by Sara Grant
He has that effect on a lot of people. Maybe it’s a game he plays or a gift he has that makes women fall for him.
“And now that you’re engaged, I’m sure Ethan will want a little namesake sooner or later.” She elbows me in the ribs.
“I broke up with Ethan.” Even if he doesn’t really want to believe it. I walk a little ways ahead of her.
She catches up and tugs on my arm. “What? I thought you and the Big E—”
“Ethan’s changed. You must have noticed that.” I don’t want to have this conversation. What am I going to tell her? I broke up with Ethan because I think I’m falling for her boyfriend.
“Poor you.” She tries to hug me, but I shake her off. “Maybe I can stay over like old times. Slumber party!”
I keep walking. “I don’t think so. Things are weird at my house.”
“We can’t go to mine. My guardian removed my bedroom door. Can you believe it? They keep chipping away at my freedom.” She stops dead in her tracks. “I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t we meet up at Braydon’s later? We’ll forget about everything and just have fun.” It’s as if she’s read my mind. I would love to see Braydon, just see him, again. I am worse than the government. They keep us hostage, harm us, in some twisted urge to save us. But I know the damage I could cause and I long for him anyway.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
I take the train and walk over an hour to get to Braydon’s. I don’t want to be alone with him on his motorcycle. I remember how it felt to cling on to him. With every step I beg myself to turn around. This is a bad idea. I tell myself that it’s harmless. I just want to see him. But it will be torture to see him with Sanna, to be so close to him. I stop a few times, as if I’m the rope in an invisible tug of war. My better judgment on one side pulling me to my senses, and my selfish, base desire on the other beckoning me onward—and winning.
The farther I get from the City, the fewer people I see. I pass houses that used to be grand and now crumble like castles of sand. I turn into a driveway with wrought iron gates parted the perfect width for a motorcycle. The number Sanna gave me matches the number swirled into the pattern of the gates. Looming ahead is what can only be described as a mansion. As I get closer, the storybook image fades. The columns are gray with mildew and the facade is chipped, giving the house a polka-dot effect. I knock, and the door swings open into a two-story foyer with a spiral staircase.
“Up here,” Sanna calls. I follow the sound of her voice. “Look at what Braydon has,” Sanna singsongs as she swings a green glass bottle in one hand and a delicate crystal goblet in the other. “Champagne. It’s bubbly,” she says with a giggle.
“Where did Braydon get champagne?” I ask, trying not to appear to look for him.
“He says he found it in the wine cellar.” She sways as she greets me at the top of the staircase. “There’s a crate of this stuff. I think it’s some of the last champagne produced by the National Vineyard. How cool is that?” Her words are running together. She’s drunk. I’ve only seen her this way once. We went to one of her brother’s parties. Some people brought homemade wine. It was tart and I didn’t like the taste, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“I’ve always wanted to try champagne,” I say, and hook one arm around Sanna to keep her from falling. I hope she doesn’t get sick like last time. I follow her as she staggers to a huge room at the end of the hall. It has a four-poster, king-size bed centered on the far wall. The ceiling is vaulted. Four of my bedrooms could fit in this room. To my right is a wall of glass with doors that open onto a balcony. To my left are two doors, both slightly ajar. One opens into a bathroom that appears to glow with chrome and mirrors. The other is a walk-in closet, where I imagine Braydon’s collection of red footwear must be kept. But that’s not the most striking feature. Masks are scattered around the room. Hundreds of empty eye sockets stare back at me.
Sanna pulls me farther into the room. “Isn’t this wild? He made some of these. The others I think were already here. That one is my fave.” She points her glass at a silver mask with sparkling multicolored gems embedded in it. There’s a large emerald stone in place of one eye, which seems to wink in the sunlight.
“Where did he get the stuff to make all of these?”
“I guess he found some of it.” She points to a jewelry box with a tangle of necklaces spilling out.
“Where are the owners?” It feels wrong to be in someone’s home uninvited.
“God, Nev, I don’t know. Where has everyone gone?” She walks over to the bed and picks up a mask that’s lying on one of the pillows. It’s a delicate shade of pink framed by fuchsia feathers. Tiny crystals glow—in the same shape and spot as Sanna’s scar. “This one is me. Isn’t it a-maz-ing?” Sanna strokes the feathers. She holds the mask up to her face and sticks the tip of her tongue out the slit between the mask’s lips.
“He is quite the artist,” I say, taking it all in. A wooden mask where the grain of the wood creates a web of wrinkles. A white, glossy porcelain mask with distorted features as if the mask has been stretched in angry hands. Bright colored ribbons and silver and gold paint adorn a few masks, perfect for masked balls. Others are decorated with letters from keyboards and shiny computer chips that look like fish scales. Each one has a distinct look but all have dark eyes. There’s a series of ten masks lined up like a headboard a few feet over the bed. Each mask is almost exactly the same. He’s copied the same mask over and over, but each time he’s added or subtracted something. You have to look close to see the difference, but these subtleties make each mask unique.
“Wow” is all I manage to say.
“Do you get the signif?” Sanna asks.
I nod. I know exactly why Braydon creates these hollow images. I understand about the many masks we wear every day. The row of similar masks is his expression of us. How we are all the same and all different. But I can’t say that. “Kind of creepy, don’t you think?” I fake a shiver.
“Be nice, Nev.” Sanna swats at me and laughs. If she only knew.
“You’ve got to have some.” She pours fizzy liquid into the glass until it foams over. She hands it to me and licks the bubbles off her fingers. “Drink up,” she says, nudging the glass toward my lips and tipping it back when I take a sip that turns into a gulp that leads to me downing the entire glass. I didn’t even taste it, only felt it tingle down my throat. My mouth feels drawn and dry. She pours me another.
“Braydon wants to make a mask of you,” she says. “Isn’t that a primo idea?”
No. I’ve never heard a worse idea. “I don’t think so. It’s awfully nice, but—”
“Come on, Nev, he likes to collect faces.”
I bet he does. He has collected more than that from me.
“It won’t take long.” She clumsily pushes me down on the bed. I try not to think what they have done on this very bed. I spring up.
“It’s perfect. You two can get to know each other better.” She stage-whispers in my ear. “Do it for me, Nev. I want my two best peeps to get along.”
I empty the champagne from my glass.
Braydon walks out of the bathroom with a clear glass bowl full of white goo. “Hi, Neva,” he says. It’s already been decided. I can see in the twinkle in his eyes that he wants this. He wants to capture a piece of me.
“Nice house,” I say, unsuccessfully keeping the sarcasm from my voice.
Sanna looks from me to Braydon, then downs the last of the champagne from the bottle. She tosses it on the bed.
“So where does the artist want me?” I try to sound flippant and casual, not to give any hint how excited I am to see him.
“Sit wherever you’ll be most comfortable.” He waves his free hand in an arc. He’s trying too. His smile is forced. We lock eyes, mine begging him not to make me do this and his begging me to let him.
I take a seat in a high-back leather chair. Sanna brushes my hair off my face with a headband. She slathers thick, oily jelly all over my face. “It
feels a little yucky at first, but it will help the mask peel off when it’s done. Close your eyes,” she says, and gently rubs the cold jelly over my eyelids. “Keep ’em shut. Got it?”
“Neva, just relax,” Braydon says as he straddles my legs. I grip the chair’s arms. His thighs are pinning my legs together. My whole body stiffens. “Tilt your head back,” he says, and I obey. “I’m going to start on your forehead. It will feel cold at first, but your body temperature will warm it up.”
He’s right. The plaster is cold and gritty, but I can feel his fingertips through the chill. He’s making tiny circles. His touch is light. I imagine his hands slowly making their way down my body. He could master the slightest touch—that torturous place between a tickle and a caress that raises goose bumps and makes my back want to arch. He is hovering above me, so close that I can hear him breathing. The rhythm of my breath quickens to match his. I pin my shoulder blades deep into the leather to keep from reaching for him.
I can hear Sanna singing softly to herself. The bedsprings groan. I assume Sanna has flopped on the bed. I wonder if she’s watching us. I shift uncomfortably in my seat.
“You need to stay still.” He cups my face and turns my head to its original position. His fingers inch the cool goo down my temples and across the bridge of my nose. “Your face is so tense.” He smoothes the tension from my jaw line.
I try to relax. I really do. But my body is betraying me. It wants to inch closer to him. My body is on fire, but my brain is frozen with guilt. He soothes the chilly mixture over my eyes. His fingertips outline my eyelids and wipe away the lines of tension.
Sanna is probably bouncing ever so slightly on the bed, excited that her boyfriend and best friend are finally getting along.
“How am I supposed to breathe?” I bat his hands away as they approach my mouth. I try to stand up.
“Nev, chill.” Sanna is at my side. I can smell the tart champagne on her breath. She is petting me and pushing me back down. “He puts this strawlike thing in your mouth when he’s done.”
“Would have been nice if he’d have told me that.” Everything is closing in. He’s making me into someone I don’t want to be. My feelings for him sizzle below the surface. I’ve got to get out of here. “Listen, I can’t… this is… I’m just…” I gasp for air.
Braydon backs away.
“Nev, it’s okay,” Sanna coos. “Just think, like, happy thoughts.” Her words are slurring a little. My mind is growing a little fuzzy with the champagne too. I let my thoughts fizzle away. I don’t want Braydon to stop touching me. It could be, should be, for the last time.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I can feel the plaster beginning to harden on my forehead.
“Do you want Braydon to stop?” she asks.
“No,” I whisper. I don’t want him to stop. That’s the problem. I think I’ll die if he stops. “I’ll be fine. Give me a minute.”
The air around me cools. They have backed off, but I can feel them there, a few feet away, watching me. Their voices and movements are muted into static. I think Sanna may be giggling.
“I’m okay,” I say. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Are you sure?” Braydon asks, and touches my arm with some part of his hand not yet covered in plaster.
I nod. “But talk to me, okay?” I need a distraction.
“Okay,” he says. He must know my agony. Does he feel it too? “What shall I talk about?”
I have a million questions. Why are you doing this to me? being at the top of the list. A close second is Who the hell are you?, but all I say is, “Anything. Tell me about yourself.” He’s straddling me again, and his leg muscles tense.
“Fab. Story time,” Sanna chimes in. She thinks I’m showing an interest.
“I will if you’ll sit still.” He moves in closer. “I’m going to put this in your mouth so you can breathe.” He slips a flexible tube between my lips. “Now close your lips around it.”
I do. I flick my tongue over the end of the straw.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod and push air through the tube.
“I’m sure Sanna’s told you this isn’t really my house.” His meter is slow as if he’s choosing his words carefully. “My parents got into a little trouble and I was sent to live with a guardian. My guardian had about five other kids already living with him so I decided to, well, disappear. I don’t think he even reported me missing. He’d lose the money the government gives him, and nobody really cares about one more missing person, do they?”
I try to ask if he’s really a Bartlett, but the words are unrecognizable through the tube and with the plaster hardening on my face. Miraculously Sanna translates, “My nosy friends want to know if you’re actually a Bartlett.” She’s farther away.
“Yeah, believe it or not. But my mom’s last name was Benzoni so I’m only half respectable.” He laughs and Sanna echoes with a giggle.
He’s tracing my lips. He’s circling them again and again. I shift in my seat. He applies more goo to my left cheek. “I found this house. Learned the Council plans to turn the land into a graveyard. The house will be a mausoleum.” His answer sounds rehearsed, or maybe I’m making him uncomfortable.
I’ve got so many questions. I try to speak, but it’s no use.
“Biz-zare. This place—a big funeral home,” Sanna says. “Dead people planted like flowers out back.”
I wish she hadn’t said that. I don’t need that image stuck in my head.
“I’m almost finished,” he says. His hands are stroking my face. I imagine him teasing out all the wrinkles, bumps, and blemishes from my face. “Okay, that’s it.” His warmth is gone. “I’m going to go get cleaned up. You relax. I’ll be back in a little bit.”
Thoughts of Braydon pierce my brain like long, thin needles, and I try to push them out. I sit, masked, with nowhere to run. I let myself slip into a fuzzy blackness.
“Neva. Neva.” Braydon is whispering in my ear. I must have fallen asleep. I wiggle in the chair, feeling my body wake up. “Are you okay?”
I nod.
“The plaster is dry, but I’ve got a few more things to do on the mask. It won’t take long.” I can feel a slight pressure on my face, and I can smell paint. “Sit very still,” he says.
I do. I’m not ready to reenter my life yet.
“Okay,” he says after a few minutes. “I’m ready to take the mask off.”
Me too.
He runs a finger around the edge of the mask and slowly pries it off my face. It prickles and pulls at my skin but slides free in one piece. “Be careful opening your eyes.”
I raise my eyebrows and gently tug each eyelid open.
“Do you want to take a look?” he asks.
I nod.
He turns the mask around, holding it by its edges. The white underside gives way to a pale blue. He’s painted it the most delicate shade. He’s added only one artistic flourish. It’s a snowflake in the shape and place of a teardrop.
“What do you think?” he asks.
I take it from him. “It’s perfect.” I study it, this face that I rarely see. The curve of my cheeks and lips. The line of my nose. The angle of my jaw. I don’t recognize myself. “Why the snowflake? Because of my necklace?” I say, and finger the pendent.
He stares at my hand. “Your name, Neva. It means snow, right? That’s how I think of you. As delicate and as unique as a snowflake.” He reaches up and touches my face.
“I better get this gunk off.” I slip past him. I notice Sanna asleep on his bed. She’s snoring softly. Her limbs are cocked at odd angles, as if she’s a puppet with her strings cut. Guilt floods back in. I’d forgotten she was here.
I duck into the bathroom. I wash my face more times than necessary. When I work up the courage, I head back to the bedroom. The setting sun is casting long shadows across the floor.
He’s put my mask on some sort of display stand next to his bed. “It needs to dry,” he says when he catches me staring.
<
br /> “I’ve got to go,” I mutter, and glance at Sanna, who has turned over and pulled a corner of his shiny purple blanket over her.
“Stay.” He closes the distance between us.
I’ve got to get away from him. I run down the stairs and out the front door, into the cool evening air.
He races after me and grabs my arm. He spins me around to face him. We are both panting. “I’ve missed you.”
God, I’ve missed him too.
He searches my eyes. I am defenseless, hoping that he will be strong and walk away.
“I can’t. I just can’t,” I say. I can’t leave him, and I can’t stay.
“I’ve never felt like this before.” He whispers what I’m thinking.
With one move, his lips are on mine. Our bodies press into each other. I want to unzip him and slide inside. I can never be close enough to him. I’m utterly lost in his kisses.
Our lips part first. Our faces inch apart. Air finds the tiniest path between us. Our eyes are the last to break our embrace.
“How could you?” The voice severs the spell between us in one swift slice.
Sanna.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
I’ve been plunged from a white-hot fire into an icy bath. I open my mouth, but I can’t speak. My head is still spinning from Braydon’s kiss. The look on Sanna’s face snaps me into the present. It’s a collage of hurt, anger, and confusion. I stumble backward, away from both of them.
“Sanna, I’m so sorry,” Braydon says. But I want him to shut up. Please don’t let him tell her. I have to be the one. I’ve got to make this okay somehow. This is Sanna. I’m the one who comforted her when her mother died, when her father disappeared, when she went to live with the Joneses. I’m the one she runs to when she looks like this. I’m the one who does whatever I have to do to pull her back from the edge. Now I’m the one who’s pushed her to it.
