Chapter 8 - The Bloodsuckers Return
The transformation in my parents was instantaneous, grotesque, and nauseatingly predictable.
Dad took two quick steps forward, his rough, blustering anger melting away like cheap wax under a blowtorch. A wide, greasy, apologetic smile spread across his face, exposing his tobacco-stained teeth. He reached out with both hands, trying to grab my shoulder in that familiar fatherly embrace he had withheld for twenty years.
"Devon! Son!" Dad boomed, his voice cracking with artificial emotion. "My God! Two million dollars?! Hollywood?! I knew it! Didn't I always tell your mother that boy had something special in him? Didn't I say that story about the beagle was the smartest thing I ever read?!"
I took a deliberate step backward, letting his hands fall harmlessly into empty air.
Mom rushed out from the kitchen, ignoring the shattered glass on the floor, her hands clasped together in an attitude of desperate worship. Tears were streaming down her cheeks—tears not of joy for my success, but of naked panic that the golden goose was flying out the window.
"Oh, my baby!" Mom wept, trying to wrap her arms around my neck. "We always believed in you! You have to understand, Devon, Saturday was all a terrible misunderstanding! Meredith was so depressed about her career, we were just trying to keep her spirits up! We were going to throw you an even bigger party next week! A massive banquet at the country club!"
"Don't touch me, Mom," I said, my voice dead and cold.
Meredith, however, was already recalculating her position. The shock on her face had morphed into a frantic, scheming desperation. She stood up from the couch, smoothing her hair, her eyes gleaming with predatory hunger.
"Devon... listen to me," Meredith said, her voice adopting that smooth, patronizing academic cadence she used when trying to manipulate a seminar. "This is incredible news for our family. Obviously, Hollywood is going to need a qualified script consultant. Someone who understands dramatic structure, theme, and dialogue. You know how Hollywood executives butcher raw novels. With my master's degree in dramatic narrative, I could co-write the screenplay adaptation with you! We could share the screenwriting credit!"
I looked at my sister, genuinely amazed at the bottomless depths of her entitlement.
"Share the credit?" I asked softly.
"Yes!" Meredith urged, stepping closer, her eyes manic. "Think about how powerful the story would be for the press! The brilliant brother-sister writing duo from the Ozarks! It would legitimize your book in serious intellectual circles! And with your advance, you can easily pay off my student loan balance in one lump sum—it’s pocket change to you now! You could even buy Dad that truck outright!"
"You called my writing garbage, Meredith," I said, each word landing like a sledgehammer against her forehead. "You wrote 'boring' and 'garbage' in red ink across my notebook when I was eleven years old. You told me tractors don't have mouths. You took credit for teaching me where commas belong while I was paying four hundred and ten dollars a month so your credit wouldn't default."
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"I was helping you develop thick skin!" Meredith screamed, her mask slipping completely. "Every great writer needs an editor! I made you who you are!"
"No, Meredith," I said, taking Erin’s hand and turning toward the front door. "A lineman’s truck in a sleet storm made me who I am. Nadine’s diner made me who I am. And Erin made me who I am. You just took my money and prayed I would fail."
