by Rachel Caine
“Careful,” Claire gasped, nearly giggling. The scab on her lip had broken open, and she licked blood from her lips. “Don’t break a nail! I’m not worth it, remember?”
“Got that right!” Monica snarled. “Let that bitch go. What are you waiting for? Go on, do it! Do you think that wimp’s going to hurt me?”
The Monickettes looked at each other, clearly wondering if their queen bee had lost her mind, then let go of Claire’s arms and stepped back. Jennifer bumped into the towering column of boxes, spilling an avalanche of dust and old papers, but when Claire looked at her, Jennifer was staring at a spot between the boxes.
The spot where Claire had hidden the phone. Jen had to have seen it, and Claire gasped out loud, suddenly a whole lot more afraid than she’d thought she was.
“What the hell are you looking at?” Monica snarled at Jen, and Jen very deliberately turned her back on the incriminating phone, folded her arms, and stood there blocking it from view. Not looking at Claire at all. Wow. That’s… what? Not lucky, exactly. Jennifer had shown some cracks already. And maybe she wasn’t a complete convert to the First Church of Monica.
Maybe Monica had just pissed her off one too many times. Not that she would be stepping in on Claire’s side anytime soon.
Claire wiped the blood from her lip and looked at the other girls. The ones who were standing, uneasy and indecisive. Monica had been challenged and, so far, hadn’t exactly delivered the smackdown everybody—Claire included—had expected. Kind of weird, really. Unless Claire really struck some nerve besides the ones running through Monica’s knuckles.
Monica was rubbing her hand, looking at Claire as if she’d never seen her before. Assessing her. She said, “Nobody’s told you the facts of life, Claire. The fact is, if you suddenly just up and disappear…?” She jerked her pretty, pointed chin at the dusty towers of boxes. “Nobody but the janitor’s ever going to know or care. You think Mommy and Daddy are going to get all upset? Maybe they would, but by the time they spend their last dime putting your picture on milk cartons and chasing down rumors of how you ran off with somebody else’s boyfriend? They’re going to hate to even think about you. Morganville’s got it down to a science, making people disappear. They never disappear here. Always somewhere else.”
Monica wasn’t taunting her. That was the scary part. She was talking evenly, quietly, as if they were two equals having a friendly conversation.
“You want to know why I live in Howard?” she continued. “Because in this town, I can live anywhere I want. Any way I want. And you—you’re just a walking organ donor. So take my advice, Claire. Don’t get in my face, because if you do, you won’t have one for long. Are we clear?”
Claire nodded slowly. She didn’t dare look away. Monica reminded her of a feral dog, one that would jump for your throat the second you showed weakness. “We’re clear,” she said. “You’re kind of a psycho. I get that.”
“I might be,” Monica agreed, and gave her a slow, strange smile. “You’re one smart little freak. Now run away, smart little freak, before I change my mind and stick you in one of these old suitcases for some architect to find a hundred years from now.”
Claire blinked. “Archaeologist.”
Monica’s eyes turned winter cold. “Oh, you’d better start running away now.”
Claire went back to where Jennifer was standing, and reached behind her to drag the phone out from between the boxes. She held it up to Monica. “Speak clearly for the microphone. I want to make sure my friends get every word.”
For a second, nobody moved, and then Monica laughed. “Damn, freak. You’re going to be fun.” She glanced away from Claire, behind her. “Not until I say so.”
Claire looked over her shoulder. Gina was standing there, right there, and she had some kind of metal bar in her hand.
Oh my God. There was something awful and cold in Gina’s eyes.
“She’ll get hers,” Monica said. “And we’ll get to watch. But hey, why hurry? I haven’t had this much fun in years.”
Claire’s legs felt like they’d suddenly turned into overcooked spaghetti. She wanted to throw up, wanted to cry, and didn’t dare do anything but pretend to be brave. They’d kill her down here if they thought she was bluffing.
She walked past Gina, between two girls who wouldn’t meet her eyes at all, and put her hand on the doorknob. As she did, she glanced down at the phone’s display.
NO SIGNAL.
She opened the door, walked outside, and found her bags dumped on the grass where she’d been abducted. She pocketed the phone, picked up the bags, and walked across the parking lot to Eve’s car. Eve was still sitting in the driver’s seat, looking clown-pale and scared.
Claire tossed her bag in the back as Eve asked, “What happened? Did they see you?”
“No,” Claire said. “No problems. I’ve got class. I’ll see you later. Thanks, Eve. Um—here’s your phone.” She passed it over. Eve took it, still frowning. “I’ll be home before dark.”
“Better be,” Eve said. “Seriously, Claire. You look—weird.”
Claire laughed. “Me? Check the mirror.”
Eve flipped her off, but the same way she’d have flipped off Shane. Claire grabbed her backpack, closed the door, and watched Eve’s big black car cruise away. Heading back to work, she guessed.
She got halfway to her chem lab when her reaction hit her, and she sat down on a bench and cried silently into her hands.
Oh my God. Oh my God, I want to go home! She wasn’t sure if that meant back to Michael’s house, or all the way home, back in her room with her parents watching over her.
I can’t quit. She really couldn’t. She never in her life had been able to, even when it might have been the smart thing to do.
She wiped her swollen eyes and went to class.
Nobody killed her that afternoon.
After the first couple of hours, she quit expecting it to happen, and focused on class. Her back-to-back labs weren’t too much of a disaster, and she actually knew the answers in history. Bet Monica wouldn’t, she thought, and looked guiltily around the classroom to see if Monica was there, or one of her crew. It wasn’t a big class. She didn’t see anybody who’d been in the basement.
She made it to the grocery store after class without getting killed, too. Nobody jumped her while she was picking out lettuce and tomatoes, or while she was in line for checkout. She thought the guy at the meat counter had looked suspicious, though.
She walked back to the Glass House, watching for vampires in the fading afternoon and feeling pretty stupid for even thinking about it. She didn’t see anybody except other college students, strolling along with bulging backpacks. Most of them traveled in bunches. Once she got past the area that catered to students, the stores were closed, lights off, and what few people were walking were hurrying.
At the corner of Gone with the Wind and The Munsters, the front gate was open. She closed it behind her, unlocked the door with the shiny new key that she’d found on her dresser that morning, and slammed the door behind her.
There was a shadow standing at the end of the hallway. A tall, broad shadow in a grungy yellow T-shirt and low-slung, faded jeans frayed at the bottom. A shadow in bare feet.
Shane.
He just looked at her for a few seconds, then said, “Eve put your crap up in your room.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s that?”
“Stuff for dinner.”
He cocked his head slightly, still staring at her. “For a smart girl, you do some stupid things. You know that?”
“I know.” She walked toward him. He didn’t move.
“Eve says you never saw Monica.”
“That’s what I said.”
“You know what? I’m not buying it.”
“You know what?” she shot back. “I don’t care. Excuse me.” She ducked past him, into the kitchen, and set her bags down. Her hands were shaking. She balled them into fists and started setting out things
on the counter. Ground beef. Lettuce. Tomatoes. Onions. Refried beans. Hot sauce, the kind she liked, anyway. Cheese. Sour cream. Taco shells.
“Let me guess,” Shane said from the doorway. “You’re making Chinese.”
She didn’t answer. She was still too pissed and—all of a sudden—too scared. Scared of what, she didn’t know. Everything. Nothing. Herself.
“Anything I can do?” His voice sounded different. Quieter, gentler, almost kind.
“Chop onions,” she said, although she knew that wasn’t exactly what he meant. Still, he came over, picked up the onions, and grabbed a huge scary-looking knife from a drawer. “You have to peel it first.”
He shot her a dirty look, just like he would have Eve, and got to work.
“Um—I should probably call my mom,” Claire said. “Can I use the phone?”
“You pay for long distance.”
“Sure.”
He shrugged, reached over, and grabbed the cordless phone, then pitched it underhanded to her. She nearly dropped it, but was kind of proud she didn’t. She got out a big iron skillet from under the cabinet and put it on the counter, heated up the burner, and found some oil. As it was warming, she read over the thin little recipe book she’d bought at the store one more time, then dialed the phone.
Her mom answered on the second ring. “Yes?” It was never hello with her mother.
“Mom, it’s Claire.”
“Claire! Baby, where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you for days!”
“Classes,” she said. “Sorry. I’m not home that much.”
“Are you sleeping enough? If you don’t get enough rest, you’ll get sick—you know how you are—”
“Mom, I’m fine.” Claire frowned down at the recipe on the counter in front of her. What did sauté mean, exactly? Was it like frying? Diced, she understood. That was just cutting things into cubes, and Shane was doing that already. “Really. It’s all okay now.”
“Claire, I know it’s hard. We really didn’t want you to go even just the few hundred miles to TPU, honey. If you want to come back home, your dad and I would be so glad to have you back!”
“Honestly, Mom, I don’t—I’m fine. It’s okay. Classes are really good”—that was stretching the truth—“and I’ve made friends here. They’re looking out for me.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Because I worry. I know you’re very mature for your age but—”
Shane opened his mouth to say something. Claire made frantic NO NO NO motions at him, pointing at the phone. Mom! she mouthed. Shane held up both hands in surrender and kept chopping. Mom was still talking. Claire had missed some of it, but she didn’t think it really mattered exactly. “—boys, right?”
Wow. Mom radar worked even at this distance. “What, Mom?”
“Your dorm doesn’t allow boys to come up to the rooms, does it? There’s someone on duty at the desk to make sure?”
“Yes, Mom. Howard Hall has somebody on duty twenty-four/seven to keep the nasty evil boys out of our rooms.” She hadn’t actually lied, Claire decided. That was completely true. The fact that she wasn’t actually living in Howard Hall…well, that wasn’t really something she needed to throw in, right?
“It’s not a laughing matter. You’ve been very sheltered, Claire, and I don’t want you to—”
“Mom, I have to go. I need to eat dinner and I have a ton of studying to do. How’s Dad?”
“Dad’s just fine, honey. He says hello. Oh, come on, Les, get up and say hello to your very smart daughter. It won’t break your back.”
Shane handed her a bowl full of diced onions. Claire cradled the phone against her ear and dropped a handful of them into the pan. They started sizzling immediately, much to her panic; she lifted the pan off the burner and almost dropped the phone.
“Hi, kiddo. How are classes?” That was Dad. Not How was your day? or Have you made any friends? No, his philosophy had always been, Eyes on the prize; the other stuff just gets in your way.
And she loved him anyway. “Classes are great, Daddy.”
“Are you frying something? Do they let you have hot plates in the dorm? Didn’t in my day, I can tell you….”
“Um…no, I just opened a Coke.” Okay, that was a straight-up lie. She hastily put the pan down, walked to the fridge, and pulled out a cold Coke so she could open it. There. Retroactively truthful. “How are you feeling?”
“Feel fine. Wish everybody would stop worrying about me, not like I’m the first man in history to have a little surgery.”
“I know, Daddy.”
“Doctors say I’m fine.”
“That’s great.”
“Gonna have to go, Claire, the game’s on. You’re okay down there, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m just fine. Daddy—”
“What is it, honey?”
Claire bit her lip and sipped Coke, indecisive. “Um…do you know anything about Morganville? History, that kind of thing?”
“Doing research, eh? Some kind of report? No, I don’t know much. The university’s been there for nearly a hundred years—that’s all I know about it. I know you’re on fire to get to the bigger schools, but I think you need to spend a couple of years close to home. We talked about all that.”
“I know. I was just wondering…. It’s an interesting town, that’s all.”
“Okay, then. You let us know what you find out. Your mother wants to say good-bye.” Dad never did. By the time Claire got out “Bye, Dad!” he was already gone, and Mom was back on the line. “Honey, you call us if you get worried about anything, okay? Oh, call us whatever happens. We love you!”
“Love you, too, Mom. Bye.”
She put the phone down and stared at the sizzling onions, then the recipe. When the onions turned transparent, she dumped in the ground beef.
“So, finished lying to the folks?” Shane asked, and reached around Claire to snag a bite of grated cheese from the bowl on the counter. “Tacos. Brilliant. Damn, I’m glad I voted somebody in with skills.”
“I heard that, Shane!” Eve yelled from the living room, just as the door slammed. Shane winced. “Do your own bathroom cleaning this weekend!”
Shane winced. “Truce!”
“Thought so.”
Eve came in, still flushed from the heat outside. She’d sweated off most of her makeup, and underneath it, she looked surprisingly young and sweet. “Oh my God, that looks like real food!”
“Tacos,” Shane said proudly, as if it were his idea. Claire elbowed him in the ribs, or tried to. His ribs were a lot more solid than her elbow. “Ow,” he said. Not as if it hurt.
Claire glanced out the window. Night was falling fast, the way it did in Texas at the end of the day—furious burning sun all of a sudden giving way to a warm, sticky twilight. “Is Michael here?” she asked.
“Guess so.” Shane shrugged. “He’s always here for dinner.”
The three of them got everything ready, and sometime midway through the assembly-line process they’d developed—Claire putting meat in taco shells, Eve adding toppings, Shane spooning beans onto the plates—a fourth pair of hands added itself to the line. Michael looked as if he’d just gotten up and showered—wet hair, sleepy eyes, beads of water still sliding down to soak the collar of his black knit shirt. Like Shane, he was wearing jeans, but he’d gone formal, with actual shoes.
“Hey,” he greeted them. “This looks good.”
“Claire did it,” Eve jumped in as Shane opened his mouth. “Don’t even let Shane take credit.”
“Wasn’t going to!” Shane looked offended.
“Riiiiiight.”
“I chopped. What did you do?”
“Cleaned up after you, like always.”
Michael looked over at Claire and made a face. She laughed and picked up her plate; Michael picked up his, and followed her out into the living room.
Someone—Michael, she guessed—had cleared the big wood table next to the
bookcases, and set up four chairs around it. The stuff that had been piled there—video game cases, books, sheet music—had been dumped in other places, with a cheerful disregard for order. (Maybe, she amended, that had been Shane’s idea.) She set her plate down, and Eve promptly slapped her own down next to Claire’s and slid a cold Coke across to her, along with a fork and napkin. Michael and Shane strolled back in, took seats, and began shoveling in food like—well, like boys. Eve nibbled. Claire, who was surprisingly hungry, found herself on her second taco before Eve had gotten through her first one.
Shane was already headed back for more.
“Hey, dude,” he said as he returned with a reloaded plate, “when are you going to get a gig again?”
Michael stopped chewing, flashed a look at Eve, then Claire, and then finished the bite before saying, “When I’m ready.”
“Pussy. You had a bad night, Mike. Get back on the horse, or whatever.” Eve frowned at Shane, and shook her head. Shane ignored her. “Seriously, man. You can’t let them get you down.”
“I’m not,” Michael said. “Not everything is about beating your head against the wall until it breaks.”
“Just most things.” Shane sighed. “Whatever. You let me know when you want to stop hermiting.”
“I’m not hermiting. I’m practicing.”
“Like you don’t play good enough. Please.”
“I get no respect,” Michael said. Shane, busy taking another crunchy bite, rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Yeah, I know, world’s smallest violin playing just for me. Change the subject. How was that hot date with Lisa, anyway? Rented shoes turn her on or what?”
“It’s Laura,” Shane said. “Yeah, she was hot, all right, but I think she had the hots for you—kept saying how she saw you over at the Waterhouse last year and you were all, like, wow, amazing. It was like a ménage à trois, only you weren’t there, thank God.”
Michael looked smug. “Shut up and eat.”
Shane shot him the finger.
All in all, it was a pretty good time.
