Truly Devious

by Maureen Johnson

  “Can’t help you,” Ellie said, proffering the bottle again. When Stevie and Janelle declined the refill, she topped up her mug. “I don’t watch TV at all. Never have. We never had one growing up. My house was always about making art. I grew up in an art colony in Boston, then in a commune in Copenhagen, and then in New Mexico, and then we went to Paris for a while.”

  “Where did you go to school?” Janelle said.

  “Wherever we were. The commune had a good school. If I could do anything—got rich or something—I’d start a commune. This place would make a good commune. So, tell me about your love lives.”

  Ellie punctuated this command by setting the bottle on the floor with a clunk. Stevie felt a queasy chill. This was not her favorite topic.

  “I broke up with my girlfriend,” Janelle said, staring into her mug. “That’s when I reprogrammed the microwave.”

  “Creativity can come from things sucking,” Ellie said. “I was in a rut last spring and I saw Roota in a pawnshop in Burlington. I had to have her. I didn’t have the money at the time, but I found a way. I made a little art, I got a little cash, I got Roota. We’ve been together ever since.”

  She patted the saxophone.

  “I’ll tell you something else,” Ellie said. “This place turns people into bunnies. It’s the isolation. Trapped up here on the mountain, snowed in. When the power goes out, things get freaky. What about you?”

  This was to Stevie.

  The champagne bubbles reached Stevie’s brain just then. Sitting in this high-ceilinged turret in the semi-dark, with her new friend Janelle and this strange but amusing artist dyeing herself pink . . . she was filled with warmth and a kind of slow relaxation. She would just be honest.

  “I never met anyone who I was really . . . I don’t know. I don’t come from a very interesting place. Like, my parents are . . . do you know who Edward King is?” Stevie asked.

  “The senator?” Janelle replied. “That asshole?”

  “That’s the one,” Stevie said.

  “Who?” Ellie said.

  “Edward King is a jackass from Pennsylvania,” Janelle said. “He’d like to roll everything back to the bad old days.”

  “My parents love him,” Stevie said, leaning back against the radiator. “They work for him. His local office? Is our house.”

  “Oh my God,” Janelle said. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “It’s not the kind of thing you put in a message,” Stevie replied. “But I did what I could to help. I went into the volunteer document the night before the last phone bank session and changed all the numbers. They made a lot of interesting calls. Krispy Kreme headquarters, the Canadian Embassy, Disney World, the Scientology Celebrity Centre, SeaWorld . . .”

  “Beautiful,” Ellie said, tipping back her head and laughing. “I love it.”

  Ellie had removed her ring and set it on the rounded edge of the tub. As she laughed, she swung out her arm and knocked it off the edge. It rolled under the tub.

  “Oh shit,” she said.

  Stevie got down on the floor and reached around under the tub. As she pulled her hand back, something scraped against her skin.

  “Be careful,” Ellie said, putting the ring back on. “There are some old pipes or something under there. They’ll cut you.”

  This seemed like something Ellie should have said before Stevie shoved her hand under the tub. Then again, Ellie did seem like the type who jumped before checking if there was a pool under her, and probably provided advice in the same style.

  “So,” Stevie said, “that’s where I come from. And my parents are kind of obsessed with me partnering up with someone. To them, dating is one of the highest achievements of teenage life, so . . .”

  “Understood,” Ellie said. “Then do what you want up here.”

  “Definitely,” Janelle said. “I mean, my parents are kind of the opposite. They’re all about school. School now, girls later. And now I’m here, so . . .” Janelle let out a long exhale.

  “We should get ready to go,” Ellie said, standing up suddenly and bringing an end to the conversation just as Stevie had fully eased into it. Her clothes dripped heavy and pink. “I’m coming for you in a few minutes. It’s time for the party. Go get ready!”

  In the warm darkness of the hall, Janelle and Stevie hunkered for a moment.

  “What the hell was that?” Janelle said. “I mean, I like her? I think? But the stuff with the poem, the French stuff, living on the commune, the no TV thing. I don’t know.”

  “Maybe this is what we came for?” Stevie said.

  “Maybe,” Janelle said. “Something about people who make a big deal out of not watching TV. I guess I never hung out with a lot of art people. Do you think this Wi-Fi thing is going to be a big deal? Seriously, I need my TV. I’m going to have to figure something out. There has to be a way to get a strong connection. Okay. I guess we get dressed. See you in a minute.”

  In her room, Stevie confronted her clothes, pawing through them quickly. She had not anticipated a party situation this early. She was never exactly party ready. When people at school looked online for party outfits and looks, she was genuinely confused. There were people who seemed not only to understand these things, but to accomplish them. A striped top, a wide-brimmed hat, shorts for that “special beach weekend.” Lipsticks for fall, jeans that were perfect for a hayride, pendant earrings for that holiday party and snowball fight. Who lived these lives?

  The party outfit was going to be black shorts and black tank top. Stevie owned no jewelry. Her concession to the occasion was a pair of red flip-flops.

  Janelle appeared at her door dressed in a baby-blue dress covered in lemons, with matching lemon earrings, and a gentle lemony perfume. This was all acceptable from Janelle, because it made sense. If Janelle could build a machine, she could build an outfit.

  Random, discordant bleating came from upstairs. Ellie was playing her saxophone, and one thing was clear—she did not know how to play.

  “Oh,” Janelle said, looking up. “That may get old, fast.”

  “Is this ‘party’ enough?” Stevie asked.

  “You look great,” Janelle said, and it sounded sincere. “I just, I got nervous. I wear my lemons when I’m nervous.”

  A moment later, Ellie, still pink, still drippy, came down the stairs, nudging a reluctant and unhappy Nate. She had saxophoned him out of hiding.

  It was time to go to a party.

  7

  THE SLOW SUMMER TWILIGHT WAS FALLING AND THE FIREFLIES ROSE out of the grass and bobbed around as pockets of people made their way to the party, which was being held in the yurt. The Ellingham Great House windows caught the last of the dying sunlight, the windows glowing orange and gold. Ellie led the pack, blasting away on Roota in a series of off-kilter squawks that made the birds fly out of the trees as they passed.

  “David needs to get here,” she said. “You’ll love him. He’s the best.”

  As they went through one of the many wooded areas with statues, Ellie stopped for a moment in front of one of the statues, reached into her bag, and produced a small spray can. She painted the words THIS IS ART onto the torso in dripping blue letters, replaced the can, and kept skipping ahead and bleating on the sax.

  “Someone has a case of the try-too-hards,” Nate said in a low voice. The yurt was packed when they arrived. There was a hum of voices coming from within. Ellie peeled back the canvas opening and raised Roota high. A group of people on a small sofa in the back cheered, and she joined them. Within a minute, she was wrapped in a black boa that had materialized from somewhere. A first year was in this group, striking in black lipstick and a shaggy red dress. Her name, Stevie would pick up as the evening went on, was Maris Coombes, and she was an opera singer. Stevie learned this because she kept emitting high, clear snatches of arias.

  An intense-looking guy with wild hair who wore a massively oversized dress shirt, like something a painter might drape over themselves, was gesturing with a vape. Hayes w
as there as well, sunk deep into the folds of the sofa. Maris was very close to him and they spoke face-to-face.

  Janelle scanned the room and found Vi, who was sitting on a rug with three other people, playing a tile-based game.

  “Let’s sit there,” she said to Nate and Stevie.

  It was as good a place as any. Vi scooted over and made room for everyone, and introductions were made.

  “This is Marco, DeShawn, and Millie,” she said. “Do you like Castles of Arcadia? We were going to play.”

  “Sure!” Janelle said. “I don’t know how but show me.”

  Stevie also didn’t know how to play. Nate did, and this brought a bit of enthusiasm to his demeanor. He immediately started explaining the value of tiles with pictures of grain and bricks on them, the importance of the various green squares, why you needed to build by rivers and collect the tiny wooden sheep and cows and put them in fenced areas. Janelle remained focused, but Stevie couldn’t help looking around the room, and soon she lost track of what the game was even supposed to be about.

  A girl came in through the flap with a kind of queenly bearing. She had a crown of vibrant long red hair, thick and curly. Stevie had met people with long hair and people with curly hair and people with red hair, but this hair was like a force of nature. It wasn’t fully curly—it was stretched out and full and golden. It was less like hair and more like a weather pattern. Someone called out the name “Gretchen” and Ellie hopped across the room to greet her. Stevie watched the girl stare down the group on the sofa, narrowing her focus on Hayes and Maris. She spoke to Ellie, then gave a massive hair flip and pointedly did not join the group on the sofa. Hayes just cocked his head for a moment, and then turned back to Maris.

  Something going on there.

  Germaine Batt, the girl from the coach, sat talking to Kaz, though she also appeared to be mostly looking around the room. She continued to work her phone with an intensity Stevie had rarely seen. “She does that show,” Janelle said. “The Batt Report. She’s some kind of journalist.”

  As the room grew louder and more crowded, it became clear that there would be no Castles of Arcadia, and Millie, Marco, and DeShawn split into their own group, and Vi and Janelle got to talking. Nate and Stevie remained together, with Nate sadly gripping a handful of wooden cows.

  “This is fun,” Nate said. “What are we supposed to be doing?”

  “Meeting people,” Stevie said.

  Nate made a sound like a deflating balloon.

  “You don’t like meeting new people,” Stevie surmised.

  “No one likes meeting new people.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Stevie said as she watched Janelle and Vi. Stevie found herself getting strangely nervous as Janelle and Vi talked, their heads getting a little closer together with each exchange, the laughs a little bigger. A bubble of jealousy rose in her and she clamped it down.

  “It’s true,” Nate said. “Everyone pretends to. It’s just one more thing we’re supposed to pretend to like.”

  “I’m a new person you’re meeting,” Stevie said.

  Nate didn’t reply to that.

  “So,” she said, to make conversation, “are you working on the sequel to your book?”

  “What?”

  It was like a spotlight had come onto Nate and he was pinned to a brick wall, facing down the guards. He squeezed his cows.

  “I started it,” he said.

  “How many chapters have you written?”

  “It’s not like that,” he snapped. “Why are you asking me this?”

  “What?”

  “I mean . . .” Nate fidgeted. “You don’t just write something and it’s done. You don’t just do it. You write parts and you rewrite and you have new ideas and you move stuff. I don’t want to talk about the book.”

  “Okay,” Stevie said. She pressed herself deeper into the futon, until the wooden frame was hard against the base of her spine.

  Nate also shifted uncomfortably. “They let me in here because of the book,” he said. “That’s why I am here. Do you know how many pages I’ve written?”

  “I thought you didn’t . . .”

  “Two thousand. Two thousand.”

  “That seems good?” Stevie said, unsure of what was happening.

  “It’s two thousand pages and nothing happens. It’s all terrible. I wrote the first book and then I forgot how to write. It used to be that I would sit and write and I would go into some other world—I could see it all. I was totally in another place. But the second it became something I had to do, something in me broke. It’s like I used to know the way to some magical land and I lost the map. I hate myself.”

  He leaned back against the pillows and exhaled.

  “So, no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Stevie nervously side-eyed Nate until it was clear he wasn’t going to say any more. Then she turned her attention to the rest of the room.

  Hayes was sidling up to Maris. Before long, they were in intense conversation again. Stevie wondered about Beth Brave—she probably wouldn’t be happy that Hayes was sidling up to other people now that he was at school. Stevie also noticed she was not the only person paying attention to Hayes and Maris. Germaine Batt was watching the two of them carefully, and at one point lifted her phone and took a photo. The girl with the red hair, Gretchen, also appeared to object to what she was seeing because she kept deliberately turning away.

  Lots of strings attached to Hayes, pulling in all directions.

  “It’s David!” Ellie said, throwing up her arms and breaking Stevie’s concentration on Hayes and his orbit. “David, David, David!”

  As David David David came into the yurt, the strings of lights shook and a fragrant night breeze blew in. He raised his arms high, as if in triumph. Ellie sprang over and ensnared him in a boa-filled hug. He half lifted her and she wrapped her legs around his middle and stayed there, riding around.

  Ellie directed the triple David over to the Minerva group. He was tall, with a shock of partially curly, partially wild dark hair that likely hadn’t seen a pair of scissors in months. Many people in the yurt were casually dressed, but David was leaning a little more toward shabby—cargo shorts with visible wear and holes; a thin, dark-blue T-shirt with a logo that had faded into obscurity; broke-down-looking skate shoes.

  In that first moment, Stevie had the feeling she had met David before. Something about him that just had a suggestion of . . . something she couldn’t place. Something that made her brain itch.

  “This is David,” Ellie said from her position clinging to his torso. “He’s the last member of House Minerva. Say hello, David.”

  Stevie had a strange thought that she really hoped he didn’t say “hello, David” in reply, but that was exactly what happened. Another point on the scorecard. Maybe people at Ellingham were not so different after all.

  David’s eyes, which were deep brown and bright, went right to hers, as if he had clocked her disapproval. His peaked brows peaked a bit higher into his forehead, and he gave a long, thin smile. He set Ellie down on the back of the sofa and dropped between Stevie and Nate in a space not quite big enough for him to fit. Ellie did the introductions as she decorated David’s hair with loose feathers from her boa.

  David dug into a pocket and produced a battered deck of cards.

  “Pick one,” he said, presenting the pack to Stevie. As he leaned in, Stevie picked up a number of scents. There was something low and funky that she couldn’t place, along with the stale air from a plane.

  Stevie did not want to pick a card, but the pack was outstretched. So she pulled one out.

  “Look at it,” David said. “Don’t show me.”

  Stevie eyed the jack of hearts in her palm.

  “Okay,” David said, tipping his head back, looking at the ceiling of the yurt. “Is it . . . the three of clubs?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. The six of diamonds?”

  “No.”

  “The ace of
spades?”

  “No.”

  David hmmed. Nate shifted in commiseration, but Janelle gave an obliging smile. Ellie draped herself over the back of the sofa.

  “Seven of hearts?” he said.

  “You should probably give up now,” Stevie replied.

  “No, no,” he said, “I always get it within the first fifty-two guesses.”

  That got a little laugh from Janelle, but Stevie suspected it was simply politeness.

  “Okay,” David said, looking back down and taking a deep breath. “Last guess. Is it . . . the king of clubs?”

  Stevie held up the jack of hearts.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I wasn’t going to guess that. I was just naming cards.”

  He plucked the card from her hand and shoved it back in the deck. Stevie felt a burning rush of blood to her cheeks. Was this mockery? What the hell did it mean? Stevie could handle mockery. What she couldn’t stand was not understanding. The yurt was close and the air thick.

  Ellie gently whacked David on the head, sending feathers flying.

  “You’re so dumb, David,” she said affectionately. She gave Stevie a reassuring smile over his head. “I was starting to worry you weren’t coming.”

  “I almost didn’t make it,” he said. Then, to everyone, he said, “I was a little distracted last year.”

  “He sat in his room and smoked weed and played video games,” Ellie clarified.

  “You make it sound like I was doing nothing,” David replied. “It was all research.”

  “David makes video games,” Ellie said. “Or he says he does.”

  “So,” David said. “Who are you people?”

  More introductions went around, thanks to Janelle. Nate was again singled out as the one who wrote that book that one time. And then they got to Stevie.

  “She researches crime,” Janelle said.

  “Researches crime?” he repeated. “What does that mean?”

  “What it sounds like,” Stevie said.

  “You . . . watch a lot of Discovery ID?” he said.

  She did watch a lot of Discovery ID, as it happened. That was the all-murder channel. She did not say this, though.