Текст книги "Lovely Vicious"

Автор книги: Sara Wolf

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

“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 one. 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.”

I shoot him a withering look, but he just smiles.

“I didn’t tell him much. If you want to know about him, I can only tell you a few things. There’s a lot I don’t know.”

“Who’s the girl?” I immediately ask.

“What girl?”

“The girl he brings books to.”

“Oh. You must mean Sophia.”

“Sophia,” I repeat quietly. “Is she his girlfriend?”

“I’m not sure. To be honest, he hasn’t told me much about her. She’s the one thing he guards very closely. I know she’s ill – she’s in the hospital almost always.”

“Sick Sophia. Got it.” I catch a falling can and hand it to blush lady. “Anything else?”

“He lives with his Mom in Coral Heights.”

“That’s that fancy gated suburb with the huge houses, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, a lot closer to Columbus.”

“Where’s his Dad?”

“Died in a plane crash, I believe.”

My heart sinks for absolutely no reason. I pull it back up by the ventricles. Now is no time to be feeling sorry for the enemy, heart! Get it together! Extremely together! Get it together so well you fuse!

“So what did you tell him about me?”

“I told him about Will Cavanaugh.”

I flinch so hard I jolt into the table behind me. A pyramid of soup cans wobbles, and comes crashing down. I bite back a swear and hurriedly help them clean up my mess. When the pyramid is back on the table in a mass of tin and cheery labels screaming SODIUM FREE, Wren sighs.

“My cousin is kind of a cruel little shit. I can understand why his name affects you like that.”

“He’s –” I swallow what feels like the entire contents of a staple box. “He’s your –”

“Cousin,” Wren confirms. “I don’t know if you’ve been told, but it’s a very small world.”

 “Microscopic,” I laugh nervously, but no part of me feels happy. Nameless is closer than I thought. No – it’s not him. Calm down. It’s just a relation of his. He’s not here, and he won’t ever be. Hopefully. I mentally make a note to search for the closest cliff to dive off of just in case.

“I don’t know the full story between you and my cousin, but he’s said you and he were involved at some point.”

“Yeah. Involved. That’s hilarious.”

“Are you okay? You look green.”

“I’m – I’m fine.” I put a hand on my stomach to steady it and send it a memo.

Can you wait until we’re alone to recalibrate the burrito?

Thanks and Love, The Management Upstairs.

My stomach replies with a rebellious gurgle. Wren checks off something on a clipboard, eyes burrowing into me all the while.

“Anything else I can help you with?”

“Yeah, how legal is underage prostitution?”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Like, it’s not death sentence illegal, but it’s not booze-legal either. So it’s somewhere in-between those two, right?”

“Presumably, yeah.”

“Okay. Cool. Thanks again, prez!”

He flinches at the nickname as I wave and walk off, my mind brewing with a fantastic, ultra-cool, surefire plan.

Jack Hunter might have a sick girlfriend and no Dad, but he’s still a dick. We’re still at war. And he’s still gonna pay.

-5-

3 Years

12 Weeks

5 Days

Doing a bit of Google research on the Rose Club clues me in on two things;

1. There is no Rose Club. At least, not out in the open. People on sketchy Ohio sex forums refer to something called the ‘Club’, but they don’t ever detail the name. I guess it makes sense – things like this are pretty illegal. And if the Club is hiring minors, it’s even grosser and illegaler. Or maybe Jack lied about his age – his fake ID certainly looked convincing enough.

2. Clubs with good-looking men for escort hire are usually gigolo clubs, run by a smart, older gigolo from overseas, where the practice is widely common in Europe. It’s not unheard of for rich, wealthy daughters to hire equally beautiful guys for proms, weddings, family functions, and the weekend usual of wild-ass rave nights. The Duchess of Orlan-Reis (eighteen and gorgeous) was busted last month in Los Angeles for a DUI with fifteen pounds of Versace couture and two Portuguese gigolos in the car. Bill Gate’s daughter’s been going out with a rumored gigolo for a year and a half. Rich girls like pretty guys. And Jack is a lot of hugely negative things, but he is, I hate to admit, a pretty guy. But it’s hard to believe a gigolo club would be here, in Ohio. I mean, there are some pretty rich people in Columbus, so it makes sense, but only a pie slice of sense versus an entire pie of sense. And why would Jack sign up to be in one to begin with? Last time I checked, sex-for-hire isn’t exactly one of those jobs you like. Or do you?

I shake my head and open a can of tuna. Let’s not think about sex. Ugly people have sex, sure, but me, particularly? It’s not in my future. I made it through high school without having it, and I’ll probably make it a couple more years. Even if I do have it, it won’t be with someone who actually likes me for who I am, and whoever I have it with will have to like stretch marks and flab and zits, and last time I checked a significant portion of the population thinks all three are gross as hell. I’ll turn the lights off or something and get it over with. It’ll be, like, a fling. A bar thing. What do grown-ups do to get laid again? Dating sites, I guess. It’s a pretty bleak future, but it’s not like I can expect anything else – I’m sparing people from me, and that includes relationships. If I ever have sex, it’ll be with some guy I won’t ever see again. That way there’s no chance of anything beyond a one-night stand forming. It’s the most practical, logically sound plan I’ve ever come up with, if I may say so myself.

“Honey.” Mom comes in. “Your father wants to know what schools you’re applying to.”

I smack my hand against my head but there’s a can opener in it. As I rub away the bruises, I sigh.

“I’ve told him a million times, Ohio State, Oregon U, Idaho U, and that one Mormon college in Seattle with the creepy brochures.”

“Why are you applying if it looks creepy?”

“Because creepy is awesome? They’re like a cult. I’m all about that shit.”

Mom shoots me the Disapproving-Mom-Subtle-Lip-Frown.

“I’m all about that poop,” I correct delicately. She laughs, and it’s a good sign. Two good signs in one month. I quash my optimism for stark realism – it won’t last. I hope it does, but it won’t. That won’t stop me from enjoying it while I can, though. I assemble the tuna melts and slip the sandwiches in the oven to, well, melt. The doorbell rings, and I answer. Avery stands there, flaming hair lit from behind by the half-setting sun and a little scowl on her face.

“Awesome, thanks so much for coming!”

“I’m not staying,” Avery drawls. “Just give me the money so I can leave.”

“Uh, right! How much do I owe you?”

“Twenty bucks.”

“Okay, one sec, lemme go get my wallet.”

I take the stairs two at a time to my bedroom and rummage frantically in my wallet. I pull out two tens and hurtle downstairs. Avery passes me a brown paper bag, squished small, and I give her the money.

“Thanks for this.” I smile. “Means, uh, a lot.”

“Stay in school,” she mocks what I told her that night at the party.

“Haha,” I laugh awkwardly. “They aren’t for me. They’re for my high-anxiety…aunt’s…boyfriend’s…daughter…who is my cousin.”

“Sure,” Avery snorts. “Whatever.”

There’s a moment of quiet in which I think she’ll turn and walk away, our business done, but she stays.

“Can I give you a piece of advice?” She narrows her eyes at me.

“Sure.”

“Stay away from Jack’s past.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Any particular reason? And how did you know –”

“Wren and I talk. You asked Wren about Jack. And I’m telling you to stay out of Jack’s past. People don’t do well when they meddle in there.”

“Like, they’re struck by a terrible illness? Did he steal a crystal skull from a tomb? I told him that wasn’t the brightest idea –”

“He’s dangerous,” She cuts me off. “Okay? He’s fucking dangerous when you try to get close to him, and if you keep it up, he’s going to turn that danger on you and I won’t be able to stop him this time.”

“Oh, is that a friend, Isis?”

I immediately stash the paper bag down my shirt. It bulges awkwardly and I pray she doesn’t notice I’ve suddenly gone up an entire lumpy cup.

“Uh, yeah. Mom, this is Avery. Avery, this is Patricia Blake, my mom.”

Avery takes one look at my bathrobed, watery-eyed, slightly fragile looking mother and sneers.

“I gotta go.”

She’s gone in her green Saab before Mom has the chance to rope her into the living room. Smart girl. Also all kind of hells rude, but also smart.

“That girl – she looked familiar,” Mom starts.

“Yeah? You’ve seen her before?”

“I have. I just can’t for the life of me remember where.”

***

I manage to slip the paper bag past security at school by almost rear-ending the janitor’s car as he pulls in to the parking lot Monday morning. He gets out, face a beet-red pimple ready to pop, and as he’s lecturing me on safe driving and checking my fender to make sure not a speck of his red paint is on it, I slip the bag into the bed of the truck, under the tarp. At morning recess, I go behind the maintenance shed by the art room, where the janitor parks and dumps the bed of his truck out. A pile of rakes, brooms, bleach, sponges, and hammers crowd the ground, and the paper bag looks perfectly at home. I quickly pull the bag out from under a window washing pole and scamper off.

Lots of people in the movies break into lockers with elaborate ear-to-the-lock techniques, and when that fails, there’s always the good old bolt cutters. But what the movies don’t tell you is it’s tons easier to just go through the door. Federal school district funding ensures the metal is the lowest quality nickel-tin hybrid, and all high school lockers are essentially made with a two-bolt drop system, which means if you take a hairpin and a pair of tweezers and wedge the center bolt to the left, you can crack the door open enough to slip something inside – for instance, two dime bags of weed that definitely are Jack Hunter’s because they are in his locker, now. I go to the bathroom and call the school office; anonymously tipping them locker 522 has the smell of weed coming from it.

Campus security is all puffed up after catching that ‘criminal’ the other day. Knife-guy’s suspended for a week, and everyone sniggers openly about the fact it took three security officers to catch one naked guy, but that doesn’t matter to the officers. In their minds, it was a triumph of Adult Good over the General Evil of Teenagers, and that’s enough ego puffing enough to have them walking around like balloons with mustaches and bald spots. In ten minutes they’re at locker 522, the janitor cutting the lock and the officers rifling through Jack’s things. I watch from around the corner of the hall as they take out his books, his pencils, dumping them on the floor unceremoniously. When they find the dime bags they sniff the inside of them and assure each other it’s weed. I cackle softly on my way back to class.

Jack Hunter: 2. Isis Blake: 1. It’s a big difference, but I’ll make it up quick.

The rumor spreads like fire on an oil spill – Jack Hunter is suspended for two days pending drug charges with the local police. Life is sweet. I bite into my sandwich and hardly notice it’s the third day in a row I’m eating tuna – my taste buds can only perceive sweet, sweet victory.

“What are you doing?” Kayla asks, staring down at me with a tray of chili in her hands.

“Savoring my win,” I say.

“That was you, wasn’t it!” Kayla slams her tray down and hisses. “You were the one who planted weed in Jack’s locker!”

“Uh, no? He’s the stoner, not me. I wouldn’t even know where to buy weed.”

“Avery said she sold you two dime bags.”

“Oh. Well, in that case, yes. I do know where to buy weed.”

She makes a disgusted noise, but her face is the opposite of disgusting. It’s beautiful. It’s like watching a purebred show cat hack up a hairball.

“In my defense –” I throw up my hands. “Everybody knows the popular people have weed, okay? It’s like a universal law, up there with ‘the apple falls on Newton’s nerdy herd’ and ‘the sky is a distinct blueish color’.”

“I can’t believe you,” Kayla sighs. “I thought you were cool, and now look at you; planting drugs on some guy you don’t like?”

“Uh, it’s a little more than ‘don’t like’.”

“Newsflash – the rest of us do like him, okay? So can you just lay off?”

“He still hasn’t apologized for making you cry, Kayla!”

“He makes me cry all the fucking time, okay? I’ve kind of cried on the daily into my pillow about him for six years now!”

“Even more reason to kick his ass!”

“This isn’t second grade anymore, Isis!” Kayla snaps. “Biting and kicking isn’t ladylike, and it’s not gonna get you anywhere with any guys, either.”

“Maybe I don’t wanna fucking get with any guys!” My voice is so loud it’s drawing attention. “Maybe all guys are scumbags! Maybe I’m the only one who apparently can think clearly anymore and see an asshole for who he really is!”

“He’s not an asshole –”

“I’m not going to listen to your excuses, Kayla! I know them all. I said them all once too for a guy, okay?”

“I have a hard time believing that,” She says nastily.

“Yeah? Believe this!”

I yank my sleeve up, and Kayla does three things in quick succession – she sees it, understands it, and recoils, flinching away from it. From me.

I pull my sleeve back down and grab my backpack. I leave the sandwich there. I leave the short triumph over Jack I had there. I leave my secret there, with her.

The rest of the day is a blurry soup of anger and half held back tears. When I get home, the house is dark. All the windows are closed and the curtains drawn, like usual. The house is sleeping, or that’s what it feels like. I call out for Mom – she didn’t have work or a psychologist’s appointment today, and her car is still in the garage. She should be home. I take the stairs two at a time and freeze when I see into her open room.

Everything is trashed. The lamp is broken, amber glass shattered across the carpet. Her documents and work canvases are scattered like the scales of a paper snake. She’s ripped some of them to shreds, her bed littered with scraps. Her makeup is dripping off her dresser in ugly, flesh-colored liquid rivers. The mirror in her bathroom is broken, her pill bottle open and the pills clogging the sink. Water overflows from the tub onto the floor, a pool just beginning to form. My heart turns cold, my fingers going numb.

“Mom?” I shout. “Mom!”

I check under the bed, her closet, tearing clothes and chairs aside as I look for her. She’s not in the living room, or my room, or the kitchen. I dial her cellphone but it rings upstairs, under her pillow. My mind crowds with images of her beaten, kidnapped, that man holding her by the arm and yanking her back to Nevada, back to where she was miserable –

I dial Dad frantically. But it only rings twice before I hear the faint sobbing. Mom. I leap after it, following the sound into the garage. She’s curled up in the backseat of the car. I yank the door open and touch her face, her shoulders, inspect her for wounds or cuts.

“Mom, what the hell happened? Are you okay?”

“He came,” Mom gasps into my hair, clinging to me like a baby monkey clings to a large one. “He found me.”

The police take fifteen minutes to get here. They comb the house, interrogate Mom to the point of tears and back again, and all I can do is hold her and snap at them when they get too nosy or invasive. When the sweep of the house is done, one of them pulls me aside.

“Look, Ms. Blake, you said your mom has a history of mental illness –”

“She has PTSD.” I correct angrily. “From a recent abusive boyfriend. Not an entire history of fucking mental illness.”

“I understand –”

“Do you?” I laugh, half-hysteric.

“Look, I’m sorry. PTSD can be hell. Shit, some of our guys have it too. Some of our guys have to be let go for it. Fact of the matter is, there’s no male-size footprints in the house, and the locks weren’t forced open. Nothing was stolen. There’s no sign of a two-person struggle in her room, either.”

“She said she heard him walking downstairs.”

“It could very well have been a flashback. You said she’s on medication, right?”

“And seeing a psychologist every week.”

“Well, I’m sorry, kid, but if she’s doing those things already, there’s not a lot we can do for her.”

“She’s not crazy! Stop treating her like she is!”

“I’m not, okay? I’m just stating facts. We can keep a cop outside your house for seventy-two hours, if it makes you feel better, but that’s about it.”

“Yeah. That’d be good.”

He pats my shoulder. “Keep your chin up. She’ll get better.”

I watch his retreating back and murmur;

“That’s what they all say.”

***

After Mom’s scare, I sleep in her room on the air mattress every night. I do my homework in there with her as she reads or naps. We eat meals upstairs, since she can’t bring herself to go downstairs for more than a few minutes at a time. My own room starts to look weird and foreign when I walk in – like I’m a stranger in it. The cop outside helps. When she gets jumpy in the middle of the night, I point out her window to the cop car sitting under the streetlight, and she relaxes and manages to get some sleep. I don’t. I stay awake, listening for the sounds of the heavy footsteps. Waiting. Praying. Praying that the bastard comes in and gives me an excuse to slit his throat.

I wait and I pray and I thank any god who’s listening. Nameless might’ve fucked me over, but he didn’t mess me up as much as that guy did to Mom. My thing is nothing compared to hers. It doesn’t even deserve to be called a thing in light of what happened to Mom. To what happens to women everywhere, every day.

I call the office at school and Mom tells them I’m sick when I’m not. She calls her work and uses all her sick days, but by Friday she’s improved enough to go in. Or so she says. I don’t believe her, but I try to. If I believe, maybe that’ll make it more real.

Fridays at school are always good days, but today it’s just shitcake on a shitpie sandwich. Every part of me feels like I’m rotting from the inside out – I’ve gotten barely any sleep and I can’t focus on the work I have to catch up on. All I can think about is Mom – if she’s alright at work, if she’s coping okay, if she’ll remember to eat the lunch I made her. All thoughts of the war with Jack Hunter fly out the window. I’ve got no tactics, no urge to show him up. No nothing. I’m drained, and tired. And done.

Kayla nervously approaches me at recess. She clears her throat and I sit up from my place on the grass.

“Hi,” she starts.

“Hey.”

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to get some sleep.”

“Oh. Didn’t sleep well?”

“For a couple nights,” I agree. “It’s just, you know. Insomnia crap. Typical wacky teenage circadian rhythms.”

“You were absent.”

“Yeah. I was sick.”

“Oh.” She bites her lip and looks at her shoes before she blurts; “I’m really sorry. For what I said earlier this week. About you, and things. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“S’cool. I’ve been pretty mean to you too, lately.”

“Nu-uh!”

“I’ve been insensitive. About Jack, and how you like him. I’m sorry.”

There’s a long quiet. She reaches out her hand.

“Let’s start over? I’m Kayla Thermopolis.”

I shake her hand. “Isis. Isis Blake.”

“You’re really good at that history of the planet thing.”

“World history.” I smile as she repeats our first exchange at Avery’s party. Speak of the horned red-guy with a trident – Avery walks in at that moment. Kayla clearly sees her, but unlike most times she doesn’t scurry away to Avery’s side. She stays in front of me, and keeps talking.

“I’m…I’m having a party tonight. My parents are out of town, so. It’s just a little get-together. It’d be really awesome if could be there. There’ll be pretzels. And a piñata. You could even punch someone! But only if you really have to. Like, really really really have to. Like, if your life depends on it.” She thinks on that for a moment. “Actually, can you just not punch anyone there at all?”

“I’ll try,” I laugh.

“Okay! It starts at eight, so be there.”

I glance at Avery, who’s glaring swords at me. Claymores. Axes.

“Is Avery coming?” I ask. Kayla shrugs.

“No. She said she had something to do.”

“Are you sure you’re okay with her seeing me and you talking?”

“I’m – I don’t know. She doesn’t like it, but I owe you an apology, so. She’s really awesome and stuff, but I’m not gonna let her stop me from being polite.”

“Right. Cool. I’ll see you tonight, then.”

Kayla rushes back to Avery’s side, and Avery rips into her with snapped, quick words and barbed glances back at me.

After school, I rummage through my closet for something badass to wear, and settle on a black shirt with a red flannel over it, and a black skirt with tights. I used to not be into clothes. It’s hard to be into clothes when the only thing people see about you is the fat, not the fashion. After losing all that weight I couldn’t help but cultivate a newfound joy in dressing the body I’d worked so hard for.

“Are you going out tonight?” Mom peeks into my room and catches me applying eyeliner. I grin sheepishly.

“Uh, yeah. Kayla invited me at the last minute.”

“And who’s this Kayla?”

“The first person at school to call me something other than ‘New Girl’.”

Mom makes a little applauding motion. “I like her already.”

“Are you…” I trail off. “Are you gonna be okay alone, here?”

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me. When are you coming home?”

“I…I don’t know. Before midnight, definitely.”

“Good.”

“The cop will still be out there, tonight, so you don’t have to worry.”

She sweeps over and kisses the top of my head. “I know. I’m sorry for scaring you like that. It was just me being silly.”

I’m about to argue that it isn’t silly, but she pats my hand.

“Hurry now. You don’t want to be late.”

“But I do! It makes me seem important and busy!”

She laughs. I pull my hair into a side braid and grab my purse. Gum – check. Cash – check. Tampons – check. You never know when someone will start their period or when I’ll punch somebody and make their noses bleed. At least with tampons I can be considerate to my enemies.

Speaking of enemies, I have no idea if Jack will be there or not, and frankly I don’t care. I’m still not feeling the whole war thing, and I’m just barely in the mood to party to begin with. I throw together a hearty beef casserole and stick it in the oven for Mom before I go, and she waves as I pull out of the driveway. Halfway to Kayla’s house, she texts me to pick up red plastic cups. I make a haphazard u-turn and gun it to the nearest supermarket for the timeless keg party staple. I’m still feeling like crap, so I grab a jar of frosting to snack on. After losing eighty-five pounds, putting on two or three because of my still-shitty comfort eating habits is small time crime.

“Speaking of crime,” I whisper as I look into the rearview mirror. Two someones stroll along the sidewalk across from the supermarket, coming out of a fancy Italian restaurant. The guy’s messy but-way-too-perfectly-messy-if-you-get-my-drift hair and towering height gives him away – Jack Hunter. But he’s smiling. A warm, sincere smile decorates his angled cheekbones and makes him look more human than ever. A young woman in a to-die-for fur coat clutches his arm. I know the people of Northplains are mostly rich, but this woman looks Columbus-class rich. She belongs in the capital, in Seattle, LA, not here – her hair perfectly red and her lips soft and pouty. She can’t be more than four years older than me. Probably some rich guy’s daughter.

It hits me just then; Jack’s working. That would explain the smile. He’s getting paid to smile. I fight the urge to leap out of the car and follow them, and in a record time of point four seconds I pull my hood up and bolt out of the car and follow them. It’s a romantic walk, I have to admit. The streetlamps are wrought-iron in an old Victorian style, and the warm glow they produce drives off the chilly October night. Little tourist-trap shops filled with stained glass animals and soulless watercolors of the lake crowd the avenue. I duck behind potted plants and café signs whenever Jack or the lady’s head swivels too far. I’m so nervous and excited I uncap the frosting and dip my finger in it, eating it as I follow them. It’s like watching a movie with popcorn except a hundred times funnier, because it’s watching ice-pole-up-his-butt Jack try to be nice. Also, it’s intensely disturbing. Seeing him smile is as unnatural and weird as remembering your parents had to have sex in order to make you.

“I didn’t know your dad was an idiot,” Jack says. His voice is…teasing. Light. Nothing about it is boredly flat, like it usually is. The lady punches his arm playfully.

“Don’t make fun of him. He’s the one paying you, technically.”

“Ah, but I’d do this for nothing. That’s how beautifully distracting you are, Madison.”

I shovel more frosting in my mouth before I rip a hole in the space-time continuum with my explosive laughter. The lady finds it much more sincere, and giggles, leaning her beautiful head on his shoulder as they walk.

“Do you want to go back to the hotel?” She asks, quieter. “I bought new rope that needs breaking in.”

I yelp as I bite my own frosting-covered finger. Madison looks behind her first. Her expression gets flustered and confused. Jack turns around, and his face goes from a faintly-smiling mask to deadly-angry not-mask in less than point two seconds. I swallow and raise a sticky hand in abrupt greeting.

“Uh, hello! Don’t mind me! I’m just walking behind you. Not following you.”

“You’re really close,” Madison says warily.

“I’m just…watching so I can manage things!”

“Manage?” Madison raises a brow. Jack’s ice-blue eyes are colder than a snap frozen mountain river in December.

“Yup! I manage stuff! I’m a…manager! I’m his manager!” I point at Jack and wink and put on a corny-old-timey voice. “You’re going to Hollywood, kid!”

“I paid the fee, if that’s what you’re here about,” Madison starts. Jack looks to her, smile flashing on for a moment.

“Let me talk to her. Give me one second.”

“Okay,” Madison giggles. He kisses her passionately, so passionately I almost feel embarrassed for watching. When they part, she’s breathless, and Jack strides over to me with a brewing sneer. He grabs my elbow and pulls me in the other direction.

“Is that how you kissed me?” I ask, nearly tripping as he pulls me along. “Golly gee, it looks kind of mildly fucking embarrassing! No wonder people at school have been talking about it for weeks now. Golly gee!”

“Stop saying golly gee.”