Sweet Evil

Sweet Evil
1) Christmas Daye
Snow slithers down our windshield. Mom and I ride up the slope of Powder Peak hidden in the Rocky Mountains. It’s been at least an hour since we’ve seen any light. The incline of the slope is so brutal, I feel like we’re driving into space. Comets and stars shoot across the smooth, fresh moon. We’ve been in the black for hours, and I feel safe. I’m with my mom, Christmas Daye. She’s the world’s Olympic Snowboard Princess of the States. Basically, we’re untouchable. This car is a hovering tank. But something is wrong.
“What’s wrong, Mom?”
“Turn on the air-conditioning,” she commands to the voice-activated car.
“Mom, it’s freezing out. And you’re making the car colder? What’s wrong?”
Mom pulls out her phone and the lit screen shines a light on her face. Mom is a special kind of beautiful. Her eyes are kind, her smile is soft, and I don’t think I have ever seen her say or do anything mean. Wrinkling cracks on the side of her eyes show she’s aged, but her beauty remains, everlasting. Mom won four Olympic Snowboarding Medals for the United States. She’s performed in front of billions of people. She’s been a hero, a light, a beacon for the children of the world. She’s hope.
But not tonight.
Her hands tremble as she stares at her phone. I reach over to stop her from shaking and her hands are sweating and warm.
“Mom? What’s going on?”
She takes a deep breath and exhales before she says, “James, we have been accustomed to trivial pampering and treatment. Where we’re going, those luxuries don’t exist.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m the best because of Powder Valley.”
“I know.”
“I don’t fear the mountain. I learned that in Powder Valley. Do you understand?”
The slope straightens out and we approach the top of the pass. Above an ominous black tunnel is an electric ticking sign that says “Welcome to Powder Valley! The Elite Getaway.”
Making wishes in tunnels is a family tradition. We hold our breathes and make a wish. I wish for food. Mom never shares her wish.
Once we exit the tunnel, the sky ignites. A gigantic, three-dimensional, red tele-screen reads, “Powder Match: 14 days.” Beneath the sign is a booming town of electricity glossed in tints of red, white, and blue. Headlights spread across the sky.
“Is that for us?”
“Yes,” Mom replies. “But we’re not going there.”
“Where are we going, Mom?”
She reaches her arm across me and points to the east side of the valley. I don’t see anything.
“Mom…there’s nothing there.”
“Jester is there.”
“Who’s Jester?”
“In Powder Valley, your dad. Dad is the Jester of Ashton.”
“Mom? I told you I don’t want to see the guy. We haven’t talked in a decade and I’m a freshman this year.”
She glares her death stare at my disrespect for him.
“Understand this, James, Jester runs this town. What he says goes. He has respect because he earned it.”
“Geez, Mom. You never talk about him. I don’t want to see him.”
“See him, James? No, you’re staying with him. He’s your father.”
“Mom this is B.S. and you know it.”
“James, it’s not my valley. He requested it. Rules are different here.”
“And we just comply?”
She hits me in the arm and says, “James, I wouldn’t have brought us here if we weren’t forced to. You and I both know the Water Wars hit Denver last week.”
“Yeah, I get it. Powder Valley has the Irish Dam and its water. What’s so special about it? Is it made of booze?”
I laugh. She doesn’t.
We crawl into the darkness and approach a single blinking streetlight. Underneath the light is a green, weathered, and cracked board saying, “Ashton: Home of the Irish Dam.”
Mom takes another breath. I feel her stress, and my stomach rumbles. In a matter of minutes, we approach a simple house protected by a fortress of metal fencing. Our car stops and the automated driver says, “Destination successful. Arrived. Jester Connelly Compound.”
A dark figure opens the door. He’s so far away I can barely see him. The only objects I see him holding are a whiskey glass and an illegal Cigstick with a red ember. I open the door, grab my stuff, and wait for Mom to get out. She doesn’t.
My door closes, and she rolls down the window.
“Mom? What the hell is going on? You’re not even going come in to see him?”
“James, he doesn’t want to see me.”
I slam my bags on the ground and say, “Then, I don’t want to see him.”
Mom snaps her fingers for me to come to window. She pulls on my collar, so only I can hear. She says, “He’s a good man. He’s seen a lot. He’s been through a lot. Do what he says for me, for yourself.”
I look back, and he enters his mansion and closes the door.
Mom says, “I’ll be at Grampa’s down the street. I’ll pick you up in the morning.”
She reaches her arms through the window and hugs me like I am going to war.
“I’ll be fine, Mom.”
“Love you,” she says.
“Love you.”
After I watch Mom’s hover-SUV leave my view, I start to walk towards the house, and it’s almost a half mile of winding sidewalk covered in Cigstick butts and cracked ice.
Nice welcome, Dad.
When I approach the door, a small notecard exits a slot made for mail. It falls on a black box wrapped in green silk ribbon. The card says: Welcome home, James. Jester needs assistance in the morning. Follow the instructions. Use the equipment in the box on the stoop. Don’t ask questions. Welcome!”- Bee.
I open the box expecting car tools or something, but it’s a pack of illegal Cigsticks, a 1/5 of whiskey and a glass to pour it in.
Who the hell is this guy?
I enter the house and hear nothing. I see nothing. It’s pitch black. I take a step forward and the house illuminates. Two staircases curve left and right, the right goes to his master bedroom.
The door opens.
A bulbous wiener dog sneaks out and the door closes after. The dog is forced to trek the stairs at an angle, or his belly would scrape the steps. He reaches the bottom and runs to me. It’s a Demon Dog.
Demon Dogs are rare dachshund breeds that only a few people in the world can afford. Demon dogs are big, loyal, deadly, and supposed to be vicious. This one must have been the runt of the litter, because he’s just a fat wiener dog that wants food. He’s a brown balloon with four legs.
He drools as he runs with a smile towards me. I drop my bags, pick him up and he’s like a boulder of muscle. I check his collar. It reads: Spliffy.
I’m tired from the trek. I scan the living room made for kings and find an old Lay-Z-Boy recliner in front of a crackling fire. I take Spliffy to the chair. I read the list of instructions for the morning that were left for me. The chores seem normal: take out the trash, feed the dog, make breakfast. But the last one throws me off. The final chore on the list says, “Shave Jester.”

2) Jester?
I drag the blade along his neck. Crisp hairs are ripped from their pores and fall to the floor. I clean the blade in a hot bowl of water and follow with repeated strokes until his face is stripped naked. I pull the blade down the side of his throat.
I could kill him.
As he breathes, he exhales stale cigarette smoke. Liquor seeps through his pores. He sits on the bed motionless staring out his window. Once I finish with his shave, I pour a shot of whiskey into a mug filled with hot coffee. He sits and sips as I prepare his clothes for the day. He lights a cigstick.
As I turn on his shower, he pounds his mug of coffee and presses the half-lit cigstick into the ashtray on his bedside table. He walks past me, closes the door, and starts his shower for the rest of the day.
I hear scraping on Dad’s wooden door. It’s Spliffy.
Before I open the door, I step right on an earring. It kills. It must have been left on the floor probably from the night before. I limp to the door, open it, and Spliffy stands on his hind legs with his forearms and chest in the air. I pat him on the head and say, “C’mon, Spliffy.”
Spliffy follows me down our gigantic wooden staircase. His living room is jaw-dropping big. Centered by a glass fireplace, it’s at least 50 feet to the kitchen. Spliffy waddles behind me towards the kitchen. I search the cupboards and find an old rubber chew toy. I place a treat inside and toss it to give me some time to myself.
Dad’s bathroom faucet screeches. I run upstairs to get ready for the first day of school.
When I enter my room, a soft, feminine voice announces herself. “Hello! I’m Bee! It’s 40 degrees with gusts of wind and 95 percent chance of snow. What temperature would you like your shower?”
Everything in this house is voice commands.
“Bee is it? Um…let’s try 70.” I get in and it’s way too cold. “Bee! Warmer! Fast!” The shower settles to a soothing warm. I command Bee to turn on one of Dad’s old playlists, and I listen to Dropkick Murphys while sitting down in my rainfall shower.
Dad is rich. Money is the only thing he has that’s worth anything. He used to be a hero to this town, but all I hear about him is he is a drunk.
The shower and music turn off. The room has steamed up so that there isn’t a drop in temperature. I scrub the remaining residue off the smart-mirror to shave. I still haven’t gotten used to video-mirrors. I have only seen them in a few places. They can adjust lighting, highlight make-up, and I’m assuming there are many more applications, but I only use it to shave. It feels like I’ve been shaving since I was ten. I hate it. If I don’t shave though, by the end of the day, I’m a beast.
After my shower, I check my closet and the Bee has already designed an outfit for me. Ironed and pressed, tight jeans with scattered rips, fresh white Adidas shoes, a light-blue long sleeve t-shirt, and a black hoodie with “Jester” sewn on the back are waiting for me.
What does Jester mean?
I put on the outfit and sprint downstairs to wait outside for Mom, and avoid Dad, but he catches me. In a deep, scratchy voice, he commands, “Come over here, Son.”
I walk over and stand feet from him. He sits cross-legged smoking a cigstick and then he pours Bailey’s Irish Cream into his coffee. I stop in front of him. He analyzes me up and down.
“What?” I ask. “The Bee picked it for me.”
He presses a half-lit cigstick into the marble counter, stands, and approaches me. He raises his fist. I wince. He starts to laugh and says, “Relax Son, just giving you a hard time. That hoodie is a little tight on you.” He unzips the front to let me breathe a bit. With a smile, he says, “Welcome home, James.”
“Thanks.”
Thanks, Dad?

3) Christmas Morning
Thank God for the hoodie because it’s cold as hell outside. The damn thing weighs a ton. It’s like I’m walking with an x-ray vest on my back.
I walk down the sidewalk to the end of the street where I see Mom’s hovering car. I jump in and the smell of fresh leather makes me feel immediately better. Mom is sitting, watching the news on a television screen projected on the back of the driver’s window.
The voice of international news reporter, Rex Specter, repeats his daily spewing of terrible news about the Water Wars around the world. Civil Wars have started sprouting around the States as well. That’s why we moved up here. The Irish Dam is one of the only remaining natural resources for water.
A steel-black vintage limo speeds past us blasting Dropkick Murpheys’ “Rose Tattoo”.
Well, at least someone has good taste in music.
Mom sits waiting with her fingers tapping on the tops of her thighs.
Why is she nervous? She’s Christmas Daye. She snowboards in front of the whole world.
“Mom? Why are you so nervous?”
The TV screen shows our flight into Powder Valley a few days ago.
“Do you want anything to drink?” she asks.
“Just some water.”
After a few seconds, a sliding side door opens, and a sparkling water is presented to me with a little tune. “Thanks, Ma,” I say.
We head down the mountain through town. The automated driver doesn’t take any scenic routes. We head straight to school. Buildings are covered in old, cracked white paint. Each one is a version of a sign with the word “Punch” on it. Potholes litter the street. “Punch” Hardware. “Punch” Café. “Punch” Candy. Lines are forming around the local food kitchen, blood transfusion center, and a Sweet store.
They must really like their candy up here.
We catch up to the limo and stop behind it at a red light. Before the light turns green, the door opens, and a girl with dirty-blonde dreads and a grey hoodie jumps out with a bag full of something. The lines of people run towards her. She drops the bag and gets in the limo just before they reach her. The light turns green, and the music starts again. A cloud of black smoke bursts from the tailpipe and the limo heads through a five-point intersection.
Gasoline? Whoever is in that limo is a person that can get anything.
We follow the limo through town to my new high school, Ashton High. The limo stops in the fire lane in front of the school. Mom waits. I try to get out of the car, but Mom pulls me back.
“What’s going on, Ma?” I ask.
She finally speaks to me. “I am just worried, Honey. This school wasn’t the nicest of places when your dad and I went here.”
“Mom, you have nothing to worry about, I have been the biggest kid in class for years. What are they going to do? I wouldn’t fit in a locker, and they sure as hell can’t lift me to put my head in the toilet. I’ll be fine.”
Mom’s legs are twitching as she says, “I’m not worried about the boys.”
The limo doors open, and a plume of smoke exits. Four girls emerge with red, green, white, and grey hoodies. My new school’s colors. I can tell they’re girls because on the base of their hoods, they have braided pigtails of every different hair color. That’s how Mom looked when she competed.
I get out of the car and say, “Mom, I’ll be fine.”
It’s cold outside. My face burns from the wind. I run to the doors and enter. There’s a second set of doors. I approach and hear conversation splashed with laughter. I enter.
4) Ash High
When I enter the school, a banner masks the ceiling. It reads POWDER MATCH: 13 Days.
Mom wasn’t kidding about the Powder Match.
My old school in Denver was just a lattice of hallways. I had my own group of friends, and there really wasn’t a common area to socialize, so we stayed close and only talked to each other. Ash High is the opposite of my old school. Tables and benches filled with teens are packed and line to the walls. The school looks it’s like an old mall food court.
When there were malls.
Lights flicker from above and the red brick floor and walls are ominous, but the energy overwhelms the darkness. Circular tables are spread about in the middle of the hall. The walls are boarded by benches. The benches are spaced and pretty much empty. The tables are packed to the brim in colored hoodies.
I see why The Bee picked this outfit.
This place is a castle. I don’t know where the hell to go. I search for some help and decide to tap a tiny kid on the shoulder. She turns around. Sound stops. They’re all girls. I look to the next table of girls and a wave of silence pours over the Hall. I speak and the Hall echoes, “I’m James Connelly. I’m new here, could you show me to Ms. Skye’s class?”
The benches point to the only girl wearing a white hoodie. She stands and takes off the hood.
Whoa. She’s gorgeous.
She has thick black pigtails and porcelain skin. Her blue eyes shine.
“Where did you get that?” she asks.
I notice that I am the only person wearing a black hoodie.
“It’s my dad’s.”
She pulls her hood over her head and looks like a grim angel. She maneuvers around the tables and a little girl in a green hoodie follows. When we meet, the girl in the white hoodie shades her whole face. She meets me a foot from my face, and a scent of bubble gum flows through my nose. The girl in the green hoodie blows a bubble and commands, “Birdy, check him in.”
The little girl pulls her hood down, raises her head, and places her hand out for a shake. “I’m Birdy Skye. It’s nice to meet you.”
I shake her hand and notice that the girl in the white hood stares at me like I’m pure evil. She doesn’t introduce herself. She asks, “Your dad is Jeremiah Connelly, the Jester?”
“Yes.”