Devilish

by Maureen Johnson

  “Go,” she said. “I don’t want you to watch.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Okay.” She dropped three of them into her palm. I could see she was shaking now. “I’ll take them if you don’t go. I shouldn’t have told you. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved. Just get out.”

  She held the pill an inch from her bottom lip and glared at me through watery eyes. I had no choice now. I bolted out the door and into the food court. I skidded back to our table, where Elton was scowling at my clam roll.

  “Get up!” I said. “It’s an emergency!”

  “What?”

  “Allison’s threatening to kill herself.”

  “Kill herself?” he repeated. He looked around the food court, obviously thinking what I would have thought—people don’t threaten to kill themselves in places like these. They get cheese fries instead and opt to do it more slowly, on a thirty-year plan.

  “She’s got a bottle of penicillin,” I said. “That’s why she brought us here. She’s threatening to take them.”

  He needed no further explanation. He was up in a shot.

  We arrived in the bathroom to find that Allison was standing in front of the mirror, twisting up a lipstick.

  “Al,” I said, immediately quieting down. “It’s okay. We’re both here now. Tell me you didn’t take them.”

  “Take what?”

  “Those penicillin.”

  “I can’t take penicillin,” she said. “It would kill me.”

  Elton threw me a baffled look.

  Was my mind playing tricks on me? Her eye makeup was a bit smudged and her eyes were red, but otherwise, she was totally calm. Maybe this is what suicidal people were like—switching moods on a dime.

  “I want you to give me the bottle,” I said. “Come on now. You know we care about you.”

  “What bottle?”

  “You know what bottle.”

  Elton was glancing between us, deciding which story seemed more plausible.

  “There is no bottle,” she said. “If you don’t believe me, here.”

  She held out the tiny Coach bag. Elton stepped forward and took it. He pulled out the cell phone, a small wallet, some keys, and an eyeliner. He turned it upside down and shook it and then carefully replaced everything.

  “They could be anywhere,” I said. “They could be in the trash.”

  “There are no pills,” Allison said. “Jane, why are you saying this?”

  Elton had made up his mind.

  “I’m going,” he said firmly. “I’ll meet you out there, Al.”

  She nodded, still looking adorably confused by the whole thing.

  “What are you doing?” I said.

  “Jane,” she said, her face falling. “Just forget everything I said, okay? And what I did.”

  “What do you mean, forget it?”

  “Don’t get involved. I don’t need you to. I don’t want you to. I want you to go. Just go. I promise I won’t hurt myself, but go.”

  So I did.

  Elton was waiting just outside the door, holding my bag.

  “That was not okay,” he said, passing it to me. He wouldn’t even look at me. “If this was some kind of trick to get us back together or something, then it was sick and it didn’t work. I think you should leave.”

  Both of them were telling me to go, and both seemed to mean it. So I put my bag over my shoulder and left.

  nineteen

  Here is a simple psychological trick that I first developed when trying to get over my fear of getting blood drawn. It works when you are confronted by anything horrible.

  First, when the horrible thing or idea comes near you, force your mind to go blank. Turn out all the lights. Try to tell yourself not to think about anything. Your brain hates total darkness and silence—it won’t let this go on for more than a second or two before it starts rummaging around in the closet and throws the first thing it gets its hands on at you.

  Try it now. You’ll see.

  When I first developed this, the thing it threw at me was the theme song to Friends, which I happen to hate for its relentless cheerfulness and organized hand-clapping. But that’s what I got. And when you get this random offering from your brain, accept it. It is your mantra now.

  So, something horrible happens, like when I have to get my blood drawn, I take my mind to the quiet, dark place and play the Friends theme at top volume. I give it all my concentration. I crank it up if I start becoming aware of the rubber tourniquet that they tie at the top of your arm or the nurse poking around my antecubital space. (This is the technical name for the underside of your elbow, where they usually get the blood from; knowledge is also a great defense against illogical fear.) I’m surprised they can’t hear it. Sometimes, I think I even mouth the words, and one time, I know for certain I tapped out the claps with my free hand.

  I dont’t remember getting on the T. I just kept walking until I must have come to a station, found a token, and gotten on. Before I knew it, I was stumbling out at the Harvard Square stop, into a mass of people and a hard and kicking fall wind.

  I felt what seemed to be a twelve-inch split open up in the middle of my chest. I wrapped my arms around myself and pushed through the crowd, who were behaving as consistently as the blowing leaves—oblivious to everything because they were talking on their phones and their scarves were whipping up over their eyes. They were wandering into traffic at the wrong times, even though they give you about fifteen minutes to cross the street in Boston and have a countdown timer to guide you. There was just general confusion in the air, and I was cutting through it, forcing control into my every step. I had thick Frye boots on, and they crunched hard on the leaves and struck solidly on the brick.

  “Think,” I told myself out loud. “Think.”

  The bracing wind cleared my mind a bit and took away some of the nervous burning in my skin and stomach—a bit. Harvard was a good place to make yourself think. The heavy iron gates and the brickety-brickness of it all … it reassured me that world was solid and stable, and Ally was just ill, and there were cures for illness. I would just tell someone, and they would get her the right pills.

  I turned sharply into one of the Harvard courtyards, where space is a bit more free and people usually run into you while jogging, or their dogs leap into you Superman style as they try to catch Frisbees. The square was almost empty. Behind me, I heard the faint tickity-tickity-tickity noise of a bike.

  I stopped cold and turned on the heel of my boot.

  There, in front of me at about twenty paces, was Owen. He was leading his bike and coming in my direction. He looked blown by the wind. His pale, high-boned cheeks were worn red. He rolled the bike closer and came up to me. I set my lips and looked up at him, and he seemed to understand that this time, it was not okay. This face-off continued in silence for a good minute while the one dog on the common made a beeline for us.

  I was about to shout at him, to tell him to go away, but he spoke first.

  “Is Allison talking about demons?” he said.

  A few minutes later, we were sitting in one of Harvard’s countless coffee shops. I don’t remember which one. My freshman stalker and I had two hot chocolates in front of us. I watched a mountain of whipped cream melt and sink into a chocolate sea, then I turned my attention out the window, to the rush of Harvard students blowing past.

  “How did you know?” I finally asked.

  “I know lots of things,” he said. “If you’d called, I could have told you.”

  “Or you could have just told me.”

  “If you had called.”

  “Enough!” I held up my hand. “What do you know?”

  There was a black pointy hat perched on a pumpkin in the shop window. Owen pointed at it.

  “That’s where it starts, really,” he said.

  “With a hat?”

  “With witchcraft. Or with something that happened right around here, maybe four hundred years ago, involving witches …”
r />   “The Salem witch trials?” I put my head in my hands. “Don’t mess with my brain today, Owen. Seriously.”

  “Hear me out,” he said. “It will all make sense. Do you know what happened at Salem?”

  “Of course I do. If you grow up anywhere near Boston, you will be taken to Salem for a field trip. It’s the law. You will go to the Salem Witch Museum. You will buy obligatory souvenirs from the local witch shops. You will come home either wearing a pointy hat or a pentacle. I have both. Get to your point.”

  “I am. Just listen. So, what happened at Salem? Tell me.”

  “A bunch of girls started freaking out,” I said. “The residents thought there were witches in the town, possessing them with devils. They started accusing people of witchcraft. There were trials. A whole bunch of innocent people died.”

  “Right,” he said. “And do you know why all of that happened?”

  “There are a few theories,” I said. “Some people think the whole thing was caused by some poisonous mold—something that makes people hallucinate. Most people think that those girls were bored, they were messing around, and they started something they couldn’t stop. It was the power of suggestion. But that was in 1692. They believed in devils then. They had manuals on how to get ghosts out of your house.”

  “Yeah, but the power of suggestion doesn’t change,” he said. “It’s used all the time. Advertisers use it. We see commercials all the time and we think they do nothing—but then we find ourselves wanting the stuff in them. Stage magicians. Cults. Government agencies. They all use suggestion. The mind is powerful. People can lift cars when they have to. Monks in Tibet can perform almost superhuman feats through the power of concentration.”

  I chewed on the fringe of my scarf.

  “So what exactly are you telling me, Owen?” I asked. “This is 1692 all over again and some insane Tibetan monks have infiltrated our ranks?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m saying that what happened at Salem isn’t actually that hard to re-create. Go back. When did all of this stuff with Allison start?”

  “It was around Big-Little, after Al threw up.”

  “Why did she throw up?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Heat. Eating too fast …”

  “Eating what?”

  “A cupcake.”

  A tiny bulb in my head went boink and suddenly, there was illumination. It was faint, but it was there. A cupcake.

  “Easiest thing in the world to make someone throw up,” he said. “Ever hear of syrup of ipecac?”

  “We used to keep it around our house. My sister used to eat the air fresheners sometimes. Instant vomiting. But why would someone do that? Who would do that?”

  “Why … because you end up with someone who’s truly sad and desperate. And then you play with them. Who … someone rich. Someone bored. Someone smart.”

  It suddenly smacked me right on the forehead.

  “Lanalee,” I heard myself saying. “She came into the bathroom. Right after it happened. And she took Ally as her big. She seemed so nice.”

  He fixed me with a steady stare.

  “Did she do this before?” I asked. “At Bobbin?”

  “Yeah, she’s done it before. That’s the basic plan. She more or less ruins someone’s life. And then she walks in and says, I can help.”

  “Okay, but …” I stabbed the remaining whipped cream iceberg and sank it. “She does this how? She says, I can help … I’m a demon? Allison was sick, but she didn’t lose her mind.”

  “I think she starts it as a game,” he said. “But then people start to feed into it. She probably bought her some things to make her feel good. The new image boosts Allison’s self-esteem, and from there, she begins to believe…. She feeds on her own energy. The more people respond to her, the more confident she gets. The more things go right, the more she believes what Lanalee told her.”

  “There’s this Poodle Club thing that’s been going on at our school,” I said. “That has to be her too.”

  “I heard about it. That’s her. She must be trying to screw around with a lot of people. And she’s got a lot of friends. Maybe they’re doing it together….”

  “She’s got my friend,” I said firmly. “She’s got Ally wrapped up in some crazy role-playing game.”

  “Just stay away from her,” he said. “You can’t get her in trouble. You’ll never be able to prove she did anything. She’s very smart. I’ve been trying to protect you.”

  It was meant to be kind, sweet. Maybe even romantic. And I’m sure he meant it.

  “Thanks,” I said, getting up. “I appreciate the help. I’ll take it from here.”

  “Jane, don’t.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I think I can handle Little Miss Bobbin. I’ll write sometime, promise. You’ve just answered a lot of questions for me. I owe you.”

  I got up over Owen’s repeated objections. He even tried to follow me. His concern was touching, but I had to shake him loose. I lost him in the middle of Harvard Square by cutting through a tour group and headed back to South Station.

  twenty

  The Town Car was in the driveway, and there was a warm, yellowish glow coming from inside the Tremone house. All of the windows were lit. The whole house was awake, alive. When I knocked at the door, it swung open in a moment.

  Lanalee was dressed in long, sweeping black pants and a skintight black turtleneck. This outfit made her look extra tall. In my worn jeans and gray cable-knit sweater, I looked and felt all of two feet.

  “I wondered,” she said. “I figured that’s what this Boston thing was all about.”

  She left the door hanging open as an invitation to follow her into the house. We went back into the living room. She tossed another log into an already alarmingly large fire. The room was sweltering.

  “So,” she said. “How’s Allison?”

  “She threatened to commit suicide earlier today.”

  “Huh.” Lanalee tapped her teeth with her fingernail and thought that one over for a moment. “So soon … Anyway. Wine? Soda? Sparkling water? And I think, for some reason, I might have a bottle of Yoo-hoo …”

  She waved her hand toward a low table behind the sofa that had some bottles on it. A rage spun up inside me the likes of which I’d never experienced. My face set in a hateful stare.

  “No drink?”

  I continued to glower.

  “Oh, please,” she said, throwing herself down on one of the sofas and grabbing a cupcake. “Spare me. You look about as scary as a pissed-off parakeet. Do you know who I am, little girl?”

  One thing you should never, ever do to me is call me little girl. But the glower had run out of steam, so I sat down very calmly.

  “I know you’ve done this before.”

  “I have.” She devoured an entire cupcake in one bite, swallowed easily, and smiled.

  “You’re behind the Poodle Club.”

  “I am the poodle,” she said. “That’s true.”

  “And you’re messing with my friend’s head.”

  “That’s possible,” she said. “But unintentional. I just came looking for a deal.”

  “You told her that you were going to take her soul.”

  “Is that all she told you?” Lanalee looked aghast. “Ungrateful cow. It’s not like I didn’t give her anything for it.”

  “And what did she give you?”

  “I’ll show you,” she said, leaning in excitedly.

  She got up and went over to the mantelpiece, which was covered in perfume bottles—all different colors and shapes. There was a long, narrow red one with gold threading cut through the glass. There was a tiny baby blue one, completely round. Another was blown green glass, another all yellow with a plastic daffodil top. She took a lavender-colored, heart-shaped bottle down from the back and center, where it had been prominently displayed. It was quite large. It had an opalescent finish, a green porcelain stopper, and a cameo of a woman in the center. It was a magnificent bottle.

&
nbsp; “This is my last one,” she said, smiling at it. “The rest are all full. I kept this one for the end.”

  She turned the bottle in her hands lovingly.

  “I’m told it’s stifling. I’m told it’s like being sucked into an underground pipe that’s just big enough to hold you, your face pressed into the rusty metal, your lungs never able to expand to get a full breath of air, a trickle of water always running over you … total darkness … and no one knows you’re there. You’re just under their feet, maybe a foot or two under a city sidewalk, but you’ll never be heard, never be found … and you’ll never die. It will be like that forever.”

  She sighed contentedly.

  “I have a journalist from the New York Times,” she said. “I let him come out for a few minutes one afternoon and tell me all about it.”

  She carefully replaced the bottle.

  “There’s nothing in the universe more desirable than a soul,” she said. “People think bombs are powerful. Or money is valuable. Bombs cause little dents in the earth. Money is paper. But souls … souls are impossible to create or destroy. Souls are living energy. Owning a soul—really owning it—that is the only real power in this world.”

  “You must watch a lot of TV,” I said. “I don’t know what you guys are into, but she really believes this. It has to stop, and you have to back off.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Lanalee said, poking her finger into the pink frosting on her second cupcake. “I can’t just back off. We signed a contract. It’s all legal. I need the soul. I can’t just give her up.”

  “I’m not playing along with your game, okay?” I said, losing all patience.

  “It’s no game, Jane.”

  “Fine,” I said. “In your little fantasy world, what will it take for you to give her up?”

  “Now, that’s an interesting question,” she said, putting down her plate and leaning forward. “What are you offering me?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Well,” she said, “the deal is still in the bonding stage. I haven’t taken possession yet. I don’t get her until the Poodle Prom on Halloween.”