N I N E T E E N
all my homie's hate barry.

If there was a long list of all the things I am, and a long list of all the things I am not, on that list would be Mabel Francesca Marcus isn't gentle.

I never have been, whether it was showing how wobbly my tooth was and accidentally wobbling it out and sending it across the room, or never having a fried egg with a whole yolk. Ever. I always eviscerate the yolk and shamefully try and grab out the shards of shell.

Sometimes I think you have to be a bit aggressive to get the job done, so any wounds I have – or the fated people that ask me to clean their own – are scrubbed aggressively.

"Mabel, you're making it bleed more," JJ observes from where he sits on the closed toilet lid.

I look up at him from my still-bleeding knees and ponder his point. "They'll stop," I mutter and continue wiping the blood from them as it comes out.

He stands up off the toilet, and pushes through a shaky drawer in the Château, eventually producing a run of four plasters with dinosaurs printed on them. "Put those on and stop touching, I'm pretty sure someone, at some point in Grey's Anatomy has said to leave bleeding wounds alone." He stuffs them in my hand. He sits back on the seat, looking at me, leaning against the bath, changed into another one of his shirts and a pair of my own comfortable, cotton shorts. No makeup, wet hair tied up into a ratty bun on the top of my head, knees perpetually bleeding and smelling like him. Sexy.

I feel a tickle on the back of my ankle and when I see a drop of blood hit the burnt orange tiles, I realise someone, at some point has probably said that.

"Dinosaurs," I look around them with a smile. "Wonder how long those have been in there." I stick one of my legs out straight, grabbing a paper towel and aggressively wiping off the blood rolling down, I then quickly shove the t-rex decorated plaster onto the busted skin. "You do know these expire, right?" I look up at him as I put another one on just below the first one.

He rolls his eyes, "I'll take my chances."

"On a murder charge?" I raise my eyebrows, scrunching up the yellowed plastic in my hands. "JJ, I'm a white teenage girl who grew up in a good neighbourhood, there will be loads of press. You'll be the Dinosaur Plaster Killer. The Dino Killer. Working title." I smile, leaning against the tiles.

"JJ-saurus," he smirks.

I shake my head. "No."

"It's fine, I'll just call Robbie. He always gets me off. Good lawyer," he nods.

"I know he's a great lawyer, but he's also my brother. I don't think he's going to defend my murderer," I point out.

He shakes his head, leaning back on his seat, his palms flat against his thighs. "You don't know him like I do, Mabel," he continues to talk utter shit. A wide smirk splays across his face, amused with our current topic that is only a little worrying. Not the me getting murdered thing, more so the fact it's so weird the only way my family knows JJ other than through me is through my brother defending him. That, right out of the gate, sets a weird dynamic. But I don't need to stress about that right now, not while we sit in a bathroom late at night, ignoring the world.

"Apparently not. But Robbie is whipped for Hayley, badly, and she likes me, so she'll say he can't. And then he won't," I decide.

He runs a hand through his hair, raking the blond locks off his face. "Not what I've heard," he mutters, pretending I'm not meant to hear.

I throw the pieces of plastic at him, "You're such a dickhead. You and your stupid, probably expired, dinosaur plasters."

"They're John B's, blame Big John!" He raises his hands in defence.

The light above us flickers, dropping us into darkness momentarily, as it does every minute or two. Neither of us acknowledged it, just skating passed it in our strange conversation. His foot kicks my ankle that rests near him, "Put the other ones on, I'm watching you bleed out," he says dramatically.

I roll my eyes with a scoff, "You're such a boy – scared of a little blood." I use my teeth to tear open the next plaster, wiping off my knee and then squashing down the soft blue plastic material. Adding another one underneath so I cover all the necessary space.

"Mabel–"

"Done. Good as new." I get up on my feet and wash off my fingers, JJ stands up, extending his hands above his head and stretching out. A groan and mutter about how he has a sore back from this afternoon escapes his mouth; both of which I ignore as I clean up the bathroom, leaving it as I found it. With four fewer dinosaur plasters.

Domestic. That's what this is feeling like, that's what my head is screaming at me that this is becoming. It's worrying, my comfort worries me. My getting used to someone being nice worries me. Because he can't promise there won't be something that sets him off and he changes into someone who's scary.

A sharp, quick knock on the door breaks me from my concentration. Then the singular knock turns into a string of them.

"I swear to God I'm going to shit myself if you don't get out, JJ!" John B shouts through the door. My nose crinkles at the crude admission. JJ snorts, obviously amused. I twist the tap off and wipe my hands dry, taking a step over to open the door before John B has to take a shit outside like a dog. I don't entirely know if he knows I'm in here.

Eye contact. Hard eye contact is what I'm met with.

"You should've said something before you got so desperate," I smile, pushing the door open and slipping out.

"Oh– I didn't know you were in there," John B stutters, looking very uncomfortable for multiple reasons.

"Hurry up, wouldn't want you to shit yourself." I smile walking toward where JJ and I are staying, I hear JJ snicker and catch up behind me.

Sitting on the edge of the bed is my phone. The screen lights up, with a picture of my mother filling the screen, I take a few long strides over and snatch it up, accepting the call. "Hey, Mumma," I smile. JJ slips into the room behind me, shutting the door behind him.

"Hey, sweetie. Just called to see where you are?" She asks calmly, always so calm. The house could be on fire and she'll explain with calm insistence that we need to leave. It's something I admire about her, never outwardly showing when everything is on fire. The second a minor bump in the road shows up on my radar and there is no cool, calm and collected tone. Alarm bells aren't just ringing, they're screaming. I'm trying not to dissolve into a panic attack and really trying not to bite people's heads off for asking if I'm okay.

My tongue wets my lips as my heart races, thankful to know she's okay, but anxious that she hasn't just come out and said where everything stands. I need people to be upfront with me – announce everything in thirty seconds, and then we can unpack. "I'm at John B's place tonight, I stayed at Robbie's last night. Is everything okay? You haven't been answering me, I got worried," I explain.

I can hear the wind hitting her microphone, she's no doubt sitting on the hanging egg chair Robbie and Hayley got her for Christmas; I swear she'd throw me in front of a bus for that thing.

"I'm sorry, I'm not sure what's going to happen at the moment. I just wanted to make sure you're somewhere safe, have you eaten?" She asks.

"Yes," I mumble. Not mentioning the fact my meal was half a dozen strawberries I had at midday that I threw up an hour ago. I doubt that counts.

There's a second of silence where I can hear her brain thinking, "You know I love you, and only do what's best for you."

My eyebrows pull together, "Of course. I love you too," I fire back quickly. Kicking one of my tattered trainers a few inches, trying to get my mind to stop focusing on my racing heart. "Is this you saying that you're probably getting a divorce? Because I don't mind. As long as you're safe and I'm with you that's all I care about. Because I'm not living with him."

I hear the sad sigh that's always accompanied by a small, thin smile, trickle through the phone. It's always full of sympathy. "I'm going to figure it all out, I promise. And don't sneak in the house tonight, if you need something text me and I'll give it to you."

My cheeks flush immediately and deeply, that woman is nuts. You cannot get anything passed her. "Will do. I love you, I'll see you soon." After a quick goodnight, we hung up.

JJ's already in bed, shirt tossed off somewhere in the room. He was lying on his back, one ankle stacked on top of the other, hands tucked comfortably behind his head. The silver chain he probably stole splayed lazily on his chest. A small knit in between his own eyebrows shows he's concerned, but I flash him a reassuring smile and it lessens. "You all good sweetcheeks?" He asks.

"Golden," I mumble, turning and having a small fight with the window, trying to open it but struggling with the sticky latch. The fan already creaks overhead, churning hot air around, I just need some fresh air in before I suffocate.

Once I've figured it out I look at the bed and walk over, so excited to put today behind me. Dumping my phone on the bedside table I crawl into the bed, pulling the thin sheet on top of me.

I can physically feel JJ's gaze weighing on me, burning holes in my skin. "You tired?" He asks.

I shift and look over at him, an eyebrow quirking. "Do I look tired?"

One side of his move raises, "Seem like a dangerous question, sweetcheeks. Are you trying to trap me?"

"I'd never do anything of the sort. I'm going to sleep. Bonne nuit, mon ami," I grin and turn over, looking out the window, enjoying the fresh air on my face.

"Mon Amy? Whose Amy?" JJ sounds confused.

"Je ne sais pas, mon ami," I continue my exhausted, butchered French.

"Estúpido," JJ mutters while getting comfortable.

"I'm not an idiot! Not my issue you don't know French, mon ami." I flip around, raising to lean on my elbow, looking down at him. "And if you're going to pick Spanish to mock me, choose something that isn't obviously translatable. And be creative. Like, tu es chauve."

He sits up, looking me in the eye, "Take that back, it sounded insensitive. Since when were you good at French?"

I roll my eyes, flop back down on the mattress and turn to face the window again. "It was insensitive, but you called me an idiot first, so all's fair. Bonne nuit, chauve."

"I'll figure out what that means, sweetcheeks, then you're in trouble," he mumbles, laying back down and yanking me across the bed. A surprised yelp that escapes me makes him chuckle as he gets comfortable.

Domesticity. Why does it make my heart hurt?

Ew.

-

My fingers push JJ's sunglasses – that never seem to be on his face, he's always giving them to me – up from where they rest on the bridge of my nose, to rest on the top of my head. My eyes squint, trying to make out what's drawn on the sheet of paper in front of me. Inside the Twinkie, with the doors wide open cool air rushes in, but somehow the van still feels stuffy, Sarah puts down the piece of paper.

"He said it looked something like this," Kie gestures toward the poorly drawn diagram. No matter how much I squint, unsquint, lean back or forward, it makes no sense. A blind kindergartner could do better with thirty seconds and a broken pencil.

I say that with peace, love and kindness, obviously.

"So..." Sarah trails off, doing whatever the opposite of admiring is to the drawing, obviously trying to figure out which was is up and which is down.

Jesus, I must've woken up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. It's not even that bad of a drawing, I can barely draw. I can definitely draw better than this, but that's not hard.

I'm going to stop being rude now; it's fine.

I shift, kicking out my leg to the side as pins and needles dance up the length of it, making me cringe. My sore, busted knees still proudly wear the dinosaur plasters.

"That's fifty feet down, and they're using one hundred feet of rope. So I guess this lil' wagon will go straight to the gold room," Kie further explains.

"Pardon my French, but who the fuck drew that?" The next rude remark comes out before I can stop it. It just is truly astonishing that no one has mentioned the state of the drawing. Kie and Sarah both grin, finally acknowledging outwardly the atrocious drawing.

"Who do you think?" Kie asks, looking at me, then dragging her vision all the way over to John B.

I drop the sunglasses back down to rest on my nose, "That tracks," I nod.

The sweltering heat is broken up by occasional, beautiful waves of crisp air that pours through the open doors, rustling John B's magnum opus. The small hairs dotted around my forehead sway, tickling the sensitive skin. Kie and Sarah talk to each other whilst I watch, adding a hum of agreement, or just an acknowledging nod and widening of the eyes. Kie and my relationship seems to be patched up, nothing was said, and nothing was fixed. I think it's just because we need to spend time together there's been a cease-fire, I also don't have the energy for all of the drama and catty name-calling. That was never my point.

Today feels calm – like the eye of a storm, or a tornado, or whatever the saying is. Because there is so much shit going on still, between Rafe, the gold hunt and now my parents, this serenity can't last. But I'm going to hold on and protect the peace for as long as I can.

I woke up with a good morning text from my mother, telling me to not stress, and that everything would work itself out. And Robbie asked if I was okay.

I see JJ walk out of the house and I slip, not quite crawling because of my knees, passed Kie and Sarah, getting out of the stuffy van. In his ring-clad hand is the lump of heavy metal he seemingly doesn't want to put down. He's checking on the bar every few seconds, stressing if someone else is entrusted with it.

When he sees me he tosses the gold at my feet, it hits the soft grass with a dull thud. With all the dirt and mud, it doesn't look like anything worth anything, it shouldn't be worth much, it's just a rock, but that stupid rock is worth tens of thousands. "Mabel, this better work," He says to me, his tone holding no real pressure. "Because we can't pawn a stick of gold with a wheat symbol on it."

I roll my eyes, annoyed at the glaring lack of faith everyone – including JJ, most offensively – has in me. I turn and pick up the blow torch I dug out of Robbie's shed this morning, something that obviously hadn't been touched in years. "Trust me, it's going to work," I brush off his concern. "I helped my brother make a gold engagement ring for Hayley when I was like, nine. Melting together some gold bars is amateur hour," I scoff. Not one soul needs to know that I immediately set the table on fire and got it taken off me within seconds. Not that twelve-year-old Frankie should've been wielding a blow torch when she could barely walk straight.

The metal torch weighs heavy in my hand and I run over the YouTube tutorial I scrubbed through at two times speed. It's really not that hard, I'll be fine.

JJ presses a knuckle against the small of my back, encouraging me and my deadly weapon over to the gold-melting station I've watched him set up. It looks cheap, and not quite as professional as what Robbie set up. I think it's just a cake tin sitting on the table; a similar table to the one I promptly set on fire last time. I want to ask where the nearest fire extinguisher is, but I also want to incite confidence in my abilities.

The fact thirty seconds of use, almost six years ago, makes me the most qualified is slightly scary. But I did also oversell my qualifications, and I'm generally more reliable than JJ, so I was selected as the melter, a job I'm quickly wanting to give over.

JJ drops the bars in cake tin, and I stare at the blow torch, willing it to remind me how to turn it on.

"I'm standing well clear," John B laughs, shaking his head at me. Grabbing Sarah's hand, he walks the duo off to relative safety. If he doesn't get some faith in me, I'll set his picture on fire. Do a fucking favour to society. I watch them both sit down, then I see Pope take a steady step away from me.

Then Kie moves back toward the van.

My fingers finally turn on the flames, I twist the metal so the flames burn as hot as possible, a small grin curves across my face and I throw a glance over my shoulder to see JJ, who hasn't walked away.

JJ cringes when I angle the flames at his face, "Maybe don't aim the torch at my face. It would be a real shame to the world if I turned into Freddie Kruger," he says, but doesn't step away from me.

"Right. Good point," I nod and turn back, holding the deadly weapon in two shaky hands.

I feel the blazing heat fanning against my face as I carefully train the vibrant blue flames that are hundreds and hundreds of degrees hot against the soft metal. A few wordless seconds pass, where all I can hear is the flames working overtime, the cool breeze that dances across my exposed skin and my heart beating as anxiety grips my veins. Stress builds as nothing happens. I remember something happening almost immediately last time, terror of failure washes over me in waves as I put the torch closer.

Then, a singular bead of stupid expensive – newly liquid – metal dribbles down the side of the bar, glistening in the overhead sunlight. Shortly after the initial bead a few more follow, dripping off the side, and hitting the base of the cake tin. And not before long the entire bar is bubbling away, melting with relative ease.

I can't help the widening smile on my face as I try and hold my hands steady, if I'm honest, however much faith others had in me, I had half of that.

More seconds, perhaps even a few minutes, pass, and the bars decorated with neat wheat symbols quickly turn into an inconsequential lump of ridiculously priced metal. No wheat symbols are to be detected.

I flick off the flame and look at the glistening metal, and then JJ pops up beside me, looking over my shoulder, a large, steady hand resting on my back. "Look at you go, Mabel." He grins. "I think that's good."

Everyone gives their opinion, and we all decide that we shouldn't push our luck in not burning down the entirety of The Cut, and the current state is good enough. And the second the gold is cooled, we take it and get into the car and we go off on our way to the pawnshop.

I sit in the window seat, my head tipped outside, hair rushing back in the wind. The serenity still has a grip on me, even though I still know everything we have to do.

The next step in the plan is simple enough, have someone spin a story that explains why a teenager is in possession of a ludicrous amount of gold.

John B pulls up in front of the worse-for-wear-looking shop, the dated exterior paired with number fliers taped to its windows about fairs long since left the town and people selling their litters of puppies, shows this place isn't fancy. "Hey," The boy with poor drawing skills gets everyone's attention. "We all need to chill out. I think we're all on edge due to the tendency for everything to go wrong all the time," he observes.

The constant, bouncing glimmer catches my eye as JJ anxiously tosses the bar of gold between his large hands. "It's easy for you to say that, you're not the one that has to pawn this piece of shit off," he mutters, eye-watching the gold he's soon going to have to depart with. "How did I get this job anyway?" He scoffs. I watch JJ's jaw stiffen as he stands up a little taller, shifting the backpack on his