If You Wrong Us Read online

  Woodbury, Minnesota

  Copyright Information

  If You Wrong Us © 2015 by Dawn Klehr.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Flux, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover models used for illustrative purposes only and may not endorse or represent the book’s subject.

  First e-book edition © 2015

  E-book ISBN: 9780738746456

  Book design by Bob Gaul

  Cover design by Lisa Novak

  Flux is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Klehr, Dawn, 1970-

  If you wrong us / Dawn Klehr. -- First edition.-

  1 online resource.-

  Summary: "As Becca and Johnny plot revenge against the person responsible for the car accident that killed their loved ones, they discover that nothing is what it seems--either with the crash or with each other"-- Provided by publisher. Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.-

  ISBN 978-0-7387-4645-6 () -- ISBN 978-0-7387-4599-2 [1. Revenge--Fiction. 2. Love--Fiction.] I. Title.-

  PZ7.K678322-

  [Fic]--dc23

  2015033059 Flux does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For my family

  Oh, the things I’d do for you …

  Acknowledgments

  To say that bringing this book into the world was difficult would be like saying Becca Waters is a just a tad bit troubled. Writing dark books is tough, draining, scary. At times I’d think, should I really write such a thing? And maybe, even more importantly, I’d wonder, should people read such a thing? But then I finish, and it’s … cathartic. I feel like I’ve learned something, that I’ve grown. I feel like I better understand the people or places or situations that frighten me. I feel strong. I hope readers feel the same way.

  Though I have to say, with the dark you must also have the light. I’m so lucky I do!

  First, middle, and last, I’d like to thank my husband, Lance, who watched me sleep on the couch for two months surrounded by books, movies, music, art, and anything else I could use for inspiration as I finished this damn thing! He bravely endures the crazy when I’m preoccupied with my work and, amazingly, never asks me why I do it. He also keeps the candy bowl on my desk full, the kiddo entertained, and the household running, and I simply adore him for it.

  To my son: who, on the other hand, constantly begs me to please “just quit writing,” thank you for putting up with it, buddy. And for making me take breaks, giving me plot ideas, and reading with me every single night before bed. It’s the very best part of my day.

  I’d also like to thank Brian Farrey-Latz and Jessica Sinsheimer for their enthusiasm for my wicked characters and for getting scared in all the right places. I appreciate all that you do.

  Boatloads of gratitude to Sandy Sullivan, who was so patient and kind as we got to the homestretch, and who allowed me to make edits and additions up until the very last minute. She is a dream to work with. Also to the Flux team dedicated to bringing all kinds of books to young readers, particularly the editorial, design, sales, marketing, and publicity departments.

  Huge hugs go out to my writer pals who share their talent and support in so many ways. To Sara Biren, who lovingly calls me “sicko” when I share my story ideas and who always comes to the rescue when I send out the S.O.S. To Rhonda Helms, for helping me tighten up my originally scattered opening and for providing the encouragement I needed to keep going. Also to the MNYA writers, who read so many different versions of this story and pretended never to get bored—and especially to Liz and Nikki, who helped come up with the idea for Hush.

  As strange as it sounds, this story is about family, especially those who always have your back. Mine always does and I love them to pieces! And if you wrong us …

  To admit wanting revenge is to admit

  you have been crushed and need to be rebuilt.

  —Laura Blumenfeld,

  Revenge: A Story of Hope

  In revenge and in love woman is

  more barbaric than man is.

  —Friedrich Nietzsche,

  Beyond Good and Evil

  The Elements of a Crime

  According to criminal law—a subject I’ve had to become very familiar with as of late—four elements of a crime must be proven beyond a reasonable doubt to convict a defendant. Cue the Law and Order, dun dun.

  Of course, I have them memorized.

  Element #1: Mental state. Was the criminal act voluntary or purposeful?

  Element #2: Conduct. Did a criminal act or an unlawful omission of an act occur?

  Element #3: Concurrence. Did the intent and criminal act occur at the same time?

  Element #4: Causation. Did the intent and conduct of the accused lead to the crime?

  All of this complex legal speak can really be broken down into just two simple factors—a guilty mind and a guilty act. Without these elements, a case can unravel. A case like mine. And should I ever get caught, it’s something I’m banking on.

  After all, it’s a numbers game.

  1

  November 2, 2013—Present Day

  Johnny

  Last night, as I drifted off to sleep, I pretended I was innocent.

  It wasn’t that hard to do there in my bed, under the gritty sheets and stale bedspread—a painful reminder that made this illusion a necessity. When she was alive, I never even noticed clean bedding. I never worried if there was enough food in the cupboard, or shampoo in the shower. I didn’t have to. But now, I no longer take these things for granted.

  Burrowing farther into my rank covers, I shut out the blue flicker of light that seeped in from the living-room TV and ignored the dull voices that hummed behind the closed doors. Then I imagined my parents in the next room, spooning each other and giggling their way into a blissful sleep (something I used to find repulsive, but now desperately miss), dreaming of whatever it is happy parents dream of. I fantasized about spending my days playing baseball and planning for college instead of plotting, stalking, and trading in on all my favors to get my hands on a gun. I conjured up a guilt-free mind, a stable home, and a nice girlfriend who was sweet and simple.

 
Then I woke up and the truth smacked me in the face.

  Today’s the day. Not that anyone would know. This morning, I went through the same routine I have since school started: got dressed, brushed my teeth, fixed my hair right, made hardboiled eggs—three for me, one for Cassie—checked in on Dad to see if he wanted any even though the answer was always no. I finished the math homework I was too tired to do the night before and caught a ride to school. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  By second period, it’s more of the same, and things are moving just as smooth as a flat-seamed baseball. I’m one of the first to take my seat. Usually, it’s a race to beat the bell. But for Mrs. Skye? I haul ass … because I need to watch.

  Sometimes I wonder just how far back in time I’d need to go to make my pathetic fantasy a reality. It’d definitely have to be life before Becca. And before the accident. But would that be far enough? I’m in this impossible situation because I’m self-centered, and needy, and weak. So I’d have to go way back in time, before I became all these things, to prevent the coming attractions. To undo all the things I have in store for the guy sitting behind me.

  His breath is warm—almost wet—on the back of my neck as he leans over his desk waiting for class to begin. A prickly sensation shoots down my spine and it takes everything I have not to turn around and backhand him. Dude is completely encroaching on my personal space, but I know I can’t bring any attention to myself.

  Revenge, I’ve come to learn, is not impulsive, or reactionary, or blind. It’s calculating, patient, and observant. And if it’s going to work, the timing must be perfect. Just like in baseball. Swing too early, risk a pop-up. Swing too late, risk a strike.

  I can’t risk a thing today, so I grit my teeth and suffer through it as he sits behind me, ready to snuggle in for his daily nap. I slide forward in my tiny chair so I can pretend he’s not back there. So I can pretend the asshole doesn’t exist. Within seconds, he drops his head to the desk. His breathing slows and deepens, creating a nasally little tune before he’s out. I envy him that. He dozes off at this time every day like clockwork—most likely because he was up half the night playing some zombie apocalypse bullshit video game. But in fifty minutes, he will somehow wake just as Mrs. Skye wraps up one of her highly sanitized lessons in U.S. History.

  This is how Travis Kent spends his mornings.

  It was so much better when I didn’t know about him. Now I can’t get his face out of my head. When I go to bed at night? Travis Kent. When I wake up in the morning? Travis Kent. Even when I’m with my girlfriend … Travis Kent.

  Shudder.

  But in less than twenty-four hours, that will all change. Travis Kent will be extracted from my life forever.

  I shift around in my seat, trying to get comfortable. It’s impossible because I’m stuffed into this desk-and-chair combo—much like Rosie is, sitting next to me jammed into her two-sizes-too-small bedazzled jeans. It’s tight and confining. I don’t know who designs the desks for high schools, but they need to seriously rethink the dollhouse dimensions. Though I shouldn’t complain; at least we have a place to sit. Many of the classrooms don’t. Ever since Roosevelt High School closed its doors two years ago, Central got most of the overflow—and that’s exactly what it is. Our already-crowded school is now leaking students. The principal even had to extend the time between bells due to the gridlock in the corridors.

  Apparently this is what happens when your city goes bankrupt: businesses and schools close their doors; unemployment goes up; the police force suffers massive cutbacks; people get desperate; crime rises.

  It’s every man for himself.

  So I guess you could say I’ll be doing everyone a favor by decreasing the headcount tonight.

  These days, the only part of Detroit that doesn’t look like a dystopian wasteland is Mexicantown—a place people used to wrinkle their noses at but were happy to visit on a Friday night for margaritas and enchiladas. Now, we’re the ones holding the damn city together.

  “Johnny Vega.” Mrs. Skye’s shrill voice echoes in the room. “What does Manifest Destiny mean?”

  “Uh,” I say, searching my brain for the question she just asked. “Manifest Destiny?”

  I’m still not used to the whole student-teacher protocol. I never used to be the type of kid teachers called on in class. They would avoid me even more than they avoided the loner kids on the verge of going Columbine at any minute. Most teachers around here believe it’s best to just let the dumb jocks skate by—especially the dumb Mexican jocks. That’s a double violation, after all.

  But that was before Becca came into my life and before I started caring about school (and using words like “encroaching” and “dystopian”). Before I realized that there may be more to life than ball. Truth be told, I’ve always cared. I just didn’t think school was my thing. But once I started showing an interest, teachers like Mrs. Skye ate it up.

  She desperately wants to be that determined white teacher who makes a different for us poor minority folk—like that movie Freedom Writers or some shit.

  Let’s face it, I probably need it. This is one of the “basic” courses—in other words, for idiots, stoners, or slackers. Travis doesn’t fit in; he’s only here because he makes a habit of taking extended vacations.

  “Yes, Mr. Vega.” Skye interrupts my wandering thoughts. “Tell me what Manifest Destiny means to you.”

  It was a way for America to justify destroying the way of life for Mexicans and Native Americans and steal our land.

  It’s the first thought that comes into my head, but now—thankfully—I take a minute to think before I speak.

  Mrs. Skye stares at me. Waiting. She flicks her pen against her thigh as she paces in front of the room. Yeah, she’s impatient that I need a second to gather my thoughts, yet Travis is allowed to use the hour as naptime every day. I’ve come a long way in the last year, but the politics of high school is something I’ll never get.

  “Manifest Destiny is an idea or belief that Americans should expand across North America and promote democracy.” I alter my answer because I have the feeling our teacher was all for the expansion. With her immaculate clothes and shiny shoes, Mrs. Skye is the type to believe that anything is possible in our great country and to downplay the negative—even when the city is collapsing all around her.

  “Good,” she says, moving on. “Cody, was that a good or bad thing?”

  And I’m back to tuning out again.

  I’ll need to find extra time to study the material for our test in two days. Not that it’s difficult, obviously, but I’ve been checking out for the past week and I can’t leave anything to chance. Becca says we can’t have any hiccups; it has to be business as usual. For me, that means a decent grade on the test. Still, I find myself ignoring Mrs. Skye and staring out the window, watching the last of the falling leaves. I wonder if next year I’ll be watching them from a college classroom or a jail cell.

  It’s completely impossible to concentrate, today of all days. I’m on edge. Teeth-grinding, stomach-churning, fingers-

  tingling edge. And here Travis sleeps, with no idea what he’s in for. He’ll go about his day as usual. Chemistry, study hall, lunch, gym, English, finishing with Spanish—a language he’ll never master, by the way. The guy can’t roll an R to save his life.

  I know all of this because I’ve been watching him for almost ten months. Obsessing over him, really. Ever since Becca told me what happened and what he did. Ever since I said yes to her plan.

  A pen drops on the floor and the desk behind me rattles. I don’t have to stalk Travis to know he’s a restless sleeper—it’s pretty common knowledge in our class. Sometimes I wonder if it’s guilt or bad dreams that affect his sleep in this way. Or is it simply because he spends too much time jacked up on oversized cans of Monster and Starbucks mochas (with extra whipped cream)?

  Oh yeah, I’ve been watching his calorie in
take as well. If I go through with tonight’s festivities, I’ll have to carry good ol’ Trav a few blocks. I’m pretty strong, but Travis is surprisingly solid for a guy barely over five-five.

  The fact that I know all of this is sick and wrong. I do know that; I’m not so far gone I don’t understand the moral dilemma we’re in. But I’m doing it for Becca … and Mom.

  Though I’m not sure Mom would’ve approved of Becca if she were still here. She always warned me about hanging out with the wrong crowd, bad influences, or those people who didn’t help you meet your life’s goals. We can’t let anything get in the way of your dreams, Johnny, she would say. Funny how her threats always seemed to be disguised as motivation.

  What Mom didn’t know is that trouble is not always so obvious. Not when it comes in a pretty package like one Becca Waters. Long and lithe Becca, with her flowing red curls and angelic face. Trust me, she’s enough to turn the strongest of men into drooling idiots. I had no idea what I was up against when she started tutoring me last year. She was so broken then, and my connection to her was almost immediate. What’s that expression: like recognizes like ? Well, we recognized each other all right, and it wasn’t long after that I vowed to do whatever it took to put her back together again. Sadly, it’s officially come to that.

  After school, we’ll wait while Travis meets up with his other gamer friends. They’ll talk smack about leveling up and a bunch of crap only those fools understand. Of course, Becca gets it. She’s tried explaining their little subculture to me, but I’m so not interested. Though I would love to see her kick some of these douche-canoes’ asses, Becca prefers to use her mad skills IRL—which is exactly how she found out about Travis in the first place.

  Tonight, Travis will go to the gaming tournament. After, his life will change forever.

  So will mine. Everything I’ve worked for will be in jeopardy. My only hope is to pray I make it out of this shitstorm unscathed. But it won’t be easy. To get out of it, I may have to leave Becca.