“Gross, Charlie!” We both laugh and land in a kiss, which turns into several kisses, which turns into an impromptu make-out session right in front of his building. Charlie starts to pull back, but I lean in for more, leaving us breathless before his doorman.
“Hey, um,” Charlie whispers in my ear, “do you want to come up for a bit?”
Usually I’m supposed to be home by eleven, and staying out late will definitely incur the Wrath of Mom, but even with that dilemma hanging over my head, I can’t fathom leaving his side right now.
“Well, I mean, the restaurant did need me to stay longer for extra help tonight,” I say with a wink.
As the elevator doors glide shut, Charlie’s hands slide up my back, and I know I’ve made the right choice.
SENIOR year is truly an academic conundrum. On the one hand, our entire educational lives have led to this point: every quiz, every paper, has been completed with the intent of positioning ourselves appropriately for this moment in time. Colleges want to see your history and progress to ensure they’re investing in a good egg. And yet, the actual work of this final semester will likely go unnoticed, since transcripts won’t be updated until we’re packing our bags to say good-bye. There’s that usual drive to succeed, infused with a creeping malaise; my Culinary Institute application is in the envelope, ready to go, so what does it matter how I do on this test? I don’t really see how calculus will apply to my actual life; the only math I need is kitchen measurement conversions, which I mastered before I lost my first tooth. Or so I tell myself, as I try to solve for x in the most absurd problem of all time.
I look around the classroom, seeing if any of my Manchester comrades are experiencing a similar existential crisis, but it’s hard to tell, since everyone’s quietly working away in their plaid skirts and button-downs. I don’t have any friends in this class, so it’s not like anyone would shoot me a sympathetic look anyway. I scribble down something resembling an answer and then focus on the clock in the front of the room. Three more minutes until lunch. Bless.
When the bell rings, I’m free for forty-five blissful minutes. I usually brown-bag it; I don’t trust the cafeteria offerings, mostly because the head cafeteria lady, Ms. Dench, is half orc, and orcs are wildly mischievous. Who knows what she could be slipping into the vats of corn dogs? Mystery meat, indeed.
“What’s up, friend?” I take a seat with Amani, who is fearlessly chowing down on a tray of sriracha-soaked chicken fingers.
“Nothing really, just your standard day,” she says with the tone of a sad trombone.
“Why so glum, chum?”
She shrugs, but before she can answer, Kim comes bouncing up, with the pep of a human rabbit. I can almost feel sunshine radiating from her smile, and unfortunately I left my shades at home.
“Hi, guys!”
I offer a tight-lipped smile, while Amani is more taken with her charms, scooting down on the bench to give Kim a seat. I guess she’s having lunch with us now?
“What are we talking about?” Kim asks.
“Actually, Amani is not really having the best day,” I start.
Kim whips her head in concern, touching Amani’s arm. “Oh no! What’s wrong?” I try not to feel territorial, even though I was the one talking to my best friend about her problems. I wasn’t really looking for an assist, but Amani doesn’t seem to mind the backup.
“Ben Shelldon tried to ask me out again,” Amani reveals while licking hot sauce off her thumb.
“Wow! That’s exciting,” Kim exclaims, putting down her sandwich in hopes of a gabfest. “Are you gonna say yes?”
Amani and I eye each other, psychically connecting in that special way only best friends can. Ben has been chasing her for months, but she’s wisely kept him at bay, mostly because she knew her real match was right around the corner, and also because Ben is a disgusting example of the human race. But after meeting her “true love” turned out to be the biggest letdown of all time (her words, not mine), she’s definitely chilled out on all things amore. No longer is she the girl drawing hearts on the edges of her notebook or planning out the perfect wedding place setting. My dear sweet bestie has let a level of cynicism into her heart that I thought was only reserved for crusty, old matchmakers.
“I don’t know,” she answers. There’s a vacancy in her eyes that reads straight-up defeated. “Maybe.”
“Excuse me…maybe? Is that your final answer?” I ask. Ben’s not supernatural, but somehow I associate his limbs with slime. I don’t know how anyone could consider going anywhere with him voluntarily, least of all someone in my social circle.
“I mean, I don’t have anything to lose.”
“Except maybe your pride, your standards, and, oh yeah, your lunch.”
Amani pops a flaming-hot Cheeto in her mouth. “Yeah, well, at least he doesn’t drink blood.”
Sheesh. “That you know of! Who knows what that dude is into! I once saw him eat pizza out of the trash.”
Kim giggles softly, then wipes her face clean of expression, definitely unsure of the conversation’s context. “Amani, you’re awesome and can have any guy you want,” she offers. “There’s no reason for you to settle.”
This would be my cue to say something as to how she could do a lot worse than Vincent (ahem, BEN) and that a perk of dating the undead is that his love would be eternal, but I don’t have a chance because Amani just says, “Thank you. And I have no intention of settling. I—” She breaks off, as her whole face suddenly morphs from dead-fish blaze to consternation. Whatever future sneak peek just interrupted her train of thought is not good. Her eyes twitch, and her whole head jerks side to side two times. “Something annoying is about to happen,” she warns.
We sit on high alert, waiting for a fire alarm to ring or a food fight to break out among the meatheads sitting next to us, but even in our heightened state, we all jump back in surprise when Ivy drops her tray in the middle of our table.
“Good Gods, Ivy!” Amani yelps. “What the hell?”
“Oh, did I interrupt something important?” She practically pushes Kim over to make room for herself, clearly having no issue invading personal space. Kim, almost an actual doormat, scoots over to suit her, eyes so wide it’s amazing they haven’t popped out of their sockets. “I need to talk to you,” Ivy says.
“I’m sorry, but this is a designated siren-free zone,” I say, waving my hand around the table perimeter. “You have not been cleared to enter.”
Ivy crosses her arms. “I thought you agreed to help me.”
“Yeah, and I thought you agreed to bring Iris by the shop. That’s where I conduct business.”
The siren looks off into the lunchroom, pouting her perfectly pink lips as she surveys the scene. There’s something off about her appearance that I can’t put my finger on….It’s not just that she’s sitting here (which is weird in and of itself), but that her physical presence is different somehow. Her skin is still blemish-free, and her nails in precise ovals; it gags me to confess she’s still the most beautiful living creature I’ve ever seen. But then it hits me: she’s usually flanked by a set of interchangeable lackeys who follow their leader without question. Ivy’s used her siren powers to rule the school for so long, I can’t even remember a time when she’s been alone. Maybe she’s instructed her groupies to get her a beverage or cry quietly in a corner until she’s returned. Either is plausible.
“She won’t come,” Ivy finally admits, still turned away.
“And you can’t just, like, make her?” I ask.
She snaps back, shooting daggers in my direction. “A siren can’t force another siren to do something. Duh.”
I turn to Amani. “Do people still say ‘duh’?”
“Apparently.”
Ivy scowls, twisting up her exquisite features.
“Ivy, of course your sister isn’t gonna want to see me. If she’s secure in her relationship, she has no reason to visit a matchmaker. Especially if you’ve tried dragging her to me under the pr
etense of breaking them up.”
She impatiently taps red fingernails against her green cardigan. “Well, then I need you to go to her.”
I burst out laughing, until I realize she’s serious. “Are you for real?”
She reaches into her backpack and hands me a thick envelope. I peek inside, and there’s too many hundred-dollar bills to count. “What the what?”
“That is how serious I am,” Ivy says. “It’s clear from your dollar-store beauty products that this is more than you typically make matchmaking. So this better get your ass in gear.”
“Joke’s on you—I don’t wear makeup. This is just my face.” Ivy makes a grunting sound like a constipated grizzly bear. As much as I’d love to swindle money from someone I despise, this is a lot of coin for a result I cannot guarantee. “Ivy, this is too much—”
“Are you listening to me? Money is not important; my sister’s future is at stake.” She’s standing now, leaning over to hover in my face. “My address is in that envelope. Meet me there after school.”
“Uh, I have to work.”
She pounds her fist on the table, making us all jump again. How infuriating it must be for her to not get her way. “I’m pretty sure I just covered a year’s worth of shifts. Meet me there, or I’ll make Ben Shelldon follow you everywhere you go for the rest of the year.” Ivy grabs her tray and storms off. I can almost feel the waves of frustration left in her wake.
“Ha! See? Even Ivy thinks Ben is the worst,” I say once she’s gone.
Amani fights back a smile. “How much money is in there?” she asks, nodding toward the envelope.
“I don’t know, but definitely enough for us to get a round of cafeteria cupcakes! Excuse me, garçon?” I snap my fingers at no one in particular. “Little help, please?”
TRY to imagine the residence of your mortal enemy. Depending on the depth of your hatred, you’d probably envision a home covered in thorns, with menacing gargoyles and maybe a moat of molten lava. While logically I know Chicago’s neighborhoods are not zoned for large pools of volcanic liquid, I am disappointed to find Ivy lives in a typical Lincoln Park brownstone. No sinister fog or rusty gate: not even a foreboding vulture circling the property. Kind of a bummer, to be honest.
The doorbell is a regular chime (not a human scream), and I’m greeted by an ordinary butler, not one missing a head or made of bones. Neither of Ivy’s parents is home: her mom, also a siren, is a cancer researcher (an instance of using siren powers for good and not wasting them on pep rallies), and her dad, just a regular joe, has some sort of fancy-pants finance job, hence the butler.
“Would you care for something to drink?” asks the non-ghoulish butler. “We have Perrier, tea, espresso.”
“Ooh, yes, I’ll take an espresso,” I say. Might as well. I mean, it’d be rude not to, right?
“Excellent,” he says with a nod. “I’ll alert Miss Chamberlain of your arrival.”
I wait in a sitting room that’s probably larger than Windy City Magic. I can’t even imagine having this much living space. I should be at MarshmElla’s right now, whipping bowls of frosting, and yet I’m here, covered in frost. When I called to say I’d be late to work, Ella was decidedly displeased, even though she did admit curiosity about the whole siren employment of a matchmaker. Luckily, I have a recent influx of cash to buy that set of candy molds I know she’s had her eye on. Hopefully, that will make it up to her.
Ivy eventually emerges, cascading down a fairy-tale staircase as I sip my notably delicious coffee. Mmm, money buys good beans.
“Well, I see you couldn’t wait to get your mitts on some free drinks,” Ivy says, flopping down on a chaise.
“Thanks for the hospitality!” I say, raising my cup in her direction. “Where’s the bride-to-be?”
“She should be home any minute now.” We sit in horrible silence, staring at each other. I can actually hear the passage of time, thanks to the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. Ivy looks just about as uncomfortable as I feel, fidgeting like the chaise is made of spiders. “So you’re still with Charlie?” she asks, grasping for something to break the awkwardness.
“Yup,” I say, unable to hold back a smile. “Wait, that’s not why you asked me here, is it? You’re not still hung up on that whole thing?”
“Please, I couldn’t care less.” She swats the question away.
“Well, you must care a little.” I bat my eyelashes while I take another sip.
She glares at me with such intensity, I wonder if it’s a natural talent or if she practices in the mirror like a deranged pageant queen.
“As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I have half the school falling over me, so I don’t have time to focus on one at a time.”
“Hey, you brought it up,” I say, and Ivy rolls her eyes. “Do you want to give me any more insight into your sister’s relationship peril? Why is it so necessary to stop this wedding?”
She tilts her head in suspicion. “Will what I tell you influence your…‘magic’?”
“No, and there’s no need for air quotes, thanks.”
She thinks it over, but before she can spill any details, a Disney heroine walks through the door. Equally as beautiful as Ivy, only less severe, Iris is like the softer, sweeter siren sister. She looks just like she did in school, and I wonder how she’s been using her powers since then: Saving puppies? Helping the homeless? Either way, an imaginary halo sparkles over her golden hair. The fact that Ivy emerged from the same family tree seems like a joke.
“Iris, finally!” Ivy sighs in relief.
“I’m sorry, were you waiting for me?” Iris hands her coat to the butler, offering him a heartfelt thanks.
“Yes! Obviously!”
“Sorry, Sis, what’s wrong?” Her flawless forehead wrinkles in concern.
I sit to the side like a nature photographer, observing the scene in silence. I thought Ivy would thaw in the presence of the sister she’s so desperate to help, but somehow she’s still the same abrasive wench. Lovely.
“Nothing’s wrong, I just wanted you to meet my…friend.” She winces like she’s bit into a lemon upon saying “friend,” and I make a similar sour face.
“Oh! Well, that’s nice.” Iris looks my way, radiating sunshine. “I’m Iris.”
I take her hand, using the opportunity to lock eyes before she realizes my identity. It’s the most thematic matchmaking montage I’ve ever seen; usually I get a glimpse into a variety of lovey scenes and situations, but these sneak peeks are all the same. Everything is aquatically angled: at the beach, swimming, ocean on the horizon. Lots of flowing hair. And her match: somehow I’m only seeing her face, which is odd, but it is stunning. Sun-kissed skin, aqua eyes, strawberry-blond hair. They’re a very attractive couple, almost disgustingly so, if this is the girl Ivy’s worried about.
“I’m Amber,” I finally reveal once I’ve seen my share.
“Amber, lovely to…” Iris gets a knowing look, reminiscent of most of Ivy’s evil-expression collection. “Wait a minute! You’re that matchmaker Ivy’s been wanting me to see!”
“Yes, um, that’s me.”
Iris spins around to her sis. “Ivy! When will you let this go?”
True to form, Ivy stands her ground, never backing down from a fight. “I’ll let it go when you dump Brooke.”
Iris’s jaw drops. “Why can’t you just be happy for me?”
“What is there to be happy about? She’s taking you away from us!”
“That is my choice, and none of your business.” With every comment, the siblings inch closer together, refusing to let either have the upper hand. Holidays must be fun in this house.
“It is my business!” Ivy yells. “You’re my sister!”
Iris sighs, fingers at her temples like she’s warding off a migraine. “For heaven’s sake, Ivy, not everything is about you.”
It’d be really cool, from a spectator’s standpoint, if sirens could shoot sparks or something when they’re angry, but even without,
the energy in the room is downright electric. My aura is all shook up, and I kind of wish I’d videoed the whole thing. Dueling Sirens: the next big YouTube sensation!
Suddenly, they seem to remember I’m in the room, and turn to me in sync. Both of them have a hunger in their eyes suggesting they’d easily claw information out of me.
“You know already, don’t you?” Iris says coolly. In a matter of minutes, she’s gone from sunshine and rainbows to a creature ready to attack. I’m wondering if sirens can somehow control the sun, because I swear the room has dimmed and the temperature has dropped. It’s like all the happiness has left the world. Lesson learned: never, EVER be lulled into submission by a siren.
“She better, if she knows what’s good for her,” Ivy snarls, her usual bloodthirsty self.
I’m literally being backed into a corner as the siren sisters slowly edge up on me. I wish I had one of Mom’s instant fog potions so I could make a magical escape, but all I have on me is a half-eaten bag of M&M’S. Typical Amber: always choosing chocolate over safety.
“So what’s the verdict? Have I found my match?” Iris insists. With my back against the wall, there’s no winning scenario here. I honestly don’t know who my answer will piss off more, and both Chamberlains look like they could torture me in very specific, painful ways. What a great day.
“Okay, guys, I did see Iris’s match, but do you think we could ease up on the dramatics a bit? I feel like I’ll have to go into the magical witness protection program after this.”
Ivy, unsurprisingly, does nothing to alter her energy or stance, but Iris pulls herself back from the veil of evil.
“I’m sorry, Amber,” she concedes, blinking furiously like she’s coming out of a trance. “This has become a very sensitive issue between Ivy and me. I’m sure you see this a lot in your profession.”
“Heightened emotions are the name of the game, sure,” I say, downplaying my rattled nerves. Somehow being cornered by a pair of sirens is right up there with nearly becoming a vampire’s chew toy.
“Let’s give her some space.” Iris leads me away from her venomous sister, and I take a seat across from the two of them. Suddenly, I feel like a daytime talk-show host ready to reveal paternity. One of them is about to get super angry, and I don’t know which.
The Sweetest Kind of Fate Page 3
