Chương 9: Bk 1 Ch 8: Surpass

"Fuck those D. A. R. E. ads, this is what they should've shown us in assemblies," says Cassie, wiping her forehead.

"I never would've signed up to join a gang if I'd known it was really nothing but a summer job." I crack a grin.

"Less bitching, more hammering. Do you have any idea how much this thing weighs?"

"Yes! It doesn't weigh anything, you fucking cheater!"

"You know, I've had acid trips that felt less surreal than this," says Jess, shaking her head. The property is a little more than half an hour southeast of Franklin. It's about three acres in total, at the end of an old, poorly maintained logging road. Most of it is dense woods, which is fine; it'll provide plenty of privacy. The field in the center was completely overgrown with tall grass, weeds, and poison oak until this morning.

I cleared the entire thing in less than an hour, and it only took me that long because I didn't want to completely pull up the topsoil. I still finished before the others even got here, which I'm very thankful for, since I discovered the most efficient way of clearing the brush was spinning around upside down with my spear extended like a helicopter blade. Jess and David purchased the plot for a little over four grand.

Cheap as it was, it still represented a sizeable chunk of their savings, and isn't something they would have done before. Without my help, even a minor construction project like this would have required renting equipment and hiring people. With my help, it's the work of a long afternoon. More importantly, they'll be able to make use of the extra production without worrying about drawing too much attention.

Currently, I'm standing at the top of a stepladder, holding a ten foot long four-by-four in place with one hand while Cassie and Jess nail the ends to the top of the support posts. She's actually not quite right; I haven't completely negated its weight because I don't want it to start drifting off. It's the last of the beams that'll run along the peak of the greenhouse's roof.

The beams at the base of the roof are already in place, so all that's left to do is attach the rafters and then cover the whole thing with clear plastic siding. It'll be a pretty sizeable greenhouse, forty feet long and around sixteen wide. In absolute terms, it's not that much space; it probably won't even be the biggest grow operation in the city, let alone the state. In relative terms, it's more than five times as much space as Jess and David had before, from the little greenhouse in their backyard.

They're nervous about increasing their production so radically, understandably. It's the sort of thing that easily could have led to men with guns kicking down their door in the middle of the night when they were on their own. But by the time the first crop is ready for sale, everyone will know targeting them would mean pissing off a magical, a magical with a confirmed body count. It's not quite absolute protection, but outside of a full gang war or ABRA operation, they have very little to worry about.

"Alright, that should do it," says Jess as she hammers in the final nail.

"How's it looking on your end, Cassie?"

"Last one." She hammers as well for a minute.

"Kay, should be good to go. You wanna go head and test it?"

"Yup." I let my gravity field fall, then give the beam a gentle wiggle. It doesn't go anywhere. Given that my gentle wiggle is equivalent to someone else's full strength heave, I figure it's probably solid.

"Looks good."

"Great." Both of them start climbing down from their ladders. Cassie stretches, then takes a big swig from her water bottle. It's not too hot, somewhere in the high eighties, but it's still sweaty work. Or, at least, it is for them. I try not to be too smug.

"Hey Gabby, if you guys are all done over there, I've got these two-by-fours all marked," shouts David from over by the U-Haul.

"Ah, shit, I did it again, sorry."

"Don't worry about it," I say, waving a hand as I walk over.

"It feels kinda awkward for me too, it's just best to start getting in the habit of always calling me Schwarzschild when I'm in costume now. I'm sure it'll be easier when I'm actually, you know, making an effort to act the part." I pull the first two-by-four so it sticks out the back of the truck. Kneeling, I hold it flat with one hand and carefully slice it at the indicated mark, leaving a cut cleaner than any buzzsaw could manage. I flip it around and cut the other side as well.

"Alright, lemme go check and make sure it fits right, then I'll do the rest." I fly over to the greenhouse with the rafter in hand, holding it between the base and the peak of the roof.

"Yeah, looks good." The sun's going down by the time we get the last of the siding on, but we do manage to get the whole thing covered. There's still more work to do, of course; the actual plots will have to be dug out inside the greenhouse and filled with sod, water tanks and gutters will have to be set up, and then it'll be time for the actual planting. The hardest part is definitely over, though.

"Fuck me, I'm gonna be sore tomorrow," complains Cassie.

"You did good today," says David.

"I can still barely believe we got that entire thing put up in one day."

"Yeah, almost like magic, huh?" says Jess. We all boo her.

"Anyway, how's pizza sound?"

"Sounds fucking great," I say. One somewhat-intended side effect of this project was giving Jess and David a chance to get used to me in costume, in an inherently unthreatening setting. It seems like it's worked pretty well, and the slight nervousness they've had around me since I killed Firestorm and his gang has mostly faded. When we get home, Jess checks the answering machine. As much as they're expanding their operation, it still wouldn't be enough to support anything but the tiniest gang.

Given my personal connection with them, keeping them as my only suppliers would also risk my identity a little more than I'm comfortable with. Fortunately, they're at least casually acquainted with quite a few small-time independent dealers around town, and they've started putting out feelers.

"Heard back from Anna," she says.

"We're gonna have coffee on Friday, I'll give her the pitch. She's one of the ones I think might really be interested, she grows mushrooms. Lot easier to grow than weed, you can literally just do it in the basement or the attic, but it's also a lot harder to find regular buyers."

"Good," I say, nodding.

"I'd like to get at least two or three more suppliers to start things off."

"Oh, also, Mr. Sterling left a message for you, Gabby." That, I was not expecting to hear. The bag of meth is still hidden in my room, it won't be time to plant it for another week still.

"Did he say what he wanted?"

"No, just asked you to call him back as soon as possible."

"Right, I'll do it tomorrow morning," I say, trying to push down the sudden surge of nervousness. I'm not real successful, and spend the rest of the night thinking of every possible thing that could have gone wrong. Whatever it is, I tell myself I'll be able to handle it, that it's stupid to get worried over something like this when I've fought and killed another magical, but I still don't sleep real well. I call at 8am sharp the next morning, just to get it over with.

"You've reached the office of Samuel Sterling."

"Hi, this is Gabrielle Harper?"

"Ah, Miss Harper, good. There's been a development. As requested, I've been keeping an eye out for any police logs involving Richard Harper. It seems the night before last, police were called to his place of residence by neighbors, on concerns of domestic violence." It takes a couple of moments for that to process.

"... Oh," I say eventually.

"Um… Do you know anything else?"

"No arrests were made, but no further details were provided beyond that. I can investigate further if you wish, but I will require additional payment. However, if I were to speculate, it's highly common in these sorts of situations for the victim to decline to press charges and deny any wrong-doing on the part of the perpetrator at all."

"... I see," I say, mostly just to fill the silence and give myself time to think. I… I'm not really sure what to think, honestly. Part of me insists this has to be some kind of misunderstanding. I never once saw my parents fight, or even really disagree about anything. Even when my dad overruled my mom about something, trying to appeal to her never got me anything except 'Obey your father.' As far as I could ever tell, the only part of the family that was less than perfect was me. But…

I guess the whole point of my plan was that meth changes your personality, makes you more irritable, more aggressive. Just planting it on him never would have been enough, no one would've believed he was actually using it. I just… hadn't expected it to succeed quite to this degree.

"If I might make a suggestion?" says Mr. Sterling, and I realize I've been quiet for too long anyway.

"Unless you have reason to think otherwise, this seems to be a perfect opportunity to file your application for emancipation. Even if you're unable to convince your parents not to contest your application, a documented history of domestic violence will make it vastly more difficult for them to do so. I recommend striking while the iron is hot, so to speak."

"I… Yeah, I guess you're right. Um, what comes next, then?"

"I can submit the application for you, but I will need your signature on it. Are you able to come to my office this afternoon? At, say, two thirty?"

"Sure, that's fine."

"Very well, then. Once the application has been submitted, a hearing will be scheduled within ten business days. Your parents will be notified of the date by letter, likely within the next two days. You may attempt to dissuade them from attending on your own if you wish, but I would be happy to assist you and maximize your odds of success. Including the prep work, the meeting with your parents, and the hearing itself, I would expect to bill you for four to five hours of work in total."

"So I'd be looking at around four hundred dollars, then?"

"Correct." That would just about eat up the last of the cash I stole, but I have gotten my first paycheck, so I won't be broke. And if things go according to plan, of course, I'll have more money than I know what to do with in just a couple of months. It's really not a tough decision to make.

"Yeah, let's do that."

"Excellent. Then if there's nothing else, I'll see you this afternoon." I hang up, staring at the phone for a few seconds before slowly going to hang the headset back up in the living room.

"Something up?" asks Jess.

"Oh, it looks like I'm gonna file my application for emancipation this afternoon," I say, putting a smile on my face.

"Oh, that's great! Congratulations!"

"Yeah, thanks." I feel… just weird, I guess, in a way that's kind of hard to put into words. I'm pretty sure at least a little of it is guilt, which is fucking stupid. The night I left, my mom didn't lift a single goddamn finger when my dad took off his belt, even had the audacity to tell me it was for my own good, so fuck her. She doesn't deserve my sympathy. Mostly, though, I just feel kind of unbalanced, like I'd put my weight on a step I thought was solid only for my foot to go right through it.

For all the shit I could say and have said about my parents, the one thing they've always been is predictable. The rules I'd needed to learn to appease them were often stupid and arbitrary, but they'd always been consistent. It's unsettling in the same way it'd be if the sun randomly rose in the west one morning. At least the forms Mr. Sterling gives me to sign are all pretty straightforwards. I meet with him only briefly, just long enough to give my signature and my initial payment.

Once he's submitted the application, he tells me he'll reach out to some of his contacts and see if he can dig up a few more details on what exactly happened. With that in hand, he'll have what he needs to "invite" my parents to a meeting before the hearing, dancing on the line of threatening to destroy their reputation if they don't show without ever coming right out and saying it. It makes me glad I'm leaving everything to him.

While I nervously wait to hear back from him, things are proceeding on the other front. In the end, only two other dealers are interested in joining. I'd been warned that most independent dealers will be very leery of anything involving magicals, so it's not too surprising. Anna is in fact one of them, along with a guy named Mark. Unlike the others, he doesn't grow anything himself, instead having a connection to a big farm somewhere in northern California.

Jess is a little contemptuous, insisting the mass-produced shit is always low quality, but she does admit that most customers probably won't be able to tell the difference. The upside is that he'll be able to put in a bigger order and get it way before Jess and David's first crop is ready. We arrange a meeting for Wednesday night. The very next day, of course, I hear back from Mr. Sterling, asking if Thursday morning will work for the long-dreaded meeting with my parents.

I crush the temptation to delay; there's no reason why the two things should interfere with each other. After that, there's really nothing left for me to do but wait. It's an extremely antsy couple of days. I kill time in all the usual ways: Hanging out with Cassie and sometimes Tyler and Katelyn and the rest as well, browsing album stores and practicing DJing, reading library books, and of course practicing magic.

It's all still fun, and I remind myself to be grateful for how much better my life has gotten, but the anxiety is never far below the surface. On Wednesday night, I fly over to an empty lot behind a bankrupt fast food joint out in far west Franklin, where the first meeting will be taking place. The story we've decided to go with bears some resemblance to the truth, which is always useful.

Jess and David have told people that I happened to save them because I was already pursuing a grudge against the Wildfire Boys, which no one had much trouble believing. They then agreed to join up out of gratitude. Apparently several more of their contacts are potentially interested, but want to stay cautious and see how things develop before risking getting involved themselves. I land on the roof to watch the others arrive. While I wait, I try and get into the mindset of Schwarzschild, whatever that really means.

Sooner or later, I'm almost certainly going to end up interacting with someone in both of my personas. My physical disguise is good, but not good enough if I keep all the same mannerisms. Fortunately, wearing a metaphorical mask is something I've had plenty of practice with. At the same time, though, I don't want to trap myself into constantly needing to pretend to be something I'm not. But… The truth is, I don't think I do need to pretend to be a black mask.

Everything I've done has come a little too easily to me for that, even the violence. In a way, it's less like putting on a mask and more like taking one off. I've never really acknowledged any authority greater than myself, not on the inside. Even when I was a little kid, I wouldn't stop asking why things were the way they were, not until I got an answer that satisfied me, or much more commonly until the punishments got harsh enough to deter even me. That'd been a kind of answer itself, though.

There hadn't been any reason for any of the rules I'd been subjected to, except that the people who had power wanted things that way. Now I have the power, so things will be the way I want. Jess and David arrive first, around five minutes before ten. They stay in their car until the next person arrives, only stepping out when they're sure it's who they're expecting. Anna's wearing a baggy hoodie like them, so I can't really get a good look at her, but she definitely seems a little nervous.

"Hey," she says as she walks over to join them.

"Hey," says Jess.

"Glad you could make it."

"... Yeah. Still not a hundred percent about this, honestly. I sure hope you guys are right about this Schwarzschild girl being reasonable."

"Well, me and David owe her pretty big, like I said. Hearing her out was the least we could do. I'd like to think the fact that she's actually making an offer in the first place is a good sign."

"I guess, yeah. So who else is coming?"

"Just one more guy, dunno if you've met him. Oh, that's probably him now." A third car pulls into the lot, parking next to the others. Instead of a hoodie, Mark is wearing a black windbreaker with a beanie and sunglasses. In my opinion, it makes him look a lot more suspicious, but whatever.

"Yo, David," he says as he steps out.

"So this shit's really happening, huh?"

"It's happening."

"Fuck yeah. I'm stoked, man." He walks up, nodding to Anna.

"Hey. Mark." She gives him a small nod back.

"Anna."

"No mask, so I'm guessing you're not our girl?"

"Oh, no," she says, shaking her head quickly.

"I, uh, I just got invited by Jess as well."

"Cool, cool. We it, then? I mean, aside from the girl of the hour."

"As far as I know." David checks his watch.

"Nine fifty-nine."

"Bet she'll make us wait around for a few minutes, just to show us who's boss, you know." David snorts.

"I bet she's already here."

"Yeah?" says Mark, laughing.

"What, you think she's up on the roof or-" He cuts off, staring. The others look at him, then follow his stare, finding me silhouette on the edge of the roof. After a second, I hop off, my coat flaring behind me slightly as I drift down to join them. I stop about a foot above the ground, partially for effect, but also to help disguise my height.

"Good evening," I say, pitching my voice just a touch lower than normal.

"I appreciate you joining me tonight. You can call me Schwarzschild." Anna takes a slightly nervous step back. Now that I see under her hood, she's only a little older than me, probably around twenty or so.

"Um… Hi. I'm Anna. Nice to meet you?"

"Mark. Uh, I guess you probably already heard." He seems to rally a little, getting over his surprise.

"Cool name. What's it mean?" I consider him for a second; he shifts nervously. I feel a strange thrill, almost like the one I felt when I first stepped onto the stage at the rave. It's another kind of performance, I realize. All I need to do is bring the right energy.

"Karl Schwarzschild was a German physicist who first theorized the existence of black holes. The Schwarzschild radius is the edge of a black hole, the event horizon, where gravity becomes so strong that not even light can escape." What would be a slightly nerdy factoid in other contexts now becomes ominous and menacing.

"... Oh," says Mark, swallowing.

"Huh. Damn. Learn something new every day, I guess." After a moment, I turn back to face the center of the group.

"All of you are here because you're interested in joining the Sun Eaters," I say. It isn't the first time I've actually spoken the name of my gang, I spent a while workshopping it with Cassie, but it feels more real now.

"I'm sure you all have your own reasons for wanting to join. First, let me tell you my reasons. Unlike the other black masks currently in Franklin, I was born here. This city is my home, not just a business opportunity. I have no issue with the drug trade, but I intend to see that it benefits the people here rather than abusing them." Everyone's silent for a moment, making sure I'm done talking.

"Does… that mean you're gonna pick a fight with Surf 'n Turf, or even the Syndicate?" asks Anna after a moment.

"I don't mind guests, as long as they're respectful. Starting a gang war benefits no one. From what I've seen of the Columbia Syndicate, I believe they share that opinion. Whether Surf 'n Turf does as well remains to be seen. But if they do show themselves to be poor guests, I'll give them the same treatment I gave to Firestorm." That statement is met with a few seconds of silence.

I need to stop myself from grinning as I realize that right here and now, none of them doubt my ability to do just that, even one against two.

"... Well, I'll be rooting for you a hundred percent," says Mark eventually.

"Gotta be honest, though, I'm just in the business for the money."

"And I have no problem with that," I reply.

"So let me give you my offer. For product which you grow yourself, you keep half. Thirty percent goes to whoever made the sale, and twenty percent to the gang. For product you import, you keep whatever you payed for it, plus another twenty percent of what's left. Half goes to the seller, and thirty percent to the gang. In both cases, if you make the sale yourself, you keep that share as well." Mark chews on that for a moment.

He knows perfectly well the terms are generous, probably more generous than even what the Syndicate offers. He seems like the kind of guy to push limits, though, so I'm not too surprised when he does.

"I mean, I'd have to move like three times as much product as I do right now before I started seeing more profit under those terms. I'd want at least forty percent on top of cost."

"No," I say flatly.

"If I wanted to negotiate, I would have offered worse terms to start with. I intend to treat my people fairly, and mostly leave you to manage your own business. But the rules I do set, I expect to be followed. Do business honestly, and I guarantee you'll be moving significantly more than three times your current product." This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. While Mark tries to decide if he wants to keep pushing, Anna speaks up.

"Um… What kind of rules?"

"No violence, except in self-defense. If you have a problem with a customer, or another dealer, or anyone else, you bring it to me. No meth or heroin. No skimming off the top. No making big moves without running it past me first. And I'm sure it goes without saying, but absolutely no talking to the cops, or to another gang." She takes a deep breath and lets it out, then nods.

"Okay. I didn't think I'd ever willingly sign up with a magical, but… I didn't think I'd ever get an offer this good, either. I'm in."

"Us too, like we said," agrees David. We all look at Mark. He huffs a sigh and nods.

"Yeah, sure, fine. It's a good offer. I'm in as well."

"Then welcome to the Sun Eaters," I say, nodding.

"The next thing we need are recruits. I'm sure all of you have friends and customers who might be interested. Reach out to them, quietly, and we'll arrange another meeting. I'll need all of your numbers." I hold out my hand, and my new prepaid cell phone appears in it, from the pocket of my jeans in whatever dimension they're currently in.

After seeing Huntsman do the trick, it only took me an hour or so of experimenting to figure out how to do it myself; I've been experimenting with trying to use magic out of costume as well, although that's been trickier. I save all of their numbers, even Jess and David's to make it look good. The meeting breaks up shortly after that. I leave first, simply accelerating away into the sky. It's tempting to stay and eavesdrop, but there's really no reason to risk getting caught; I need to look completely confident.

Still, the twenty minute wait for Jess and David to get home has me pacing to work off the nervous energy.

"So how'd I do?" I ask the moment they close the door. Jess beaks into giggles.

"See? I told you she was just acting," she says, hitting David lightly on the arm.

"Honestly? Really, really good. David was freaking out, wondering if you had a split personality or something."

"I was not freaking out," objects David.

"I was just surprised by how well you played the part, is all."

"I didn't overdo it, did I?"

"No, no, you were perfect. You got them to take you seriously, but you didn't threaten them or anything. It was actually super impressive, a lot of times when teens try and act more mature it comes off as cringey and tryhard." I grin and shrug.

"Guess I'm just a natural." I don't really feel like explaining that I learned the hard way exactly what behavior is seen as mature, and what behavior is seen as 'mocking' or 'disrespectful.'

"Anyway, Anna and Mark seem pretty confident that they'll both be able to find four or five guys at least who'll want to join, so you should have a pretty decent group to start with."

"Great. I'd like to get things moving as soon as possible, so we're in a position to start selling as soon as school starts." The fact that things went so well at the first meeting should reassure me, but instead it just leaves me waiting for the other shoe to drop. Again, all I can do is keep telling myself that what I've already done is objectively harder than what I have left to do.

The second meeting isn't until ten, so I have plenty of time to pace nervously and fail to distract myself with books before it's time to leave. Jess drops me off at the courthouse. I'm wearing a knee-length skirt and blouse, nothing special, but they're the most respectable clothes I own. My heart is hammering as I walk in, and it takes a real effort to keep the nervousness off my face. I stop at the front desk to ask for directions, then follow them to a room on the second floor.

It's a small meeting room, just one round table with six chairs, but the only other person there is Mr. Sterling.

"Miss Harper. Thank you for being punctual. Please, have a seat. How are you feeling?"

"I'm alright." He sees through that easily, of course.

"A bit of nervousness is entirely natural in situations like this, but be assured that I see no reason why things shouldn't proceed smoothly. I also anticipate doing most of the talking, but to be thorough, let's go over a few ways things might play out, and what input might be required from you." The casual efficiency and competence Mr. Sterling gives off does a fair bit to set me at ease.

Although nothing will officially be decided today, if we can get my parents to sign a statement that they don't intend to contest my application, the judge's decision next week will basically be a foregone conclusion. We don't have any legal leverage to make them sign a statement like that, but Mr. Sterling is a big believer in using all the tools at his disposal. It's possible my parents will fold without a fight, but I can't really make myself believe that will happen.

If they don't, my main job will be to provoke one of them, most likely my father, into saying something unwise on the record. It shouldn't be very hard; god knows I used to do it at least once or twice a week without even meaning to. But I've also spent the last four or so years training myself to avoid it, and even though it's physically impossible for him to hurt me now, the thought of intentionally pissing him off still makes my stomach roil.

As much as I tell myself I can handle it, I'm still glad I skipped breakfast this morning. The half-hour of prep time races by, and almost before I know it, Mr. Sterling is leading me down the hall to another meeting room. My heart is racing faster than ever. I take a deep breath when we reach the door, release the death-grip I've got on my talisman under my shirt, and let him usher me through. This meeting room is larger, with a rectangular table instead of circular.

Three people are already seated on the far side, and I can't help but freeze for a moment as I see them for the first time in two months. My father is a big man, not just tall but bulky; I know he played football in highschool. He's got a bushy mustache and short brown hair, and as usual, he's wearing a charcoal-gray suit. My mother is much more petite, an inch or two shorter than I am. I've got her black hair, but she keeps hers in a perfectly sculpted bobcut, one of the reasons I let mine get long.

My whole life, they've been absolute constants, as inescapable as gravity, handing out punishments according to arcane rules that took me years to learn. That's still how I see them in my mind, and reconciling that image with the people in front of me makes my brain sort of glitch for a moment. They look… small. Insignificant. Pathetic, even, and it's not just my own perspective that's changed. My father has noticeably lost weight, probably too fast to be healthy, leaving him looking almost sallow.

There are dark bags under his eyes, and several cuts on his cheeks and neck from shaving carelessly. He's fidgety, too, rapidly tapping his finger on the table in a way I've never seen him do before. My mother has applied makeup more heavily to one side of her face than the other, not quite perfectly covering up her fading black eye. Both of them look like they're only barely holding it together. I did that to them. It wasn't even very hard.

I could've done much worse, if I'd wanted to, and that wouldn't have been hard either. Suddenly, I'm not just telling myself that they can't hurt me anymore, but actually believing it. Just like I escaped gravity, I really have escaped them as well. They froze for a moment as well when I walked in. My mother opens her mouth to say something, but closes it thanks to a fierce glare from their lawyer.

"Sterling," says the man, offering a grudging nod.

"Peterson," says Mr. Sterling, nodding back.

"I hope we didn't keep you waiting."

"No."

"Excellent. Shall we get started, then? Please." He gestures forward, and I take a seat across from my father. Mr. Sterling sits next to me, across from their lawyer. He pulls a small tape recorder out of his suit pocket, setting it on the table and turning it on.

"This is an informal meeting between Gabrielle Harper, her representative Samuel Sterling, her parents Richard and Michelle Harper, and their representative Donald Peterson, to discuss Miss Harper's pending application for legal emancipation. Mr. Peterson, would you please begin by stating your clients' position on my client's application?" Mr. Peterson glowers slightly at the recorder for a moment, clearly wishing the meeting wasn't being recorded, but he has no grounds to object. I keep my face carefully neutral.

"My clients intend to contest the application. Miss Harper has displayed troubling irresponsible and antisocial behavior both in the past and more recently, and my clients do not believe she is prepared to become an independent member of society at this time. Furthermore, my clients are fully prepared to recommend family friends and acquaintances for interviews to answer any doubts raised about the suitability of their home as a place of residence for Miss Harper."

The interviews, of course, are really nothing but an excuse to ask a bunch of people at church if they know my father has been beating my mother. The fact that they're here in the first place is proof that they're not as unconcerned by the threat as they're pretending. We'll call their bluff if necessary, but first we'll try to maneuver ourselves into a better position.

"Please elaborate on the irresponsible and antisocial behavior my client has allegedly displayed," says Mr. Sterling.

"My clients discovered that Miss Harper had been sexually abusing one of her friends." It takes real restraint not to throw the entire table at him.

"When they confronted her, she chose to run away from home to avoid facing consequences for her actions."

"I see. That is quite a serious charge. May we see the police report regarding it?"

"The parents of the victim chose to refrain from filing charges to avoid dragging the matter out."

"In that case, kindly refrain from describing my client's entirely consensual relationship as sexual abuse."

"It's unnatural!" To my surprise, it's my mother who's goaded into speaking first rather than my father. Mr. Peterson frantically gestures for her to shut up, but this time she won't be contained.

"Please, Gabby, you need help! You're sick, you have to-"" Mrs. Harper! I understand this is a deeply emotional matter for you, but please allow me to take the lead as we discussed." Grudgingly, she subsides. To my surprise, she looks like she's almost on the verge of tears. Mr. Peterson looks grim; he knows the damage has already been done. But it's my father's reaction I find most interesting, or rather the lack thereof. In a flash of intuition, I understand: He doesn't want to be here.

He's already written me off as a lost cause. At most, he just wants to see me punished. It's my mother who actually wants me to come back, who still cares about me in her own twisted way. I'm willing to bet that's even the ultimate source of the conflict between them. Is the reason why it took a few days for them to report me missing because he didn't want to at all?

"Well, this seems to be a fitting moment to discuss the true reason my client no longer felt safe in her family home, namely her parents' violent homophobia," says Mr. Sterling, unable to keep a trace of smugness out of his voice.

"Now I must ask you to refrain from describing my clients' actions as violent without evidence," replies Mr. Peterson.

"Of course. However, I think we can all agree that this is a matter they feel quite strongly about. Given the recent documented history of domestic violence in their home, it would be irresponsible not to raise concerns regarding my client's safety if she were to return there, regardless of what may or may not have been done to her in the past."

"Both of my clients stated to the responding officer that the incident in question was simply an unfortunate accident which had been misinterpreted by their neighbors," says Mr. Peterson, sounding like he's almost dragging the words out. I almost feel a little embarrassed for him, being forced to stick to such an obviously bullshit story.

"Legal emancipation is not a criminal matter. I have no interest in filing charges against your clients. I merely wish to ensure my own client's safety, as will the judge. Can you offer any reassurances to that effect?"

"That is a matter for the official hearing, not this meeting."

"As you like. However, I suppose that does bring us to the actual purpose of this meeting, which is to question why your clients are opposed to my client's application to begin with. Given their, ah, irreconcilable difference in values, it seems clear to me that it would be best for both parties to simply part ways."

"I hardly think a parent needs to justify their concern for their child's wellbeing, regardless of any disagreements they may have."

"And yet my client has been extremely clear that her wellbeing has been greatly increased by no longer residing with her parents. I believe any reasonable judge would, at the very least, demand strong guarantees that my client not be subjected to bigotry in her own home before denying her application. If that isn't a concession your clients are willing to make, contesting her application seems rather pointless."

"Again, I have no intention of discussing any of my arguments for the hearing ahead of time."

"I only wish to ensure that neither my client or yours waste their time and money fighting a battle with a predetermined outcome. I think Mrs. Harper has already made her position quite clear, but perhaps Mr. Harper might be willing to make a statement for the record now that my client would be safe from any bigotry if she were to return to their home?"

"My clients are under no obligation to answer your questions."

"Certainly not, but you know as well as I do that the judge will be less accommodating. If your clients continue to pursue this course, they will eventually be required to give a satisfactory answer. If they have none to give, better that they learn it now so that we can all put this matter behind us." My father snorts contemptuously, finally reacting.

"You're a slick talker, aren't you? Didn't expect any less. But I'll take my chances that the judge is a good, God-fearing man who'll see justice done. Are we finished here?"

"Justice?" asks Mr. Sterling, pouncing immediately.

"As I said before, legal emancipation is not a criminal matter. Do you believe something in this situation merits punishment?"

"Just a figure of speech," interjects Mr. Peterson hurriedly.

"As my clients have no intention of giving up their case, it seems the only party wasting anyone's time here is you." Unlike my parents' lawyer, Mr. Sterling didn't tell me not to talk at all. It's a careful game we're playing, one that he's vastly more experienced at, but I also know my parents. I'm happy to let him take the lead, but he was clear that if I thought I saw an opening, I should feel free to act on it. So I look my father right in the eye as I speak up for the first time.

"Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath. For it is written-" It takes him a moment to recognize the words, and then his face twists into fury.

"Don't you dare quote the Bible at me, girl! You clearly-" I keep speaking, not letting him interrupt me.

"-Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord. Therefore, if thine enemy hungers, feed him; if he thirsts, give him-""-never understood a single word of it, and I won't have you-""Mr. Harper, calm yourself! She's obviously trying-""-drink, for in doing so thou shalt heap coals of fire upon his head. Be not-""-making a mockery of Christ's words! I said be QUIET!"

"-to provoke you! Don't forget you're being-""-overcome of evil, but overcome evil with-" I remember being so proud of myself, the first time I found a passage in the Bible that contradicted a rule my parents had set, so sure that they'd have to change their minds. That first time, I'd gotten away with a stern lecture and a weekend grounded, but the worst part was the confusion. The rules were supposed to come from the Bible, weren't they? That's what I'd been taught my entire life.

It'd taken me two more years and quite a few bruises before I finally understood that they'd lied to me. The rules had never had anything to do with the Bible, the Bible was like the speaking stick they'd had us use in Sunday school sometimes, where only the person holding it was allowed to talk. By quoting the Bible at them, it was like I was trying to take the speaking stick away, the thing that made them the ones in charge, a direct challenge to their authority.

Ironically, realizing that the rules had always been arbitrary, and that the real rules weren't always the same as the ones I was told, had been the beginning of a much more peaceful period with my parents. But I've never forgotten the absolute best way of pissing them off. I can feel the slap coming before my father's arm even starts moving. There's plenty of time to lean out of the way, or grab his arm and stop it cold, or any other response. But the same sense tells me that I'm in no real danger.

That confirmation that he really is physically incapable of harming me is enough for me to force myself to sit still, not reacting as he leans all the way across the table and hits me full-on in the face. Mr. Peterson yanks my father back into his seat, too slowly.

"... Recorded," he finishes.

"Shit." Mr. Sterling has come halfway out of his seat as well, slowly sinking back down when my father doesn't make any more aggressive moves. My mother has her hands covering her mouth. As for me, I can't resist slowly and deliberately turning my head to present my other cheek to him.

"Well, I believe that concludes the meeting," says Mr. Sterling after a few moments of silence.

"If you'll excuse us, my client needs to find an officer to report the assault and battery she was just the victim of. Will you be wanting to press charges?" he asks me.

"... No," I say after a moment of thought.

"As long as they sign an agreement not to contest my claim."

"I will happily draw up a legally binding agreement to that effect."

"If you think I'll sign anything you-" begins my father.

"Richard, unless you want to spend the night in jail, I suggest you shut the hell up and sign whatever they put in front of you," says Mr. Peterson tiredly. Mr Sterling puts his recorder back in his pocket and stands. So do I. As we make to leave, my mother suddenly stands as well.

"Gabby, wait!" she says, coming around the table. Mr. Sterling moves to put himself between us, but I wave him off. She still stops a little short of me, with him hovering barely a foot away.

"I… I don't know what I can say to convince you, but please. I only want what's best for you! Please, Gabby, don't throw your life away like this, you know sin only ever leads to destruction! It's not too late to come back to Christ, I promise we can help! Everyone's been so worried about you, Emily's been worried about you-" I take an abrupt step forwards, leaving us just a few inches apart. She cuts off, her eyes widening.

"Never," I hiss," say her name in front of me again." She steps backwards, not responding, and in that moment, I know she's afraid of me. It feels good. I turn and leave without saying anything else, and Mr. Sterling follows.

"Are you alright?" he asks me.

"Fine. He didn't actually hit me that hard."

"Good. You will still need to file a police report to make the agreement legally binding. I recommend having your picture taken as soon as possible, before the mark fades."

"Do I need to have my picture taken?" I ask. I don't really want the cops having a photo of me on-hand.

"... It isn't strictly necessary. Most likely, your parents will sign and follow the agreement, but photographic evidence would make pressing charges significantly easier if they do break it. The decision is yours, however."

"I think I'd rather skip it, then."

"As you wish," says Mr. Sterling. I appreciate that he doesn't ask me to justify myself. He does file a police report for me, and borrows an office to immediately draft the agreement as well. It doesn't take long, barely half an hour in total, and I sign after reading it over.

"No need for you to be present while your parents sign. I believe I have everything I need from you, if you'd like to leave now."

"I think I will, thanks."

"Then I'll see you again at your hearing, assuming no unexpected developments. And can I say, it's been a genuine pleasure working with you. I've been most impressed by your handling of this entire situation. If you ever find yourself in need of my services again, for any reason, I hope you won't hesitate to reach out." I give him a sharp look. Does he suspect something? No, I'm probably just being paranoid.

He certainly knows I've done or been involved with at least a few illegal things, that's probably all he's talking about. After a moment, I offer him a nod.

"If and when I need a lawyer again, I think I can safely say you'll be the first I call."

"Excellent. Until next time then, Miss Harper."