by Callie Hart
“I’d love to walk right over there and smack the evil prick. He probably doesn’t think I’ll do it. I used to kickbox, though. I could hit him hard enough to leave a bruise.” Carina’s oblivious to my spiraling panic. I don’t want to be that girl—the girl who freaks out over a boy, questioning every move she makes and overanalyzing everything to the point of madness. I make the decision, right here and now: I will not be that girl.
“He’s probably ruing the day he messed with you, Carina. Don’t worry about it. He’s looked away now.”
“Class. I hate to have to do this to you. I’m sure you’ve all been dreading this moment all semester, but it’s that time again...” Doctor Fitzpatrick laughs as a chorus of groans goes up around the room. I lean forward, squinting at the handsome teacher, trying to get a better look at him. Something’s off. Something—
“Carina?”
“Mmm?”
“Does Doctor Fitzpatrick have a split lip? Fuck, it looks like he’s wearing makeup.”
My friend leans and squints, too, chuckling softly. “Wow. Yep. That’s a corker of a bruise on his jaw. Who knew? I wouldn’t have pegged Fitz as a brawler.”
I would. I can see it on him somehow. A hidden, secret violence that likes to spill out from time to time. I realize I’ve missed his announcement while I was talking, and now I have no idea why the rest of the class is grousing very loudly, hurling balled up pieces of paper at the doctor. He holds up his hands, shielding himself from the harmless projectiles, laughing when most other teachers would be losing their shit. “Okay, okay. That’s enough of that, thank you. It’s not up to me. The curriculum mandates this kind of stuff. You have to complete team projects to learn how to work together. How else are you going to know what to do when you move on from this fine establishment and begin your illustrious careers as line cooks in fast-food restaurants, huh?”
A rowdy jeer goes up at this. Apparently, Doctor Fitzpatrick’s lack of faith in us is more entertaining than troubling. “You know the drill,” he says. “Now, are you gonna pair up like adults, in a calm, reasonable fashion, or am I gonna have to draw names out of a hat again?”
A furor breaks out, bodies flying across the room, friends searching for friends, people squabbling like chickens over who gets to be with who. I don’t move. Obviously, Carina and I will be partners for whatever godawful project we’re about to be assigned.
Only...
“I want Carina Mendoza, Fitz.”
Carina sits up straight, her eyes rounding out. What the hell just happened? By the window, Dashiell Lovett’s on his feet, and he’s pointing at Carina wearing a very cool, very entitled look.
“I think Carina’s already partnered up,” Fitz says.
“What’s the point in us working with our friends? That’s hardly helpful. How are we supposed to learn anything if we’re simply hanging out with the people we always hang out with?”
Fitz studies Dash for a moment, frowns, then claps his hands together. “You raise an excellent point, Dashiell. Change of plan. Everyone in this room must partner up with a person they don’t like. I don’t mind how you go about it, try to be sensitive of each other’s feelings or whatever,” he mutters, waving his hand at us as he stoops to grab his bag from the ground. “You’ve got two minutes. Figure it out.”
Silence falls like a stifling blanket over the room.
Well, this is fucking awkward.
People begin to reluctantly reorganize themselves, shuffling between the furniture like unhappy zombies as people decide who they’re now going to sit beside.
Again, I repeat, so fucking awkward.
“Come on. On your feet, Elodie. I need to sit next to my partner.” Holy fuck, how did Dash get across here so quickly? He looks so proper in his shirt and tie. It looks like he shined his Italian leather shoes before he showed up this morning. Beside me, Carina’s as stiff as a board. “You’ll regret this,” she snarls at him.
“Doubt it.” He quirks an eyebrow at me, jerking his thumb over this shoulder. “Are you gonna make this super uncomfortable, or are you gonna go sit next to Wren like a good little girl? We all know how much you hate him.”
I am going to fucking kill him. I give Carina an apologetic look, slowly getting to my feet. My heart’s racing like a runaway train as I grab my bag and begin to make my way across Doctor Fitzpatrick’s den. Wren’s eyes are sharp yet calm as he watches me approach. I’m four short steps away from the leather couch when Mercy just appears, like she was conjured out of thin air from the fucking depths of hell, and throws herself down next to her brother.
“I’m still trying to figure out if you’re detestable, Elodie, but I’m afraid I’ve got you beat here. Wren doesn’t hate anyone as much as he hates me.” She grabs his arm and loops her own through it, smiling so angelically that my fucking teeth itch.
Fury pours off Wren like smoke, but he doesn’t get to object. There isn’t time for that. Because the next thing I know, I look up to find Pax scowling down at me. “Congratulations, Frenchie. Looks like I get to be a pain in your neck, now.”
27
WREN
“You’re fucking damaged. You know that, right?”
Most kids were fascinated by the fact that Mercy and I were twins. How unusual, their parents used to coo. They look so similar, too. It isn’t normally that obvious when you have a girl and a boy, but they’re just like two peas in a pod. Mercy’s my female counterpart, which is highly disturbing most days, and really fucking annoying on every other. No one should have to look at another person and know, without a shadow of a doubt, what they’d look like if they were born the opposite sex. It’s just wrong.
She flutters her eyelashes at me, resting her chin on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, big brother. I resent having to work with you, too. But it’s time we swept all of this hostility under the rug, don’t you think? It’s getting a little old. Our parents are beginning to suspect something terrible happened between us. We wouldn’t want Father taking it upon himself to investigate now, would we? He just retired. Plenty of time on his hands now. He might be blind to what’s right in front of him most of the time, but he’s very good at solving puzzles when he puts his mind to it. I think I take after him in that way.”
“Yes, we both know how great you are at sticking your nose in where it’s not wanted, don’t we.” Not a question. A statement. A fact.
She preens like I’ve paid her a fucking compliment.
Fitz goes around the room, handing out assignment sheets, which means we’re all doing different presentations. He visibly flinches when he stops in front of us, offering Mercy our assignment. She rips it out of his hand, baring her teeth in a smile so terrifying that the muscles in his throat work overtime as he hastily heads back to the front of the room.
“You shouldn’t have hit him,” she says to me. “He wasn’t doing anything wrong.”
I’m not listening to her, though. I’m too busy side-eying Pax, trying to silently threaten him into behaving. Elodie’s back’s to me, so I can’t see the look on her face, but I know she must be hating this. Pax is a daunting prospect, even to those of us who claim to like him.
“So, big brother, care to tell me what’s been going on since I’ve been away? Any new and interesting developments you’d like to share with me?”
“They stopped serving spaghetti on Wednesdays,” I growl.
“Oh, wow. You’ve got all the good gossip. I should have come to you first instead of Damiana.”
I give up glaring at Pax and glare at her instead. Not before I catch the sour, smug smile on Damiana’s face, though. “That girl’s poison.” That’s all I say because that’s all I can say.
Mercy fans herself with our assignment. “Why’d you fuck her, then?”
“Jesus, Mercy. Don’t you have a fucking play you’re supposed to be performing in or something? In New York? Far, far away from here?”
“Michael tried to make me an understudy. I’m not an understudy, Wren. I’
m the leading lady, or I’m nothing at all. Damiana said you dropped her like a hot coal the moment the new girl came along. That can’t be true, though, surely. She’s so...” she wrinkles her nose, “...average.”
“Just stay away from Elodie, Mercy. Ten feet at all times.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll make your life a living hell. You’re not the only one who’s good at piecing together people’s secrets.”
“Oh ho ho, holy shit. I didn’t think it was possible, but you...oh my god, you like her, don’t you?”
She twists around to face me, hooking her leg underneath her like she’s settling in for a good girl chat. “Wren Jacobi, I never thought I’d see the day. I assumed, after all these years of lashing out and breaking people, that there was something fundamentally broken inside you. It’s a real shock to learn otherwise. Fuck!”
I snatch the paper out of her hand, scanning the information typed on it, pointedly ignoring the shit-eating grin she’s wearing. “We need to write an essay on an unsung hero in literature and present it to the class. You can choose.”
“Really?” For an actress, her attempt at fake surprise is pretty piss poor. “You’re usually so protective over your literary heroes, unsung or otherwise.”
God, this is gonna be such bullshit. I crack my knuckles with a vicious enthusiasm that shuts her up. For five whole seconds.
“Look, I think it’s great that you like someone. I know you don’t believe me, but I care about you, Wren. And if this mousy, strange little girl blows your hair back, then I say go for it.”
This is a trick. A really lousy trick that I’m not stupid enough to fall for. I bare my teeth, dropping the paper into her lap. “Pick the subject for the assignment. Then stop fucking talking, Mercy, or so help me we’ll have problems.
She picks Sydney Carton. Of all the characters in all the books, she picks Sydney Carton from ‘A Tale Of Two Cities,’ because she knows how much it’ll irritate me. Sydney’s my guy. He’s a wretch, the very worst and the very best. I identify with him on so many levels that it’s not even funny. If she were anyone else, I’d be surprised that she picked him out of thin air as the topic of our assignment, but since she is who she is, I’m entirely unsurprised. We’re twins, after all. Our fucked-up brains work so similarly that I despise her almost as much as I despise myself.
The moment the bell rings, signaling the end of class, I take out my phone and power it on. I tap out a message as I bolt out of the class.
Me: Lunchtime. Find me. I’ll be hanging with the poets.
28
ELODIE
I’ve never wished harm on anyone before.
That’s actually a lie, I have wished harm on one person, but my father doesn’t count. He’s a vile piece of work, and he deserves every ill thought I’ve ever had about him. Aside from Colonel Stillwater, I make a point to give people the benefit of the doubt. I like to try and be a fair person. A just person. But it’s no fucking good—Pax Davis is a motherfucker of the highest order and I hope he falls off a very high cliff. I suppose it’d be okay if he survived the impact. A few weeks in traction, writhing in agony in a dingy hospital bed, though? Yeah, that sounds like suitable punishment for a prick like Pax.
Eight: that’s how many times he called me a whore during the forty minutes we had to sit together and plan out how we were going to tackle our assignment. ‘Read an independent book with a profound and moving story arc, and then present it to the class.’ I’m honestly not sure Pax can read. He showed no interest in the sheet Doctor Fitzpatrick gave to us. But then again, he did spend the last ten minutes of class hammering away at his phone’s screen, sending out text after text to god only knows who, so he must possess some rudimentary understanding of the English language.
When we parted, he snarled something guttural and harsh at me in a language that I think was German, then he politely told me that I was to read the book and write the presentation myself, then he flipped me off and bailed without another word.
I haven’t been able to talk to Carina to find out how her ordeal with Dashiell went, but I’m guessing, from the look on her face as she hurried to her next class, that it went just about as well as one might expect. In other words, terribly.
She has a meeting with the school counselor over lunch, which is why I don’t feel guilty that I’m not trying to hunt her down, as I make my way across the academy. When I jog up the steps to the library, my mind’s racing a mile a minute.
It was hardly a friendly text. Then again, Wren’s nothing if to the point. I wasn’t anticipating anything flowery or romantic from him. Honestly, I was surprised that he’d messaged at all.
I find him right where he said he’d be, in the Poetry section, amongst the likes of Rilke, Hugo, Keats and Wordsworth. With his head bowed over a book, his hair messy and all over the place, hanging in his face as it’s perpetually wont to do, he’s cast in silhouette by the light pouring in through the enormous windows behind him. I can make out his profile, though—the strong line of his jaw, the arrow-straight, uncompromising bridge of his nose, and his sinfully full mouth that works as he shapes out the words on the page in front of him.
He’s not who he portrays himself to be. Not really. Yes, he’s hard to reach sometimes, and he’s colder than the glacial waters of Antarctica on occasion. But there’s a deep, ponderous part of him that he doesn’t show people, too. I get the feeling that he hasn’t really shown that side of himself to me, either. It’s slipped out, unbidden, entirely by accident. The difference is that he hasn’t tried to stuff it back down into its cage with me. He’s let that side of him rest there, out in the open, for me to make of it what I will.
His mouth works some more as he continues to read, but out loud now—
“We look before and after,
and pine for what is not.
Our sincerest laughter,
With some pain is fraught.
Our sweetest tales are those
that tell of saddest thought.”
Ah. So he was aware of my presence. Great. I pull myself together, having a fierce talk with my heart, making sure it knows to behave, as I enter the stacks and go to him.
“More Bryon?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Shelley. He was a fucker, too, y’know. Complete drunk. Womanizer. Left his wife and knocked up another woman.”
“Mary Shelley. I read about that.”
Wren closes the book softly, looking at me out of the corner of those green eyes. No other part of him moves. “Like all the best artists, he was pretty fucked up.”
“That poem didn’t sound fucked up. It sounded sad.”
Wren smiles, slowly looking back down at the book. “It’s called ‘Skylark.’ One of his most famous pieces.”
“What’s it about?”
“The past and the future. Fear of death. Phantoms and ignorance. It’s about how even the sweetest love songs are tinged with sadness. And how a man can never be as free as a bird.”
“Sounds beautiful.”
“It is,” he agrees. Sliding the book back onto the shelf, he turns and faces me, picking over me with an intense gaze that makes me break out in goosebumps. “What did he do?” he demands.
“What?”
“Pax. What did he do? I know he did something.”
“Oh. Uh...he was just his usual, charming self. It’s all good. No harm, no foul.”
“You don’t know if there’s been any harm yet. You won’t know until you’re lying on the floor in a pool of your own blood. That’s how Pax works.”
I smile at his utter seriousness. “Are you telling me he’s going to try and eviscerate me? Because I’m not okay with that.”
Wren reaches out and grabs me by the hand, quickly spinning around and pulling me after him. Just like our run-in in front of Madame Fournier before my very first French class, shock spirals up my arm at his touch, surprising the hell out of me, but it’s different this time. He hasn’t taken me roughly by the w
rist. He’s taken me by the hand. And he’s interlaced his fingers with mine.
I’m too stunned to say anything as he pulls me away from the windows and the grim, grey day outside, rushing, rushing, rushing until he reaches the rear corner of the library. He stops in front of a plain innocuous wooden door that anyone in the world would overlook if they weren’t standing right in front of it. Wren drops my hand and rifles in his pocket, pulling out a fat bunch of keys. His fingers flick deftly through a series of Yale keys and cruciform keys and skeleton keys until he finds the one he’s looking for.
A moment later and the door is open, my hand is in Wren’s again, and I’m following him inside. The door clicks shut behind us, and everything is stillness and perfect, velvet dark.
I can hear him breathing, soft and calm, and every cell in my body stands to attention. “Don’t suppose there’s a light in this place?” I ask. Whispering feels appropriate, given the weighty silence pressing against my eardrums.
“What’s the matter? You afraid of standing in a room with me in the dark, Little E?” His voice is a rough caress, slightly teasing in tone. I can picture the upward tilt of his mouth, the sharp challenge in his eyes, and my toes curl in my shoes.
“Not at all. I’m fine. I’m perfectly happy standing here with you in the dark.” And I am. There’s something freeing about it. I’m not worried about the way he’s looking at me, and I’m not afraid of the fact that I’m blushing. I can just be.
“In that case...” Wren’s other hand touches my stomach, making me jump. “Easy, Little E,” he coaxes. “Just trying to find your other hand.”
I give it to him, swallowing thickly when he guides my palms up to rest on his chest, right over the firm wall of muscle that forms his pecs. I can feel his heart beating beneath the soft cotton of his hoody, and with my sight taken away from me, the steady dum, dum, dum beneath my fingertips is everything. It anchors me, rooting me in place until I feel grounded and...safe? Wow. That’s a new one. How is it even possible that I’d feel safe with him?
