by Ann Aguirre
Jen looked as if she was relieved Davina had suggested it. “If you want, you guys can come over on Friday.”
Is she seriously inviting me to a sleepover? Brittany dies, and … But honestly, I had no idea how to parse this, no frame of reference for how freaked I should be. Greg the Grief Counselor said I shouldn’t be ashamed of my feelings, whatever they were. Mostly, I was sad and confused, interspersed with fear and guilt. It had to be a coincidence, bad luck, karma.
“I don’t have any plans,” I said aloud.
“Tell me what kind of movies you like to watch and I’ll take a look on Netflix.” Jen seemed a little more cheerful, smiling at Davina and me.
“Romantic comedies,” she said, just as I answered, “Science fiction, any kind.”
“Even bad ones, like Sharknado?”
I grinned. “I’d watch it again.”
“Then I’ll find a good rom-com and a bad sci-fi. Sound fun? We can drink to Brit and talk about stuff.”
“Awesome,” Davina said. “Kind of like a wake.”
Jen nodded. “I guess.”
“I don’t know how many stories I can contribute,” I warned them.
Most of my experiences with her weren’t positive. I wasn’t happy something so horrible had happened to her, just the opposite, but I had no funny, adorable anecdotes waiting in the hopper, either.
I shifted uncomfortably while Davina studied me. “Doesn’t matter. You were there, so you need to come. Catharsis.”
“Okay. You talked me into it.”
“You can ride home with me. So tell your super-hot boyfriend he doesn’t need to pick you up.” Jen was smiling, though, and not using the bitchy tone Allison would’ve imparted to the comment.
“I will. Catch you guys at lunch.”
We split then and I went to first period, where Mr. Love was smoldering at the girls who had doubtless turned up half an hour early in hopes of getting time alone with him. The problem was, like, seven of them had the same idea today. That guy’s a lawsuit waiting to happen. Yet I couldn’t say he was looking at them inappropriately, just radiating a Lord Byron poetic intensity and talking with just the right hint of pretension.
“You look fetching today, Edie.”
“Do I?” I glanced down at myself, seeing the same uniform and the same hairstyle I’d been wearing since the start of school.
“I hate that girl,” Nicole whispered, she of tongue and cherry-stem introduction fame.
Maybe I should let it go … but no. I didn’t turn over a new leaf and infiltrate the Teflon crew just to let other people roll over me. So I dropped my backpack on my desk and strolled over to her desk.
“Why?” I asked politely.
“Excuse me?” Her eyes went wide, as she glanced at friends on either side.
“You just said you hate me. I’m asking why. Or am I supposed to pretend I didn’t hear you?”
Before she could answer, the cause of our problems intervened. “Girls, it’s almost time for class to begin. Find your seats, please.”
Yet as I sat down and got out my notebook, I noticed a pleased gleam in Mr. Love’s eyes. With proper encouragement, his female students would fight over him in earnest. When I went to snap at Nicole, I didn’t even care about his tousled hair or stupid smile. God help those who did.
His lecture was interesting, per usual, and we discussed the imagery in a poem. I’d always found “La Belle Dame Sans Merci” to be overrated and somewhat misogynistic. The knightly ass had no more style than to hump a woman in a hedge, and then wondered why she left him? Fairy bullshit allegory aside, his behavior answered the question.
Afterward, I waited until the rest of the class had gone. Pausing at his desk, I stared hard at Mr. Love, who stirred beneath my scrutiny. “Is something wrong?”
The tinnitus kicked in, and it only happened when I got close to something inhuman, monstrous, or immortal. I slammed a palm on his desk and muttered, “I know what you are.”
Well, not exactly. Not yet. But his presence meant trouble and Very Bad Things.
“I beg your pardon?” He wore innocence like a white mantle, dusted in gold.
No matter. That was all I said; it was enough. Gauntlet thrown, I hurried to my next class, hoping I hadn’t just made a huge mistake.
On Thursday, I went to Brittany’s funeral. Pretty much the whole school did, and they gave us a half day, I suspected because the Kings had donated a lot of money to Blackbriar over the years. It was a closed-casket service with pictures of her on top of the coffin. Brittany’s younger sister sang and Allison tried to deliver the eulogy, but she broke down halfway through her speech. Cameron sat with Brittany’s parents up front, and he looked worse than he had the other day, like he wasn’t sleeping at all.
After the services, I paid my respects to the family and Mrs. King hugged me. “Thank you for coming.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” That felt like the wrong response, but I didn’t know what else to say. I stood for thirty seconds, letting her hug me and then I stepped back. No matter what Kian said, I still felt guilty. My head felt like scrambled eggs, and I was full of crazy theories, like what if I asked for the power to make the Teflon crew pay, and then my third wish was for a memory wipe of that request, so I didn’t have to live with the guilt. Surreptitiously, I checked my wrist. Only one hash mark atop the infinity symbol.
I didn’t sleep much that night.
Friday, I went to school late, so I could skip first period. I didn’t feel like dealing with Mr. Love’s scrutiny. Since I’d dropped that warning, he had been different, watchful and cold. The other girls hadn’t noticed, but they were purblind where he was concerned, seeing only the carefully disheveled hair and keen insights into poems we’d read before.
Apart from pictures of Brittany hanging near the main office, things got back to normal. Classes resumed their usual curriculum and the teachers were determinedly cheerful. At lunch, the cafeteria was back to full capacity, though people were quieter than usual, less yelling, less wandering between tables. Most of the Teflon crew was back. After hesitating for a few seconds, I took my lunch to the table, thinking, I should try to make some real friends.
As I sat down, I noticed Russ was still absent. Davina, especially, seemed worried about him. “Has anyone heard from him?” she asked.
I was still feeling horrible about Brittany. Plus, he wasn’t on my list of people worth giving a crap about, but I only shook my head. Surprisingly, the rest of the crew didn’t know anything, either. Davina turned to Cam. “I thought you guys were supposed to be tight.”
“Excuse me for having other things on my mind. My girlfriend just died.”
She looked like he’d slapped her. “I’m just … worried. It’s not like him to—”
“You’re so funny,” Allison cut in. “I bet you think you’re actually dating. On the DL, right? So you don’t have to ‘deal with drama’ from everyone else?”
Davina sucked in a shaky breath. “You don’t know anything about it.”
“I know everything. You’re not his girlfriend, you’re his bike, available anytime he feels like a ride.” Allison glanced around and seemed to take offense at our expressions. “What? It’s not a secret. Russ is always adopting strays and letting them think they have a shot at being one of us.”
“Bitch.” Shoving back from the table, Davina grabbed her tray and looked for somewhere else to sit.
Without realizing I’d made a decision, I stood up, too. “There are some chairs over there. This table reeks.”
I didn’t realize we had started a mass exodus until Jen joined us; I glanced over and saw the guys looking at Allison as if she were the shit on their shoes. And then Cam said clearly, “Jesus Christ. I have no idea why Brit was friends with you.”
Then they left the table that they’d staked out freshman year to sit with the three of us, leaving Allison alone. Her cheeks were hot with rage or shame, her eyes dark as thunderclouds. She lowered her head and we
nt back to her lunch, but the other students were smirking at her. Her behavior was odd, like she felt she had to be extra mean to make up for Brittany’s loss.
“That was too far,” Cam said, and the other guys nodded.
Like you’d know. But obviously he had a different rulebook for girls like Brittany. She deserved better than I had. I stared hard at him, remembering.
To her credit, Davina didn’t say anything about Allison; she was focused on Russ. “I’ve texted twelve times and he hasn’t answered. Is he replying to anyone else?”
Cam checked his phone. “Nope. And I’m sorry for what I said before.”
God, I hated seeing him act … human, apologizing to people. In my mind, he was a horned, cloven-hoofed monster with no redeeming qualities. One by one, the rest of the table scrolled through texts and then shook their heads.
“I’ll call Russ’s house. I’m sure his mom can tell me what’s going on.” Cam waited while it rang, then said, “Mrs. Thomas? This is Cameron Dean.” A pause. “Yes, it’s awful.” Another pause. “Thanks, I hope so, too. I was wondering if Russ is sick. I can bring his—what?” He stopped talking, eyes widening. “No, I haven’t seen him in days. And he wasn’t at Brit’s funeral, either. No, I’m sorry. Yes, that’s fine. I’m sorry.”
Shaken, he dropped his cell on the table as a bad feeling swelled in my stomach. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
Cam answered, “Russ told his mom he was staying with me for a few days … because of Brit. So I didn’t have to be alone. His parents thought he was at my place this whole time.”
“Oh my God.” Jen’s face paled. “Shit. So he’s … missing?”
Hearing it put into words, Davina burst into tears.
THE SLEEP OF REASON
That afternoon, I went home with Jen and Davina. Jen’s mother was a beautiful Thai woman who spoke perfect English. She looked as if she might’ve been a former model or actress, which explained Jen’s good looks. Ms. Bishop was also polite and charming, delighted to meet Jen’s new friends. Or so she said; I was inclined to believe her. She drove us to a restored three-story Victorian out near Beacon Hill. That alone told me the family had money, but the inside was breathtaking, tastefully decorated in an East-West-fusion style that was calming and warm.
“I’m sure the three of you don’t need me to hover,” she said, hanging up her jacket in the hall closet. “So Jen can show you to her room, but let me or the housekeeper know if you need anything.”
So it’s that kind of house.
“Come on.” Jen went through to the hall, the walls a pale cream that contrasted beautifully with the dark wood of the staircase.
I’d always liked our apartment; it had character, but I had the feeling I was about to feel inadequate. We went up two flights to the top of the house, where Jen had the whole floor. Walls had been torn down to create an enormous suite with oval windows all around. The ceiling slanted on three sides, and she had a full-size bed with a couple of futons placed on the other side of a rice paper and bamboo screen to create a small TV room. She also had a mini-fridge and an electric kettle. Add in the big en suite bathroom, and I saw no reason why she’d ever need to leave.
Apparently Davina shared my minor awe. “You could live up here.”
“I do, pretty much.”
“Your mother seems cool, though.” I understood why some teenagers wanted privacy from their parents, but Ms. Bishop didn’t strike me as a helicopter mom.
“She’s fine. But my parents have a lot of parties. My dad is an entertainment lawyer and it’s ‘part of his job to schmooze.’” Jen sounded like she was quoting him. “So I’m glad I have my own floor, otherwise they’d drive me nuts with the constant noise.”
“Any celebrities?” Davina wanted to know.
“Depends on what you mean by that. D-list, sometimes, people who were in soap operas ten years ago and are trying to get endorsement deals in Japan or Thailand.”
“Not too exciting,” I said.
Jen grinned. “Trust me, I’d be downstairs if any real stars were in my living room.”
“So what’re we watching tonight?” Davina asked.
“I found an Anna Faris movie for the rom-com and a terrible SF about a time-traveling T. rex for the sci-fi portion of the evening.”
Davina cocked her head, seeming thoughtful. “The one where she’s freaking out over how many guys she’s slept with?”
“Yep.”
I had no idea about romantic comedies, unless they had been made before 1960, but I couldn’t stop grinning at Jen’s SF choice. There was no way I could’ve done better myself. “Sounds perfect.”
“First, maybe we should talk about what happened with Brit.” Davina perched on the edge of the blue futon. “I’m still kind of freaked out.”
“It’s hard not to be,” Jen admitted.
“I’ve been having dreams.” Davina stared at the floor. “I haven’t told my mom or she’d have me in counseling so fast it’d make my head spin.”
Jen smirked. “I thought everyone at Blackbriar had a therapist and a personal trainer.”
It was meant as a joke, but I felt pretty sure Davina and I were in a different tax bracket. She mumbled, “I’m on scholarship.”
“Wow, really?” I was impressed.
Davina nodded. “I have been since the beginning. I’m pretty sure that’s what Allison has against me. Her parents are nouveau riche, so she’s kind of sensitive about it, like being polite will infect her with poverty.”
“Did you seriously just say ‘nouveau riche’?” Jen asked.
“You know it’s true. People who just got their money always act the worst about it. They want so bad to be accepted by the blue bloods, to hang out with the right crowd—”
“Allison is kind of bitchy to everyone, though.” These were all nuances completely undetectable to an outsider, namely me.
Jen said, “She got boobs early and everyone except Brit froze her out. So now she shoots first. Constantly. She’s always at DEFCON three, looking for a fight.”
“So a preemptive strike, so to speak.” I’d never thought about it before; the Teflon crew seemed to have actual reasons for their behavior. Honestly, that never occurred to me. I’d figured they didn’t need any motivation to be mean—that like summer and winter, they acted as nature dictated.
“Basically. Allison used to be best friends with Nicole Johnson, but then she developed and guys started paying attention to her. It pissed Nic off, and they stopped hanging out a few years back.”
“Allison is a bitchzilla these days, no lie, but it sucks that Nicole ditched her over something that wasn’t her fault. It’s not like we can control when we get boobs.” Davina glanced down at her own chest. “Or if, in my case.”
“Whatever,” Jen said. “I bet your mom is never on your case about gaining two pounds. Whereas if I even look at carbs, I get a lecture.”
Wow, and I thought my parents were in a pain in the ass. At least my mom never bitched at me about getting fat.
“What’s that look about?” Davina asked.
I didn’t want to tell the truth. “My parents teach physics at BU, so—”
“That explains a lot,” Jen said.
I guessed she meant that it accounted for my complete lack of physical awareness last year. And she would be right. Most girls had a mom who talked to them about hair and makeup at some point, if only in passing. Mine was completely devoid of typical feminine interests; it balanced since she was a brilliant scientist on the verge of an earth-shaking breakthrough. People always thought their discoveries or inventions would change the world. I had a suspicion my mother was on track to do it.
“Yeah, well. Better late than never, right?”
Jen seemed to read my discomfort with the topic. She glanced over at Davina.
“You guys want a drink?”
“Some water would be great,” the other girl answered.
“Still, sparkling, or mineral?” She apparently ha
d all three in her mini-fridge. Talk about hospitality.
“Sparkling,” Davina decided aloud.
“Same,” I said.
Jen got out three bottles of sparkling water, then she turned on the TV, but none of us were in the mood to watch; it was more background noise than anything. I might be wrong but I didn’t think Jen had ever hung out with Davina like this before either. We were united in that we’d seen something horrible together, and while it didn’t precisely make us friends, it did offer a bonding moment that nobody else shared. I might not know these girls very well, but they understood what those moments had felt like.
“So…,” Davina said. “Brit…”
Dropping her gaze, Jen drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “I can’t get her face out of my head. When I try to get to sleep, I see it over and over.”
“For me, it’s the blood,” Davina whispered.
There were so many things I couldn’t share, not least share my suspicions that it hadn’t been a natural death. “It happened so fast. One week, she has a terrible rash and then…”
“That’s terrifying, too,” Davina said. “I’m kind of scared to try any new brands of makeup now.”
“Her parents are suing the cosmetic company,” Jen put in.
Yeah, that’ll help. I clenched a fist, trying not to reveal the chaos in my head. Guilt warred with sadness while regret danced around in circles. But you don’t know for sure it was your fault. Or Kian’s. But if it was Wedderburn … God, it’s all so tangled.
“Maybe we should just … not think about it for a while,” I suggested for my own sanity. “If that’s possible. It might help if we had a better memory together to replace it with.” God, I hoped that didn’t sound as dumb as I suspected. It reeked of Hallmark greeting cards and I expected them both to throw something at me.
Instead both girls were nodding. “That makes sense,” Jen said.
Davina got out a magazine and we paged through it, looking at clothes and deciding what items were fug and which were overpriced. That carried us for an hour, and by that point, I felt pretty comfortable. The housekeeper came upstairs then with a tray of finger foods: white cheese, various cut fruits, carrots, celery, and jicama, along with some cold cuts and whole wheat crackers.
