Wrath

by Robin Wasserman

  Hell hath no fury …

  I feel nothing, Beth thought, watching the tiny red light flash on her phone. I see his name flash up on the screen, again and again, and I feel … nothing.

  It was just after dawn and she was at work. These days she was always at work, she thought bitterly, plunging the first batch of fries into the deep fryer and switching on the coffeemaker.

  The phone rang a third time and, without warning, the wave of rage swept over her. It beat against her, pummeling her with the whys she couldn’t answer. Why me?

  She pictured Adam rolling around in bed with Kaia, while they were still together. She pictured Kane and his lying smile, touching her, stealing her trust. She pictured Harper whispering poisonous nothings in Jack Powell’s ear. It wasn’t fair, she raged.

  And when another part of her responded: Life isn’t fair, it only fueled her anger.

  Beth began refilling the ketchup jars, wiping off the lids. And she instructed herself to calm down.

  Maybe deep breaths.

  Counting to ten … or a hundred.

  It all might have worked—but instead, she tightened her grip on the ketchup bottle, and then, without thinking, flung it across the room. It shattered against the wall, spraying glass through the air and leaving a garish smear of red dripping down the stained tile.

  Beth should have felt horrified or panicked, afraid of herself—or for herself.

  But she didn’t.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SIMON PULSE

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2006 by Robin Wasserman

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Designed by Ann Zeak

  First Simon Pulse edition July 2006

  Library of Congress Control Number 2005933859

  eISBN 978-1-43910-866-6

  for Michelle Nagler and Bethany Buck, extraordinary editors who have given me an extraordinary opportunity

  … let grief convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.

  —William Shakespeare, Macbeth

  And all I really want is some patience A way to calm the angry voice And all I really want is deliverance.

  —Alanis Morissette, “All I Really Want”

  preface

  It was a mistake.

  It had to be.

  She’d heard wrong. Or it was a lie.

  A dream. A nightmare. Something.

  Because if it was true—

  If it was true, and this was reality, there was no going back to the person she’d been. Before.

  She remembered that person. Hard. Angry. Fury coursing through her veins. It had consumed her, until her focus narrowed to a single point, a single goal: vengeance.

  It had been the perfect plan, every detail seamlessly falling into place. She had lain awake imagining how it would play out—wondering whether it would still the howling voice inside her, not that she’d finally given in to what it most desired.

  Vengeance.

  The plan had worked. Everything had unfolded as she’d imagined it. She’d gotten exactly what she’d wanted. But …

  She’d made a mistake. A fatal error. Because it hadn’t gone exactly as planned, had it?

  There was supposed to be humiliation—and there was.

  There was supposed to be suffering—and there was.

  Everything had gone the way it was supposed to. Except—

  No one was supposed to die.

  Two weeks earlier …

  chapter

  1

  Harper burrowed deeper beneath the covers. How was she supposed to sleep with all that banging?

  “Come on, Grace, open up.”

  Damn her parents. Which part of “I don’t want to see anyone” did they not understand?

  “We’re bored,” Kaia complained through the door.

  “Come out and play with us!” Kane added, in that little-boy voice most girls found irresistible.

  Harper Grace wasn’t most girls.

  “Go away,” she shouted, her voice muffled by the pillow pressed over her head. “Please!”

  With that, the door opened—and the covers flew off the bed.

  “Time’s up, Grace,” Kane said, flinging away the comforter. “No more feeling sorry for yourself.”

  “Screw you. I could have been naked under here!” Harper said indignantly, suddenly realizing that the ratty sweatpants and faded gray Lakers T-shirt was an even more embarrassing ensemble.

  “Why else do you think I did it?” Kane asked, chuckling.

  How could he laugh?

  The three of them had worked so hard to split up Beth and Adam and, for an all too brief moment, they’d finally gotten everything they’d wanted. Kane got Beth. Harper got Adam. And Kaia … got to stir up some trouble, which seemed to be all she needed. But now? Everything had come to light, and gone to shit. They were alone. How could Kane laugh, when Harper could barely stand?

  “What are you looking at?” Harper snapped at Kaia as she climbed out of bed and wrapped a faux silk robe around herself. She hated the idea of Kaia seeing her bedroom, all the shoddy, mismatched furniture and cheap throw pillows; compared with Kaia’s surely elegant and unbearably expensive digs, it probably looked like the pathetic “before” shot on one of those lame homemakeover shows.

  Harper sighed. Even the prospect of trading insults with her former rival didn’t deliver the jolt of energy it should have—not now that Kaia was one of only two friends that Harper had left. Some friends.

  A heartless playboy. A soulless bitch. And me, Harper thought sourly.

  Not quite the Three Musketeers.

  “We’re here to cheer you up,” Kane said. “So cheer.”

  “Like it’s that easy,” Harper grumbled. Though, obviously, it had been for him.

  “We even brought reinforcements,” he added, pulling a bottle of Absolut from his pocket with a magician-like flourish.

  “What, is that your answer to everything?” Harper asked harshly. “If you hadn’t been so drunk last week, and opened your big mouth—”

  “Children, children,” Kaia cut in, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Kane’s broad shoulder. “I thought we agreed we were going to move past all that unpleasantness, kiss and make up. Her voice was soft and light, with a razor’s edge—that was Kaia. Beautiful and dangerous.

  As if Harper was scared of her.

  “I don’t care what we agreed,” she shot back. “If Kane hadn’t opened his big, stupid mouth … if Beth and Adam hadn’t overheard his stupid bragging …” She couldn’t finish.

  “And if I hadn’t opened my big, stupid mouth, the two lovebirds would be back together right now instead of at each other’s throats,” Kaia reminded her. “But no need to thank me, and no need to blame him. Even if he’s an idiot.”

  “Hey!” Kane protested. But he was smiling—the infamous Kane smirk, which not even heartbreak could wipe off his face.

  “Thanks for the pick-me-up, guys,” Harper said, “but I’m not interested.You’re dismissed.”

  “Are you just going to wallow here forever?” Kane asked in disgust. “Doesn’t sound like the Grace I know and love.”

  “As if,” she snorted. “I meant, I’ve got better things to do than play guest of honor at your little pity party.”

&nb
sp; “Like what?” Kaia asked skeptically.

  “Like getting ready for my date,” Harper lied. She rolled her eyes. “Did you really think I was going to spend Saturday night in bed? Or at least, in my bed? Please.” She shook her head as if pitying their poor reasoning skills. “I’m just resting up for the main event.”

  “Now that’s more like it,” Kane said, his smirk widening into a grin. Kaia just narrowed her eyes, unconvinced.

  “So I mean it. Get out,” Harper told them. “Or I’ll be late.”

  “Whatever you say, Grace,” Kane agreed, grabbing Kaia and backing out of the room. “Who am I to stand in the path of true lust?”

  Harper sighed, and waited for the door to close so she could crawl back into bed, blissfully undisturbed. On second thought—

  “Kane?” she called, just as he was about to disappear down the hall. He popped his head back in, and Harper forced herself to smile. “Leave the vodka.”

  “I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she reads this,” Miranda Stevens crowed, putting the finishing touches on their masterpiece. “She’ll be out for blood.”

  “Too bad she already sucked us dry,” Beth Manning pointed out. She laughed bitterly.

  The flyer had been Miranda’s idea. She’d been thirsty for revenge against Harper. Beth still had no idea why Miranda was so eager to take down her former best friend, and she didn’t really care—Beth had more than enough reasons of her own to go after Haven High’s reigning bitch.

  And Harper was only the first name on a long list of enemies.

  There was Adam Morgan, who was supposed to be the love of her life. Too bad he’d turned out to be a lying hypocrite, accusing her of cheating when he was the one who’d slept with another girl.

  Then there was Kaia Sellers … the other girl.

  Last—and least—there was Kane Geary, whose lies she’d been dumb enough to believe and whose kisses she’d been weak enough to accept.

  Sweet, innocent Beth, who rescued spiders and cried at the sappy reunions in long-distance commercials, now hated them all, and none more than Harper Grace, the one pulling the strings.

  “All they care about is what people think of them,” Miranda had pointed out, “so we flush their reputations and that’s it—they’re finished.”

  “Any chance you want to tell me why you’re doing this?” Beth asked now.

  “Now why would I do that,” Miranda replied, pulling her chair up to the computer, “when I could tell you about the time in eighth grade when Harper laughed so hard at the movies, she wet her pants?” Miranda shook her head, almost fondly, and began to type. “I had to call her mother on a pay phone to tell her to bring a new pair of underwear when she picked us up. And meanwhile …” Miranda’s voice trailed off as she concentrated on typing up the story.

  “Meanwhile what?” Beth urged her, choking back laughter.

  “Meanwhile, Harper was inside the theater, crawling around on the floor so that the usher wouldn’t spot her and throw her out. Eventually I had to fake an asthma attack—you know, create a diversion so she could get out without anyone spotting her.”

  “Lucky for her you were there,” Beth marveled.

  “Yeah?” The fond smile faded from Miranda s face. She turned away from Beth and stared at the screen, her fingers clattering loudly against the keyboard. “Yeah, I guess it was.”

  Cool.

  Reed Sawyer hung up the phone and kicked his feet up on the rickety coffee table—really a row of old milk crates held together with superglue and chewing gum. He brought the joint to his lips and drew in a deep breath, closing his eyes as the searing sensation filled his lungs.

  She couldn’t stay away from him, that was clear.

  Very cool.

  “Dude, who was it?” his drummer asked, leaning his head back against the threadbare couch. “You look weird.”

  “Blissed out,” the bass player agreed, taking the joint from Reed’s outstretched fingertips. “Who’s the chick?”

  “No one,” Reed mumbled.

  “It was her,’ the drummer guessed, eyes gaping, and now he leaned forward on the couch. “Wasn’t it? The rich bitch?”

  “Don’t call her that,” Reed snapped, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

  Damn.

  Now they would all know.

  “What are you doing with her, dude?” the bass player asked, shaking his head. “Girl like that? She’s out of your league.”

  Let’s see: silky jet-black hair, long lashes, designer clothes perfectly tailored to her willowy physique, the smoothest skin he’d ever touched … yeah, as if he needed a reminder that she was out of his league.

  “What the hell do you know?” Reed asked, his voice lazy and resigned. It wasn’t just the foggy halo clouding his mind or the buzz still tingling in his fingers that kept his anger at bay It was the fact that the guys were right. As if it wasn’t obvious that a grungy high school dropout-to-be and the pretty East Coast princess didn’t belong together. Not to mention the fact that she was a bitch. She treated him like he was scum and obviously thought his friends were a waste of oxygen. But still—

  They fit.

  “Whatever,” he said, standing up. Slowly. “I’m out of here.”

  “We’ve got rehearsal,” the bass player reminded him.

  “Do it without me,” Reed said shortly, knowing it didn’t matter. Every week, they got together to “rehearse.” And every week, their instruments remained piled in the corner, untouched.

  Reed had resolved that tonight, they would actually play a set. But that was hours ago, before things got fuzzy—and before she had called. He threaded his way through the ramshackle living room the guys had set up, filled with furniture snagged from the town dump and empty pizza boxes no one could be bothered to throw out.

  “Just forget her, dude!” one of the guys called after him. “She’ll mess you up!”

  Reed just shrugged. Everything in his life was a mess; this thing with Kaia, whatever it was, would fit right in.

  “I never …” Kaia paused, trying to come up with something suitably exotic. That was the problem with this game. Once you’d done everything, there was nothing left to say. “I never got arrested.”

  She wasn’t surprised when Reed took a drink. That was the rule: If you’d done it, drink up. And of course he’d been arrested. He was that kind of guy.

  “For what?” she asked, leaning toward him.

  They were perched on the back of his father’s tow truck, at the fringe of a deserted mining complex. It was the place they’d come on their first date … if you could call it that.

  Reed just pressed his lips together and shook his head.

  “You’re not going to tell me?”

  He shook his head again. Big surprise. He didn’t talk much. In fact, he didn’t seem to do much of anything besides smoke up, hang out with his grease monkey friends, and stare at Kaia with an intense gaze that stole her breath.

  He was beneath her—-just like the rest of this town, this hellhole she’d been exiled to for the year. He was nothing. Dull. Deadbeat. Disposable. Or at least he should have been.

  They rarely talked. Sometimes they kissed. Often, they just sat together in the dark, breathing each other in.

  It was crazy.

  And it was fast becoming her only compelling reason to make it through the day.

  “I never,” he began, putting down his shot glass. “I never kissed you here.”

  “Liar.” Kaia caught her breath as he put his arms around her waist and kissed the long curve of her neck.

  “How about here?” he murmured, lightly grazing his tongue along her skin and nibbling her earlobe.

  She closed her eyes and sighed heavily.

  As if from a great distance, she could hear her cell phone ringing and knew who it would be. Was it only a few weeks ago that Jack Powell had seemed the consummate prize? The handsome, mysterious French teacher who was totally off limits and totally unable to
resist her—he had it all, just as Reed had nothing. So why let the phone ring and ring? Why let Powell sit in his squalid bachelor pad, wondering and waiting, while she hooked up on the back of a pickup truck?

  Kaia didn’t know.

  But with Reed s arms wrapped tightly around her, his curly black hair brushing her cheek, she also didn’t care.

  Dear Adam, I know you said you never wanted to hear from me again.

  Adam Morgan held the match over the letter and paused for a moment, mesmerized by the dancing orange flame. It burned so brightly in the desert night. He dropped the flame into the darkness—and watched it spread.

  I’m sorry. I know I’ve said it before, and you won’t listen—but Fm not going to stop. I can’t, not until …

  The envelope had arrived on his doorstep after dinner. She hadn’t even had the courage to stick around. Probably too afraid of what he’d say. But Adam had promised himself that he wouldn’t say anything at all. Not ever.

  I know you think I betrayed you—betrayed what we had. But you have to understand, it’s only because I love you. And you love me, I know you do.

  He hadn’t bothered to read it. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Instead, he’d climbed into his car and driven out of town, down a long stretch of deserted highway. He’d pulled over to the side of the road and climbed out. Scrambled over pebbles and spiny cactus brush, with nothing to light his way but the crescent moon. Fifty yards into the wilderness, he’d stopped. Crushed the letter and flung it to the ground.

  Lit the match.

  If you would just let me explain, Adam. I had to get you away from her. She wasn’t right for you. She couldn’t give you what I could. She couldn’t love you like I did. Like I do. We’ve been friends forever—more than friends.You can’t give up on us. I can’t, I won’t.

  The flame was slow, almost deliberate. It ate into the letter, blackening the edges. The pages curled in the heat. The letters swam in front of his eyes, nothing more than meaningless black crawls. None of her words meant anything now; everything she’d told him over all these years had added up to nothing but lies.