by Kyla Stone
“For them to do what? Just humiliate me further and then do jack squat? No thanks.”
“Are you sure?”
“Some of them are friends with my dad, okay? Do you know what he’d do to me if he knew I was here?” If he knew I was here with another guy. I can’t speak those words. The thought of how furious he would be, what he might do . . . Pure terror wrenches through me.
Lucas puts up his hands. “Have it your way, but I’m still not going to leave you here. Just come with me, okay?”
I’d rather suffer a thousand bee stings than get in that Jeep with him right now. Not after how horribly I just treated him. “No way.”
Arianna catches up to us, holding her side and gasping. She grabs my arm. “You can sleep at my house. My parents won’t even know you’re there. Trust me.”
Suddenly I’m furious with her. With both of them. I feel naked, exposed. They saw me. They all saw me. Margot and Jasmine humiliated me. Everyone saw it. I pull away from her. “No thanks, Beauty Queen.”
“Then where are you going to go?”
The question hangs over the swelling of the sirens.
“It’s not like we’re herding pandas here,” Lucas says. “We need to decide. You’ve got less than a minute.”
“Come with me,” Arianna says again.
I’ve hit a brick wall. I don’t have any other options. I have no choice, and they know it. “Fine. Whatever. You win.”
“What about your parents? Do you need to call them?” Lucas asks.
I shrug. “They’ll have epic hangovers and won’t even notice I’m gone until dinnertime tomorrow, if then.”
“Then it’s settled.” Arianna turns to Lucas. “Except, I don’t actually have a ride. I came with Jasmine. Can you take us home?”
“Does a cat have nine lives?”
“Huh?”
“That means yes, obviously. Let’s go.”
Lucas takes us to Arianna’s house. She offers to sit in back with me, but I insist I’m fine. She sits in front next to Lucas, but she keeps twisting around to look at me. “Stop it,” I hiss at her. “I’m fine.”
But the truth is, I’m lightheaded and dizzy. The lights flashing by outside the window leave long streaks across my vision. My eyes burn and every muscle in my body aches. All I want to do is lay down and sleep forever.
16
The next morning, I don’t crawl out of the nest of comforters and goose-down pillows Arianna made for me until almost noon.
“You okay?” Arianna asks. She’s already dressed, with her makeup on and her hair pulled back in a side French braid. She’s sitting at her desk with her laptop and her Government textbook opened beside it. She’s doing homework. On Saturday morning.
“I’m spectacular. Splendid. Never better,” I say. I feel like crap, a steaming bucket load of it. “What are you doing?”
“I’m finishing up our issues analysis paper.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Isn’t that cheating? You doing all the work?”
She shrugs. “I’ll let you do most of the work next time. It’ll even out.”
“Whatever floats your boat.”
She nods to the phone next to her elbow on the desk. “It fell out of your pocket while you were sleeping. You have some messages.”
I snatch it up. “Were you spying on me?”
She glances up at me, her eyes wide. “No, of course not.”
I scroll through the messages, all from Lucas, all basically saying the same thing: R U Okay? I text back: Fan-freaking-tastic. Then: Thanks. I yank on my jeans and slip the phone into my back pocket.
I look around. Arianna’s room is all white light and pastel pink curtains and fairy lights strung across her four-post bed. “Nice digs.”
“It’s just a house. Come on, I’ll make you breakfast.”
She leads me into the kitchen. The living room is plush cream carpets, oriental throw rugs, and cathedral ceilings. The kitchen is slate tile floors, real marble countertops, and sleek white glass cabinets. It looks like something out of a magazine. There aren’t even family photos cluttering up the walls or end tables.
“It’s a mansion.”
“It’s way too big for only three people.” Arianna gestures for me to sit down at the large island. “I’m not big into all the marble and steel. It’s too harsh.”
Rich people are all the same. They have no clue how much they have. My body aches when I sit down, reminding me of last night’s events.
“How do you feel?”
“Like I have the hangover from Hades even though I didn’t drink a drop.” I lift up the sweatshirt from Lucas I’m still wearing and check my stomach. The black letters are about three inches tall and start to the left of my belly button. SLUT. I try not to wince. I won’t let her see how much I loathe that word, how it hurts like they actually carved it into my flesh. “They can’t even manage to be original. It’s like, ‘slut, bitch, and whore,’ are the limits of their pathetic vocabulary. Oh wait, sorry. I guess I shouldn’t talk trash about your friends.”
“They’re not my friends,” Arianna says softly. “Not anymore, anyway.”
Part of me wants to ask her why she did it. But I can’t. My tongue won’t form those words. “What do you have to eat around here? Please tell me this magnificent kitchen isn’t just for looks.”
Arianna glances at the time on the microwave. “It’s already lunchtime. I could whip up arepa con quesito, corn cakes with soft, white cheese, or huevos pericos? It’s like scrambled eggs with tomatoes and scallions.”
“They both sound delicious, but I’m a simple girl. You have peanut butter?”
“Yeah. You want me to make you a sandwich?”
“No sandwich. Just peanut butter and a spoon. I don’t need a meal or anything.” I don’t need to owe her any more than I already do. I’m already trying to figure out how I can make things even again. I hate owing people. I hate the leverage it gives them.
“You sure? I could make some stroganoff, or an Asian salad?”
“What, are you a chef-in-training or something?”
A faint blush colors her cheeks. “Actually, I love to cook.” She hands me the peanut butter and a fancy-looking spoon.
The jar is unopened, so I peel off the tab and sink the spoon into the creamy goodness. I’m so hungry. “Seriously? You’re so scrawny.”
Her hands stray to her stomach. It’s so flat, it’s almost concave. I can see the points of her hip bones through her lavender leggings. “Not really.”
I don’t say anything. These types of girls are always going on about how fat they are so their friends can jump in with a chorus of, “you’re so thin and beautiful, blah, blah blah.” None of them would know what to do with a real problem.
Arianna pours me a glass of milk. “Make sure you use the coasters. Water marks are evil, according to my neurotic mother.”
“Whose mother isn’t neurotic?” I say around a mouthful of peanut butter. “And where is your mother? Where’s your family?”
Arianna folds her hands around her glass, but doesn’t drink it. Shadows ring her eyes. “I’m an only child.”
“Your dad’s a pastor, right?” I remember fuzzy details from our sessions with Dr. Yang.
“Yeah. He’s preaching now, actually. Last night he and my mom led a marriage seminar. Part two was this morning and there’s a third session tonight, I think, culminating with his sermon on the sacred marital bond or something on Sunday morning.”
“Sounds like perfect parents.”
“Not exactly. Do you mind if I make something? I’m feeling kind of jittery. Cooking calms me down.”
“I’ll eat anything.” I slurp a dollop of peanut butter off my finger.
Something furry touches my leg. My heart leaps into my throat. I must jump three feet in the air.
Arianna laughs. “Say hello to Cleo.”
A pure white fluffball of a cat winds around my ankles. I reach down and run my fingers through her fur. She look
s like she cost more than Ma’s car.
Just then, a sleek black BMW rolls up the driveway. Arianna stiffens. “Crap. I thought they wouldn’t be back until the afternoon. I apologize in advance.”
Arianna’s father opens the door and holds it for his wife. “Hola, darling,” her mother says as she walks in. She’s wearing a tan trench coat that falls to her shins, and beneath it, a fitted white pantsuit. Her black hair is short, streaked with auburn highlights, and curled around her ears. She is thin, thinner than Arianna if that’s even possible, and her features are small and sharp like a bird’s. She must have been beautiful once, but now her skin is pulled a little too tight around her eyes, and her eyebrows are too highly arched. They look penciled on.
“Buenas, mi amor,” her father booms with a slight accent. He takes off his jacket and holds out his arm for his wife. “Introduce us to your friend.” He is tall and trim, his hair and mustache almost completely silver.
“Oh, a guest,” her mother coos as Arianna gives them each a perfunctory hug. “I am so sorry about the state of this house. I was not expecting visitors.” She looks sharply at Arianna.
“Papà, Mamà, this is Sidney Shaw.”
Her father reaches his arm across the island. He’s got a tight, strong handshake. “Nice to meet you. I’m Pastor Torrès. I pastor the church over on Culver Street.”
“What a pretty name, Sidney,” Mrs. Torrès says.
“Are you a senior as well?” Pastor Torrès asks.
“Yep.”
Arianna presses her hands against her stomach. “We were just going up to my room to do some studying.”
“Oh, won’t you stay and visit awhile?” Her mother shoots another look at Arianna. “Ari so seldom has friends over.”
Arianna’s face clouds, but her parents don’t seem to notice. “How was the seminar?”
Pastor Torrès smiles a brilliant white smile. His teeth must be capped. They’re too perfect, like a neat row of white dominoes. “It went splendid. The congregation is eating it up. I’ll think we’ll prevent at least one divorce this weekend, won’t we, Paola?”
“Mmm hmm.” Mrs. Torrès fingers a gold cross around her neck. She stares in disgust at my jar of peanut butter, nearly a third empty. “Really, girls. Don’t you know how fattening peanut butter is? You’re planning on fitting into your prom dress, aren’t you, Ari? Keep up your self-discipline, or you’ll never get rid of that extra fluff on your rear end.”
“Yes, Mamà,” Arianna says in a pinched voice.
“Remember, girls. What you eat in private, you wear in public.” She whisks the jar off the table and hands us each something I don’t even recognize as food. “Here, have some rice cakes. Eat those, if you must eat between meals. Only 40 calories a cake!”
People actually eat these things? It’s some kind of disc-shaped wafer, nothing like a cake at all. This isn’t food. I’m angry on Arianna’s behalf. “Actually,” I say, imitating Mrs. Torrès’ prim voice. “I’ve been trying to gain weight.”
The woman looks mortified. She’d raise her eyebrows, but they’re too high already. She opens her mouth but doesn’t say anything.
Pastor Torrès laughs. “Thatta girl. What’s your name, again? I like anyone who can render my Paola speechless, if only for a moment. What do your parents do?”
Mrs. Torrès’ lips press into a thin line. Her fingers close around the gold cross. She’s the butt of a joke, and from the looks of it, she doesn’t like comedians.
“I’m a ward of the state,” I say, crushing the rice cake between my fingers.
Arianna’s parents exchange looks as if they don’t realize I’m staring right at them.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Pastor Torrès says finally. “Well, how about college? You got your applications ready? Started on your essays? Arianna’s going to medical school like her momma. She’s got her applications almost ready for Northwestern, U of M, Notre Dame.”
“She’s not going to Notre Dame.” Mrs. Torrès waves her hand dismissively. “She’ll never get in with those grades. You know Ari, she never pushes herself.”
Arianna stares straight ahead, her face expressionless. “I get it, Mom.”
Mrs. Torrès tucks a curl into place and turns back to me. “Do you exercise? Exercise really revs your metabolism, you know.”
Arianna stands up fast. “Can we please go now? We have lots of studying to do.”
“Nice to meet you!” Pastor Torrès calls as we hurry up the stairs. “Come to church with us next week!”
Arianna pauses at the top of the stairs. “I apologized in advance. Remember that. They’re awful.”
I shrug. “Not that bad.”
“Liar. My mother is a jerk.”
“I’ve seen worse.” I follow her down the hall to her room. “And what the hell was all that talk about dieting?”
“I couldn’t fit into the prom dress she bought me.”
I shake my head. I cannot imagine anyone thinking Arianna has more of herself to lose. “Is she like that all the time?”
“Often enough.”
I walk around her room, trying not to think about whether Ma or Frank’s noticed I’m gone. Everything in Arianna’s room is decorated in shades of white and cream. There’s not an iota of dust anywhere. A bunch of band and recital ribbons are pinned to a pink cork-board over her dresser, a French antique piece with swirly legs and aged pewter pulls. A couple of rose-colored stationary pages are also pinned to the cork-board. “Schedule” is scrawled in purple pen. Arianna’s got her life charted down to the half-hour with flute practice, homework, Bible study meetings, and an hour’s worth of daily exercises like 50 pushups, 100 stomach crunches, 200 sit-ups, etc. On another sheet, she’s broken down the whole week’s schedule of tests, quizzes, and homework assignments by due date and estimated time to complete them.
“You really do all this? Like, every day?”
Arianna nods. She stands in front of an expensive-looking full-length mirror. Her fingers spread over her stomach. “Can I tell you something?”
“Sure.” I plop back down on the nest of pillows in the center of her room.
“I wake up sad every day. Not just not happy—but sad. Sometimes I’m so sad, I’m not sure I’ll make it. I’m just so tired. All. The. Time. Then I feel guilty, like I don’t deserve to feel this way. And that just makes everything worse. Everyone just tells me to make myself feel better or smile more. I mean, if I could do something about it, I would. But I don’t know how.”
Why is she telling me this? I’ve never done a single nice thing for her. Ever. In fact, I’m still pretty much a jerk in our counseling sessions. I don’t want to be a jerk. I owe her. She saved me. Whether I like it or not, it means something. It’s like this room, right now, is separate from the rest of the world, is somehow above all the previous rules and hierarchies of high school. I rest my chin on my knee and stare at her. “You don’t look like you’re depressed.”
“Of course not. You’re not the only one adept at hiding things.”
She keeps gazing into the mirror, her face impassive. “It always surprises me how the deepest pain—the stuff nobody ever sees—how it doesn’t even leave a mark, no scars. Nothing. It didn’t seem right. So I made one myself.” She lifts her sweater and rolls down the band of her leggings, revealing a savage purple scar arcing across her lower abdomen.
My eyes widen. “That’s a terrible looking scar.”
Arianna lowers her sweater. “From you, I’m sure that’s a compliment.”
“It is.”
“What about your Jesus-freak friends? What do they say?”
“My friends from youth group and Bible Study? They all act perfect. If they make mistakes or have doubts, they keep it to themselves. So no, I haven’t told them about it.”
“Sounds like they’re hypocrites.”
She sighs. “Maybe. Some of them. Do you ever go to church?”
I shake my head. “When I was little. My mother went through
a religious phase.” I remember cushioned pews and the pea-green carpet digging into my bare knees when we knelt for prayer, and a choir singing and swirling dresses and a large, firm hand gripping mine. I shake the memory out of my head. “Do you just go to church because of your dad or because you actually believe that stuff?”
“I believe in God, yes. In spite of all the platitudes and warm fuzzy talk and hypocrites, there is a presence bigger than myself out there. I believe that. I’ve felt it. My abuelita was this really strong woman of faith. She was so kind and loving, and she had peace, even when she was dying. Faith is important. What about you?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. If He does exist, is He even the kind of God I would want to believe in? Why is there so much war, pain, and death? Wouldn’t a God of love stop all that? Where’s the bolt of lightning to strike down terrible people doing terrible things?”
“A God of love allows free will. If he did away with evil, then we wouldn’t have a choice. We wouldn’t be choosing love.”
Cleo wanders up to me and rubs her whiskered chin against my shin. “I don’t get it.”
“If you had a boyfriend—”
“I don’t,” I say.
“I didn’t say you did. If you had a boyfriend, or girlfriend, or whatever, you’d want them to love you for you, right? You would want them to choose to be with you. Because if he was forced into it, the love wouldn’t be real. It wouldn’t be worth anything.”
The cat flops on her back and exposes her belly for me to scratch. “Like a robot. You might as well love a toaster oven.”
“Right. Exactly,” Arianna says. “Love isn’t real if it’s forced. Goodness isn’t real if there isn’t also the option of choosing evil.”
“That makes sense.”
“So people choose evil,” Arianna continues. “They choose hate instead of love, cowardice instead of bravery, cruelty instead of kindness. Love allows them that choice.”
“I wonder if people really think about it that way, like they’re making a choice. Don’t they just do things because it feels good, because they want something so they’ll do whatever they have to do to get it?”
