Making Bad Choices Read online

  MAKING

  BAD

  CHOICES

  RITA STRADLING

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents and places are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Rita Stradling.

  Edited by Monique Fischer

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit this book in any form or by any means. For subsidiary rights please contact the author.

  Email: [email protected]

  MAKING

  BAD

  CHOICES

  Prologue

  Culter Fuller broke my heart when I was fourteen. Well, that was what I told my mother the night he left my life.

  My mother and I lay under the stars in our favorite stretch of grass, just a little way out from Griffith Observatory. Stray grass strands poked through our woven blanket to tickle my bare arms and legs. Otherwise I was comfortable, the air cooled to just warm after another scorching Saturday. Few stars fought their light through the smog layer that night, but this was emergency star-gazing—we hadn’t checked the sky, just jumped in my mother’s car and sputtered up the hill.

  My mother’s fingers scratched over my scalp as her lavender scent wrapped around me. “When are you going to start rebelling against me? I’ve been looking forward to having a rebellious teenager my whole life and you haven’t done it once.”

  “I don’t know, Mom,” I whispered. My head fit into the hollow between my mother’s shoulder and armpit, a hollow my head had worn into almost the perfect pillow from years of doing just this. Usually it was the perfect pillow, but her shoulder was on its way to boney again, and I was determined not to think about that right then.

  I scrubbed a tear off my cheek with my palm, and added, “I think you’re supposed to tell me not to do stuff if you want me to rebel, Mom.”

  “Oh,” she said, still combing through my hair with her fingertips. “Well, then you probably need to ask to do something really bad, like sky-diving or something.”

  I glanced up at her, seeing a fan of eyelashes over pale skin and a smirk on colorless lips. Three days ago, she cropped her dark brown hair to almost nothing—she called it her battle-ready haircut. “Wait—Mom, I thought you said we were going to go sky-diving?”

  She grinned. “Oh, that’s right, huh? Your fifteenth birthday?”

  I swallowed. “You said I have to be sixteen.” That was a year and a half away, which was a good goal as far as I was concerned.

  “Definitely sixteen,” she said it in a strong voice, as if maybe she was trying to convince both of us that was possible.

  The city reflected its lights onto the brown-gray sky layer, obscuring all but the tail of the big dipper and a few scattered stars.

  “So, what did it feel like when Culter broke your heart?” she asked me.

  “Like he punched me in the chest.” I scrubbed off another tear.

  “Intense.”

  “I hate him . . . forever.” And I would. I would hate him forever.

  “That’s just sad, baby.”

  I yanked up a piece of grass, pulling it out by the roots and raining dirt onto our blanket. “Ugh, Mom. I’m your daughter; you’re supposed to take my side.”

  Her hands continued working through my hair. “I am. But I also think everyone is making this into a way bigger deal than it really is—”

  “You would think that.” I sat up and crossed my arms.

  She sat up next to me and continued as if I hadn’t interrupted her, “. . . and I don’t understand how Culter could have broken your heart. You keep telling me you don’t even like him.”

  “That doesn’t matter, Mom.”

  She turned fully to me, eyes bright under drooping eyelids. “I just think that someone needs to have your heart in order to break it, honey.”

  I glared. “He did it, he broke my heart. I didn’t like him before, but now I hate him.”

  She sighed. “All right, baby. You’re the expert on your own heart. I just think it’s a shame. Culter is a sweet kid—“

  “Are you talking about the same Culter? No, he’s not sweet, at all.”

  “. . . and I think you guys are going to miss each other. It’s up to Jen and your dad, of course, but I believe that Culter should come back and you two should work this out. Maybe you could call him?”

  “I will never miss him, Mom. And I don’t have his phone number. I don’t want it.”

  “Maybe on social media?” she asked.

  “Mom, no, I blocked him. Can we just drop it? Like, forever?”

  She sighed, lying down beside me and not answering.

  Eventually, I lay down beside her, and even put my head on her shoulder, because that's where I wanted it, truly.

  “I love you; I just want you to be happy.” She kissed me on the top of my head, through my hair.

  That might be what she wanted, but I knew the truth, I would never be happy. Furthermore, having Culter back in my life would make me the opposite of happy. Lying there, under the hooded sky, I made a wish that I would never see Culter Fuller again. And for once in my life, my wish came true. At least, it came true for three and a half years.

  Chapter One

  My stepbrother Culter reentered my world on the worst day of my life. Culter showing his very unwelcome face was the third disaster that happened on the day that upended my entire existence.

  First, I turned eighteen. A clock hissed past twelve forty-one and my mother grinned from her hospital bed. Skin stretched taut over her brittle bones, but she still managed an expression reminiscent of a smile.

  “Happy birthday, beautiful,” she’d whispered to where I sat on the chair pulled as close to her as possible. Those were the last words she ever said, those three little words.

  I didn’t think my mom planned to die on my eighteenth birthday, but that was how it worked out. At six-something a.m. on the day I officially became an adult, she had already been dead for four long, wakeful hours. I sat outside the hospital, and I couldn’t cry.

  Three years ago, one of my shittiest grief counselors told me my eyes wouldn’t let me cry forever, but I’d never believed her. It sounded like one of the lines they memorized in some group grief counselor training. But it turned out that she was right, and after two and a half days of straight crying, my tears were gone.

  “Cassie?”

  I turned to look through the bright blue bars of the half pirate ship I sat on. A woman stepped into view, standing on the lower deck of the small enclosed playground attached to the pediatrics’ department. My hand peeled away from the cold, metal bar and I waved.

  Jen’s lovely round face turned up to look at me, a hint of a small smile crossing her lips. “Hey, sweetheart.” Splotches of red rimmed her oval eyes, which probably meant she’d waited until her tears dried up before she found me. She threw a thumb over her shoulder. “You ditched me in the bathroom. Did you want to play on the playground?” Her tone sounded off, as if she gave up on her attempt at humor before the words passed her lips.

  I looked around at the cold playground that the early morning light barely touched. We’d been suffering a strange cold front since Thanksgiving—it even dipped below the forties at night. No Los Angeles kid would be caught dead out in this type of weather. I’d been surprised that the door to the outside had even opened for me.

  “I just figured there wouldn’t be anyone out here,” I said, shrugging.

  I didn’t mean it as a dismissal, but she took it that way, stepping back toward the sliding doors that swarmed with painted fish. “I can wait for you inside.”


  “No.” I stood. “I’ll come down.” I climbed down the icy ladder, feeling the nip of cold at my fingers.

  When I stood before my stepmom, exhaling white clouds between us, I realized that we were almost the exact same height now. I had to blink at her a couple of times. I hadn’t really looked at her since she’d arrived with my father last night.

  Her forehead furrowed and her arms came out. “Can I hug you, honey?”

  I trudged over the lip of the pirate ship and into her arms. “Of course. I’m sorry, Jen. I’ve been sort of crazy for a couple days; I probably haven’t even greeted you guys.”

  She clutched onto me, thin cords of muscle banding around my shoulders. “Sweetheart, you are welcome to go absolutely insane if you want. Lose your mind. I’ll carry you around if I have to.”

  Pulling back, I said, “Thanks. Not quite there, but check in with me in a little while.” I tried on a smile, but from the concern in her eyes, I could tell it fell short.

  She rubbed up and down my arms. “I loved your mom. She was the most badass woman I knew.”

  “Yeah,” I said, because the only thing I heard was the word was.

  Jen held her hand out to me. “You want to go straight to the car?”

  “Please.” The word came out softer than a whisper, so I cleared my throat and repeated, “Please. If we can. Dad doesn’t mind arranging all the hospital stuff?”

  “Of course not.” Jen’s hand was warm, dry, strong, and comforting. I focused on that as we reentered the hospital. Doors hissed open, fluorescent bulbs shone into our eyes and the smell of disinfectant bombarded us as we made our way through Pediatrics. One foot after the other, we navigated through the hospital all the way to the lobby’s open spaces and bright colors. As we passed the gift shop, Mary Sue waved at me from the counter, her white hair making a halo around her smiling face. She probably didn’t know about Mom yet. I just nodded and kept walking.

  And then we were out. We were out of my home away from home for the last several years. Out of the place that I ingrained all of my emotions into since the age of eleven—my anger, fear, hope, love, hate, and finally resignation.

  People entered as we exited, groups of worried families rushing to help someone they loved. I wasn’t one of them anymore.

  The sun sat bright and dead east, blasting into our eyes as we crossed the long stretch of parking lot. Jen said nothing, just led me to their luxury car that sat halfway down the lot.

  We both climbed into the backseat, surrounded in soft suede that had the slightest signs of wear, even though the car was years old.

  “You going to sell this car and the condo?” I asked as my free hand brushed over the soft leather.

  Jen shrugged. She was so small and lanky for a forty-something-year-old, Yoga Queen. Jen and I could swap clothes even though I was barely eighteen and petite. My mom always joked that Jen drank from the fountain of youth while she had drunk from the very opposite fountain. Mom would always do that, joke about her own death, like they were old buddies. Those always felt like inside jokes, and I was firmly on the outside.

  Jen squeezed my hand. “I don’t know, honey. Do you think you’ll want to live in the condo and use the car during art school next year?” She didn’t add the like you’ve always planned.

  Art school. It had been my dream since before I could remember. But like an idiot, I’d only applied to schools in Los Angeles. I’d actually only applied to schools that had easy public transportation to the hospital.

  I sighed, curling my feet under me on the seat, hoping that the buckles of my boots wouldn’t scrape up their nice car. “Art school seems a lot like hell, as does finishing high school. Maybe I’ll just drop out and get a nine-to-five as a waitress. I could get pregnant too, just for kicks.” My joke was lame and unfunny, but Jen politely laughed.

  “There we go,” she nudged me, “that’s the cynical seventeen-year-old I know and love.” She cleared her throat, “I mean, eighteen-year-old.”

  “Let’s just forget about . . . that.” And forget about my birthdays forevermore, as well.

  She nodded. “For now. Well, I do think it’ll be a culture shock from here to Bulvin.” She gave me an apologetic smile. “And who says you have to decide now? You can always accept at Bulvin University. I think they have an art department. Bulvin is where I went.”

  I nodded, because what else could I do? It’s not like I could tell her that accepting at her alma mater sounded like an even lower circle of hell than returning to the city that whispered of my mother’s ghost. Her ghost traveled the streets long before she died; it danced around the drum circles and footpaths of Venice beach, laughed outside the theater on West Third Street, ate on the patios of all my favorite restaurants.

  Last year, one of the only things my father had ever asked me for was to apply at Bulvin University, so I did. After years of him and Jen only giving to me and my mom, of them helping us fight the constant insurance battles, putting us up when we’d lost our apartment, and paying for almost everything, I couldn’t refuse them anything. So, in the end, I had an acceptance letter to schools in two areas that couldn’t be more different.

  I could somewhat remember Bulvin from the couple times I visited when I was nine and ten, when my father first moved back. I remembered Jen and Dad’s wedding, and long, stretching wheat fields and trucks roaring their engines. I’d looked out of my father’s window and thought, even at nine, that I’d rather die than move to Bulvin, even if it was just for the summer. At eleven, the first summer I was supposed to spend there, those words “I would rather die” haunted me. That was when I found out that I didn’t have to move there, but it hadn’t been me that started dying. After my mom was diagnosed, I’d refused to travel as far as the Valley with my best friends for a pool party.

  Seven years later, though, I was moving to Bulvin and I couldn’t give a shit.

  My car door opened, and my dad leaned in.

  “Hey, kiddo,” he said, running a hand through his dark hair. I’d always thought my dad looked like a movie star, but today he looked like he’d aged twenty years. Red ringed his eyes, and newly formed creases marred his handsome face. He reached down and squeezed my shoulder. “Let’s get you home so you can get some sleep, yeah?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you want me to drive so you guys can sit in the back?” Jen asked.

  “No, no honey, you stay there, I’ll drive.”

  When we were descending out of the parking lot and turning onto the thoroughfare, a piercing two-tone beeping interrupted the deep silence that held our car captive.

  “I think that’s my phone,” Jen whispered. Squeezing my hand once, she released her hold.

  I didn’t look over to her; instead, I watched the familiar lines and shapes of the street roll by us. The streetlights blinked green, the cars sped forward, only to stop, piling up at the next intersection, the inhale, exhale of Los Angeles traffic.

  Beside me, Jen hummed a surprised sound before whispering, “Oh, wow. Uh. . . Culter is on his way here.”

  Blinking rapidly, I pulled my gaze away from the window to peer across the backseat to Jen. “What?” I asked.

  Her lips rubbed together and brow furrowed as her fingers moved over the screen of her phone. She bit her lip hard, so hard it probably hurt, before saying, “I didn’t have service inside the hospital. I’m pretty sure his text message was from a while back.”

  “It’s not the best time for Culter to come, honey,” my father said from the driver’s seat. His dark eyes peered back, framed in the rearview mirror. “Maybe if you call him?”

  Jen exhaled, heavily. “I’ll try. He might already be on his way here. I’m not sure what to say, should I tell him to . . . cancel his flight?”

  “Yeah, it’s just not a good time,” my dad repeated.

  Phone pressed to her ear, she made a clicking sound with her tongue. “He didn’t answer,” she said after a minute. “What if he’s already on the flight?”

&n
bsp; “It’s fine,” I said, but it came out so quiet, I cleared my throat and repeated, “It’s fine, let him come . . . or whatever.”

  “Are you sure, honey?” my dad said it in the type of voice that made me think that he didn’t believe I was fine with it.

  And it wasn’t fine, not really. Actually, it made a strange sort of sense, my stepbrother Culter reentering my world on the worst day of my life.

  “Yeah. And that’ll be good for Joshie,” I added, because it was true, my little half-brother loved Culter. Culter was pretty much all Joshie talked about. “Culter took me camping . . . Culter’s favorite color is green . . . Culter is really good at fishing, are you good at fishing, Cassie?’

  As Culter was Joshie’s half-sibling too, I tried hard not to burst the little bubble of adoration Joshie built around the dickwad. Especially as Josh was only eight and pretty soon, he’d have all too many bubbles burst for him.

  Traffic clogged all the streets that I knew better to avoid, but I didn’t feel like giving them directions. By the time we arrived in Brentwood, my whole body had numbed.

  As we entered our building, I felt like I’d taken a shot of morphine and it was just setting in, or maybe like I’d smoked a spliff and it was going to my head. My body separated from my mind, sort of drifting back a few paces as we took the elevator up. Like always, the old elevator smelled like cabbage, something that must have embedded in the red felt walls before I’d even moved in. My father and Jen flanked me, as if maybe I’d fall over without their support.

  The elevator doors spread open as keys tittered in my father’s hand. But when we stepped into the hall, we found the door to our condo open, which was odd. Mike, who’d volunteered as a temporary babysitter for Josh during this most recent emergency, would never have left the door open. This was Brentwood, but still.

  Jen rushed forward, peeking into the door before us. “Oh,” she said, she turned back to us. “Everything’s fine, Culter’s already here.” She looked between the inside of the condo and us, bouncing on her heels, but waited for us to catch up before entering.