January 20, 2001
Dear Diary,
Mornings in Crab Tree feel like they come for you with the biting cold. Not just the chill—though, god, it is was cold—but the way everything groans. The floorboards. The radiators. The trees outside. Like the whole town resents you for waking up. My bedroom window fogs over in weird little spirals, like frost has a personality here. I swear I heard it whispering this morning. Probably just the wind squeezing through the cracks in the glass, but still.
The house feels alive in a bad way. Like if I took down one painting, or opened one too madny locked doors, it'd show me its true face. It used to be some kind of estate, three stories tall with turrets like a mini castle. Now it's just drafty and sad. A mausoleum of deer wealth. Hartmom says it's a "family legacy." I think she means a monument to better times. Or maybe just a really expensive coffin.
I made the mistake of looking in the mirror this morning and nearly screamed. My antlers are fine—pointy and sharp like they're supposed to be—but my fur? I looked like I'd rolled around in a pile of hay and gave up halfway through grooming. I tried to fix it, but I think it only made it worse. Hartmom always looks perfect. Even in the freezing dark of early morning, she's got that flawless pioneer-glam thing going on, brushing her tail like it's a religious rite.
She was already in the kitchen when I came down. The whole place smelled like chicory and burnt chestnut toast.
"Morning, Silver," she said in that too-soft voice she saves for when she's trying not to sound like she hates my guts.
"Morning," I grunted, grabbing a bowl.
Across the table was my birthmother, hunched over her fossil of a laptop. She looked up just long enough to remind me that I had a quiz today, then went back to skimming political news like the world's gonna end if she doesn't refresh the page every five seconds.
I piled on the pancakes even though Hartmom already laid out a plate of wilted kale and chia paste or whatever her current health obsession is.
"You're going to feel sluggish all day," she warned.
"Better than starving," I mumbled, mouth full.
"Silver, really," Birthmother said. "That kind of attitude isn't going to get you anywhere."
Cazpin—sorry, Callum, as Hartmom insists on calling him—was already at the table. Not eating. Just sitting there like some haunted statue, staring out the window with that carved-out look he does when he wants everyone to shut up and leave him alone.
"Callum, your food's getting cold," Hartmom said.
He didn't even blink. Just reached for his coffee like some post-divorce dad in a drama film. Hartmom sighed and looked away. Birthmother didn't bother saying anything—she's mostly given up on trying to make him engage.
"I heard the bus hasn't even been showing up out by the Briar Road turn," I said just to say something. "Somebody tried to jack it again last week. Took all the wheels and just left it on bricks."
Hartmom tensed, not looking up from her mug. "Silver."
"What? It's true."
Callum—Cazpin—finally spoke. "I'm walking. Don't wait up."
"Wait, what?" I stared at him. "It's, like, a thirty-minute walk."
"I know." He stood and grabbed his coat.
"You've got that thing later, right?" Hartmom asked, watching him closely. "At your father's house?"
"Yeah."
"With Nova," I muttered.
That got me a glance. Just a glance, but it was enough to make my stomach turn.
Nova. Always floating around the edges of everything like a shadow you can't shake. Always helpful, always smiling, always pretending she's not trying to sink her claws into every part of our lives. Of his life. She's got that fake-sweetness thing that makes you want to scream.
"I'll be back before midnight," Cazpin said.
"I hope so," Hartmom replied. "That house gives me the creeps."
"Good," he said, and left.
The bus stop was just as miserable as the walk to it. Scarlet was already there, sitting on the bench like she owned it, legs crossed and that crimson hair of hers whipped up by the wind like some angry flag. Her coat was too thin for the cold, but she'd never admit it.
When she saw me coming, her eyes narrowed. When she saw Cazpin trailing behind me, her whole posture shifted. She uncrossed her legs, stood up straighter, tilted her head just enough to make her earrings catch the light.
"Callum," she said, batting her lashes like she was in some kind of romance commercial. "I saved you a spot."
He didn't stop walking. Just stood under the skeletal tree next to the stop and leaned against it, not even looking at her.
Scarlet looked like she wanted to scream but settled for glaring at me like I'd stolen something from her.
"Good morning to you too, Scarlet," I said, flashing my best fake smile.
"Still babysitting your stepbrother, huh?" she said, voice dripping venom.
"Still trying way too hard?" I shot back.
The bus pulled up before we could go for round two. Cazpin climbed aboard without a word. Scarlet flinched like she expected him to say goodbye or something. I followed, ducked past the front seats where Taiga was already planted like a social media queen.
"Callum, babe," she called, voice bright and too loud for the dead morning. "Sit with me?"
He didn't respond. Just picked a seat halfway down the aisle and stared out the window again like he was watching a funeral procession.
I sat down beside him before anyone else could try. Taiga's expression went from plastic-friendly to murder-in-my-eyes in 0.2 seconds.
"Still riding his coattails, huh?" she hissed as she passed.
"Still obsessed?" I whispered back.
She didn't dignify it with a reply.
By the time we got to school, I was already mentally exhausted. Cazpin stepped off the bus and disappeared into the crowd like fog. Scarlet stalked after him. Taiga floated somewhere nearby like she had cameras hidden in her bangs.
Then, of course, she was there. Marigold.
Marigold the Untouchable. With her gleaming blonde fur and ice blue eyes and perfectly symmetrical face that looked like it was rendered in a lab. She was leaning against the stone gate like she was posing for a fashion magazine, and as soon as she saw him, she lit up.
"Callum," she said. "You left your sketchbook in art yesterday. I held onto it for you."
He nodded. Took it. Didn't even say thanks.
Marigold's smile twitched, just slightly, then she turned that weaponized beauty toward me.
"Silver. Looking rustic, as always."
"Marigold. Looking bleached."
She blinked, taken off guard just long enough for me to walk past her. Small victories.
And that was just the morning.
Callum's got that party later tonight. His father's old house—out in the woods, past the broken fence and the blackberry briars. The kind of place you have to want to find. The kind of place where memories grow like mold. Nova's helping him set it up. I swear, if she touches my mother's silver, I'll stab her with a salad fork.
Anyway. Gotta survive lunch first.
—Silver