I get to my room and rush straight to the bathroom. I have scissors under my sink and take them out. I don’t have many options with my hair so short up front. I have to cut it all down nearly to the scalp. I think about shaving it, but then stop myself. A bald girl will attract even more attention than one with severely short hair. When I’m done I realize I have the same haircut as Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby.
It looks good. Great, even. In fact, I probably look better with short hair because you can see all of my face and the fragile-looking curve of my neck. I look ethereal.
I am so screwed.
Frustration strangles me. I can’t get away from myself. It’s like I’m trapped inside a movie that I’ve been totally miscast for. I’m not a fragile doll, or a man stealer, or a bitch, or a temptress, or any of the one-dimensional characters people think I am when they look at me. I look down at the heart-shaped charm around my neck. It’s a powerful relic, handed down an unbroken line of mothers and daughters for 3,300 years. It can alter my appearance at will and make me look like any woman in the world, but it can’t make me comfortable in my own skin.
I dig out the make-up kit my stepmother gave me three Christmas’s ago. I peel the plastic off and open it. I gob on the black eyeliner, mascara, and shadow. I’ve never put make-up on before so I just wing it. When I’m done inking out my eyes and whiting out the red of my full lips, I turn to my closet. It’s stuffed with very understated clothes in the finest materials—lots of merino wool kilts, cashmere sweaters, and tailored couture blazers for private school in Massachusetts.
I hack the hem off one of my kilts, cut the neck off a soft T-shirt, and rip holes in a pair of black tights. My stepmother has a pair of black leather boots with tough-looking silver buckles on them. I get dressed and take the boots from her closet. I take a black leather jacket while I’m at it, and turn to look at myself in her full-length mirror. I’m still beautiful, but at least now my outside looks as angry as I feel.
I want to see some graffiti. I want something clever and dangerous in my life. Something that hovers right on the edge of dirty. I leave my apartment and go outside, my head held high. Well, higher at least.
The last time I saw one of those special tags, it was downtown around Greenwich Village. I head west and hop on the A train, planning to get off at Spring Street. I don’t like the subway. Someone always tries to chat me up, or worse, rub up against me. I stand with my back against the end of the car, glaring at anyone who comes too close. I think the eyeliner and the boots are working. People actually leave me alone for once.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of those special tags at the deserted end of the Washington Square station. I race to get off the train before the doors close. My heart starts pounding as I stride toward it. It’s gorgeous.
Big and bold, it’s a mural of a beautiful young woman. I slow down as I get closer. Her hands are bound and her head is shaved like a medieval martyr. She’s even wearing a crown of thorns, sticking cruelly into her otherwise smooth brow. She’s crying black tears. The stylized stenciling underneath the portrait says “Innocence Lost” in jagged, electrified letters. I stare at her face.
It’s me.
This is impossible. There’s no way this artist would have had time to make this mural since I cut my hair and painted my eyes. I just stepped out of my apartment ten minutes ago. Who did this? I look in the bottom right-hand corner of the mural for a signature and see the letter A. After the A is a 3-D rendering of a pile of jacks. A-jacks.
Ajax.
That’s a Greek name. A Scion name. There is no Ajax in my House, the House of Atreus. He is my enemy.
The paint is still wet. I have to get out of here right now.
The mural is on the downtown platform. I run to the stairs to go around to the uptown side, and as I’m striding up the steps I hear whispers. Sobs. My vision blurs with rage. Not anger, or frustration, but a white-hot hatred that takes my breath away.
The Furies are here.
I scramble blindly through the turnstile with the Furies’ shrieks for vengeance in my ears. Oh gods, no. The other Houses don’t know that my House still exists. They think we went extinct. My only hope is that I’m not caught. I can’t get caught—or killed.
Two trains are pulling into the station, side by side on opposite tracks. One train is going uptown and the other is going downtown. I throw myself onto the uptown train and watch the doors, willing them to hurry up and close. At the very edge of my sight I can see the Furies. They blink in and out of view as I turn to look at them. Their long black hair is matted with ashes and their faces are streaked with gore as they weep tears of blood. They whisper the names of the dead and call to me, begging me to murder my enemy and avenge my House. I back up against the windows opposite the door and spin around.
In the other train, looking at me through the window, is the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. He has golden hair and bright blue eyes. His skin seems to glow softly, like he carries the sun inside him. One of his paint-stained hands is clutching his chest, like he just got punched, and the other is pressed flat against the glass of the window. I raise my hand and press it against my window, mirroring him. He looks so confused. Stunned. Like he’s just seen a ghost.
My enemy. Ajax.
The screams of the Furies rise to a fever pitch and the two trains pull out of the station, tearing us apart.
Starcrossed City Page 2
