Killer Teens

One Person

Brooke’s POV

The three of us spend the night at my house even though it’s a school night. My parents aren’t home, Jason snuck out, and Kate wouldn’t really care if Bruce or her mother did see her leave.

We all have bigger things to worry about.

We don’t say much. Jason got there a few minutes after Cole left, apologizing profusely, and then insisted on keeping an eye on us. I fall asleep in his arms, like I do so often now, but it isn’t at all comforting—even less so than usual.

When we wake up the next morning, Kate is already making coffee; she probably didn’t get any sleep. I did, but mine was tainted with images of Cole’s black eyes.

Jason drives Kate to school the next morning, even though it’s out of the way, and promises to be there on the dot when her school lets out (twenty minutes after ours). He tells her to avoid Cole at all costs, and to keep some friends around wherever she goes. Neither of us mention that Kate doesn’t really have friends at Morrison. 

“We need to call the cops, Brooke,” he says when Kate leaves. “This has gone too far.”

“I don’t think we can. He hasn’t hurt her. All he’s really done is admit that he watches her, and they can’t arrest him for that, especially without proof. Besides, he’s got the bruises to prove that you beat him up.”

He grips the steering wheel a little tighter, his tanned, perfect forearms flexing. I sigh.

“I feel like I shouldn’t leave you alone,” he says.

“At school?”

“At all.”

“Then stay over,” I say with a shrug. “You’re always welcome, Jase. You practically live with me, anyway.”

“Problem is, Leyla has this dance recital tonight that’s going to start early and run late. I’m not comfortable leaving you, but our parents aren’t going, and she really needs some support.”

“So go. I’ll be okay, Jase. Cole left. Remember? He didn’t touch me.”

He grins. “Even though you tackled him.”

I shove him playfully and give him a soft kiss on the cheek before getting out of the car and heading inside the school.

Seven hours of safety, and then whatever comes next.

- - - - -

“Jason should be here,” Kate says later that day at my house. “Or any guy. You’re hot. Why don’t you know more guys?”

“We can fend for ourselves,” I lie as I pace my kitchen with her. I’m so glad Kate came over. I don’t think I could handle being by myself right now. Even Alex, who doesn’t talk to me anyway, is nowhere in sight. 

“Maybe we could call that guy from the party,” Kate says thoughtfully. “From the baseball team? What was his name? He was pretty cute.”

“Ryan? Yeah, he’s okay. I hooked up with him before Jason, but he was kind of a bad kisser.” I quickly shut up when I realize how shallow I sound. I hate that. I’m really not a shallow person, but putting on the act so often leads to the actual trait sometimes.

Kate sighs and puts some Pop Tarts in the toaster, pouring herself a glass of milk and tapping her toes. Finally, after too much silence, she speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

“Kate—you don’t have to do that.”

“I do,” she insists. “I don’t think you use me as a crutch. We have a great, genuine friendship that means the world to me. I just get frustrated with you sometimes, because I feel like I don’t even know who the real you is. But it’s okay, Brooke. I love you, all of you—even the fake you.”

“Kate,” I say again, but this time with an honest smile. “Thank you.”

She smiles back, and the ding of the Pop Tarts is the only thing to interrupt the sentimental moment—at least, until the house shakes from the impact of the door being forced open.

Suddenly, Cole West stands before us, black eyes murderous, with a knife in one hand and a gun in the other.

I want to scream, to shout, to cry—to send his blood curdling from the volume of rage in my voice. 

But when have I ever been able to express how I felt?

Kate is smart. Kate takes a step back and reaches for her phone… 

On second thought, maybe that wasn’t so smart.

“Put it down,” Cole orders. As usual, his voice is smooth and even, but his black eyes are so crazed, he looks rabid. “On the ground. Roll it to me. Brooke, yours too.”

I can hardly think straight, but I’m able to process that without my phone, we have no hope. “It’s in my room,” I lie. 

“Liar,” Cole hisses.

“I’m not lying!” I insist desperately.

“You can’t even tell the truth with a gun pointed at you. Well, roll it over, or Kate gets it.” He points the gun at Kate—my rosy-cheeked, charming little Kate, whose sweet face is soaked wet with tears.

He would never kill her… Right?

I can’t take that chance. I roll it over anyway.

He stabs Kate’s phone with his knife first, then reaches for mine. I take a step toward Kate just before he hits my phone, not expecting him to see me. But if the knife flying just past my ear is any indication, he saw. He stomps on my display until it shatters, then goes to the wall to retrieve his knife.

“I’ve tried to be patient,” he says. “I’ve tried to deal with you, Brooke. But you just won’t stay out of things with me and Kate.”

“Okay!” Kate pleads desperately. “You’re right! She’ll let me now, though, Cole! Put the gun down, and I can be with you and—”

“Kate,” I snap. Maybe Kate doesn’t have a clear head, but I do. I’m furious—bubbling to the surface with a rage so inhuman that it scares me—but I’m not hysterical. I’m not half as scared as I am angry.

“What are you going to do once you do away with me?” I ask Cole hotly. “Kate will hate you. You won’t be together. That’s now how a relationship works, in case you were wondering—it tends to be mutual.”

My sarcasm is obviously getting to him, but instead of showing it, he only laughs his sick laugh and smiles his sick smile. “She’ll see things differently eventually. I’ve found us the perfect place to go. We’ll live together and be together, and no one will stop us.”

I’d rather die than let that happen. So, apparently, would Kate.

“Sounds like hell,” I snarl at him. “But I guess you’d know.”

Cole’s murderous black eyes narrow to soulless slits, and his next words came out in a hiss. “You’ll be the only one in hell.”

And then he comes at me with the knife.

It’s the oddest thing, knowing that you’re going to die but that it will be long and painful. You haven’t really accepted death yet, but you’ve accepted that you will die, so you don’t even bother trying to stop it.

I know from where he touches the tip of the glinting, silvery knife to my arm that he wants me to feel a lot of pain before I die. He drags the knife from the top of my arm all the way down to my elbow before I finally succumb to the pain and let out a scream so piercing that I feel like the sound alone might kill me. Instead of continuing down my arm and slitting my wrist like I want him to—get it over with; kill me; please just kill me—he lifts the knife to my face. 

Over my own terrible screams, I can faintly hear Kate, pleading, and then Cole’s voice.

“Such a beautiful face… such a demonic face… the face of the devil.”

And then he takes the knife to my temple, and I can no longer see, and I can no longer think about anything except the pain.

And then it ends, suddenly, startlingly, and I force myself back to reality, and when my vision sharpens and the pain clears as best it can, I see Kate, arms around his neck, arched up against him, kissing him, and for a second I’m sure she has betrayed me, until I realize she’s trying to distract him.

I try to be quiet as I stumble to the floor, but I can’t, but it’s okay because he’s under her spell, and I pray so hard that my phone survived, pray to whoever’s out there, begging forgiveness for not believing in them until now, and yes, the screen is shattered, but when I press the power button, its display flickers into a dull, inconsistent light.

I can’t make a call; I know that. He’d hear me, and it would all be over.

HELP, I type.

But who do I send it to?

Why doesn’t 911 have texting? Do they have texting? Why don’t I know the answer to that?

I should send it to Jason, of course. I punch in his number and hit “enter,” then pause for a beat, biting my lip so hard, it, too, starts to bleed.

Jason is downtown. Jason will not get here in time. 

My sister Alex is God knows where.

There’s only one person in my contacts who can get here in time—one person who lives in the neighborhood—one person who I trust to come running.

I don’t know why I still trust him, but I do.

I type in his name, hit send, let go of the phone, and let the pain engulf me.