary as that green-eyed guy from earlier. Their eyes looked like it could kill someone even from a mile radius.
Clara sighed. She wasn't getting any answers. She walked to his closet, and brought out his first-aid kit.
"Wash and clean. You wouldn't want dad seeing you like that, do you?" she said, throwing the kit to his bed.
Kent grunted but took the kit anyway. He pulled his towel, and went in the shower. "Don't tell him."
Clara scoffed. She had been doing that since eighth grade.
She stared at the mess around the room. He should have just yelled out his frustrations rather than wrecking his room. There were other things to release stress and anger that doesn't require damage.
She started to pick up the books on the floor, deciding she should clean the room for him. Because no one would do it, but her.
Papers were all around the floor: Physics homework, random doodles, Mr. Spencer's face, exam papers, report cards, confession letters.
Clara scoffed. Even with Kent's attitude, girls still swooned over him. They said bad guys looked hot. Why wouldn't they when they've materialized from hell themselves?
She put the broken lamp and the desk chair on the corner, carefully piling the shattered pieces. He should have just doodled on Mr. Spencer's printed face. That should have eased his mood.
After getting all the trash on the floor to his bin, she assorted the papers and books to his desk. A crumpled yellow piece peeked on one of the fallen books, and she took it out.
North.
What's with north?
A symbol rested at the top of the word. It looked like a Greek symbol.
She furrowed her eyebrows. Was her brother in touch with Percy Jackson? They could be secretly working on a quest to the north. What does the note mean?
She remembered her talk with Ella about the gangs in the North. There was particularly one gang more forbidding than the rest. It was rumored to be the most feared among all. No one knew the name but people could easily discern if that certain gang had caused the incident or not. Other gangs leave clues. But the mysterious one only left nothing but trails of blood.
Was her brother connected to that gang? Was that the secret group he had recently joined?
She bit her lips, thinking. Maybe it was just a doodle or something. Kent liked to scribble random things. She flipped the paper. Was it?
Kent stepped out of the bathroom, a towel draped over his wet hair. He had cleaned up. The cuts and wounds on his face all dressed. He saw Clara shutting a book on his desk. His eyes quickly drifted from the book to Clara.
Clara cleared her throat. "As you can see," she gestured to his room. "I cleaned the mess for you. And I demand a salary."
Kent stared at her suspiciously. Did she found something? He walked to his desk, eyes still on his sister. "You demand payment?" He leaned on his chair and faced Clara, his back protectively blocking Clara's view on the book.
Clara furtively glanced behind her brother.
"How much?"
Her attention was now back on Kent. Her face brightened. "Really?"
"Of course," her brother smiled. "Not."
"Hey," she frowned. "Who always covered for you? If I had been telling dad, would you still be alive?"
A faint smile made its way to her brother's face. It was all thanks to her that their father had still not laid his sword on his throat.
"You can't imagine how stressing and frightening my job is," Clara expressed, turning away from Kent. "I actually even told Mr. Grayson that you're sick. And he wasn't having a good day that time."
Kent surreptitiously flipped through the pages of the book. The paper was still there, which might meant that Clara had not seen it. He should have hidden it somewhere Clara wouldn't reach. He glanced at his sister. Or she might have seen it.
"I'm just like the greatest sister in the world out here. And you're ignoring my kindness and sacrifices," she pouted and turned back to face Kent.
Kent had pushed himself from his chair. The book was sat atop his desk the way it was when Clara had opened it. "Twenty bucks."
Clara scrunched her nose. "Unbelievable. After all I've done I only get twenty?"
"That's all I've got," her brother said, walking to his bed.
"Right," she grumbled, eyes flitting briefly to the book on his desk. "Since you're donating your money to your lovely gang."
Kent turned. "I'm not giving them any."
"Sure. So what's up?"
"Fine."
"I'm talking about where you've been, idiot."
"Then you should've asked exactly that."
"If I did, would you even answer?"
He slumped on his bed. "Then why bother asking?"
Clara glared. "So where have you been?"
"I'm not telling you anything."
She let out a frustrated breath. Kent wasn't giving her any answers like he would actually tell her. She heard the front door of their house creaked open. Their parents must have arrived. She glanced at the door. The discreet movement of her eyes didn't left unnoticed by her brother.
"Don't."
A smirk made its way to her face and she bolted out of the room. "Dad! Dad! I need to tell you something! It's very bad. Like really, really, really bad."
Clara's dad, Mike, looked up to his daughter barreling her way down the stairs.
"Dad you won't believe what I've found!"
He raised an eyebrow and looked at Kent who was chasing behind her. What were the two of them doing? Were they still playing? Kids, he shook his head.
Kent quickly grabbed his sister's hand, pulling her back to his room before she could even get any closer to their father. He had hastily worn a hoodie to hide the cuts on his face. He hoped the blemishes were left unnoticed by their father.
Mike stared at them.
"What did Clara want to tell you?" his wife asked as she walked out of the kitchen.
"Nothing."
Kent locked the door, and pulled down his hood.
"Wow," Clara breathed. "You run fast, brother."
"Clara."
"Kent."
"One hundred bucks."
She nodded her head lazily, but her lips were twitching to form a smirk. "You should have said so."
"Just shut up."
"On one condition."
Kent gritted his teeth. Clara's conditions were not the easy, oh-that's-it type. It was more of a blackmail. Conditions were blackmails.
"Why do you have a condition?"
"Because," Clara started, glancing at the door. "This is like business. If you want to keep your little secret, then accept my terms. But it's okay if you won't. I could just tell them. Then all the burden and guilt will be finally lifted off my shoulders. I'm gonna be free. And you won't. Simple."
Kent glared, "What's your condition?"
The smirk on Clara's face was teasing.
It was difficult to know what was going on his sister's head. He hoped she would only ask for more money, or maybe do her assignments for her since he had asked her that many times. But it was only when he was in some sort of trouble. He didn't need to rely on his sister's brain. He was a genius himself.
"Report me your location every time. Especially when it's located somewhere north?"
Kent stared at her.
She had seen the paper, didn't she?