"I think we are afraid of ourselves. . . of seeing ourselves clearly and without disguise."

- Shirley Jackson

September 30th, 1996

Queens, New York

11:30 p.m.

Someday, nineteen-year-old Christine "Cricket " Philips will write everything she sees in her journal and turn it into a best-selling novel. She had lived through tyranny and saw the kind of things that would make you shudder every time you turned the page.

But then again, Cricket is no Toni Morrison. She doubts her story will get published in The New Yorker, let alone be publicly recognized. Besides, even if people read her book, Cricket can imagine the skepticism on their faces when they read the part about her dropping out of St. Hawthorne during the fall semester.

If you haven't been to New York City, St. Hawthorne is this fancy college where witches and warlocks become full-fledged experts in mysticism. You think the campus is like some secret society of mutants, but it's not.

No one wears stupid costumes, flaunts their wands, or drives wooden stakes into the hearts of wrinkly vampires. While the campus has courses ranging from Dark Arts to AP Greek Mythology, the students do other things like watch All That in the break room, eat unbelievable food, and sign up for extracurriculars no one cares about.

But when you're a nineteen-year-old girl saddled with student debt and rent, you're forced to do things you don't want to do.

Take Cricket's job, for instance; at around ten thirty p.m., she parks near Sweet Mae's diner. It's usually a five-hour drive from her old dorm, but it's a pretty cool place if you're into old-school shit like her.

Inside the diner, Cricket notices all the booths are coated in this blood-red color.

Ceiling fans spin, but they rarely perform a perfect 360°. Cynical culinarians operate in the kitchen while depressed patrons abandon their red cushioned chairs and head outside.

Cricket's ears heighten as the luminous red jukebox plays songs by Janis Joplin, Emerson Brothers, and Patti Smith.

As Cricket sits in her green Volkswagen Beetle, savoring the creamy taste of her vanilla milkshake, she can't help but notice a handsome college student making his way into the diner.

The dark-haired boy stands out in his indigo-blue letterman's jacket, paired with a dark green flannel and an eye-catching orange Ringer tee. His Anchor Blue and his Converse sneakers are drenched in mud and water.

The guy is Jake Nesser, son of future District Attorney Eli Nesser. His mom, on the other hand, wants no involvement in Jake or her husband's life. So, every once a week, she'd fly to Costa Rica to sunbathe and drink Piña Coladas.

At least, that's what Cricket's clients had told her.

Gazing out through the windshield, Cricket observes the slender, blonde server placing two slices of pie in front of a young couple. Jake caught her gaze and playfully winked, flashing a charming grin.

Her dark brown eyes widen with interest as Cricket unbuckles her seatbelt and inspects the boy closely. He is no older than eighteen. His green eyes can easily gyrate you into his orbit. Even though he has acne scars here and there, they're a bit tamer than hers. Brushing her greasy hands against her torn black pants, Cricket grabs her backpack from the floor, opens the car door, and heads over to the diner.

* * * * * * * * * *
Bobbing his head to the music, Jake scrapes his dessert off his plate with a fork. The server attempts to take his dish away, but when Jake washes his dessert with a glass of milk, he politely asks her if he could have another slice of pie.

The old waitress smiles. She goes into the kitchen again to request cherry pie à la mode.

Cricket watches Jake's green eyes brighten. His fingers tap to the beat of the drums as the happy boy waits for his cherry pie to return. But to Cricket, it will be the last meal he'll ever eat.

Removing her olive-green trench coat, Cricket ties it around her waist, walks over to Jake's table, and sits before him. A cool breeze plays with her zebra-striped camisole top. Her dark brown curls cover half of her face until Cricket tucks them behind her left ear, revealing a wine-colored birthmark around her eye and thin brow.

Upon looking at her, Jake's lips lift into a stunning smile. "What's your name?"

"Cassidy," Cricket lies, pushing her hair back. "Cassidy Johnson."

"What a pretty name for a pretty girl like you," Jake remarks. "Do you attend Brown or Harvard?"

"Neither," she replies, still lying through her teeth. "I only came here to surprise some folks."

Jake pushes his dark hair back with his hand. His green eyes gleamed with interest.

"So, you're the Eli Nesser's kid, right?" Cricket inquires suddenly. "The lawyer who's obsessed with becoming the next David Dinkins?"

"Yeah." Jake laughs awkwardly. "What the hell gave it away?"

"I guess it's your chin."

"My chin?"

Cricket bobs her head slowly, replying, "Yeah. You and your dad have the same squarish chin."

"Uh, okay?" Jake snickers. "I thought my brown hair and green eyes were a dead giveaway."

Confused, Cricket leans toward Jake's acne-ridden face and observes his features. "Is that what people say? Because I don't see it."

"My dad used to be blonde, but then he dyed it brown."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I never asked."

Leaning back, Cricket was about to ask him a few questions when a black car entered the parking lot.

Black Sabbath blares through the speakers. Loud jeers and hollers escape the car as three boys down their fizzy beers. The startling scene scared an elderly couple exiting a closing movie theater. They hold their popcorn buckets together, grab their hands, and stride into their brown Volvo.

Jake looks at her funny. "Hey Matt, are you alright?"

Cricket briefly pivots away from the window and smiles at Jake.

"Yeah, sorry," she says nervously. "Were you saying something before, or-"

"I just asked if you're alright," Jake replied, laughing a little. "But since you are, I am curious to know why you come here so late at night."

Reaching into her bag, the girl shows him yesterday's news article.

Jake's expression shifts from flirtatious to scared as he stares at the wrinkled newspaper. The black-and-white photograph depicts a badly beaten girl lying uncomfortably on her gurney. Underneath the picture are gruesome declarations talking about Jenny Kimble's sexual assault.

Looking at the front page with apathy, he asks, "What the hell is this about?"

"Have you seen the news?" Cricket inquires.

"Seen it?" Jake scoffs. "CNN and Fox wouldn't leave me the fuck alone."

"Maybe it's because they thought you attacked her," she told him.

As the energetic tune abruptly ended, a lively waiter quickly rushed over to the jukebox to resolve the issue. With satisfied diners leaving generous tips or heading out to catch a movie, the bustling diner was starting to quiet down.

Meanwhile, the seasoned server gracefully placed a second slice of pie and a glass of cold milk before Jake.

"Enjoy your dessert," the old waitress beams.

She winks at Jake, who barely touched the oozing cherry filling.

Sensing his intensifying heartbeat, Cricket watches Jake's hands slide off the soft red table onto his shaky lap.

"What?" he snarls. "They're saying I assaulted some girl?"

Cricket raises her shoulders and lets them fall.

"They caught the guy who did it." Jake stammers. "It was all over the campus-"

"I'm not interested in him," Cricket implies, raising her finger at him. "I'm interested in the ex-boyfriend who let it happen to her."

"She's not my girlfriend," Jake argues. "She was just some fucking girl I met in AP Literature."

Cricket rests her elbow on the table and places her head against her hand, looking directly at Jake.

"That's where you're wrong," she retorted. "She was a track star, an AIDS activist, and a devoted sister to two little boys. She was going to become a doctor someday until you took her to that God-awful frat party."

With a pointed look, Cricket slides the plate of pie towards Jake.

"Eat up," she urges him. "You'll need your strength."

Jake lets out a resigned sigh and pushes the plate back toward her.

Cricket raises an eyebrow. She hesitates to start the conversation when Jake gets up from his chair, reaches into his jacket pocket, and tosses a ten-dollar bill on the table, stating that he is not hungry. However, just as he is about to leave, Cricket grabs him by the arm and pulls him close to her.

"You're not going anywhere," she replies calmly. "So, sit back down and listen to what I have to say."

Jake yanks his arm away from her grasp and glares at the girl.

"What, you think I'm scared of you?" he sneers. "Well, you must have a death wish if-"

Jake's threat abruptly stops as Cricket guides him back to his seat with her left hand. His widened eyes resemble marbles as he retreats to the corner of his chair, fixating on Cricket with fear and disbelief.

Tasting the sweetness of her ice cream, Cricket sighs heavily before addressing Jake with frankness.

"Jake, you're a spineless leech with abandonment issues," she explains, "the woman who's supposed to protect you is fucking a Cabana boy, and your father's in court for tax evasion. So, please forgive me for not giving a single flying fuck about what you just said."

Jake is rendered speechless, stuttering in shock.

"Fucking bitch," he manages to utter. "Just who the fuck are you?"

Licking the ice cream off of her fork, Cricket simply stares at the rapist's widening eyes and asks, "Does it fucking matter who I am?"

"Yeah, I think it does." Jake snaps.

Cricket sighs before lowering her fork on her plate.

"I'm not obliged to answer any of your questions," she replies. "But I will hint: the boys who were hassling that elderly couple twenty minutes ago are my clients."

"Clients?" Jake repeats.

Cricket points her finger at the dirty window, where four boys stand outside their black car, wearing dark clothes. Coarse hands wield pistols, brass knuckle rings, and wooden bats as the boys wait for Jake to come outside.

A terrified Jake reclines back down on his chair and mutters, "What the hell?" in a quivering voice.

"I don't know what the fuck you did." Cricket sighs, digging her fork into Jake's dessert. "But Vinny claims that you and your friends attacked his half-sister in some college basement."

Jake's face begins to sweat. "Vinny? Wait, you work for the Russo family?"

The Russo family is a big deal in New York. They ran every illegal trade from the slums of Harlem to the suburbs of Massachusetts. No one can touch them - not the judge, the cops, or even Jake's father. All they can do is kneel and kiss Vinny's shoes.

"I'm a changed person now!" Jake whimpers. "I stopped drinking and cut ties with those clowns."

Setting the fork near the half-eaten pie, Cricket slips her hand into her bag again. Still, this time, she retrieves a file with Jake's name on it, places it in the middle of the table, and opens the folder to reveal various newspaper clippings, notes, disreputable photos, and receipts documenting the hefty quantities of drugs he bought for the frat party.

"Tell that to Jenny Kimble," she replies coldly. "I'm sure she'd love to hear your story."

As Jake scans the empty diner, hoping for a helping hand, his search becomes fruitless. The waitstaff is still preoccupied with the jukebox, and the cooks would instead light up a cigarette than aid a wealthy kid in escaping a ruthless adversary. In one last desperate attempt to save his life, Jake grabs her by the arm.

He promises to pay her twice the amount Vinny's father spent in exchange for his safety.

Feeling the tension radiating off of him, Cricket yanks her arm away from him and rises from her seat to grab her backpack.

"Come on, Matt," Jake pleads, tears streaking down his pale face. "Just let me call my father! He'll give you all the money you want. Name your price."

"I appreciate the offer," she remarks, "But the staff and I have already received compensation from Vinny's father in exchange for not testifying against my clients in court."

Jake's disbelief was evident in his cracking voice.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" he shrieks.

Cricket glances over to the chaotic scene of servers and staff, who are frantically gathering their belongings and paychecks. Once they have everything they need, the employees take one last look at the neon-red establishment and rush past the boys, who taunt Jake through the diner's glass exterior.

Startled by the revelation, Jake cries, "Please, don't let them do this to me! I'll give you anything!"

But Cricket only smirks in response, nonchalantly slinging her backpack over her shoulders.

"Here's one thing you should know about me, Jake." she declares coolly, walking towards the glass door. "I don't bargain with monsters."

Jake cowers in his seat. He flings one last pleading look at Cricket, but the girl dons her thick, black headphones, pushes the PLAY button, and listens to "Venus in Furs" by The Velvet Underground as she leaves the diner.

The rapid guitar strings dampen the angry threats.

Lou Reed's voice drowns out Jake's uneasy crying as the rowdy teenage boys barge through the doors and forcibly drag Jake out of his chair and outside the diner.

Closing her backpack, Cricket walks across the empty parking lot.

Darkness hangs over her head. The cold air stabs the girl's brown hands as Cricket tucks her loose bangs behind her ears. Her Doc Martens clicks against the filthy concrete floor until she unlocks her car door with her keys, then crawls back inside her Volkswagen Beetle.

Adjusting the rearview mirror, Cricket witnesses the boys throw Jake's broken body into the dumpster behind the diner. With deliberate malice, they douse Jake's clothing in gasoline, smug grins plastered across their hardened faces. Fueled by their cruel intentions, the boys pass around the jug until it runs out.

Once the syrupy brown liquid takes its course, an older boy with strawberry blonde hair steps up to play. He whips a lighter from his pocket, presses the lever with his bandaged thumb, and tosses it into the dumpster.

Flames emerge from the gasoline. Smoke ascends into the night sky. The blaze takes its time to devour every last trace of Jake Nesser's corpse until all the boys can see nothing but ash and burnt fabric from the rapist's letterman jacket.

A cacophony of whoops and slapping backs erupted from the boys as they reveled in their chaos. Cricket watches it all unfold without a word. She doesn't call the police or tell the boys to stop. Instead, Cricket takes the camera from her backpack and captures every move those bastards make. In case they decide to drag her down with them.
© kstorm68q