by Wolf, Sara
“You could do the fair maidens of the school a favor and inform them you’re gay,” I say.
“Didn’t you read the sign?” He asks coolly without looking up. “No harpies in the library.”
“If I was any fantasy animal I’d be a majestic unicorn, thank you, but I’ll forgive your transgressions. It takes keen eyesight to differentiate a harpy from a unicorn. Also, common sense.”
He looks up, blue eyes growing irritated. “I don’t have the patience for you right now.”
“Listen to yourself! ‘I don’t have the patience for you’,” I mock in a deep voice. “You sound like my freaking Mom! Like a parent! Like a really old, decrepit man. You’re what, seventeen? Start acting like it.”
“They’re spreading rumors about us. It’d be best for you to keep your distance.”
“Aha! I’ve already thought of that! But let’s be realistic – this is high school. No amount of space between us is gonna stop the rumors from breeding like rabbits.”
“Your Freudian choice of metaphor is getting ridiculous, now. If you want me, just come out and say it. Get it over with so I can shoot you down.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Nope. Not happening. You aren’t my type, first off –”
“I’m everyone’s type,” He says, tiredly.
“- And second off, have you even seen that marble statue? It’s incredible. You should at least give her a chance, okay? Someone with that much talent has to be cool.”
He snaps the book closed and picks up another one. “No.”
“You have to agree it’s an incredible piece of art, creepy stalkerish qualities attached to it or no.”
“You’re the only stalker I see here,” He sighs.
“And what about that girl in the PA room? She might not be as pretty as drama club girl –”
“Who?”
“Windshield love note girl.”
“Ah.”
“ – But she’s so cute! And short! And she has huge boobs! And she’s got tenacity! But mostly huge boobs! That’s a thing with guys last time I checked! Boooobs!” I make a cupping motion around my significantly flatter chest. “And if she has tenacity she’ll be able to put up with your arrogant bullshit longer! It’s a perfect match!”
He snorts. “You don’t know anything about me, let alone enough to matchmake me with some pathetic girls.”
“Stop saying they’re pathetic! They’re nice, okay? You just haven’t given them a chance –”
He moves so fast I barely have to blink and he’s looming over me, arms on either side of me and that same deadly-cool look in his eyes I saw when he was talking to Evans. A strange pressure threatens to collapse my lungs, but I stay strong. For Kayla. For the sake of the war. I’m strong and I can’t let him see anything otherwise.
“All they do is grovel,” He snarls. “I am a thing to them, not a person. They worship me because they don’t know me.”
“Yeah, but you keep it that way – everybody thinks you’re intimidating and hard to approach, just how you like it. You don’t make any effort to be nice, or make friends. It’s easier to be worshipped by people than it is to be friends with them.”
“What the hell do you know?”
“I don’t know anything - except that you’re here, in the library, reading corny-ass romance books.” I gesture around me. He holds my gaze, like he’s looking for something inside me, and then backs off. He puts the book back and takes out a few, piling them on his arm.
“These aren’t for me.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“I have a friend who enjoys them,” he says, voice now softer. “But she can’t get out a lot. So I bring them to her.”
“Oh. Well. That’s nice of you. Also kind of weird, since you seem to intensely dislike all women.”
“I don’t dislike them. I’m tired of them. There’s a difference.”
“Tired of them? You’re seventeen! Why do I have to keep reminding you of that? There are soooo many women you haven’t even met yet! Don’t act like you’re tired of the puss-puss, no guy is ever tired of the puss-puss.”
He shoots me a withering look, but for a split second I swear I hear him half-laugh, half-scoff quietly under his breath.
“You’re bizarre. And a moron. But I suppose it could be worse. You could be normal.”
“I could be normal,” I agree. “It could be even worse – I could like you.”
“True. I don’t like you, either. In fact, I despise you.”
“Can we maybe not talk about your gross little feelings for me?”
“Trust me, they are anything but little. And gross is an understatement - they cause instantaneous vomiting.”
“Oh good! That makes two of us. I threw up four times on my way to the library to ask you about this!”
I flash the black and red card between my fingers. Jack’s expression doesn’t change from one of utter boredom. I flash it again in front of his face, waving it back and forth a few times for good measure.
“Aren’t you the least bit concerned I have one of these?”
“I know you had it. I counted the cards when your friend returned my wallet.”
“How did you know I was the one who took it?”
“How else would Kayla get it?” He sneers. “She’s not the type to steal. You are.”
“I’d be insulted if I wasn’t rolling in five cubic tons of hot-ass self-confidence.”
“I have twenty-two cards, and there were twenty-one when she gave it back,” He ignores me.
“Are you OCD or something? You keep count of how many business cards you have in your wallet?”
“Can you just get on with threatening me?” He sighs. I treat him to a brief glare.
“I haven’t called the number on this card. Yet.”
“But you’ve memorized the number.”
“Of course,” I breeze on. “And if you have an ounce of brain in that thick head of yours, you’ll apologize to Kayla before I call it and leak to the campus cop whatever sordid drugs you deal as a side job.”
He scoffs. “Drugs. That’s what you think it is? You think I’m that predictable? I’m offended.”
“The people in juvie will certainly be offended by your holier-than-thou attitude. Offended enough to beat you up on the daily.”
“You poor girl,” He laughs, pinching the bridge of his nose like he has a headache. “You poor, naïve little girl. You talk a big game, about how much smarter you are and how you’re different from them. But at the end of the day, you’re just as oblivious as all the other girls.”
“Don’t patronize me!” I snarl. “I know you’re doing something illegal. If you don’t apologize to Kayla –”
“You’ll what? Out me? Go ahead. Call that number.” He leans in. “I dare you to.”
“Back the hell off,” I hiss up at his face. He narrows his icy-flint eyes, but doesn’t lean away.
“Do it.” He holds out his phone.
It’s a trap. I’m walking into the biggest trap in the world. Jack looks at me with a keen, almost hungry interest. He wants me to find out what this card means. By the time I do, I might’ve sprung the trap closed. But I want to know, too. The part of me that wants to know more is louder than the part of me that’s a prudent, tactical battle master. If I call this number, I’ll get a significantly huge amount of blackmail material. In theory. What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like he’s rigged a bomb to the number or anything. It could be nothing at all, a huge dud, but I won’t know until I try.
I dial slowly, and raise it to my ear. There’s a ring. And another ring. Jack isn’t moving. He’s barely blinking. I’m barely breathing – anticipation heavy on my chest.
“Hello, Madison speaking,” A pleasant woman’s voice chirps. “How may I help you?”
“Uh, hi, I’m –”
“Looking for a rose,” Jack says lowly.
“Looking for a rose.”
There’s a brief paus
e. “One moment while I bring out the books. May I ask your name?”
I look to Jack again, but he just shakes his head.
“Isi – Isabelle.”
“Alright Isabelle, and who are you calling after?”
“Um…”
“The name on the card you were given?”
“Oh. Jaden.”
If this is a drug request line or something, it’s the weirdest one ever. There’s a tapping noise as the woman types on a keyboard. Jack’s eyes are scanning over my shoulder, watching people walk by, but I can tell he’s still fully tuned in to the conversation I’m having.
“And is this your first time with the Rose Club, Isabelle?”
“Y-Yes? Yes.” Club? What kind of Club –
“Alright, thank you so much for choosing to book with us, Isabelle. Jaden’s one of our most popular escorts, so I’m afraid there’s a bit of a wait. The soonest opening I have is on December 4th, at 12:30 pm, in Columbus. In addition I’m obligated to mention to any and all customers his fees are considerably higher than those of our other escorts –”
I scrabble for the button to cancel the call and end up fumbling the phone onto the floor. It slides beneath a shelf and disappears. Before I can bend to pick it up, Jack hefts off the shelf and picks it up in one fell swoop.
“I set my phone to record that call. I now have you and the operator’s conversation on tape. If you tell anyone what you know about that card, I will counter with this recording and say you were a customer. Is that clear?”
I swallow so hard I swear I hear my throat crack.
“I said, is that clear?” He hardens his voice. I don’t dignify him with a nod. I’m gone before he has the chance to form another imperious sentence. It was a trap. And I fell for it.
***
I am getting my shit kicked in.
I say that admiringly about Jack Hunter, even if I hate his guts. He’s pulling out all the stops, hitting hard and heavy and never relenting. I would be wounded, my pride shattered, and completely defeated if I was anyone but me. Thankfully, I’m Isis Blake, and word on the block is she’s a pretty rad girl who is never defeated. Nameless couldn’t do it. I sure as hell won’t let some random pretty boy do it. The only one who’s worthy of defeating me is me!
Feeling mildly more pumped, I blast my radio louder at a stoplight. My brain’s working overtime. I make a list in my head.
1. Jack has a girl. He brings her romance novels. She can’t get out a lot. Maybe she has overprotective parents or something? More investigation is necessary. The girl could be the key factor in winning the war – he seems to care about her, mildly more than he cares about himself, anyway. I need to find out who she is.
2. Jack is an escort. It’s like something out of a stupid drama on TV, but I heard the lady on the other line. If she was a hoax, she was a very good one. Something in my gut tells me she wasn’t – Jack’s good at this mind game stuff, but not that good. He couldn’t have set up an entire fake telephone line and hired a fake lady to convince me he’s an escort, and even if he did, what would he gain from it? Why would convincing me he’s an escort prove helpful to him? It wouldn’t. So that means it has to be true. If it’s true, then I can’t use it, since he has the recording to use against me. It kills me that I can’t say anything – revealing he has a part-time job as an escort would be the ultimate retaliation for him stealing my first kiss. But I don’t wanna get dragged down with him. So I’ll just have to find other ways to make him regret ever touching me, or insulting Kayla.
Since Jack is such a piece of shit good, and I’ve never quite faced this good an enemy before, I need answers, information, and tactics. And I need them fast. So I’m going to the one person who might know something about Jack.
Wren volunteers on Saturdays at the local food bank. I know this because every time Mrs. Gregory sees his face on the morning announcements she feels the need to list each one of his accomplishments, starting with how often he volunteers and where. I park and get out, mincing through the crowd of single moms with screaming kids and the half-homeless. A guy looks me up and down and whistles ‘Ay mami’ but he smells like booze and pee and that makes sense – only people with severely impaired judgment would think I’m pretty enough to whistle at. Wren’s at the front of the line, but behind the tables, stocking cans of corn and tuna. He talks with the other volunteers and coordinates them with a brisk, clear efficiency. He has blonde hair, perfectly slicked back. His glasses make him look older than he is. He isn’t handsome like Jack, but he’s terribly cute. I sidle up beside him.
“Your mom should’ve just named you Chicken.”
Wren looks up, hazel eyes confused. “Excuse me?”
“You know, it’s a more common name than Wren. Plus people wouldn’t be bugging you about how to spell it all the time. If you’re gonna name your kid after a bird, at least have the courtesy to make it a bird people can spell.”
“It has four letters,” He says.
“Those little paper fortune teller hand doohickeys have four things, too, but do you even know how complicated that shit can get?”
“I’m sorry,” Wren squints at me. “Do I know you? Oh, wait. I do know you. The new girl. Isis Blake.”
“The one and only!” I smile.
“July 1st, 1994. Blood type O positive. You previously lived in Good Falls, Florida, with your aunt. You’re allergic to strawberries.”
I’m shocked, but I keep my smile. “How do you know so – ”
“I’ve read your school record. I volunteer in the office.” He stacks another can on top of the small pyramid of tuna.
“Ah. Right. That makes less creepy sense!”
“Is there something I can do for you?” He grins, locking eyes with mine, and it’s then I’m subjected to his fabled stare. He doesn’t move his gaze in the slightest, boring a hole deep into my head. I look away, but when I look back he’s still staring with that same pleasant smile on his face. I clear my throat.
“As you know, I’m at casual war with Jack Hunter –”
“Yes, it’s hard to go anywhere without hearing about the newest tantrum you two collectively pull.”
“ – And a little bird – not a chicken – told me that you know everyone. Like, everyone.”
“I make it a point to speak with everyone on campus. I enjoy being on amiable terms with many people.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“Yes. I know everyone. And if I don’t know them, such as in your case, I hope to soon.”
His smile brightens, but it only creeps me out more.
“Right,” I say slowly. “So anyway, I’m betting you’re the only guy who knows Jack.”
Wren laughs. “’Know’ Jack? Sure. I know him. As much as anyone can. He’s like a wolf – he comes and goes and doesn’t really give you any explanation about anything. But sometimes, just sometimes, he’ll visit you in the dead of the night. If you’re looking for information about him, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m a little busy.”
Wren pulls out a can of tomato sauce and inspects it like it’s a precious gem. He hands it to a lady working with him.
“It’s dented. Send it to the back pile.”
“But, it feels fine!” The woman protests.
“No, right here,” Wren guides her fingers to the side of the can. “See? A nick. Tin doesn’t stand up well to denting. You could poison someone like that.”
The lady has to be post-college, but she flushes a darker red than any school girl. Wren turns back to me, and I make a low whistle.
“That’s a hell of a metaphor, prez. Personally, I’d liken Jack more to a limbless, ooze-leaking amoeba, but wolf works too.”
“My name is Wren,” He says sternly.
“Do you like burritos, prez? There’s a burrito place around the corner. Saw it on my way here. They look huge! I can’t eat one all by myself. But I’m hungry as hell and it’s nearly lunchtime, so…” I jerk my thumb behind me. “I’m gonna go get on
e. I guess I’ll see you around.”
The burrito truck is situated in the middle of a ring of picnic tables, colorful umbrellas shading the parking lot and tired construction workers from across the street lining up to get a bite of cheesy, beany glory. I order a chicken and green salsa one. I cut it neatly in half and place one half across the table, and dig into my own. And I wait. It’s the perfect lure. Wren might hide his exhaustion well, but I know he doesn’t eat enough. He’s the kind of student who’s so busy buzzing around doing extracurriculars he forgets to eat constantly.
A shadow falls over my table, and Wren slides into the seat across from me. He pulls the burrito half to him, pleasant smile faint.
“You don’t mind, do you?”
“Nope.” I dribble lettuce eloquently down my shirt. He wolfs the burrito down with impressive speed. When he’s done, and wiping his mouth with a napkin, I clap.
“Very good, prez. There’s hope for you yet.”
“I didn’t have breakfast,” He admits sheepishly.
“I know.”
“You…knew?”
I nod towards his hands. “Your nails. See how they’re all translucent, and ribbed with those little raised spots? Mine used to get like that when I was dieting. Not enough iron. Hell, not enough anything, period. I can get you another burrito, if you want.”
“No, no I’m fine,” He says a little too quickly, and does the creepy eyelock thing with me. “You’re very observant, aren’t you?”
I shrug. “How else would I maintain such a fabulous awareness of human existence at all times?”
“You are like him.” Wren laughs, and stands. He starts walking back to the food bank tent, and I trash my napkins and quickly follow.
“Like who?”
“Jack. You two have the same eye for detail. The same eye for delving into what people are all about.”
I scoff, but Wren merely shakes his head.
“He already came to see me. About you. That just further proves you two think alike – except you might be the slower one.”
