Bright Eyes

11. Graveyard Nihilists

A large fire burned in the middle of the clearing, crackling its ceremonial tune, shedding light on those who went about. People talked in twos or circles of their own, pouring drinks into cups, sipping on beer, smoking hand-rolled joints.

Damien stared up at the full moon, a pale brilliance in the night sky. For a moment, he paid no mind to anything else. He was aware that his girlfriend stood next to him, gossiping away with her friends. He was aware that his friends had gone somewhere else, getting drinks, finding pretty girls to talk to. But nothing mattered that moment, except the intrusive thought of wanting to be happy, genuinely happy. No mask required, no social identity to keep up.

He let out a breath, sipped his drink.

If only his dad hadn't—

Just then someone placed a hand on his arm, soft and gentle to the touch. He transferred his glance to the girl beside him, and, when she knew she had his attention, Cheryl held out her cup and said, "My love, please get me another drink."

Damien nodded without hesitation, taking the cup from her hand. He made his way through the crowd, her empty cup in one hand, his nearly empty cup in the other.

Two kegs, beer bottles, and stacks of red cups sat on a table next to a couple's tombstone. By the time he got there, two boys left the table and walked past him, a silver-haired boy draping his arm around his brown-haired companion's shoulders, laughing at something his boyfriend said.

Damien glanced back at Cheryl at the other end of the clearing, still in conversation with her friends. She seemed to be enjoying herself. And if she was happy, he was happy, and that's all that mattered . . . Right?

He turned his attention back to the task, ignoring all other thoughts. He placed one cup on the table, held another under the little faucet of the keg. At the turn of the knob, beer flowed out into the cup, rising up till it reached a little below the rim. He turned the knob again, set her cup on the table. His hand then grabbed his own cup, held it to his lips till he drank it empty. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and heard a voice say, "Damien Bautista. Glad to see you here."

Damien placed his cup on the table, and looked up at a boy a few inches taller than he was, his features sharp and angular, his dark hair falling right above dark beady eyes.

"Not surprised to see you here, Ronald Bowers," he replied, with a smirk.

"How's your little four-eyed friend?" Ronny went on to say, grabbing a cup from a stack.

"Safer," said Damien, without missing a beat. "Without you and your boys tormenting him, I'm sure he's doing just fine."

Ronny said nothing, filling his cup with beer. Then, "I guess you know how your little heroic act went viral." The beer stopped pouring. He raised his cup to his lips, and took a sip. "But you don't fool me, Bautista. I've done some research on you. Your parents are immigrants from the Philippines. Your dad's big in the hotel and restaurant industry, based all the way in California. Your mom owns a boutique in the city. I've got to say, your family's a filthy rich bunch. But"—he smirked, then—"too bad it's a wreck. And it shows."

Damien chuckled, nonchalant. "You can say that again. And it looks like yours isn't any different, either. Maybe even worse." He smirked, turning the knob, pouring beer into his cup. "With your dad in prison. Your mom—" He clicked his tongue, caught sight of Ronny's hand clenching into a fist. "I wouldn't want to talk about that. And how your grandpa's raised you. He's wealthy enough to send you to a school like Ravenwood, but there's no denying the abuse you've gone through, physical and verbal." He turned the knob, his cup now full, and took a sip. "I'm not surprised you've turned out this way."