Page 12 of Stranger Danger

I don’t wait.

I shove him backwards through the door and slam it shut behind me. My eyes sweep across the dark, smoke-filled living room while he yells, until I find the heaviest thing in here. A ceramic lamp with a brass base, bigger at the bottom than the top.

New favorite? Let’s see.

I swing.

The base connects with his temple with a hollow thud. He goes sideways, shoulder hitting the coffee table, and I follow him down. The cigarette rolls under the couch. I can smell it burning the fibers.

He’s still conscious. Groaning. Hands up to ward me off.

I hit him again. Same spot. The brass leaves a dent this time, a crescent moon rising through the split skin.

I don’t hate it. It’s kind of pretty.

Someone on TV is being sued for a damaged fence. The plaintiff wants three thousand dollars. The defendant claims it was already damaged.

Do heads really explode the same way as they do in movies and TV shows? Directors use a lot of watermelons filled with random shit to get the good, gritty practical effects.

He’s not moving anymore, but the vein in his neck is still pulsing.

I shift up onto my knees, caging his chest in place with my thighs, and slam the base of the lamp down as hard as I can. It vibrates into my arms on impact. The lamp finally cracks. Ceramic shards scatter across the carpet, mixing with the blood pooling under his head.

But it’s still—it’s still a head. It’s still shaped like a head. How fucking firm are skulls, anyway?

Maybe the lamp’s just not heavy enough.

I pat his shoulder as I get up. “Don’t move, okay?”

No answer. My favorite.

I rub my hands over my cold arms, going from one room to the other. The hoodie stays in the car—those belong to “Crowd" Ira, and I like showing off my tattoos to my contestants. They’re pretty and colorful. A perfect way to end a life.

Kitchen—boring.

Bathroom—more boring.

The upstairs bedroom makes me sad. This one doesn’t even have a night table.

Pulling open the dresser drawers, I shove the clothes to the side, humming a song I heard on the drive over. Boxers. Tees. Socks.

Camera.

One of those big, chunky, old-fashioned Polaroid cameras.

My excitement spills over, and I’m jumping up and down before I know it.

This is perfect!

I don’t even care about my contestant anymore. My new pen pal would love this. I love this because he loves it.

Now we finally get to be real friends.

Chapter 4

Beckett

When I step into the main campus building on Monday, everyone’s gathered around the board. Perfume, cologne, coffee, and vodka all convene into one absolutely brutal concoction that has my eyes watering in seconds as I push my way through the crowd. Two girls are standing on the bench, phones held out. I think someone else is recording a video.