by Paula Morris
"But not something I'll ever need or ever use." Anton grabbed onto a ridged iron lamppost, spinning himself around it. "It's just a relic of another time."
Rebecca waited until he'd finished jumping around, smiling because the wind was blowing his curly hair into clownlike clumps. Then she handed the lighter back.
"I wish I had something of my family's to carry around," she said, thinking of the photo that had disappeared from her wallet. "We don't have any heirlooms." This was true, though she hadn't really thought much about it before. Maybe some things in the New York apartment had belonged to long-dead grandparents, or great-uncles and aunts, but her father had never pointed them out. "We don't have much family history. We don't have much family, actually. Not like you, anyway."
"Really?" He looked at her quizzically. "You're lucky," They stood for a moment in the dirt of the neutral ground, looking at each other, Rebecca thought, as though
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they were aliens from different planets meeting for the first time. Anton was the one to break the silence, nervously clearing his throat.
"I wanted to ask you -- would you mind going to this Christmas party with me? If you can't, it's OK ... it's just ..."
"A Christmas party?" Rebecca wondered if they had some sort of school dance at St. Simeon's, though surely Amy and Jessica would have alerted her to such a pivotal social event.
"The Bowmans have it every year. It's in December, but I wasn't sure if you were going to head back to New York as soon as school finishes, or ... or ..."
"No, I think I'll be here." Rebecca was hoping to go home for Christmas, but her father was being annoyingly vague about when and if he was returning from China. And was Anton actually inviting her to Helena's party? Did he have no clue about the contempt Helena felt -- and made no effort to hide -- for outsiders like Rebecca? Helena wouldn't dream of inviting Rebecca to her party. She'd rather her house was overrun by an angry mob of Plebs, Rebecca suspected, than admit an outcast from Planet Elsewhere.
"So you'll come?" Anton's face brightened. Rebecca hesitated, wondering if she really wanted to put herself through the ordeal. She'd like to get dressed up and go out somewhere with Anton, but the thought of Helena and Marianne's reaction when she walked through the Bowmans' front door made her instantly start dreading it.
On the other hand, it would serve both of them right. Their pretentious party wouldn't seem quite so exclusive if she managed to infiltrate it.
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"Sure," she told Anton. She gazed over at a three-story house where a Hispanic man in paint-splattered overalls was attaching an elaborate Christmas wreath -- gray eucalyptus leaves, bloodred berries, and twisted tails of ivy -- to the blue front door, while other workers busied themselves removing carved pumpkins from the steps and the Halloween spider's web from the manicured hedge. Holiday decorations had to go up early here, Anton had explained, because the day after Christmas everybody couldn't wait to toss their trees onto the sidewalk and put up all their Mardi Grass banners and lights. And the holidays meant all the serious parties, the events that went on all winter and culminated in the great balls of Carnival, were beginning. The Bowmans' party was one of the first of the season. Wonder of wonders: Rebecca Brown would be there.
"Sure, I'll go," she said again, and he flashed her a broad smile, throwing his silver cigarette lighter high in the air and catching it with his left hand.
"I guess we should probably start walking back," he said, and Rebecca nodded her agreement. She didn't want to make Aunt Claudia suspicious by arriving late for dinner. Because telling Aunt Claudia about this walk with Anton -- or about the invitation to the Bowmans' party -- was out of the question. She would just get upset and might say that Rebecca couldn't go. It was better if Rebecca kept this particular secret to herself.
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***
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
***
Rebecca should have said something to Anton: She should have told him to keep his date for the Bowmans' Christmas party a secret. At lunch on Monday, Jessica -- her nose still red from the flu -- materialized by Rebecca's side in the food line.
"Feeling any better?" Rebecca asked. Jessica seemed marginally more friendly than Amy, though that wouldn't be hard: On Friday, approaching the lunch table with her tray, Rebecca had seen Amy making a god-it's-her-again face.
"Not really." Jessica sniffed, irritably fiddling with her glasses. "But I can't afford to miss any more school."
"I can fill you in about what you missed in history, if you like."
"Yeah, yeah." Jessica sniffed again. "And I heard ... I mean, is it true that you're going to Helena Bowman's party?" "Yes."
"With Anton Grey?" "Yes."
"He asked you?"
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"Yes."
"To the party?" "Yes."
"To Helena Bowman's party?" "Yes!"
"Why did he ask you?"
"I don't know," said Rebecca, feeling kind of sorry for the other girl. Jessica looked so forlorn, as though she'd missed out on winning the lottery or something. Maybe she'd been dreaming for years about going to the Bowmans' party on the arm of some dashing St. Simeon's boy, and now here was this outsider, not particularly pretty or popular, waltzing in and getting it all handed to her.
"How do you even know him?" Jessica absentmindedly loaded three packets of salad dressing onto her tray.
"I met him at the café." Rebecca wasn't about to confide in Jessica about her late-night cemetery lock-in, or her walk with Anton along St. Charles, or their excursion on Friday after school. He'd taken her to a cool, ramshackle place in the Irish Channel called Parasol's to eat roast beef po'boys, and there -- sitting across from each other, grease dripping from their fingers, condensation on their water glasses dripping onto the vinyl cloth -- they'd talked more about that night in the cemetery. Rebecca had asked Anton not to tell people about her getting shut in, and he'd agreed at once. He'd said nothing to anyone, he reassured her; his parents could be funny about who went into the cemetery after hours, and anyway, it was nobody's business but his and Rebecca's.
But clearly he'd told someone that he was taking her to the Bowmans' party.
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"Amy said she saw you at the café together," sighed Jessica. She leaned close to Rebecca; her eyes were bloodshot and teary. "Some people are kind of annoyed about it, you know."
"Annoyed about what?" Rebecca didn't get it. "About us sitting together?"
"About you going to the party," Jessica whispered.
"Jessica!" Amy was standing up at a crowded table, waving frantically. "I've saved a seat for you!"
She glowered at Rebecca, as if to say, There's no seat saved for you.
"I'm not annoyed about it," Jessica said quickly. She shot Rebecca a rueful smile and giggled nervously. "I'm just kind of jealous, you know?"
"Is it that big a deal?" Rebecca picked up a container of yogurt and resisted the urge to smack it onto her tray.
"It's that big a deal," Jessica whispered. The smile faded from her face. "Watch your back, OK?"
Rebecca ate her lunch alone, at the end of a table packed with shrieking freshmen. She could barely taste her food. Her forehead was pounding, as though tom-toms were playing in her brain, echoing through her body. These girls were so petty: Just because she got a party invitation they wanted, she was getting warnings to watch her back? What she did in her own time was none of their business.
She didn't want to dawdle here a minute longer than necessary. There was still half an hour until her next class began: She'd spend the time in the library.
With its robin's-egg blue walls, tall shuttered windows, and long table of new MacBooks, the library was one of
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Rebecca's favorite places in the school -- now that she'd finally worked out how to get there.
She settled on the floor between the stacks and started flicking through books in the Louisiana history section. In an architectural book on the Garden District, she
found pictures of Anton's house. And there was Helena's, and Marianne's: Just as Anton said, the houses had been owned by the same families since the 1850s. There was no mention of the curse anywhere, of course. Maybe Amy was right, and it was just a fake story made up to entertain tourists.
"Hard at work?" The thin form of Helena Bowman loomed over Rebecca. Helena crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against one of the stacks. Her face was pinched and mean, Rebecca decided -- not pretty at all. Helena seemed to live in a constant state of petulance these days, as though she had nothing to be happy about. What was the point of being so rich and admired if it brought you no pleasure?
Rebecca said nothing, staring up at Helena and -- of course, appearing behind her like a faithful shadow -- Marianne. The way Helena looked at her was so insolent, so contemptuous. Perhaps it was because Rebecca was from somewhere else, and didn't care about their hierarchy and status. More likely, it was because Anton was paying her attention.
The librarian -- in her usual tailored blue cardigan suit, a silver fleur-de-lis brooch primly pinned to her lapel -- walked past the end of the row and paused, as though she was about to tell Helena off for talking. Then there was a glimmer of recognition, and she walked on without speaking.
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Typical, Rebecca thought. One rule for most of the girls, and another for Them.
"People are saying you're coming to Helena's party," Marianne hissed, making an effort to lower her voice.
"It can't be true." Helena sniffed, as though something in the library smelled bad.
"Then I guess it isn't." Rebecca pretended to go back to reading her book, but the words were swimming. All she wanted was to be left alone.
"So you're not coming?" Marianne stage-whispered. She pushed a cloud of fair hair off her face, squinting at the dust motes dancing in a slim shaft of sunlight.
"Well, Helena just said it's impossible." Rebecca wasn't about to give them a straight answer. Helena sighed impatiently, shaking her head at Marianne.
"Anton says he's bringing you," Helena snapped. "So you can stop playing coy."
"I'm reading, not playing." Rebecca gestured with her book. "Would you mind?"
"Well, I guess I can't stop you from coming to my house," sighed Helena. She looked even more pained than usual. "If Anton insists on inviting you ... well." She glanced at Marianne: It was a smug, spiteful smile.
"It's just, you might not enjoy yourself very much," Marianne told Rebecca earnestly. "You won't know anyone there."
"I'll know Anton," said Rebecca defiantly, gripping the closed book, wishing she could use it to smack their plaid-covered knees. She scrambled to her feet, aware that getting up in such a narrow space made her look about as elegant as
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a newly born calf. But at least standing up she'd be as tall as them, not gazing up like some groveling servant. Helena gave her a pitying look.
"Oh, you don't know Anton at all," she said, backing away, and she and Marianne rustled off, noses in the air. Rebecca didn't know what Helena was talking about: She didn't want to know. Was she implying that Rebecca was being duped somehow, that this was an elaborate trick Anton was playing to humiliate her?
Rebecca stood with her back to the shelf of books, doubt about Anton and his motives making her stomach churn. She usually had good instincts about people. Aunt Claudia, for example -- she might be batty, but Rebecca had felt right away that she was a warm, good-hearted person. Amy wasn't malevolent: She was just a bottom-feeder in the shark tank that was Temple Mead Academy, and this had been perfectly obvious to Rebecca her first day of school. Jessica was nice enough, but immature and easily led -- that had been clear as well.
But with Lisette and Anton, Rebecca wasn't so sure. Maybe they were both playing her. Maybe Lisette wasn't really a ghost; maybe Anton didn't really like her. They acted friendly enough, but it seemed as though the rules of normal life -- real life -- didn't apply to them.
Stop it.
She was going to drive herself crazy worrying about all this. If Rebecca wanted to find out exactly who (and what) Lisette was, they needed to spend more time together. And Helena was just trying to make mischief, she decided. In Helena's mind, Anton was theirs -- hers and Marianne's,
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part of their exclusive group. They'd say anything to keep Rebecca out. All she had to do was dust off her skirt, slot her book back into place on the shelf, and get to her next class on time. At least they were a year ahead of her, and she didn't have to look at their snooty faces during classes every day. Nothing they said should matter -- not to Rebecca, anyway.
Walking to the café after school, Rebecca followed the line of the cemetery wall, ducking around the corner to peer through the Washington Avenue gate. Lisette was nowhere to be seen. Rebecca leaned against the locked gate, dropping her bag onto the ground and pulling her phone out of her blazer pocket to check on messages. No calls, no texts. She hadn't seen or heard from Anton all weekend. That wasn't a big deal, she thought: Maybe he'd drop by the café today. If he wanted to see her, he knew where to find her. She dropped her phone back in her pocket and bent down to scoop up her bag.
A shoe smacked down on the bag handles, pinning them to the ground. A thick-soled, heavy black shoe, at the end of a black-panted leg. Why Anton was creeping up on her like this, and acting so aggressively, she didn't know.
Rebecca squinted up at the boy. It wasn't Anton.
"Waiting for someone?" Toby Sutton's bright orange hair looked like a brush fire in the late afternoon sun, the pale moon of his face pocked with acne marks. He scowled down at her, still not lifting his foot from the handles of her bag.
"Could you move?" Rebecca jiggled the trapped handles, fuming. They'd be muddy now; she wouldn't be able to carry the bag without getting her hands dirty. Toby was an oaf.
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He didn't move. Rebecca heaved an exasperated sigh and stood up straight: She'd had enough today of cowering at the feet of Sutton family members.
"I said, move." Rebecca had never fought a boy before. She'd never fought anyone in her life. But if she had to shove Toby Sutton to get his stupid foot off her personal property, she would.
"We've all been talking about you at school," he said, ignoring her demand. He grinned, his eyes glimmering. "Everyone thinks it's pretty funny, the way you're chasing after Anton."
"I'm not chasing after anyone," Rebecca spat back. This was outrageous. Anton was the one who'd sought her out in the café; the walk along St. Charles and the visit to Parasol's were his idea.
"That's not what I hear." Toby was a lot more aggressive than Marianne, Rebecca thought: The blonde girl always seemed like a watered-down version of Helena, someone who might be almost OK if she wasn't in thrall to the Queen of Them. But Toby -- he was just nasty. He folded his arms and sneered at her. "So maybe you should take my advice and stop embarrassing yourself."
"Take your advice? I don't even know who you are!" This wasn't true, exactly, but Toby didn't know that. He didn't know about Rebecca's nighttime visits to the cemetery, unless Anton had said something. And Rebecca couldn't believe Anton would have told the others about her getting locked in, not when he promised to keep it to himself.
"You know who I am all right," Toby sneered, and Rebecca's stomach shimmied with unease. Maybe she'd been
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wrong to trust Anton. "Don't play dumb. Just do yourself a favor and keep away from Anton. Keep away from all of our friends, OK?"
"I think that's for Anton to decide, not you." Rebecca tried to sound braver than she felt. There was something intimidating about Toby's broad, looming presence. She couldn't stand the fact that he was scaring her.
Toby shook his head, a cold smile stretching across his face.
"We move as a group," he said, his voice quiet. "That's the way it is. And we don't let in outsiders -- especially nobodies like you."
"You're the nobody," she said with contempt. She slammed a foot onto the bag handles, right
next to his, staking her claim. "Look at you -- standing around here trying to bully a girl!"
Toby started to laugh. He staggered back a few steps, releasing Rebecca's bag, swinging his own bag high on his shoulder.
"If you think this is bullying," he called, still walking backward, "you really don't know what you're messing with. Think of this as friendly advice."
'Yeah, real friendly." Rebecca's face sizzled with rage. Tears prickled her eyes, though she was determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She grabbed her bag, trying to ignore the grit scouring the palm of her hand.
"You've been warned," he said, turning away. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked down the street, gazing up at the striped awning of Commander's Palace and whistling. Rebecca felt an intense loathing -- for him, his sister, and everyone they knew. Even Anton. How could he be friends
