COMING SOON! Poison Ivy - SIGNED hardcover luxe edition

Chapter One

FERGIE

My first clue that we aren’t in Kansas anymore is someone flinging open the car door and ripping my Kate Spade purse from my arms.

“Hey!” I yell, because no one touches my Kate and lives to tell the tale. I swing my fist to clobber the thief, but he’s too fast. My blow glances off his arm.

“I’ll take your things, ma’am,” the thief says in a stern voice. At least he’s a polite criminal. They really do breed ’em different in Emerald Beach.

“Thank you, Seymour. You’ll have to excuse my daughter. She doesn’t know how to act around humans.” Dad sounds tired. He sounds like that a lot lately. We used to have the kind of Hallmark movie father/daughter relationship where we’d laugh about me trying to take out Seymour, whoever the fuck Seymour is. But that was before I imploded our lives. Now, everything I do is another nuisance for him to deal with, because it’s perfectly normal for random people to shove their hands into my lap and take away my stuff.

But I guess this is our new normal now.

Our new life. With our bag carrier named Seymour.

I wish I’d paid more attention when Dad told me about our move to Emerald Beach. He probably mentioned Seymour. But I’ve been a little busy eating my body weight in Butterfingers and smashing everything and everyone within swinging distance.

“—leave the keys with me, sir,” Seymour says to Dad. “I’ll park the car for you and bring the rest of your things inside. She is waiting for you.”

Seymour whispers she like it’s a prayer, a supplication. Who is this woman who doesn’t even have a title? Who isn’t Madam or the Mistress or Mrs. Dio to her staff, but simply she?

I step out of the car. The sun hits me like a freight train made of fire. Yup, definitely not in Kansas anymore. And by Kansas, I mean Witchwood Falls, Massachusetts. Or Cedarwood Cove, Massachusetts – it depends on who’s asking. I’m a long way from home.

Unlike Dorothy, I’m not tapping my magic slippers to whisk me back there. No matter how boiling hot or plastic or fatuous Emerald Beach is, it can’t be as bad as what I’m running from.

We have no home to go back to, thanks to me.

My feet crunch on pebbles. The house looms over me – an enormous wall of marble and glass and terror. I do remember Dad describing it to me, so I don’t have to see it to know it’s gaudy as fuck, with bleached white pillars holding up a carved portico, oversized oak doors, and probably a poorly-carved knock-off of Michelangelo’s David in the center of the tinkling fountain, and gold, gold glittering everywhere. The houses here are probably all the same, like Paris Hilton and a Greek temple had a fuck-baby.

My new home.

I feel naked without my purse, so I grip my cane a little harder than normal as I move toward the looming edifice of our new life. The doors creak open, and I’m surprised to hear a dark voice speak.

“John. You made it in good time, I see.”

She sounds like hot cocoa and razor blades.

“Cali.” Dad says her name with this note of awe in his voice. “I’d like you to meet my daughter.”

“Hello, Fergus.” My new stepmother says my name stiffly, testing its shape on her tongue.

“Fergie,” I say. “Everyone calls me Fergie.”

Yes, my name is Fergus, and I’m a girl. It’s the most fucking ridiculous story. Centuries ago, when my ancestors were a bunch of sword-swinging clansmen in Scotland, a rich laird promised a large sum of money to the firstborn son of every generation who was named Fergus. And even though not a cent of this money ever materialized, my clan never passes up the opportunity for an easy buck, so the name’s stuck around. I was supposed to be a boy right up until the moment I shot out of my mother, and so I became Fergie.

“Hey, Fergalicious.” Dad uses his pet name for me as he prods me with that tired note in his voice. “I’m so happy you finally get to meet Cali, your new stepmother.”

Whoopty doo.

I don’t want a fucking stepmother, especially not this woman. But like everything since The Incident, I don’t have any choice in the matter.

A hand grabs mine and shakes, the grip firm and curt – Cali makes it clear she can break my wrist if given the chance. She has some kind of high-powered job in the fitness industry – I never cared enough to ask Dad – and I imagine this is the handshake she has to use for all the roid bros.

Even though I want to play nice for Dad, even though this woman has pulled all kinds of strings for me despite never having met me, I can’t help myself.

I squeeze back.

I’m not going to be the weakling.

I won’t be walked all over or made a fool of.

Not this time.

Cali’s knuckle cracks. She drops my hand.

“My two favorite women, together at last,” Dad’s voice squeaks with fake brightness. “I know you’re going to get along brilliantly.”

“Come inside.” Cali’s tone hardens into rigid formality. It’s the voice of someone who has no intention of ‘getting along brilliantly.’ She holds open the door, and I follow Dad into a towering foyer. My cane sweeps the floor, the ball tip rolling over cold marble. The sound resonates through three stories, the echo a complete mindfuck. I’ve never stood inside such a void of space before. I mean, mall atriums and concert halls sure, but they’re always full of heaving bodies and noise and excitement and bustle. This house drips with oppressive silence.

This is a house of secrets.

Good. Maybe it will keep mine locked tight within its walls.

Cali’s heels clack on the marble. “We’ve already eaten, but I can have Milo reheat something for you. You must be hungry after that long drive.”

“That would be amazing. You have no idea how much I’ve missed Milo’s food. Fergie?” Dad asks me.

“I’m not hungry.”

I bite my lip, feeling bad for the snap in my voice. Dad wants this to work so bad. I’ve put him through absolute shit over the last few months. I feel like I’m already on the wrong foot with Cali and we’re barely through the front door. But this house, this woman, it’s too fucking much. I try to keep my voice even. “Can I see my room?”

“Follow me,” Cali barks. Her heels click-clack on the stairs. She doesn’t wait for me or grab my arm, which warms me to her a little. My cane hits the bottom step, and I move along until I locate the handrail. I turn my cane in my hand so it will tell me the depth and number of steps, and I climb after her. Dad puffs along behind me. In this empty void of floor wax and bleach, I smell our Volvo’s stale air conditioning and the snack crumbs that cling to us both.

We don’t belong in a house like this, with a woman like Cali.

Maybe Dad will see that soon.

The stairs circle up and up and up, disorienting me. I’m lost in a labyrinth with a minotaur at its center. But that’s not fair – the monster isn’t my new stepmother.

I left the real monster back in Massachusetts.

Cali leads us down a wide, grand hallway. The heels of my boots sink into thick, soft carpet. “Your father and I have a room in the east wing,” she snaps. “There’s a maid, Luella, who lives offsite. Seymour and Milo live in the annex behind the pool. There’s a call button beside your bed if you need them. You and Cassius have this wing. You share a bathroom.”

That’s right – I still have to meet Cassius. My new stepbrother.

I don’t know anything about him. I never asked. The last few weeks have been a daze, what with my life and future going up in an inferno of my own making. I’ve barely remembered to eat, let alone concern myself about the kid I’ll be sharing the house with. He’s like twelve years old or something, probably smells gross, talks only in grunts, and has obnoxious taste in music. There’s another brother, too, I remember Dad saying - he’s a few years older than me, but he doesn’t live here anymore.

Cali throws open a door. “I trust this is sufficient.”

“It’s wonderful, thank you so much.” Dad squeezes my hand. “Fergie, what do you think?”

I can’t say a thing. My lips are glued shut. I freeze in the doorway, greeting the void of my new room with icy silence.

“It’s all decorated in red and gold,” Dad says. “Your stepmother has great taste.”

“I don’t give a fuck about paint samples and throw pillows,” Cali scoffs. “Livvie did this.”

I don’t know who Livvie is, but Dad obviously does because he laughs like Cali said something utterly hilarious. I try to ignore the squirrel burrowing into my stomach.

Dad has this whole life in Emerald Beach already, with Cali and Livvie. He has this world that’s completely apart from me.

Did they invite Livvie to their wedding? Because they didn’t invite me.

I’m not supposed to be here. They don’t want me here.

I manage to drag myself forward, and I walk the perimeter of the room, touching the edges of the furniture. There isn’t much, which I prefer. A bed with a brass bedstead, a shaggy rug covering the vast expanse of floor, a tall dresser, a desk and an overstuffed armchair under the window. My feet scuff a couple of strange divots in the rug, places where something heavy crushed the fibers. I wonder what it was that used to stand in the middle of the floor.

My bags have already been stacked beside the door to the walk-in closet. Seymour’s doing, I suppose. The entire room is bigger than our old house.

“We’ll leave you to get your bearings.” Dad kisses the top of my head. “Come down to the kitchen if you want food. It’s the back right corner of the house, through the living and formal dining room.”

They leave, closing the door behind them. The momentit clicks shut, I sink into the bed and allow myself a single tear – one salty droplet for the fucking mess I’ve made of my life.

It’s all I deserve.

I run my fingers over the exquisite silken material of the bedspread. This Livvie person may earn a derisive smirk from Cali, but she does have taste.

The room even smells nice, like fresh flowers. I bet Seymour left an arrangement somewhere.

I hate myself.

Two weeks ago I stood on a bridge, willing myself to jump off and rid my dad of the burden of my mistakes. Now I’m drowning in silk sheets and manservants in my fucking mansion and I can’t even be grateful. When we left, I tossed most of my possessions, even my jiujitsu Gi, in the trash. I can’t bear any reminders of what my life is supposed to be.

Dad says I’ll shop for new clothes after we settle in. “Most of your stuff won’t work in Emerald Beach, Fergie. They’re different down there.”

He’s never been concerned about me fitting in before.

Everything’s changed since The Incident.

You’re lucky, I remind myself. You got your mistake wiped out. You can start over. New name. New life. How many other people get this chance?

But I don’t want a new name or a new life or a new mother. I want my old life back. I want my 1540 SAT score and my championship belts and for the worst thing in my life to be the stress of writing my personal statement for Harvard—

The air shifts.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I hear a creak as the door to the ensuite bathroom swings open.

Someone’s in my room.