by Kim Harrison
“Yeah, nothing that couldn’t be cured with an exorcism.” Kenzi came out of her headstand, planting her feet on the floor. She reached for her towel. “At least promise you’ll come to the after-party. At Sean’s parents’ place on the beach? You will, right? We’re all going to hang around and watch the sun rise. It will give you a chance to talk to Will outside of school. And when are you going to tell me what happened between you two that other night, anyway? Why are you being so MLAS about it?”
Miranda knew that one. “I’m not being My Lips Are Sealed,” she said, picking up a pile of papers on the bookshelf between her and Kenzi’s beds and straightening them.
“You’re doing that thing again. The thing where you pretend to be Holly Homemaker to avoid having a discussion.”
“Maybe.” Miranda was looking at the papers now, photocopies of newspaper articles from the past half year. “Purse snatcher caught by mysterious Good Samaritan, found bound to fence with yo-yo,” the first and most recent said. Then, from a few months before, “Get a grip: Stickup foiled when robber loses control of gun. Witness says Pez dispenser ‘came out of nowhere’ to knock weapon from assailant’s hand.” Finally, from seven months earlier, “Convenience store heist getaway halted by falling lightpost; two arrested.” She started to get a sinking feeling in her stomach.
At least it was only three out of, what, a dozen different incidents she told herself. But that didn’t really make her feel better. No one was supposed to link any of those events together. Ever.
The convenience store was the first one. It was dusk, fog coming off the ocean, the streetlights making misty halos in the air. She’d been driving down a side street in Santa Barbara on her way to roller derby practice when she’d heard the threats from inside Ron’s 24-Hour Open Market #3 and just…acted. She’d had no control over what she did, it was like she was in a dream, her body knowing exactly what to do, where the robbers would go, how to stop them. Coming back to her the way the words from a favorite song did even if you hadn’t heard it in years. Only she had no idea where it was coming back from.
She’d spent the three days following the convenience store incident in bed, curled in a ball, trembling. She told Kenzi she had the flu, but really what she had was terror. She was terrified of the powers she suddenly couldn’t restrain.
Terrified because using them felt so good. So right. Like she was alive for the first time.
Terrified because she knew what could happen if people found out. To her. And to—
She waved the copies toward Kenzi, demanding, “What are you doing with these?”
“Whoa, Drill Sergeant Kiss in the house,” Kenzi said, saluting. “All due respect, ma’am, but as they say in the military, SSTB. You won’t get away with changing the subject just by using your scary voice.”
SSTB stood for So Sad Too Bad. Miranda couldn’t not laugh. “If I were trying to change the subject, army of one, I’d point out that the stuff on your body is flaking all over the rug your mother’s decorator tracked over three continents because it supposedly belonged to Lucy Lawless. I seriously want to know, why are you interested in street crime in Santa Barbara?”
Kenzi stepped from the rug onto the wood floor. “Not street crime in Santa Barbara, foiled street crime. It’s for my journalism final project. Some people are saying there’s a mystical force at work. Maybe even Santa Barbara come back herself.”
“Can’t it just be a coincidence? Criminals mess up all the time, right?”
“People don’t like coincidences. Like the way it’s no coincidence that you are trying to make me talk about this rather than answer my questions about what happened with you and Will. One minute it looks like you two are totally—and I might add, finally—hooking up and the next you are back here in our room. Ruining, I might also add, a totally ace romantic evening for me.”
“I did tell you,” Miranda groaned. “It was nothing. Nothing happened.”
Slouching against the Town Car now as the last of the daylight faded, Miranda thought that nothing was an understatement. It had been worse than nothing. That expression on Will’s face, the one that hovered between you’ve-got-something-green-caught-in-your-teeth and oh-hello-Professor-Crazy, a mixture of horror and, well, horror, when she’d finally gotten up the guts to—
That’s when it hit her. The articles on Kenzi’s desk had all come out on Thursdays, reporting on things that had happened—things she’d done—on Wednesdays.
“Wednesday and Saturday afternoons free,” she heard Caleb saying, repeating her words.
That was bad. That was really bad. She was going to have to lay low.
The gold Lexus SUV behind her pulled away from the curb and Miranda could hear the couple inside fighting over the sound of their air conditioner. The woman at the wheel turning her head to yell at her husband—Don’t lie to me! I know you were with her!—hitting the gas hard right as the family with the little blond girl stepped into the crosswalk in front of her…
Afterward no one was really sure what had happened. One second the car was careening toward the family in the crosswalk, the next there was a blur and they were on the curb, bewildered but safe.
As she watched the gold SUV speed off into the distance, Miranda felt the adrenaline thrill she always got after she’d acted without thinking, saved someone. It was addictive, like a drug.
And dangerous, like a drug, she reminded herself.
I think you should get yourself a dictionary. That is not what “laying low” means.
Shut up. It was only a handspring and a little push. Hardly some big tactical maneuver.
You shouldn’t have done it. It was too risky. You’re not invisible, you know.
But I wasn’t seen. It was fine.
This time.
Miranda wondered if everyone had a voice in their head permanently set to the U-Suck channel.
What are you trying to do, anyway? Do you think you can save everyone? When you couldn’t even—
Shut up.
“What?” a girl’s voice asked and Miranda was startled to realize she’d spoken aloud, and someone was standing there.
The girl was about Miranda’s height but younger, maybe fourteen, and dressed like she’d been studying early Madonna videos and wanted to be sure that if mesh shirts worn over bras, fingerless gloves, teased hair, thick black eyeliner, rubber bracelets, petticoat skirts with fishnets, and ankle boots came back in style, she’d be ready.
“I’m sorry,” Miranda said, “I was talking to myself.” Not exactly how the Mature Driver Person she was supposed to be should act.
“Oh.” The girl held the sign with the word CUMEAN on it out to Miranda. “You’ll want this. And this,” she said, handing her a small square box.
Miranda took the sign but shook her head at the box. “That’s not mine.”
“It must be. And me, too. I mean, I’m Sibby Cumean.” She pointed at the sign.
Miranda pocketed the box to open the back door for the girl, wondering what kind of parent let their fourteen-year-old get picked up by a stranger at eight at night.
“Can’t I ride in front?”
“Clients prefer the back,” Miranda said in her most professional voice.
“What you really mean is that you prefer it when they ride in the back. But what if I want to ride in the front? Don’t clients get to do what they want?”
5Bs Luxury Transport was named after a set of principles the owner, Tony Bosun, had made up—B on time, B polite, B accommodating, B discreet, B sure to get paid. Even though Miranda suspected he’d come up with them when he was drunk late one night, she tried to follow the rules and she was pretty sure this counted as B accommodating. She moved to open the front door.
The girl shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll stay in back.”
Miranda plastered on a smile. What a rad day she was having! Her VIP client was a tiny demon, her dream guy was going to the prom with someone else, and the sheriff’s deputy she had a crush on not only
knew it but joked about it with his girlfriend! Awesome.
At least, she told herself, things couldn’t possibly get any worse.
Oh, now you’ve done it.
Shut up.
4
SIBBY CUMEAN STARTED TALKING as soon as they got out of the airport.
“How long have you been driving people around?” she asked Miranda.
“A year.”
“Did you grow up here?”
“No.”
“Do you have any brothers?”
“No.”
“Any sisters?”
“N—no.”
“Do you like driving?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have to wear that boring black suit?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
“Um, not.”
“Fine. Eighteen.”
“Have you ever had sex?”
Miranda cleared her throat. “I don’t think that question is appropriate.” She heard herself sound like Dr. Trope, the assistant head of school, with the voice he used to tell her he wasn’t listening to another excuse about why she was late getting back to campus, rules were made for a reason and that reason wasn’t so she could flout them for her amusement; and speaking of late, did she plan at some point to decide what she was going to do next year or just irresponsibly forfeit her place at the several top-tier colleges she’d been accepted to, making the school look bad and herself look worse; and really he didn’t know what had gotten into her recently, where was the Miranda Kiss who was going to be a doctor and save the world, who was a credit to the school and herself, rather than the one who was on her way to being expelled—is that what you really want, young lady? A voice she knew well since she seemed to have been hearing it at least once a week since early November.
“You’re a virgin,” Sibby announced, like she was confirming a sad fact she’d long suspected.
“That’s not—”
“Do you at least have a boyfriend?”
“Not at this—”
“A girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Do you have any friends? You’re not really very good at conversation.”
Miranda was beginning to understand why the girl’s relatives hadn’t come to the airport for her.
“I have lots of friends.”
“Sure. I believe you. What do you do for fun?”
“Answer questions.”
“Please never try to be funny again.” Sibby leaned forward. “Have you ever thought of wearing some black eyeliner? It would be an improvement.”
B polite! “Thanks.”
“Can you pull up?”
“Um, we’re at a stoplight.”
“Just go forward a tiny—perfect.”
Looking in the side mirror, Miranda saw that Sibby had rolled down her window and was leaning out, saying now to the guys in the jeep next to them, “Where are you boys going?”
The guys answered, “A little moonlight surfing. Want to come, goddess?”
“I’m not a goddess. Do you think I look like one?”
“I can’t tell. Maybe if you take off your shirt.”
“Maybe if you give me a kiss.”
Miranda hit the button to roll up the window.
“What are you doing?” Sibby demanded. “You could have broken my hand.”
“Put your seat belt on, please.”
“Put your seat belt on, please,” Sibby mimicked, slumping back into the seat. “Oh my gods, I was just trying to be sociable.”
“Until we get to your destination, no more socializing.”
“Have you listened to yourself recently? You sound like you’re eighty, not eighteen.” She scowled at Miranda in the mirror. “I thought you were a driver, not a jailer.”
“It’s my job to make sure you get where you’re going in a safe and timely manner. That’s printed on the card you’ll find in your seat pocket, by the way.”
“How is kissing some boys going to make me unsafe?”
“A million different ways. What if they have an invisible mouth fungus? Or DeathLip.”
“There’s no such thing as DeathLip.”
“Are you sure?”
“You’re just jealous because I know how to have fun and you don’t. Virgin.”
Miranda rolled her eyes but kept quiet, listening to cell phone conversations from the cars behind them, a woman telling someone that the gardener was on his way, a guy saying in a mystical voice, “I see a mysterious stranger coming for you, I can’t quite tell if it’s a man or a woman.” Another man talking to someone about how he wanted to take that bitch out of the will and it didn’t matter if she was his mother’s favorite dog—
She was interrupted suddenly by Sibby shouting, “Inn-Out Burger! We have to stop.”
B accommodating!
Miranda agreed to let Sibby order her own at the drive-through, then regretted it when she heard the girl saying to the guy taking the order, “Do I get a discount if I let you kiss me?”
“Okay, seriously, were you raised on Crazycake? Why do you want to kiss all these guys you don’t even know?” Miranda asked.
“There aren’t that many boys where I come from. And what does knowing them have to do with it? Kissing is great. I kissed four boys on the airplane. I’m hoping to make it twenty-five before the end of the day.”
She added the two working the drive-through lane when she got her burger.
“Are all hamburgers that delicious?” she asked when they were on the road again.
Miranda glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “You’ve never had a burger before? Where do you live?”
“The mountains,” Sibby answered quickly, and Miranda picked up a slight rise in her heart rate, suggesting that she was lying and not used to it. Which seemed hugely unlikely—the not-used-to-it part—for someone who had a case of acute Boy Crazy like this girl. Her parents couldn’t possibly let her run around—
Oh So Very Much Not Your Problem, Miranda reminded herself. B discreet.
Sibby tried to solicit kisses from four other guys as they drove. They were a mile from the drop-off point and Miranda was thinking that the ride could not be over soon enough when Sibby shrieked, “Oh my gods, a doughnut store! I’ve always wanted to try doughnuts, too. Can we stop? Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease?”
They were already almost an hour late but Miranda couldn’t deny anyone a doughnut. Even someone who said, “Oh my gods.” But pulling in, she saw a group of guys sitting at a table inside and decided that it would be dangerous to let Sibby near them if she wanted to get out of there in under forty minutes. “I’ll go in and get them, you stay here.”
Sibby had seen the guys, too. “No way, I’m coming in.”
“Either your butt stays in the car, Kissing Bandit, or the doughnuts stay in the store.”
“I don’t think that’s a nice way to talk to customers.”
“Feel free to use my phone to file a complaint while I’m inside. Do we have a deal?”
“Fine. But will you at least roll down the window?” Miranda hesitated. Sibby said, “Look, Grandma, I promise I’ll keep my butt in the car, I just don’t want to suffocate. Gods.”
When Miranda came out, Sibby had wedged herself in the window with her body and legs outside the car and her rear hanging back into it, and was deeply involved in kissing a blond guy.
“Excuse me,” Miranda said, tapping the guy on the shoulder.
He turned around kind of hazy, looked her up and down. “Hello, dream girl. You want a kiss, too? I could do something really special with lips like yours. You wouldn’t even have to pay me a dollar.”
“Thanks, but no.” Looking at Sibby now. “I thought we’d agreed that—”
“—my butt would stay in the car. Where, if you bothered to look, you would see it is.”
Miranda turned away so Sibby wouldn’t see her crack up.
She handed Sibby the doughnuts and
slid into the driver’s seat. Once Sibby had wiggled back through the window, Miranda caught her eye in the rearview. “You were paying guys to kiss you?”
“So what?” Sibby glared. “Not all of us can get kissed for free.” More glaring, then, “You barely have boobs. My boobs are bigger than yours. It makes no sense.”
Sibby got quiet, not even eating her doughnut. From time to time she’d sigh dramatically.
Miranda started feeling a little sorry. Maybe she had been acting like a grandma. She looked at How to Get—And Kiss—Your Guy on the seat next to her. Maybe you’re jealous she’s four years younger than you but has already kissed more guys in one day than you’ll probably date in your whole life even if you get a boob job and live to be two trillion.
Shut up, U-Suck channel.
She should be nice, make conversation. “How many kisses is it total now?”
Sibby kept her eyes on her lap. “Ten.” Looking up to add, “But I only paid six of them. And one of them I only gave a quarter.”
“Nice work.”
Miranda saw Sibby look up suspiciously, like she thought she was being made fun of, decide she wasn’t, and start picking at her doughnut. After a while she said, “Can I ask you a question?”
“You’re asking permission now?”
“For real, just please stop trying to be funny. It’s painful.”
“Thanks for the hot tip. Did you have a question or—”
“Why didn’t you want to kiss that boy back there? The one who wanted to kiss you?”
“I guess he’s not my type.”
“What’s your type?”
Miranda thought of Deputy Reynolds—blue eyes and cleft jaw and shaggy blond hair, getting up every morning to go surfing. The kind of guy who always wore sunglasses or looked at you with his eyes half closed and was too cool for smiling. Then pictured Will with his dark, maple-syrup-color skin, short curly hair, huge boyish smile, and abs that rippled when he stood talking, shirtless, with the other players after lacrosse practice, body glimmering in the sun, his laugh ringing out and making her feel like she felt when she saw butter melting on perfectly cooked Belgian waffles.
