MY MOTHER CALLS ME LATER that night to check up on the two of us, and Ebony races to my phone. Though my hand is half-outstretched to grasp the device, I'm almost relieved to not be the one to answer to her.
As far as she knows, we're barricaded in our dorm—but I know she'd be furious to know we've directly gone against her wishes. If it weren't for me, Ebony wouldn't have to be lying to her right now while she's talking her ear off, but I don't know how to explain to her that the man we've all known for years is the same man whose interest in me is far from friendly.
It's sick and predatory and perverted, but those words are alien to my mother's brain. As much as she loves Ebony and I, her faith in Mr Rose is unwavering, and if I told her what's really going on, maybe she wouldn't believe me.
Maybe to her, I'd be a liar and an attention-seeker and a pathetic whore. Maybe, if she ever found out, she would throw me to the wolf himself and let him do what he wants with me.
It's a thought that makes me shudder, and I leave the room that's beginning to thicken with her presence. I love my mother to bits, but her taste in friends is what makes bile rise like acid in my throat and petrifies my heart; making it frangible enough to shatter, crumble at my feet with the dignity Mr Rose steals with each wicked gaze and lustful smirk.
"I'm gonna go make dinner," I call to my brother, who's engrossed in conversation, a relief to my nervous system. While the two of them are distracting each other, I can distract myself, and maybe help to combat the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Music softly croons from my phone while I set a pot of pasta to boil. Slow songs, starting to wither in a playlist I hardly touch unless I'm in a mood like this. They're songs I hum in my head through every interaction with Mr Rose, songs that keep my fists from curling and my heart-rate speeding up, songs I use to get myself through every single one of our encounters, because if I didn't do that, I would end up screaming.
I'm listening to them now, because they stifle the churning in the pit of my stomach, and make me forget about the metallic taste beginning to fill my mouth that suspiciously tastes like blood.
The idyllic hum of the singer's voice caresses the air, but is quickly drowned out by approaching footsteps—socked feet against laminate, worn down from the amount of times Ebony and I scuffed along it in our football boots as kids; shiny from the number of times we had to scrub it clean as punishment.
"Plain boiled pasta. My favourite," Ebony remarks dryly, stirring the pot still boiling on the stove. "What are we having with it, chicken?"
"Whatever you want," I counter, pressing a pause on the music. He has caught me mouthing this song one too many times for him not to recognise it as soon as it gets to the chorus, but, judging from the look in his eyes, the bridge is enough. "Don't look at me like that."
"Is this about Mum?" His hand slaps mine on his phone—since mine was otherwise occupied—starting the music again. "Did you wanna talk to her?"
I'm not sure if I'm relieved or hurt if that's the depth at which he chooses to look. Surface-deep. My brother's perception is his strongest asset, but right now, it feels like he's not using it at all.
"No," I murmur, pausing the song again. The line cuts off mid-word, seemingly fitting. "It's not that I wanted to talk to her. I'm glad you took the phone."
"Ivory." He leans back against the counter, elbows braced against the countertop. "I know we don't really...talk, but I know this is the song Mum used to play on the piano when Dad was still around. It's got to be something to do with her."
"I—." I bite my lip, releasing a sigh. "I don't want her to know why we're not in the dorms, okay? I don't want her to know about Mr Rose."
"I know he freaks you out." Once again, his voice is soft and lulling as he approaches me. "But he hasn't actually done anything."
"That doesn't mean he's not thinking about it," I protest, and he nods.
"I know. He's a creep, but for now, they're all just thoughts. Mum will be indifferent. The moment he does something, she'll know and she'll take your side," he promises, and another wave of nausea builds up in my stomach.
"I don't want him to do anything," I whisper, my throat tight. "I just want it all to end."
Ebony's face is sympathetic, but he knows it as well as I do: truly, we're both powerless, and if Mr Rose chooses to, he could ruin everything for me.
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