Chapter VI: A Bad Day

The next morning, I jolted awake the second my alarm clock went off. Slamming my palm down on it to get it to stop screaming at me, I processed why it had gone off, and then my heart automatically sped up. It was Saturday.

With nervous energy, I slipped out of bed and bombarded my dresser in an attempt to find something to wear. Eventually I settled on a striped gray and white shirt and some black high-rise jeans. Then, with my life in my hands, I grabbed my shoes and keys and booked it for the door.

Thankfully, both my parents were still in bed, so I had no close encounters of the parent kind before I reached the car. From there to the Savvonskis' house, I tried desperately to not let my nerves eat away at me by instead focusing intently on the road. I even played some wild music in attempts to divert my attention, but discarded that idea when an old woman in the car next to me shot me a glare.

I briefly considered rolling down my window and shouting an apology, but when she flipped me off, I opted instead to just look straight ahead and ignore her.

Irritation over said lady actually caused just the diversion I needed. Distracted by thoughts of rude old people, I made it all the way to the Savvonskis' house without another thought of Ashton.

When I got there, I realized that I should have been using the drive to brace myself. I should have used it to prepare myself for the worst possible thing.

The second I stepped out of my car and looked at the front of the house, I knew something was up. Strewn about on the lawn were a handful of red solo cups and—a bra?

He did not.

Impatient to discover if my suspicions were correct, I slammed the door of my car shut and charged toward the front door. Yanking it open, I looked on in horror at the aftermath of whatever Ashton had facilitated last night.

Beer cans, broken glass, vomit, furniture turned on its side, and worst of all, the sickly sweet smell of alcohol saturating every square inch of the entryway. I could have cried.

Instead, I grit my teeth together and launched myself toward the staircase. I'm going to kill that kid! The swimming pool had been one thing—a silly, albeit obnoxious, prank. But this—this was a crime.

Racing up the stairs like a madman, I came to a stop just outside Ashton's room. Without pausing to think it over, I pounded my fist against his door.

No answer. Not even a sound.

I knocked again, this time even louder.

No answer again.

Growling under my breath, I pushed the door open. Then my eyes raked the room in expectation, but to my surprise the bed was empty. In fact, it didn't even look like it had been slept in at all.

Pausing with my hand still resting on the door handle, I frowned and finally stopped to think. Is he even home? Or did he just leave so I'd have to clean this all up myself?

My mind racing, I abruptly shut Ashton's door, spun around, and charged into my break room. After scanning the expanse of the room, I observed only that the covers and the rug had been tossed about—a disturbing scene in and of itself—so I moved on to the next suspect location: the living room.

Finding that it was void of humans as well, I half-heartedly searched the kitchen and the laundry room for any traces. After that, I checked the swimming pool area and the bathrooms, all of which were left in a horrible disarray but still clear of people.

Growing ever more confident in my theory that Ashton was not in the house at all, I approached the garage, planning to confirm my hunch. My search there did nothing but perplex me further.

Ashton's bike was standing in the exact place it had been the other Friday. And when I walked forward and tentatively brought my fingers near the exhaust pipe, I found it to be no hotter than the cool air of the garage. There was no way Ashton had taken his bike out and returned that morning without heating up the exhaust pipe.

Still, who says he had to take his bike to leave?

Shaking my head to clear it, I took a deep breath before exiting the garage and making my way back into the house. There was still one place I hadn't checked yet—the third floor.

I hadn't checked it earlier because it seemed highly unlikely that he would be up there, due to the fact that it was basically vacant of anything, save some dusty boxes full of old photo albums and such. Now that it was the only uncharted territory, I found myself venturing up the second flight of stairs until I reached the landing.

Now that my rampage had been slowed by the hunt for Ashton, I was starting to calm down somewhat. At least, I was calm enough to acknowledge that there was something creepy about the dusty old third floor.

Feeling my heartbeat pick up for no reason, I approached the first room. I swallowed hard before turning the door knob, nudging the door open, and peaking past it. The sight I saw made me stop for a good ten seconds.

Sprawled half-way between the room and the balcony, in a post-drunken mess, was none other than Ashton Savvonski. The whole room was in disarray, from the wine spills on the floor, to the passed out teenager, to the sickly reek of what I assumed to be beer that clung to the air.

There were at least six empty alcohol bottles scattered around Ashton's torso, and enfolded in his limp grip was what looked like a piece of paper—possibly a photograph or a postcard. Ashton's hair was a mess—pointing every which way. I figured that it could have looked good, if it weren't for the fact that he was sweating, and his face looked so troubled.

The notion seemed peculiar to me since he was sleeping, and no one I knew slept with their eyebrows furrowed like that. As I drew near him and dropped to my knees, it became even more apparent to me that he was indeed troubled. The skin around his eyes was a blotchy red, and what appeared to be tear trails were drawn on his cheeks. Had he been crying?

Staring at his miserable sleeping face, I, just for a moment, felt absurdly upset. Despite everything, I couldn't deny that there was something wrong with seeing him in such a state. Maybe it was pity that prompted my reaction. How else could I explain it?

After making a not very well thought-through decision, I inched closer to him and, trying to ignore the stench of alcohol, tapped his arm. When he still didn't move, I tapped harder. This time, although he didn't fully awaken, he did roll over slightly.

As he rolled, his left hand opened, and the paper he had been holding fell to the ground, right between my knees. Pausing in my attempts to rouse him, I let my curiosity get the best of me, and I reached down to pick the paper up—I could now see that it was a photo. Flipping it over so that I could see the front, my eyes narrowed as they took in its contents.

Not a single thing about the picture made sense. It was, after all, a portrait of a middle-aged woman dressed in black. Her hollow eyes were sunken in, held between a pair of dark brows and sharp cheekbones. Framed by a shock of curly raven hair, her face appeared almost too thin, and her expression too cold. Through the lamination of the photograph, I could almost feel the antagonism in her dark eyes.

There was something familiar about that glare—about those eyes.

Feeling an unsettling dread creep into the pit of my stomach, I tried to force the woman's gaze out of my focus by reading what was written in the bottom left corner of the picture. It was a phone number, and an out-of-state one at that.

Just who was this woman? Whoever she was, I felt as if I were intruding by just looking at her picture, so I guiltily flipped it back over and put in on the floor near Ashton. Still curious, but resisting the temptation to investigate further, I instead shifted my concentration back to Ashton.

Shaking my head, I murmured to the sleeping figure, "What have you done to yourself now?"

He was still lying in the same position he had been since he rolled over just a minute ago. Now he looked a little less distressed. The sun shining on his face through the balcony window seemed to have softened some of that scowl he'd been sporting earlier.

Slowly, thoughtlessly, I reached over and brought my hand to his forehead, where I brushed the hair out of his right eye. Then I pressed my index finger against the crease between his brows. Just what is going on with you, Ashton?

All of the sudden, it dawned on me that I was very unnecessarily touching him, and I was about to yank my hand away, when Ashton's eyes suddenly opened.

My own eyes widened to the size of saucers as I stared straight into his. Just one second passed, but it was too much. I did the only thing I could think of.

Instead of retracting my hand, I used it to spontaneously slap him on the cheek. His reaction was as expected—he clutched his cheek with his hands and swore loudly before looking up to glare at me. "What was that for?" he demanded.

Then, of course, due to the effects of all the alcohol he must have consumed last night, he was soon clutching his head and groaning.

Resisting the urge to let out a sigh of relief that I hadn't been caught, I smirked down at him and answered, "For destroying the house. How does that sound?"

With his hands still holding his forehead, he let out a groan. "I already have a hangover; isn't that enough?"

"Stalkers don't go unpunished, and neither do party-throwers," I retorted.

Ashton's reproachful look turned into a full-on glower then. "You aren't my mom, Eilerts. Just stay out of it."

My eyebrows rose. "Stay out of it? It's my job that this house stays clean. Not to mention, you're half my job anyway."

Ashton just stared at me for about five seconds in what appeared to be disbelief, before he pushed himself into a sitting position, and, wincing slightly, lurched toward me. I flinched, but all he did was grab my shoulders. His gaze skittered over my face, and he muttered, "I really don't need this from you right now."

Still tensed up, I reached up to pull his hands from my shoulders. "Yes. You do need this. Now quit wallowing and get up." It felt kind of cruel saying it, but I couldn't stop myself. If Ashton thought I was going to put up with him throwing a party and acting like a child, he had another thing coming for him.

I could tell he was surprised, but he did a spectacular job of not showing it. Instead, he avoided my gaze and actually moved to stand up. As he did, he noticed the fallen photograph and picked it up, shoving it in his jeans pocket.

My gaze followed his hand out of curiosity, but when I noticed that he was looking at me again, I stifled my questions. Rising to my own feet, I met him with a level stare. To his credit, he didn't look away in shame.

"Now that," I said, pointing at the alcohol bottles, "is illegal. And I don't have to be your mom to tell you that." He looked to be on the verge of arguing, but I didn't give him the chance. "Now I'm going to be a nice person and help you clean up—again. But you have to do your part. And if any alcohol is still in this house, I want it disposed of. I don't care how much you paid for it."

He just shook his head. "Were you a slave master in your past life?"

"No, don't insult me. I was an empress, thank you very much."

The beginnings of a smile threatened to break out on his face, but he held it back at the last second. "Where do we start, Empress?"

Amused despite myself, I looked about the room. "How about right here? It looks like a crime scene."

Six hours later—yes, it took us that long—Ashton and I sat back at the foot of the Savvonskis' main staircase. Letting out a long breath, I leaned back and closed my eyes. "I will literally kill you if this happens again."

"It won't." A moment of silence, followed by, "I was having a bad day."

I snapped my eyes back open to look at him. "I don't care if it was a 'bad day.' That doesn't mean you get to throw a party and destroy everything your parents worked for! And force me to do half the clean up!"

He tensed somewhat. "Hey, wasn't that your choice? You could have just made me do it all."

"You think I'd trust you to do it?"

"Come on, I'm not that bad."

I shot him a look. "You sure about that?"

His lips parted incredulously. "You really do hate me, don't you?"

"Can you blame me? You're running awfully low on redeeming qualities so far."

"I can be nice when I want to," he retorted, looking almost offended.

"Ha! You?" I shook my head, but smiled regardless. "I guess you aren't the worst person in the world."

He looked at me for second to see if I was joking, and then he smiled too. "I do have some redeeming qualities, you know."

"Like what?"

"Well, I'm—" He paused for a second too long, and I jumped on the chance.

"I told you! You can't even think of one!"

"Hey, just give a minute!" he protested. "It's not like I spend much time thinking about how awesome I am."

"I guess you shouldn't," I conceded, still grinning.

While Ashton continued wracking his brain for a redeeming quality, a thought suddenly hit me. "Oh!" I exclaimed, jumping to my feet. "I forgot about the front lawn!"

In a matter of seconds, I had reached the door and pushed it open, Ashton at my heels. I came to an abrupt halt when I saw who was standing there, about to open the door.

"D—daphne," I stuttered, just as Ashton rammed into my backside. I lurched forward somewhat, stopping just in time to not run into Daphne.

Ashton made an exclamation behind me, but all I was focused on was his neighbor. Now that I'd had a second to observe her, I saw that she was holding some of the red solo cups—and the bra, for that matter. My face warmed with embarrassment. I immediately opened my mouth to jump to my defense, but Ashton beat me to speech.

"I know, Daph, I'm sorry!" he said in a rush.

That was when Daphne spoke up, her old eyes trained on the boy behind me, "Save your apologies for when you mean them."

"I do mean it though!"

Wedged between the two of them, all I could do was stare awkwardly at Daphne's pearl necklace as the confrontation continued.

"If you really meant it, you wouldn't cause trouble on the same day every year," Daphne came back at him. The same day?

"It's not my fault that day blows."

"It is your fault that you act up." Her eyes flickered to me briefly. "Oh, do step aside, Maine. Stop protecting him."

Eyes widening, I leapt out of the way. "I wasn't!"

Now that I was on the sidelines, I took that as my chance to distance myself better from the two. Then, from my safe place on the lawn, I observed as Ashton tried to defend himself and Daphne rebutted everything he said. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to leave the two alone, but I was too invested to go. And besides, there was important information to be obtained.

There was nothing specific, but it was clear that Ashton was upset about yesterday and even more upset that Daphne wouldn't see his side of it. Daphne, on the other hand, simply looked tired of hearing Ashton's excuses. Despite this, I thought I could make out a tiny bit of sympathy in her gaze. That, of course, blew right over Ashton's head.

I was about to give them some privacy, when Daphne said abruptly, "And for that reason, I will be staying here tonight. And Maine will too!"

I nearly choked. "What—I will?"

She finally looked my way. "Well, if you can, that is."

For a minute, I hurdled my mind into a muddled mess, trying to determine if I could, or even should, spend the night here. Of course, I'd have to ask/tell my parents—and lie to them as to why I'd be staying here. Then there was the matter of overnight clothes; I didn't want to borrow Ashton's clothes again. But then there was Ashton himself. Daphne didn't want to risk him throwing another party, and she clearly wanted my help backing her up.

As I looked back and forth between the two of them, I came to an impulsive decision. "Yeah, I can stay."

Ashton looked at me as if I'd betrayed him, but Daphne's relieved expression nearly made up for it. If I were being completely honest, I didn't think Ashton would throw another party tonight regardless of whether we spent the night or not. Even so, I knew Daphne had his best interests in mind, and I wanted to support that.

And thus, it was decided that I would be staying there until Mr. and Mrs. Savvonski came home Sunday night to manage their son.

To say the rest of the day went by smoothly would be a lie. To say that it was dreadful would also be a lie. Things seemed to brighten somewhat after the argument was over and Ashton accepted our decision. He went off to do who knows what, while I returned to my work in peace, and Daphne sat down at the coffee table to read historical fiction.

It was easy enough to tell my parents that I was spending the night at Britt's, although I hated every second of that phone call. My mom was totally fine with me having a sleepover at Britt's, but I knew she would flip out if she knew what I was really up to. Of course, she'd be wrong if she thought anything would go on between me and Ashton, but I reasoned she was just better off not knowing.

And as it turned out, it was approximately ten hours later—in other words, midnight—before I saw Ashton again. He had disappeared not too long after Daphne's arrival, and I had a suspicion that he was once again up to no good, because I had heard the low growl of a motorcycle leaving the driveway at nine o' clock.

I somehow couldn't ignore the feeling of apprehension that plagued my gut as soon as I concluded that he was at a party. I tried to reason that it was completely out of my hands now—after all, I was only staying here to ensure that Ashton didn't throw a party here. It was none of my business if he was off at somebody else's party.

All Pam had told me was to not, "under any circumstances, let Ashton trash the house." That was it. He wasn't trashing the Savvonski's house, so all was good! And yet, I still couldn't shake that feeling.

Fast forward to midnight, I was both surprised and wary when, from where I was lounging on a sofa in the living room, I heard the front door open. That sound was soon followed by a muffled cough and the 'plop' of a pair of shoes on the entryway. Tilting my head so that my ears could more easily catch the noises, I listened as Ashton made his way at a tired pace into the wide hallway that passed the room I was currently inhabiting.

For a moment, I was led to believe that he was indeed what I feared—drunk—but that thought was banished the instance he veered into the living room entrance and questioned in a sober and almost comfortingly soft voice, "Maine? Are you in here?"

I didn't dare to open my mouth, in fear of his catching me. Instead, I silently sank further into the plush of the sofa cushions and gripped my notebook closer to my chest. Subconsciously willing him to leave, I listened even more closely. I wasn't exactly sure why it mattered that he didn't see me—perhaps I just didn't want him thinking I'd stayed up for him.

Whatever the case was, my little hide-and-don't-go-seek game didn't work out quite the way I planned, for Ashton took my silence as voice enough that the room was vacant, and decided to saunter right on in. Then he blindly chose in the next second to plop down squarely on top of me.

"Ouch!" I exclaimed automatically. Then, before he could even fully grasp what had happened, I twisted my body so violently that he fell off of me and hit his head against the coffee table.

Now it was his turn to groan. Cursing loudly, he said through clenched teeth, "Why didn't you say anything?"

Hands at my mouth, I replied in horror, "That was an accident, I swear! I didn't mean for you to—"

He swore again. "Maine! Do you have to injure me every time I see you?"

Part of me couldn't help but laugh. When he glared at me from his fetal position on the floor, I stopped. "I'm sorry! It wasn't on purpose! I just—you look so—"

"Funny? What part of this is funny to you? Do you take pleasure in hurting me?���

In response, another laugh sputtered out of my lips. Covering my face with my hands, I fell back against the couch and tried to get it out of my system. It's not funny. It's not funny. I chanted to myself.

But that only made it funnier.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Head injuries are hilarious."

Feeling both awful and amused, I tried to speak up again. "No, they aren't! I'm just tired, so everything seems funny!"

I peeked through my fingers to see his reaction. He just let out a resigned sigh and rolled over so his legs stretched out on the carpet. Instead of arguing, he changed the subject. "So why are you down here anyway?"

I could hardly complain about a topic that wouldn't make me laugh. "Daphne went to bed, but I couldn't sleep, so I came down here to draw." I gripped the slightly ruffled notebook in my lap.

Okay, that was only partially the truth. As much as I hated to admit it, the real reason I was down here was that I wanted to wait until he got home before I went to bed. But I'd never tell him that, of course. It was bad enough saying it to myself.

Ashton nodded in response, but didn't say anything. I watched him for a couple seconds, trying to decipher what he was thinking. When he still didn't move, I forced myself to concentrate on my notebook instead.

As my pencil traveled over the page, I wondered just where Ashton had been these past three hours. If he had been at a party, why wasn't he drunk? If he hadn't been at a party, then where had he been? Most importantly, why had yesterday been such a bad day this year and every year before that?

But I kept quiet, not wanting to disturb the silence. I also kept my eyes glued to my drawing, for fear of what would happen if I looked at Ashton. Why again were we in the same room? Why in the world was I working here?

Oh, right. Revenge. My revenge on him was going to have to be really out of this world to make up for all this time I was spending with him.

Unfortunately, that thought had me glancing over at Ashton himself, and I was taken aback to find him staring at me with those two deep brown eyes of his. Feeling my cheeks warm slightly, I was thankful for the dim lighting of the living room.

When he didn't bother to avert his gaze, I gave him a peculiar look. He didn't do a thing. Not a thing. I averted my eyes hastily from his. But my notebook offered no comfort this time, so I was forced to look back up at him and demand in frustration, "What?"

All he offered was a completely unhelpful answer. "What about what?"

Shooting him a dry expression, I snapped, "You know exactly what, Savvonski."

"Do I?"

"Umm…yeah," I said, while the muscles in my cheeks pulled my lips into a frown.

All he offered in response to that was, "You really shouldn't frown. It doesn't suit you."

"You are such a—" I started to say in frustration, but I couldn't seem to find any word that was fitting enough, and I ended up just finishing with an emphatic, ��—ugh!"

He raised an eyebrow in amusement before propping his hands under his head and saying, "Why am I looking at you? Is that what you wanted to ask?"

I stared at him, holding my breath for some unknown reason. Maybe it was because I didn't really believe that he was going to tell me why he was staring at me, but I hoped so desperately for it anyway.

"Well, I'll tell you," he muttered, his voice low. I barely dared to hope. And it appeared, a moment later, that my fears were well-founded as Ashton finished his offer. "…in your dreams."

Biting down my frustration, I flipped my notebook shut, leaned forward, and said with a smile, "Screw you."

Then I stood up and bid him goodnight.

With purpose, I marched out of the living room and up the first flight of stairs to the guest bedroom. As I lay there in bed, I sent a wish to heaven. My wish was simply this: to get through tomorrow with as little contact with Ashton as possible. Never mind the fact that I was supposed to find out his weaknesses; I just needed to survive the weekend at this point. On Monday, I could start thinking about my revenge again—when I had a clear head.