The Devils You Know

by M. C. Atwood

  “Are we going to the bonfire tonight?” Jane says from behind me, voice all hopeful. She’s the spazzy one, way too eager to please. But she works in the counseling office and is useful for hall passes.

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah. Because what’s really fun is dry-humping on a cornstalk in forty-degree weather.”

  Next to me, Kaleigh and Madison share a mean smile.

  Madison says, “So, what are we doing tonight, then?” Her legs look awesome in her skirt. I make myself totally ignore them.

  “Duh,” I say. “What else are we going to do? We live in Wisconsin. It’s pretty much the bonfire or die of boredom.”

  At my locker, I twirl the combination and open the door in three swift moves. The small mirror shows the three girls behind me. I check everything: lipstick—good. Eyeliner—not smudged. Hair—perfect. I grab my books and slam the door shut.

  Then I see Paul down the hall. If he’s going tonight, he’d make it interesting. He’s been an interesting twist this year. New, from California—like, cool Cali, Berkeley, I hear. Uber liberal, I’m sure. But I could look past that, especially since it would irritate the shit out of my dad.

  I say, “Later.” Translation: Girls, you’re dismissed.

  Madison and Kaleigh take the cue and leave right away, but Jane stays put. She’s smiling at me, eyes bright and way too perky.

  “What?” I say, as snotty as I can.

  Now she gets it. She shakes her head and runs away.

  All right, Paul, here I come. I slink up to his locker. Trent and his stupid ball are just leaving. Overcompensate much, Trent?

  I lean against the lockers, letting my boob touch his arm. “Coming to the bonfire tonight?” I’m pretty sure he gets a boner. Guys are so fucking easy.

  He lowers his eyelids like he’s stoned and says, “Depends on if you’re going.” He smiles. Clearly he thinks he’s sexy but I smell dork on him like it’s cologne. Whatever. He’ll do.

  I shrug and bat my eyelashes. For real. It works. “Maybe.” I walk away, making sure I move my ass back and forth.

  Putty. He’s putty in my hands.

  The halls are mostly empty now but everyone gets out of my way as I walk. Except for Gretchen.

  Gretchen. A zip of adrenaline puts her in clearer focus. My stomach suddenly has butterflies and this irritates me. I hide a smile.

  I hate Gretchen. In theory. I have to, really. We were born to hate each other—we are exact opposites. She’s a social justice warrior idiot—a poor social justice warrior idiot, which means she’s, like, not smart enough to dig herself out of the trailer-trash hole she’s in. At least that’s what my dad says about poor people in private, when he’s not campaigning, and when he conveniently forgets that our money was inherited. Anyway, she refuses to be a part of mainstream society. With her stupid bleach-blonde hair (looking perfect around her face, with her gray-green eyes and her dark, perfect eyebrows) . . . no makeup (but awesome skin) . . . bizarro outfits (that somehow work and make her look like a badass. With awesome curves) . . . She’s just weird. And artsy. I hate artsy. It’s not real life. High school is survival of the fittest. And she chooses to go extinct.

  But. She is the only one in this school—and I mean THE only one—who can match me. The only one who even tries. If I didn’t officially hate her, I’d think this feeling to see her is excitement. My stomach tightens as I get near her and my skin starts to tingle.

  When I get close, I’m delighted to see that her outfit is going to be easy to make fun of today. Sometimes I have to stretch, but today will be easy.

  She stands in front of me and I give her the up and down.

  “Gretchen! I see you’ve embraced your Sasquatch roots.” She’s wearing faux fur—faux because she’s a hippie vegan I’m sure—everywhere. Even on her leg warmers.

  She smiles sweetly. “Ashley. Don’t you have some children to deport? Or gay people to burn? Or sulfur to roll in?”

  The skin tingle turns to a cold sweat. Holy shit. I smile back and give a fake laugh, but that’s all I can muster. She can’t possibly know . . . but damn. She hit a little too close to home.

  I walk around her and make sure I look like I smelled something disgusting and then hurry up to Rhinehart’s class, shaking the whole exchange off. No time for these stupid, bizarre feelings around Gretchen Mavis, of all people. I swallow everything down and walk through the door to Rhinehart’s class. He’s a dick but he gives me an A, either because he thinks I’m hot or because he’s scared of my dad. Or both.

  By the time I sit down in class, I’ve willed my heartrate back to normal. I flip my hair back and cross my legs. Swallow everything down and come back to reality. Rhinehart smiles at me and doesn’t even try to look anywhere but my cootch. The guy is so gross I could hurl. And then Gretchen’s freak boyfriend (why is she with him? why??) slips in behind me and Rhinehart’s eyes are off me. Thank God. I flip around and say something—I don’t even know what—to Dylan, just to keep him in his place. My voice still has an edge to it and I’m meaner than normal to him. I feel a little bad but push that down, too. And then Jane bounces into the room from the counselor’s office to announce a field trip to Boulder House. She tries to catch my eye but I ignore her.

  I need a distraction. Something fun. And Boulder House? My mind has started working, big time.

  So, on any given day, a field trip to anything would make me break out into hives, especially to something as stupid as the Boulder House. But an idea has formed and the thought is so damn delicious I actually have to squirm in my chair, I’m so turned on.

  Tonight when I go home, I’ll find a Plunder “friend” and see if we can rendezvous there. Field trip, people around, public place . . . So risky. Which makes it ridiculously hot. I cross my legs again and squeeze. Yum. Gretchen’s stupid face flashes in my head. I need her out of there, out of my head. So I conjure up my last Plunder hookup and get lost thinking about the thrill of the whole thing.

  I smile and bite my pen. Totally signing up for the shithole field trip. I’ll make the girls go, too, just for some added excitement.

  As I sign the paper, it’s like Gretchen is a figment of my imagination.

  GRETCHEN

  School can suck my ova.

  My last class of the day and it’s my worst one. Ms. Olson is droning on about capitalism. True to form, like everyone else in this goddamn town, she’s ignorantly dry-humping the American dream like it actually exists.

  The kicker: she starts going off on affirmative action.

  I raise my hand.

  She looks at my hand, sighs, and ignores me.

  I put my hand down and start talking anyway. “I mean, if things were a level playing field, then maybe capitalism would work. But we don’t exactly have that, do we? So we need affirmative action. Studies have shown that people hire others who are like them. So if every person who does the hiring is a rich white guy, guess who they’re going to hire?”

  She rolls her eyes. My teacher actually rolls her eyes at me.

  Ashley turns around with a glare. I glare right back. Then she faces forward and sticks her manicured hand in the air.

  Ms. Olson says, sweet-like, “Yes, Ashley?”

  “Well, my dad, who is running to be a senator, says that affirmative action is taking away jobs from good, hardworking Americans—”

  “You mean white guys who get things handed to them,” I interrupt.

  A few kids snicker.

  With a glance over her shoulder, Ashley goes on, “I mean GOOD, hardworking Americans. Affirmative action is sort of like reverse racism.”

  She smiles at me. Her awful wolf smile. It should make her ugly, but it doesn’t. Does she believe her father’s bullshit? Or even her own?

  But before I can lunge at her, the bell rings. Ms. Olson calls over the loud shuffling of students packing up and heading to
the door, “Last chance to sign up for the Boulder House field trip, seniors! And remember, if you’re signed up, you’re committed. You miss it, you have to take finals! If you don’t go, you just have study hall that day. The paper is on my desk.”

  Right. Like I’d ever in a million years go on a field trip with this school of fuckwits. Or as Dylan says, asstrolls. Or dronebots. He’s got a lot of names for them; it helps him cope, at least. Honestly Dylan needs all the help he can get. I feel that restless feeling well up in me again. It makes me mean. But, as much as I love Dylan, I need something . . . different.

  I look up and Ashley gives me a fake sweet smile and I flip her off. Then I grab my monster bag and get out of the room fast, my fur boots knocking against each other. The hall is full of people running to their lockers.

  I look around for Dylan but he’s nowhere to be seen, which is weird because he’s normally all over me. I’m a little relieved—I end up having to defend that boy all the time. He constantly needs to be taken care of. Like a little brother. And today I’m just so tired. Which reminds me, Mom’s shift is over at 7:00 so I should start dinner around 6:00. Which leaves me enough time to run to Goodwill and find some clothes to tear up and repurpose.

  I feel myself relax.

  I think of a project. If I can find a skirt and then some scraps to make an applique of a girl throwing up, put on button eyes . . . Wear it during civics class with Ms. Olson, who wants to fail me so bad she can taste it but can’t justify it because I am articulate and follow directions. This is going to kick ass. I can wear it tomorrow.

  I walk to my gigantic ’90s Buick—Michelle—who is on her last leg, and I can feel the snickers from people around me. They’re laughing at Michelle, but I honestly don’t care—she’s everything to me. They were probably given cars from their grandparents or had to pay, like, payments to their rich parents who are teaching them to be “responsible.” Fuck that. I had to beg, borrow, and . . . whatever. I worked hard for Michelle. She’s freedom. She’s beautiful. She’s mine. She’s everything I want out of a partner in crime.

  Plus, she’s a better companion than Dylan, if I’m honest. She’s sassy, interesting, and . . . If I could only figure out how to let Dylan go.

  I hear someone say, “Nice boots,” so I flip them off and climb into my girl. I know I look way better than these idiots at the school do any day. And when I’m the youngest contestant to win Project Runway—I’ll be making my audition tape this summer— guess who will be laughing last? Which reminds me, I should look for fabric at Goodwill I can use to make Mom a dress. She deserves one. And she’ll need it for New York fashion week.

  I decide to stop home before Goodwill so I can drop off my bag, but when I get there I’m surprised to see my mom’s car.

  Shit. She’s probably got stomach problems again.

  Walking into the back door of our Section 8 duplex, I yell, “Mom?”

  Her small voice says, “In here honey.”

  She’s sitting at the Formica kitchen table, working on a crossword puzzle. Her face is pale, paler than usual.

  I sit across from her and she looks up and smiles. Her eyes crinkle in the kindest way when she smiles. She’s the type of person that people just automatically talk to, because they can tell she’s just good.

  People never just talk to me, which is fine. I take after my dad. Except in that one way where I don’t abandon my family.

  I can feel my forehead crease. “Stomach again?”

  She puts her hand on mine. “Not too bad. But enough so that I had to cut the shift short.”

  I stand up and shake my head. “You have to quit eating processed shit, Mom. Your Crohn’s can’t take it.”

  I unload the grocery bags I see on the counter. Ramen noodles. Macaroni and cheese. Instant Mashed Potatoes. Cheap meals. All crap that will make her feel awful . . .

  I flip around. “I’m going to Goodwill tonight, so I’ll come back with something good.” I rummage around in the refrigerator until I find veggies just on the point of turning and then find some bouillon back in the cupboard. We’ll have good soup tonight. And I can make bread. My mood cheers.

  My mom smiles at me and I smile back. She says, “You are the light of my life, you know that, don’t you?”

  I smile back but turn around quickly. It’s a dark fucking world if I’m the light.

  Part II

  When Maxwell Cartwright Jr. cut into the boulder to build the House, they say a murder of crows landed and perched in the trees around him. They stayed there until they starved to death, every last one of them. The forest floor turned black with their corpses.

  Every day, Maxwell dug deep into the cursed land, forming the House so that it wrapped itself around and above and in and through the boulder. Until the House was the land and the land was the House.

  He hired vagrants and wanderers, people easily forgotten, to labor and hack and cut and sweat until the foundation of the House took form. They say those unfortunate workers sacrificed unwillingly—their bones becoming the very foundation of the House—so that Maxwell’s power grew unchecked.

  When the last stone of the House in the boulder was laid, Maxwell looked at what he had wrought and rolled his shoulders. He cracked his neck. He smiled a wicked smile. Lightning struck each tree that stood around him. The wind, starting as a breeze, blew with a gale force so fierce it blew the bones of the crows three counties over. They say the land glowed red. Some say his eyes did, too.

  But he wasn’t finished. Maxwell Cartwright Jr. had just begun.

  He started collecting. He traveled to the farthest corners of the Earth, bringing back enchanted and cursed objects, objects that seemed to have a life of their own. Anything and everything and everyone that caught his eye, he bought, he stole, he bartered for. But his favorite way of procuring his collection was to play for it. Maxwell Cartwright Jr. loved to play games. Because he always won.

  He added warehouse upon warehouse to his creation, rooms to house his collections as he won them. Rooms that ran one into another so that those who entered were enveloped completely, stuck in the twisting paths of his twisted mind. He gave these rooms themes, sinister homes for the objects he now owned. Maxwell added bands that played by themselves, fortunetellers in glass cases. He recreated entire streets stuck in time, built huge scenes with mythical creatures. He collected snow globes and sailboats, sculptures and statues, mannequins and marionettes. He built a carousel—fierce and fulsome—collecting and procuring creature after creature to ride, each more fearsome than the last. And always, always he collected dolls, old and tattered and legion. The result was a House not sane, that held within it a seething energy. Maxwell’s seething energy. Of games played and lost, and evil seen and succumbed to. With each object he won, his soul went further into the darkness, his obsession twisting in on itself like a coiled snake.

  After years of building and hauling and placing, of collecting and plotting and devising and playing, Maxwell Cartwright Jr. finished the last warehouse and surveyed his creation as a whole.

  Now his precious collection had its place. A place to sit and seethe.

  Waiting for the next poor souls to join them.

  _____________________________________________

  Excerpt from pp. 45-47, The Collections of Maxwell Cartwright Jr.

  VIOLET

  Paul is standing right next to me and I can smell him. He’s beautiful. I am sweating.

  Ms. Harper has allowed us to wander through the Maxwell Cartwright Jr. Information Center before the actual House tour starts. Even the information center—the thing that’s supposed to give you a sense for what you’re getting into—is filled with tons of random things.

  I’ve been here before with my family, but I was totally scared. I think I cried the whole time. I’m still freaked out by this place, truth be told. There are, like, 30 rooms and they’re all full of
crazy things. Everything is dark and dusty and random; the entire house is a weird collection of weird collections.

  But none of that matters right now because somehow, Paul has ended up looking at a ledger with me. It’s there in front of us, inside a glass case. I can’t move. I can only smell him.

  Beautiful. Paul.

  He laughs a little, then points to the ledger. Weather patterns, strange symbols, money to the penny, hours to the second, are written down in artistic strokes.

  “Anal,” Paul says.

  I laugh too loud. I snort, actually. A snot bubble comes out of my nose. Oh, dear god, please tell me he didn’t see that.

  I swallow and say, “Yeah. It’s . . .” He looks at me and I swallow again. “Anal.” I finish.

  He looks disappointed. Probably because he didn’t know that I AM THE MAYOR OF STUPIDTOWN.

  I clear my throat and say, “So weird, because the ledger is anal, but the rest of the House seems crazy chaotic. Like, how did he keep track of all this freaky stuff?”

  Paul’s beautiful eyes brighten. “For real, right? Have you been here before?”

  We are having a conversation we are having a conversation we are having a conversation.

  I force a nod. “Just once, when I was little. Have you?”

  He shakes his head. “No. We just moved this year from California.”

  Oh, Paul. I know you did. I know everything about you.

  “Really?” I say. “Do you miss it?” And then I add, “From where in California?” Like I don’t know he’s from San Francisco and his mother used to teach at Berkeley. Because my mother and his mother both work at UW now and I made her find out everything about his mom and him that she could.

  I am thorough. That’s how I get good grades. I am most certainly not a stalker. My cell phone vibrates yet again. Speaking of stalkers.

  Paul is talking: “San Francisco, actually. My mom used to teach at Berkeley. And yeah, I miss it. But I’m looking forward to snow. Snow is cool . . .”