Patchwork

by Karsten Knight

Tonight was the first night that Troy and I had sex.

  I’m vaguely aware that someone across the room is talking to me—Slade—but instead my eyes are fixed on the antler chandelier hanging over us while I experience the same thought over and over again.

  If I’m in my May 14 body on February 8 …

  And Troy is in his February 8 body on February 8 …

  Oh my god.

  My boyfriend is now a virgin and I’m not.

  “Well?” Slade asks, and I snap back into the moment. Once again, all eyes are on me. “Are you guys going to let a little slack in the relationship chain and play the game with us?”

  I’m still too stunned to speak, so I turn to Troy, who watches me intently. Say no like you did last time, I plead silently. Please say no. I can’t sit here and play a frivolous kids’ game while a killer heads for our lodge, ready to set fire to it or do whatever else he intends.

  Troy opens his mouth to reply, but Ivy interrupts him. “Oh come on,” she says. She holds up the two origami turtledoves that she made and pecks their beaks together. “You guys have been dating for half a year now—think of the game as a way to show how confident you are in your relationship. How much you trust each other.”

  Ivy’s words are enough to make Troy think twice. We sit in a stalemate because he’s waiting to see which way I’ll go. Meanwhile, I wait to see if he’ll unknowingly trade our “first time” for a game of debauchery.

  Finally, he shrugs. “What do you think?”

  “Come on, Troy!” Slade chucks one of his armchair pillows, which sails through the space between us. “How else am I ever going to have a get-out-of-jail-free card for making out with your girlfriend?”

  Are you okay with this? Troy mouths to me.

  I glance at the window. The snow has begun to powder the glass. If today’s weather is like last time, the gentle snowfall will eventually transform into a fierce Nor’easter that will render the roads outside impassable. Maybe Osiris is counting on me to convince everyone to flee. Maybe he’s planning to set an ambush on the road, where even the four wheel drive on Troy’s truck will be no match for the unplowed terrain.

  No, it will be safer here. As much as I’m beyond not in the mood to play this game, at least it will keep my closest friends where I can see them. If Osiris wants to set this house on fire like he did the frat house, I’ll be prepared this time, ready to lead my friends to safety. And selfishly, one game of Truth or Dare is a wiser idea right now than going upstairs and deflowering my boyfriend—again. So I say, “Okay, let’s play. It’s not a big deal.”

  Marcie claps her hands together. “Ooh, I haven’t played this in years.”

  “Hasn’t stopped you from playing your fair share of Seven Minutes in Heaven, though,” Garrett says. He high-fives Slade.

  “You douchebags would be lucky to last two minutes in heaven,” Wyatt snaps.

  Slade shrugs, unembarrassed. “Yeah, but it would be the best hundred-and-twenty seconds of her life.”

  With the threat of murder imminent, I’m completely distracted for the first ten minutes of the game. Everyone starts with truth, until the “Who hooked up with whom?” and “Where is the most exciting place you’ve gotten busy?” questions start to get old. Then the group’s perverted curiosity moves on to dares. Dana’s face burns red for two minutes after she moons everyone. Garrett does two naked laps around the house in the frigid cold, and I spend the entire time wondering if he’ll return covered in blood, with a knife protruding from his back. Slade gets ten fingers from Wyatt so that he can reach the antler chandelier and swing from it, just to prove that the chains securing it to the rafters were heavy-duty enough to support a person’s weight.

  The whole time, two bottles of high-end champagne from the lodge’s wine cellar circulate around the group, so that everyone can get warm and fuzzy and stupid one swig at a time. I fake drinking whenever it’s my turn to stay sharp.

  “I’ve got one for Ivy,” Slade says after he dismounts from the chandelier.

  Ivy never even looks up from the flower she’s constructing out of gold candy wrappers. “Oh, yeah? What inanimate object are you going to dare me to hump? Or do your parents have a stripper pole hidden somewhere in the lodge that you want me to use? No, I’ll opt for truth.”

  Slade smirks. “I was counting on that.”

  “Dare, then,” Ivy says. “I’ll take my chances with the object-humping.”

  “Too late. And besides …” Slade wrinkles his nose. “I wouldn’t do that to my parent’s imported furniture.”

  Ivy sighs and flips the origami flower onto the table. It does several pirouettes before it stops in front of Slade. “Okay, grand high inquisitor, do your worst.”

  I know this can’t be good. Slade lives his life like a chess game, lining up his opponents and thinking three steps ahead. It’s why he’s an incredible soccer player, and why he led the debate team to championships. It’s also why he’s skilled at orchestrating pranks for the Amaranthine Society.

  But that same razor wit transforms him into an asshole on occasion. And looking back through the periscope of time, I’m beginning to really see an unpleasant side of him I’d never noticed.

  Slade pops another chocolate into his mouth. “What I think the masses really want to know”—he gestures around the circle—“is the age of the oldest person you’ve ever hooked up with.”

  Ivy reflects for a pensive moment. “It was on a family vacation to Prague. I was so embarrassed of my father taking pictures of my mother in front of every fountain, street lamp, and trash can, that I snuck away to the nearest tavern. This guy who spoke broken English, maybe thirty or so, challenged me to a game of darts—free drinks for the rest of the night if I won, a passionate kiss if he did.” She licks her lips. “I’ve never been very good at darts.”

  Garrett pumps his fist. “Older man, yes! So I still have a chance even after I graduate.”

  Knowing full well that Garrett probably would never be Ivy’s type, I say, “If you’re so smitten, maybe you should seize the moment and ask her out now.”

  Garrett shrugs and turns to Ivy. “Want to go out with me?”

  “Not until you disinfect the backseat of your Saab,” Ivy replies, and even Garrett laughs. She points to Marcie on the other side of the circle. “Okay, Marcie. Truth or—”

  Slade interrupts. “The game is Truth or Dare, Ivy. If you’re going to lie, you’ve got to take the dare instead.”

  Everyone in the room collectively squirms, except for Slade and Ivy. He stares penetratingly at her. She stares right back. Her expression is placid, but her body language betrays her, where her hand tightly clutches the wooden armrest of the couch.

  I’m more confused than anything. Ivy has always confided her secrets in me, and the story about the guy in the Czech tavern wasn’t a newsflash. So what the hell is Slade fishing for?

  “Fine,” Ivy says. “Dare away then.”

  “Kiss me,” Slade says. It’s the first time I think I’ve ever heard him sound unsure of himself.

  Ivy stands and wanders over to his chair. Garrett, Marcie, and Dana offer a collective “Ooh!” in anticipation as Ivy straddles Slade’s lap. She leans down and her eyes flutter closed. She tilts her head to the side, and Slade, ever-the-calm Slade, seems electrified with anticipation.

  Right as their lips are about to meet, her eyes snap open and she says, “Not even if there was a nuclear holocaust and you were the last man on earth.”

  Then she steps over him like he’s some wounded animal and heads for the front door. “Where are you going?” I call after her. The whole point of indulging in this stupid game was to gather everyone in one place, where I could keep them safe. I can’t have my friends slipping out into the cold outdoors and fanning out in different directions.

  Framed in the open doorway, Ivy slips on her coat and looks at me sideways. “Just going for a smoke.”

  The door slams shut behind her, and all I can think is, Ivy doesn’t s
moke.

  My attention alternates between the closed door and Slade, who looks ready to tear the armrests off his chair. He takes Ivy’s origami rose off the table, drops it to the floor, and flattens it with his foot.

  Dana, who’s remained suspiciously silent this whole game, leans forward. “I think we need to find out how committed the lovebirds are to playing. Test the waters a bit.”

  Slade immediately perks up. “How unexpectedly demonic of you, Dana. What did you have in mind?” The gleeful way he asks makes me want to lean in and break his nose.

  “Nothing too scandalous.” Dana blows on her nails. “Just a quick make-out session with someone other than their spouses.”

  While I feel a twinge of jealousy at the thought of Troy kissing someone else, it seems petty to get worked up about it when there’s a killer running around. We did choose to participate in the game. It’s Dana’s barely restrained delight that rubs me the wrong way. I’ve probably exchanged ten words with her in the two years I’ve known her. Why suddenly play the Mean Girls card?

  I can tell Troy is trying not to look me in the eyes, as if this is no big deal. “Okay,” he says, standing up and stepping over the coffee table. “But I swear to God, Slade, if you slip me the tongue …”

  Slade giggles girlishly and kicks out at Troy, who keeps trying to peck his face into Slade’s personal space. “Not on the first date, Troy,” he shrieks. “I’m not that kind of girl.” Everyone around us laughs, including me.

  Dana takes a cleaver to the fun when she clears her throat. “No, I get to pick. First, let’s choose a mate for Troy. Renata’s out for obvious reasons. Ivy has left the premises. It would be selfish to choose myself, so that leaves …”

  I turn to Marcie. She shrugs apologetically, but the smile on her face is pure victory. That’s when I realize that this play, this farce that I’m observing, is a setup. Dana is just playing a puppet to indulge the fantasies of her friend.

  Well, if Marcie’s got the hots for Troy, she’s not doing herself any favors in the subtlety department. I mean, I realize the girl isn’t the president of the drama club, but she has the transparency of a sandwich bag. She’s an idiot if she thinks this looks anything but premeditated.

  Troy freezes with one leg still draped over Slade. He raises an eyebrow my way again. Now I’m getting frustrated that he keeps checking in with me. Just rip off the Band-Aid and get it over with, I want to snap at him.

  “It’s only for five seconds,” Marcie pipes in. The leather sofa crunches beneath her as she reclines expectantly. Troy’s going to practically have to straddle her to kiss her the way she’s sitting.

  This is what Osiris wants, I realize. Put me in a position where I’m distracted by the smoke and mirrors of drama with my friends, and I’ll never see the knife sliding into my spine. “Why not make it ten seconds?” I ask, trying to sound indifferent.

  “Because ten seconds would give you enough time to lunge for Marcie’s throat and strangle her to death,” Garrett says.

  Troy remains in suspended animation. I level my finger at him. “Go on. But you better not look like you’re enjoying it.”

  Marcie winks. “Give me more credit than that.”

  Troy’s spell is broken. Strangely, as he bends down to meet Marcie, the last thing he does is to glance piercingly at Wyatt.

  Marcie impatiently cups her hands around either side of his head and pulls his face the remaining distance to hers.

  Ten seconds is a long time to watch your boyfriend kiss someone else. Slightly more agonizing than I expected, especially when his eyes flicker closed. He’s clearly struggling to keep the kiss stiff and cold on his end, while Marcie’s lips play torturously over his. I’ve always tried so hard to distance myself from high school angst, but I’m not immune to the pain I somehow expected not to feel.

  Then it’s over. Troy has the presence of mind to pull away, even as Marcie’s hand reaches out to reel him back in. How could I have possibly been snowed into a winter cabin with the two of them for a week and been blind to this sexual tension? I think back to prom, when I had that brief exchange with Marcie in the bathroom line. Had she shown any signs of hostility toward me then? Signs that she wanted to destroy my relationship with Troy, to take him for herself?

  Before I can torture myself with any more of these questions, Dana intervenes again. “Renata’s turn,” she says. “Wyatt looks awfully bored down there on the floor. Want to keep him company?”

  Troy had started to take a seat beside Garett on the love seat, but freezes when he hears Wyatt’s name. Someone’s seat creaks in the awkward silence.

  I look to Wyatt. There’s challenge in his eyes. We’ve done it before, he’s thinking. This time we’ll get a free pass.

  Unlike my last kiss with Wyatt on New Years’ Eve, stolen in the privacy of a dark living room, this one would be justified. And I’ll be damned if watching Troy with Marcie didn’t make me want to cross that line all over again.

  But one of my best friends is outside wandering in the snow while a killer’s on the loose. I stand up and head for the door, where I slip on my coat. “I’m going to see where Ivy’s run off to. Maybe grab a smoke with her,” I joke.

  “Renata.” Troy crosses the floor so quickly that I don’t hear him until he’s on the doormat behind me. “It was just a game,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder.

  I rise up onto my toes and kiss him on the jawline. His stubble scratches my lips. “It was just a game,” I reassure him. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Even after I back through the door and gently close it, I can still feel his eyes on me, penetrating the wood.

  The first thing I do outside is search the landscape for any flashes of red. Thanatos should theoretically exist only in Patchwork, but if the colossal red mutant somehow broke free into the real world with me, I’d rather not find out after an axe cleaves my chest in two.

  There’s no immediate sign of Ivy. I zip my parka all the way to my chin, because I can already feel the cold lapping at my throat. The snow is coming down in those deceivingly weightless clumps that will eventually white out the surrounding roads.

  I do, however, see a line of boot prints trailing off toward the main road, rapidly being erased by the falling snow. Rather than play human plow, I use the depressions Ivy left in the powder to follow her trail. The driveway is practically a slalom course leading out to the road.

  When I come to the final turn in the driveway, I spot Ivy. She’s leaning against the wrought iron gates, her gaze fixed on the sky. There’s a cigarette perched on her lips—God, she wasn’t kidding—and she blows a series of smoke rings out onto the main road. Whatever Slade was fishing for must have really gotten to her. I make a note that if this time travel business takes me back far enough, I should get her to quit this filthy secret habit.

  I’m about to speak up, when I hear something else—the crunch of tires on snow. My first inclination is that it must be a snowplow, but after everything that’s happened, I have to assume there could be a Mac truck speeding toward the gates, ready to flatten my friend.

  Instead, it turns out to be a jeep with tinted windows. There’s something vaguely familiar about it. In fact, I know for certain I’ve seen it on the Daedalus campus.

  Ivy seems to recognize it, too, and not in a good way. She curses and flicks her cigarette into the snow. The jeep’s driver-side door pops open. The high beams are blinding me, so I can’t immediately see who climbed out. “Are you kidding me?” Ivy yells. “I specifically told you not to follow me here.”

  That’s when Mr. Slattery steps around the hood of the car.

  My breath catches in my throat. It’s vile enough to know that Mr. Slattery has been lurking outside the lodge grounds today … but it means he must have also been here on the previous February 8. Our creepy history teacher could have been stalking the area the whole time we were inside, languishing by the fire, enjoying ourselves—

  —while I was being intimate with my bo
yfriend for the first time.

  I withhold the urge to gag, and flatten myself into the snow. I have to strain to hear the conversation over the wintry breeze.

  Mr. Slattery is still smiling as he approaches the gate. “Oh come on, pumpkin. This is exciting.” His hands grab the metal bars and he leers down at Ivy, who’s tall for a girl, but still half a foot shorter than he is. “You can sneak out and warm up in my jeep for a little bit. Or maybe I can climb up a tree later on, or throw rocks at your bedroom window—”

  “Stop it,” Ivy hisses. “Have you completely lost it?” She points back toward the ledge, and I lower my head behind the snow bank. “That house is full of Daedalus students. Are you trying to lose your job? Lose your wife?”

  His smile falls. “I want to be with you. Need to be with you. I know it’s not ideal that you’re a student and so …” He swerves around the word young. “You’re what I’ve been waiting for. Your energy, your passion. You make me feel like I’m in high school again, Ivy Atwood.”

  Ivy shakes her head. “You’ve seriously crossed the line from passionate into creepy, Dave.”

  “Don’t say that.” He closes his fingers around hers through the bars.

  Ivy yanks her hands away like she’s been scalded. “You drove two hundred miles to a ski lodge where I didn’t invite you to see me. During February vacation. While your wife stays at home. How did you even know where this place was?”

  He shrugs. “Slade McGreevy’s parents listed it as a residence on his emergency contact information. I just wanted to surprise you.”

  “Do I look pleasantly surprised?”

  Slattery’s wounded façade melts away. Something vicious and possessive bubbles up. “I wasn’t about to leave you here, to your own devices, in a lodge full of other guys—other boys—for an entire week.”

  “You’re the one acting like a boy, Dave. Now go home. This is over. I don’t ever want to see you outside of class again.”

  Slattery pounds once on the metal bars, then rattles them like an animal. “You let me in right now, Ivy. Let me in, or so help me, I will climb right over this.”