Gaslight

Chapter One

This place is my version of hell. It isn't just that it's crowded, or that the air smells distinctly of sweat. It's that someone like me, someone who operates on structure and order, does not handle chaos well.

"Stay close, Maddie!" Dylan shouts. "Your mom will kill me if I lose you."

"Forget her mom," his twin, Oliver, yells. "Lilly would kill us." He reaches behind him and grabs my hand, pulling me through a throng of sweaty bodies.

Everything about this screams chaos, from the black heavy bags suspended by chains to the loud, rowdy patrons. In the corner is the boxing ring, its once-black canvas stained with blood and sweat. In less than ten minutes, I'll get to see why.

This is the last place I ever thought I'd be. I am not the kind of girl who agrees to go to a boxing match, especially the day before starting a new school, but then that has always been my problem. I'm a yes girl: yes, I'll move to California, yes, Aunt Lilly, your stepsons can kidnap me, and yes, I'll pretend to enjoy it. Because that's what I do, I say yes when I want to say no.

We fight our way to the ticket booth, manned by a stocky guy named Ray. For reasons unknown, Ray is shirtless and sporting a thick serpent tattoo across his broad chest. He snatches our tickets, raising an eyebrow at my outfit. I can only imagine what I look like right now. Sweat prickles my neck, soaking into the cotton of my favorite pink hoodie, and my bun is on the verge of unraveling—we have that in common. As discreetly as I can, I run my palms down the side of my head, smoothing down any potential flyaways. My hair, like my skin, is an equal mix of my half-Black mother and white father, which means it's neither straight nor curly, thin nor thick, but something in the middle.

Ray lifts his gaze to give us the go-ahead. We squeeze past more bodies, trying to push to the front. Close enough, Olly had said, to see all the action, but far enough away that we won't be sprayed with blood.

Reason number two this is hell. I'm pretty sure when Lilly asked her stepsons to show me around, she'd meant a trip to the mall or a walk along the beach. Maybe I'm wrong, but a boxing match in Burbank isn't exactly what she'd meant—it's not like I'd know. Before last week, when she picked us up from LAX, I'd mostly only ever seen Lilly through FaceTime. I'd known she'd moved to California to be an editor; that her husband of three years, Tim, is a goofy, divorced writer with sons. But other than that, Lilly's life in the suburb of Granada Hills remains a complete mystery.

What happened to us is a mystery too. As far as everyone's concerned, this move was a much-needed break after Mom's split from Dad. It's a half truth, which according to my mother is better than a lie; sometimes, I'm not so sure.

"You made it!" Something latches on to me, spinning me around into a hug. My new best friend, June, all five foot two inches of glossy black curls and sun-bronzed skin. I say new best friend, because ever since Olly introduced us last week at Lilly's Welcome barbecue, she's stuck to me like a barnacle. Beside her is Kavithra, Kavi for short, who traps me into another hug.

It's the one thing I can't get used to about California. Say what you want about New Yorkers, but at least we have rules: keep to yourself, don't stare at strangers, and don't take up space. It's been less than five minutes, and already I've had to dodge two elbows and several unsolicited hugs.

But I make the effort to hug June back properly. Part of making sure these next few months run as smoothly as possible means trying my best to make friends. Back home I never needed them, I always had my boyfriend, Jamie, but now he's not here to be my buffer.

"For the record," Kavi says, pulling away, "I wanted to take you surfing today. Obviously, I was out voted." She shakes her head, sending her pin-straight black hair back and forth. Kavi's Sri Lankan, which means she's got this thick, shiny hair that I can't help but envy.