by JB Salsbury
I rub my eyes, and when I pull my hand away, movement catches my attention. The door to Mercy’s dressing room isn’t closed all the way.
The right thing to do would be to hop up and let her know, but I’m mesmerized by the activity I can see inside. It’s not much, just the movement of her pale hands gripping the fabric to pull it up those long, slender legs. I bite my lip when I catch a flash of pale-pink bikini-style panties over her narrow hips, and she wiggles to get the—I suck in a breath.
Oh God . . . Her back. I can only see a strip of her pale skin from her hip to her shoulder, but every inch is covered in ink—a gray-scale tattoo that runs down her back to disappear beneath her panties. I don’t need a full view to make out what is covering the expanse of her backside, even down to her ass. I can tell by the intricate details.
Wings.
The work is so three-dimensional they almost look real.
“Milo, are you listening?”
Carrie’s voice catches Mercy’s attention, and she whirls around, noticing the cracked door. Her white cotton bra is only a flash before my eyes when she shuts the door and cuts off my view, but not before her wide and terrified gaze meets mine.
I blink away from her door, still in shock, and stare at Carrie. Her lips are moving, but I’ll be damned if I can hear a word.
Wings.
The drawing of an angel in her room.
Her response to the paintings of the angels at the church.
The picture of who Mercy is comes together in my mind, but with so much of it still missing, it fades just as quickly.
“ . . . figured you’d like the red one better,” Carrie says, spinning around in front of me with a toss of her blond hair.
“Yeah, the red.”
“I knew it.” She winks and goes back to the dressing room, swinging her hips the entire way.
The second she’s gone, my gaze is back on Mercy’s door, hoping for one more peek.
Mercy never comes out again until she has finished trying things on and has made her choices. She stays close as I pay for her clothes but refuses to meet my eyes. I owe her an apology, but getting Mercy alone is impossible, because Carrie keeps sticking her face between us. We hit a few more shops and suffer through a few more try-on sessions. The only other thing I’m able to talk Mercy into buying is a pair of navy-blue Converse. She seems highly uncomfortable with spending money on herself.
The next two hours pass in a blur of boredom. Mercy doesn’t seem interested in trying on more clothes, so we follow Carrie and Amber around as they rack up hundreds of dollars in credit-card debt for their parents. When it finally seems we’re done, Carrie shatters my hopes by stopping in front of a makeup store.
“We have to pop in here really quick,” she says.
Mercy wheels back to hang with me, her silent way of saying she has no interest in buying makeup.
I groan internally, wondering if just taking Mercy and leaving would be a completely dick move. I can always come back later for Miguel. “I wouldn’t mind grabbing some food. You girls go ahead, and Mercy and I will meet you in the food court.”
Carrie’s eyes brighten and look at Mercy. “No way!” She hooks her by the crook of her elbow. “You’re coming with me. This is MAC. If anyone has the ability to make you look . . . um . . .” Her eyes bounce from my glare to Amber’s wide excitement, then back to Mercy, whose expression is blank but interested. “More normal, it’s them.”
“Carrie.” I hope she hears the warning in my voice, which not so discreetly screams back off.
“Come on.” She tugs Mercy. “It’ll be fun!” She throws me a look over her retreating shoulder. “We’ll meet you at the food court!”
I don’t have time to tell her that Mercy doesn’t need makeup, that her skin is gorgeous the way it is. Anyway, I know that’ll only piss Carrie off.
I find a bench outside the makeup store and watch through the storefront windows as some guy wearing all black messes with Mercy’s face. I can’t see exactly what he’s doing, but then again, I know crap-all about makeup, so even if I could see, that would do no good.
Minutes stretch and bleed into each other. The hum of my agitation intensifies to a roar until I’m about to stomp in there and demand they hurry the hell up.
Finally, the guy hands Mercy a bag. I can see only the back of her head as she stands and moves toward the door. Carrie and Amber flank her, but when she pushes out the door, the two best friends share a look that makes my stomach twist with unease.
Mercy looks up at me. My lip curls.
She looks like a clown—bright oranges and reds on her eyelids, blue shit underneath, and bright pink glossed-up lips that look a lot like they’re coated in the superglue Carrie wears.
“Doesn’t she look gorgeous, Milo?” Carrie stares between Mercy and me as if gauging my reaction.
I’m not one of those guys who think women shouldn’t wear makeup. If it makes a woman feel better about herself or if she just enjoys expressing herself through her makeup, more power to her.
But this? This is not that.
Mercy blinks and tries to rub her eyes, only to have Carrie snatch her hand away. “Don’t touch. You’ll ruin it.”
Mercy’s hand falls limply to her side after being scolded like a child. Her eyes, caked with color, come to mine and I don’t want to make her feel bad, but I can’t smile either. She looks ridiculous. The shit they rubbed all over her face makes her the perfect shade of Valencia orange.
“The artist loved working on Mercy’s makeover.” Carrie claps her hands excitedly as all three of them approach the bench.
“He called her skin pure!” Amber’s smiling a bit too big as well.
A group of teenage girls walk by and gawk at Mercy. They giggle, whisper, and give her a wide berth, which has her struggling to get her hood over her head.
“Doesn’t she look ah-mazing, Milo?” Carrie watches Mercy fumbling with her sweatshirt. “Oh no you don’t.” She tugs the hood back, pulling it from Mercy’s fingers.
“Carrie,” I say.
“What?” Her grin is catlike, not necessarily evil but not warm either. “We didn’t just spend thirty minutes in there for her to cover it all up.”
Mercy studies the ground. I step close and peer down at her face, which is a few shades darker than her natural albino white, probably the palest color of makeup available and still way too dark. She blinks up at me, those white lashes now plastered in thick black. I’ll admit, the darker eyelashes only make her pale eyes more captivating, almost hypnotic, but it’s not her.
Makeup on someone who’s clearly not comfortable with it only makes it look like a mask that doesn’t fit right.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
Mercy gives me her full attention while still maintaining the downward angle of her face. “Fake,” she whispers.
I nod. That makes perfect sense to me. “You want your hood?”
“Please.”
I feel a pain in my chest when I see how easily she can be swayed by a girl like Carrie to do things she’s not comfortable doing.
“Go ahead then.”
Her gaze darts to Carrie, who’s doing something on her phone, and I wonder if Mercy would change her mind and keep her hood off if Carrie was paying attention. Luckily, I don’t have to find out, as she slips her hood back up over her head.
Carrie notices it with a mumbled, “Whatever.” Then she shoves her phone into her back pocket. “I’m starving.” She hikes her purse higher on her shoulder. “Let’s go grab a salad from Panera.” She walks off toward the escalator like a captain ordering her soldiers. Amber scurries to catch up.
I step close to Mercy’s side, and her eyes follow my movement until she’s looking up at me. “You hungry?”
She presses her lips together then swipes her finger against them then stares at the pink stain on her fingertip. “No. I’d like to go home now.”
“Yeah, me too.” I jerk my head toward the escalators and let her
pass me to step on. The first time she saw one when we got here, she clearly had no idea how to use it. I knew she didn’t want me to embarrass her by calling her out, so Miguel and I silently gave her instructions. The proud smile on her face when she was on a step, her hands holding firmly onto the moving railing—I felt that shit everywhere. Even Miguel was grinning at our small victory.
We step off at the bottom and move through the tables toward where Carrie and Amber are standing in line. I snag a few napkins on the way and hand them to Mercy, who thanks me with a smile and wipes at the shit on her face.
“Milo, what do you want?” Carrie waves her platinum credit card. “It’s on me.”
“No thanks. We’re gonna take off.”
She frowns and tries to stifle a glare aimed directly at Mercy. “Why?”
“Got things to do. Miguel’s movie is almost over.” It’s not. At least thirty minutes are left, but I’d rather spend that time sitting in my car to avoid spending another second in this place.
Carrie gives me her best, most practiced pout, the one that used to conjure up images of her naked but now seems about as sincere as her interest in Mercy. “But we never got around to shopping for your prom outfit.”
Prom. Right. I’ve had a major rethinking on that as well. Would it be wrong to dump Carrie here in line while she’s getting ready to order lunch? Probably.
“Don’t worry about that. I got it covered.” I’ll wear whatever the hell I want.
Mercy is silent but stays close to my side. I don’t need to be a polygraph expert to know that Carrie’s jealous of Mercy or, rather, jealous of my loyalty to my foster . . . sister? Whatever—none of that matters now. Carrie’s succeeded in making Mercy feel uncomfortable, and I won’t willingly subject her to it anymore.
“I’ll call you later,” I say.
One look at Mercy snaps her to attention, and she follows me out.
I know Carrie and Amber are badmouthing us behind our retreating backs, but I don’t care. We came here to do what we needed to do, and now we’re done. I pull out my phone and text Miguel to let him know we’ll be waiting for him in the car.
He gets right back to me: Okay.
Mercy is still wiping at her face, and by the time we get to my car, her cheeks are almost back to their normal color. Her eyes are still made up, but she seems to have wiped most of the color from her pale lids.
Today is warm in Los Angeles, and I’m grateful I got a spot in the shade, but I turn the car on anyway to get the AC going. Mercy puts her seat belt on even though we aren’t moving yet. The sound of classic rock is faint as it comes through the speakers on low volume, and Mercy’s bag full of clothes crinkles at her feet every time she shifts.
“I’m sorry about Carrie,” I say.
She peers over at me, the dark stuff around her eyes slightly smeared, turning her ghostly look gothic. “Why?”
Great question. I shrug. “I don’t know, I guess . . .” She’s not a nice person, and I know she’s not a nice person, but I didn’t seem to care until now. “I wasn’t happy about the way she treated you.”
“Oh.” She goes back to looking forward even though nothing is there except row upon row of cars peppered with the occasional person weaving their way through the lot. “I’m not sure I understand.”
How do I get into the complexities of female emotions with a woman—a girl—who didn’t understand how an escalator worked?
I take a page from Laura’s playbook of psychobabble. “How did being around Carrie make you feel?”
“All right.” She still looks ahead as she twists her fingers into the front of her sweatshirt. “She’s . . . bossy.”
I chuckle, which gets me her eyes. “You could say that.”
“Do you love her?”
If I weren’t sitting down, I would’ve stumbled back and fallen on my ass. “Um . . . love?” I’m shaking my head before I even form the word. “No. I don’t love Carrie.” Hell, I’m starting to wonder if I even like her.
I search for a reaction from Mercy but get none—not a twitch of her lips, a jump of her eyebrows, nothing.
“She’s very beautiful,” she says.
I want to respond with “So are you” but instead grunt and change the subject as quickly as possible. “Have you ever been in love?”
“Yes.” She licks her bottom lip, and I wonder if she’s intentionally trying to be seductive or if it’s an attempt to rid herself of the lipstick still staining her mouth. “Many times.”
“Many times, huh?” Now I’m staring forward because I’m afraid she might be able to see in my eyes how her confession makes me feel, and I’m so far from understanding it myself that I don’t need to confuse her too. “Who?”
“Who?”
“Yeah, who? What are their names?” I want the names of the dickheads who had her love and threw it away, for something tells me Mercy’s love is a hell of a lot more intense than any kind of love I’ve ever experienced.
The kind of love that’s just a word but doesn’t actually give a shit.
The kind of love that’s more duty than compassion.
The kind of love that kills, murders, abandons.
“Humanity.”
The word seems so foreign that remembering the question takes me a minute.
“That is who I love.”
“Humanity.” Is this some kind of secret code? A riddle? “I don’t get it.”
“Mankind.” She punctuates her answer by motioning with a firm jerk of her chin toward a couple as they walk from their car to the mall entrance. “All of it.”
“Why? What the hell has mankind ever done for you?” And why am I even entertaining this crazy talk?
She shakes her head. “It’s not a choice. It’s just how I was made. My destiny.”
“It’s your destiny to love mankind.” I don’t believe it.
“Yes.”
That’s the most confident I’ve ever heard her sound about anything.
“Talk about a one-way street. Mankind is a mess, Mercy, a fucked-up, selfish, sadistic mess. It’s hard to tolerate it, much less love it.”
“I do.”
Unapologetic and completely insane. “What did they do to you?” I whisper.
She looks at me with a blank stare.
“Your fear of the sun, obsession with angels, church, loving humanity . . .” I shake my head. “Your wings.”
Her eyes widen.
“Mercy, did your parents do this to you?”
Her eyelashes flutter, and her lips part as if she’s trying not to cry. “It’s my purpose.”
“Mankind is your purpose? Talk about setting a kid up to fail.” I chuckle, but it’s far from funny. “Humanity is beyond repair. It’s selfish and evil. You’re only one girl. Whoever convinced you that it’s your job to love it or save it is so fucked up. Who told you that?”
Her eyes fill with tears, but she turns quickly before I see one fall.
I feel robbed, deprived of the experience of seeing someone as perfect as Mercy break. “Mercy.”
Nothing.
“Güera, please.”
She shakes her head, sniffs, and swipes at her cheeks with her sweatshirt sleeve. “I don’t know. They were called Papa and Señora, but Laura tells me that isn’t who they really are.”
She said Señora with a perfect Spanish accent—Papa too—Spanish titles yet totally generic.
“Your parents?” Maybe in some religious cult, they’d have her refer to them this way?
“I do not have parents. Only Mary, my Mother.”
“You mean . . . the Mother? The Virgin Mary?”
She turns with black mascara bleeding down her face and nods toward my neck. My eyes widen. With her hood on and those tears, she holds an eerie resemblance to the Mary on my neck, a modern-day Virgen de Guadalupe. Goosebumps race down my arms.
That explains her fascination with my tattoo and her fixation on me. She must think I represent someone she considers family. The real
ization of this is as disturbing as it is disappointing.
She sniffs and faces forward. “And then there was him.”
“Who?”
“He never said. His eyes were like the sky and reminded me of freedom.”
“Did he free you?”
Her expression falls slack. “No. I think . . . I’m not sure, but I think he’s the reason I was taken away.”
“Taken away from where?”
Her bloodshot eyes come back to me, and she shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
“It sounds like you were in a cult—”
The back door flies open, and Miguel drops into the backseat. “Hey, sorry that took so long.”
I clear my throat, and Mercy turns her attention straight ahead, her eyes fixed out the front window.
I take a few deep breaths, reminding myself where I am. “No worries. How was the movie?” Throwing the SUV into reverse, I’m eager to get home and get Mercy alone so she can answer more of the burning questions floating around in my head.
Miguel tells us the story of the new X-Men movie, but I’m not paying attention.
I’ve finally cracked the surface of Mercy’s past. My mind attempts to piece together everything she told me, and the more I do, the more I’m convinced she was involved in some kind of Waco-Texas-style brainwashing.
Whoever did this to her needs to pay.
If it were up to me, they’d pay slowly, with their lives.
Milo
I WAKE TO my phone buzzing off my bedside table at way too early in the morning on Sunday. The sun is barely up, and as I grab the device, I hope whoever it is makes it quick so that I can fall back to sleep for a few hours.
“What.”
“Good morning to you too, sunshine.”
I groan and rub my eyes. “Andy, someone better be dying.”
“Sorry, sport.”
Sport. The guy has always talked to me as though I’m some buck-toothed six-year-old with a face covered in melted Popsicle.
“I’m on the east coast, visiting family, and completely spaced on the time difference.”
