Текст книги "Lovely Vicious"

Автор книги: Sara Wolf

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

-7-

3 Years

14 Weeks

3 Days

Jack Hunter’s level of menace is steadily increasing.

For a while back at the party I thought our pretty-damn-secluded moment of secluded-feelings-sharing was going to diffuse the tension between us, but alas. It appears, by the pictures plastered all over the walls and lockers of East Summit High, that I was wrong.

The pictures are of me. Fat. Coming out of my old high school building in Good Falls, Florida. My butt crack is showing, and I’m practically swimming in the old baggy clothes I used to wear.

People look at the pictures, then point at me and laugh.

I immediately weigh the pros and cons of throwing a tantrum.

Kayla sidles up to me, a nervous look on her face. She walks with me to class. People really are huge meanies. Just really big fat meanies. This has to be Jack’s doing, since we are at war and all, but this is the cruelest thing he’s done yet. I’ve been pretty cruel too, but I didn’t dig around in his past or anything. Okay. Maybe I did. A little. I talked to Wren and he told me about Sophia and I mentioned Sophia at the party. So I guess this is Jack’s way of telling me to butt out. I ticked him off. Super ticked. A very large tick that has drank a lot of blood and been stuck in an armpit for so long it became a Godziltick. That’s how ticked off he is. As if I care! He’s brought out the big guns, the guns of me being fat, and I still look fabulous even fat but how dare he reach his shitty little fingers into my past and air it out for everyone to see, and if I ever see him again I’ll tear his esophagus up out of his mouth and use it as a ceremonial headdress –

“Isis,” Kayla pats me on the back. “You’re thinking out loud again.”

“I am upset,” I sniff. “With certain persons in the immediate vicinity.”

“Not me,” Kayla clarifies.

“Never you.”

“To be fair, it’s a very pretty butt crack,” Kayla offers.

“Thank you. What’s Jack’s first period?”

“Trigonometry with Mr. Bernard –”

I storm over to J-Building and casually kick Mr. Bernard’s door open. Jack’s in the back. I stride over to the whiteboard, pick up the eraser, and chuck it at his head. It dings off with considerable force and Jack looks stunned.

“You’re a horrible little boy, Jackoff Hunter McShittington!” I shout. “I bet you have potted cactuses – ”

“Cacti,” Mr. Bernard offers timidly.

“ – CACTI, and you smell horrible and you’re the stupidest asshole I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting and if you could just go jump off a building and die alone I would be very grateful!”

I slam the door behind me and lean against it, breathing deep. With all the angst out, I can smile again, think straight again. I skip to class. Kayla quirks a brow.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m currently devising terribly fiendish torture scenarios in which Jack doesn’t get out alive with his penis intact.”

“Oh.”

“He is getting crossed off the decent human list,” I assure her. “With red ink! And a million exclamation points!”

“Do you think he really did it? He taped all those pictures up by himself? Where did he even get them?”

“There’s only one person who has access to my past like that,” I murmur. As I make my way to Wren’s typical hideout at recess, I realize I haven’t cried. Not a single tear. And why should I? I’m not proud of who I used to be, but it’s not who I am anymore. I’m different. I have four streaks of purple in my hair, and I haven’t fallen in love in three years, twelve weeks, and five days. I’m doing good. I’m doing so much better than that person in the pictures was. I hold my hand out and run down a line of lockers, tearing off the pictures as I go. I slam the wad into the trash triumphantly. My fat butt decorates the floor, ripped and shredded and made dirty by the thousands of footprints that’ve walked on it. Some people have scribbled FAT and HUGE BITCH. The janitor is sweeping pictures up by the dozens, his usual death-glare turning a little soft when he sees me.

The student council room is clean and tiny and smells like pencils and stale doughnut holes. Wren is instructing a Freshmen guy with glasses and two Freshmen girls with mousy hair on the merits of not running in the halls and getting good grades or some drivel. I come up behind him and slam my hands on the desk.

“Yes, hello, good evening everyone. It is I, butt crack girl. Please evacuate the immediate vicinity before I show you my new and updated butt crack.”

“Isis, what the hell –” Wren starts. The freshmen shoot him nervous looks, and he motions for them to go. When they’ve closed the door, I sit on Wren’s desk and cross my legs over one another like a dainty lady.

“You gave my picture to Jack, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You talked to Nameless, and he gave you my picture.”

“No! I swear to you, Isis, I haven’t talked to Will –”

I flinch, and he clears his throat.

“ – uh, Nameless, for a whole year! We’re not all that close!”

“How else would Jack get that picture?”

“Look, I’m not saying I know who did it, but didn’t you notice there was no comment from the faculty? Principal Evans didn’t get on the PA system to comment on the pictures at all. He usually reprimands defacing school property like crazy. But this time? Nothing.”

“Are you saying Evans did this?”

“I’m not saying anything,” he lowers his voice. “I’m just saying it’s odd, is all, and that if you talk to Evans, you might get some more information.”

He stares at me with his round, unblinking hazel eyes. I finally relent. There’s no way someone as cute as him could have done something as evil as supply my enemy with prime blackmail photos, even if they were friends once.

“Alright. I’ll talk to Evans. But –” I point in his face. “I’m not done with you. Not by a long shot. Jack told me at Kayla’s party he did something bad. And you got scared. And I’m gonna find out what it was.”

Wren’s face goes so pale for a second I think he’s had a heart attack. His lips get thin and he glowers. It’s all the proof I need that what Jack said was true. He really did something bad. Something that’s making Wren tremble under his polo shirt and horn-rimmed glasses. But I can’t pry it out of him now. I have a principal to confront. I stride out and leave Wren behind. Evans’ secretary is a pretty dark-haired woman and a spotty birthmark over her forehead that makes her look half Dalmatian and half awesome.

“Can I see Evans, ma’am? It’s urgent.”

“Sure, sweetie.” She smiles. “He’s free. I’ll buzz you in right now.”

I take a deep breath right before the door and compose myself. I can’t kick this door down. I have to be sociable, I have to get the truth from him, and that means pretending I’m nice and pretending I’m easy to fool. So I smile my brightest smile ever and push through the door.

Evans is at his desk, typing away at the computer. Glass figurines of penguins litter his bookshelves, and an ostentatious, tacky gold bust of his own head sits on his desk next to his nametag; PRINCIPAL GOODWORTH M. EVANS. I swallow a snort. Goodworth. What kind of name is that?

Evans looks up, his bald patch more noticeable than ever. He grins.

“Ah, Isis. I figured you’d come in to see me today. Please, sit.”

He figured, huh? That’s not promising. I sit in the plushy chair across from him.

“My picture is everywhere,” I start.

“I know. I saw. I’m terribly sorry – kids these days are just so cruel. I had Marcus clean them up as soon as I saw them.”

“He’s still working on that.”

“I know. Poor man.”

Nothing about Evans’ voice sounds sincere – it’s all half-sweet, meaninglessly airy words. He doesn’t care at all. He just keeps typing at the computer, with no time for me. Either that, or he doesn’t want to confront me. He can’t look me in the eye, and it’s not a good sign. Guilt does that to people.

“I wanted to ask you about Jack,” I say. Evans chuckles.

“No, I won’t give you his home address, his schedule, his phone number, or his social security number.”

“What?”

“That’s what the other girls ask for.”

“I’m not other girls, Mr. Evans.”

“So I can see.” He smiles, typing on the computer even more rapidly. “You were expelled from your last high school because of – what did the police call it? Intent to harm? According to your permanent record here, you fought everyone you could get your hands on, anyone who looked at you a strange way. What made you so touchy, I wonder?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe years of vicious bullying for being fat.”

“But that teasing inspired you, didn’t it? That’s why you lost so much weight. So really, you should be thankful for it, and to the people who antagonized you.”

I laugh incredulously. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Language, Isis,” he says smoothly. “We wouldn’t want another mark on your permanent record now, would we? It’s already so scuffed up.”

I underestimated this guy. He plays the game well. Of course he does. He’s had years of adulthood – where everyone smiles when they hate someone and bottles up their emotions – to practice in. He’s a master of passive-aggressive-bullshit-taekwondo. And I’m more a master of the aggressive style. We’re basically dancing around each other in two incompatible styles, so neither of us is getting anywhere. I change my stance.

“I heard Jack’s super smart,” I add a simpering tone to my voice. “That must be because this school is so good at teaching, huh?”

Evans looks up, his chest puffing. “Of course. Our faculty are top-notch, you’ll learn that soon enough. Jack is the brightest student I’ve seen in years – he got a perfect score on his SATs”

I smirk on the inside, but smile on the outside. “So that means he’ll probably go to a really good college, right?”

“Oh, the best. He just started applying to Yale today, as a matter of fact.”

Today? That’s an odd coincidence. When I overheard Jack and Evans, Jack seemed to hate the idea of applying to an ivy just a few weeks ago. So what changed? I narrow my eyes, but keep smiling.

“Wooow. Yale is an ivy league, right? That’s pretty impressive.”

“He’ll apply to Princeton, too, or so he said. It would be a huge waste if someone like him stayed here.”

“Right. Definitely. Is he the first person from this school to go to an ivy league?”

Evans’ eyes glint. “Well, not the first. There have been three people before him. But he’ll be the first in about twenty years, yes.”

“That must make you so proud.”

“Indeed. Extremely proud.”

“Everybody’s gonna think it’s because of your management, probably!”

“Oh,” he laughs in a fake-modest way. “I wouldn’t say that.”

And that’s when it hits me.

“You have access to everybody’s permanent record, huh Mr. Evans?”

Ever eager to show off his power, he preens, smoothing hair ineffectually over his bald spot.

“Hm? Oh, yes. Yes I do.”

“So you have everyone’s past schools on record, too.”

“Certainly.”

“Including mine.”

“Yes, that’s how I know you were expelled.”

“And I bet that record has some old pictures of me, huh?”

Evans freezes, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. Gotcha, motherfucker.

“Let me guess,” I say slowly. “Jack called you. Probably on Sunday. He asked you to find old pictures of the fat me, and post them up where people could see them. And in exchange, he would apply to the Ivy League schools you’ve been harassing him about.”

Evans scoffs. “That’s nonsense –”

“Is it? Because that picture of me was taken by my old school’s yearbook club, and they put it in the section titled ‘STUDENT FAILSAUCES! XD’.”

“What’s an XD?”

“A sideways laughing face of horrendous proportions. Don’t change the subject.”

“Isis, look, I really wish I could catch whoever did this horrible thing to you. But the fact of the matter is, we don’t have a very good camera system. And Marcus said he saw no signs of a break-in –”

“Because no one broke in. You just unlocked the gate and doors with your master key. A student would’ve had to have broken a window or a vent grating or something to get inside.”

“I’ve had enough of this,” Evans snaps. “Get out of my office, right now.”

“What if I tell campus security? Huh? What’s gonna happen then? Oh, wait, they’re on your payroll. Maybe I’ll just go to the police with this.”

“You have no evidence. Get out!”

I sarcastically salute him, slamming the door so hard behind me I hear one of his stupid glass penguin statuettes fall and shatter. He grumbles and yells at his secretary for a broom, and I walk away with a smirk. His outrage confirms everything. I won, and we both know it. Principal Goodworth M Evans is small fry, and never posed a real challenge at all.

I’m almost disappointed, but then I remember Jack.

I still have Jack.

I still have a lovely, satisfying challenge waiting for me.

***

Someday, the world has to acknowledge my raw sex appeal.

Today is that day.

On Wednesday, I wear the skimpiest, most jaw-dropping outfit I can manage while still being inside dress code – a short denim skirt and a bright red shirt with slits cut in the side and a wide neck to show off my collarbone and shoulders. I wear red flats, put my hair up in a high ponytail, and wear five times more makeup than usual. I look, for all intents and purposes, hot as hell. Well, I always look hot. Now my hot just can’t be ignored.

Jack was trying to insult my looks with those pictures. And he did. He insulted them so well; people will have no choice but to notice the difference. The before picture was plastered all over the school, and after picture is breathing and walking around and in a bright red shirt. If he expected me to cower, to wear dull colors and shrink away from the attention, he was very, very wrong. I might not be Kayla or Avery pretty, but I’m better than the girl in the picture, and that’s all the school needs to see. I park towards the front, and make a big show of getting out – piling my books slowly into my backpack and locking my car with exaggerated key pressing. I wave at some people I recognize – Avery, who all but sneers at me as I pass. Kayla runs over to me, but Avery grabs her arm and yanks her back. I flash Kayla a ‘see you later’ smile. It’s better she doesn’t come over and ask what’s up, anyway. I’ve got places to go and people to shock. They’re staring, whispering, but there’s no laughing, and there’s sure as hell no smirks. Boys whistle and a girl asks where I got my skirt. Half of me is terrified with all the attention – my hands shaking and my throat dry. But the other half of me knows this is what I have to do. Not just for the war, not just to prove Jack wrong. I have to do this for myself. For the girl in the picture.

I make my way to first period when the bell rings.

 “Hi Mrs. Grayson!” I smile. She does a double-take, like most people are doing.

“I-Isis? Oh my god, you look so – ”

“Different? Awesome?”

“Trampy!”

“Not all of us have the luxury of a college English degree, Mrs. Grayson. Some of us have to hustle on the streets.”

She goes white down to her toes. If only she knew her favorite Jack Hunter was really a high-paid gigolo. She’d flip. And probably hire him for a night two seconds later.

I walk into Trig. Mr. Bernard eyes me like I’m a rabid dog, but I smile really hard and try to look innocent. It works for all of two seconds before Mr. Bernard glances at the door behind me.

“You dented it, Isis.”

“Sorry, Mr. Bernard. It was an unfortunate casualty of war. I’m just here for a second.”

“Well, alright then. But only make it a second.”

I have to stall time until Jack walks in. I see the knife-kid. He’s in Trig with Jack? That’s impressive. I sit at the desk beside him. He nods at me, but his frown remains.

“You look different.” He says, voice croaking. It’s the first time I’ve heard him talk.

“Thanks! You too! New haircut? I bet you did it yourself.”

“A butterfly A-9 buck knife would cut hair pretty good, now that you mention it. Or I could use the classic rib eye backhand.”

“Sounds about right.” I nod, even if I have no clue what the hell he’s talking about.

“Who are you waiting for?” Knife-kid asks.

“That obvious, huh?”

“Jack, then. Screaming at him wasn’t enough?”

“He was the one who put the pictures of me all over school! Hell no screaming isn’t enough!”

Knife-kid nods. “I saw the pictures. I had fun slashing them with my protractor. Nobody should be made fun of like that, I think.”

I don’t know whether to smile at how sweet he sounds or become extremely concerned at how creepy he sounds. I settle for a little of both just as Jack walks in. He walks right by me, and settles in his desk behind me. I turn and watch him take his backpack off.

“Hi.” I wave.

It takes him a moment to recognize me. Or a million. He focuses his gaze on me, then looks boredly to the window. He puts his chin in his hand, studies a pigeon in a tree with utmost intensity, and then all at once his eyes go wide. He swivels his head slowly back to me.

“You,” He murmurs.

“Me!” I chirp.

“What the hell are you doing in that?” He asks, eyes sweeping down to my chest, my legs, and up again.

“Damage control.” I smile. “Do you like it?”

“I’ve seen pigs dressed better.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that, considering you see one in the mirror every morning.”

“I wasn’t the one who put the pictures up, if that’s what this idiocy is about.”

“I know you didn’t do it. Evans did.”

Jack goes stock-still for all of three seconds before he snarls.

“I asked him to give me a photo of you when you were younger, not plaster them all over the school.”

“But he did it anyway. He knows we’ve been fighting – the whole school does. He probably wanted to impress you so you’d think about applying to more of those Ivy’s, huh? Pity. He really wants you to go to one so he can brag about you to all his little educator friends. No offense, Mr. Bernard.”

Mr. Bernard shrugs, eyes riveted to my butt.

“Really.” I turn back to Jack. “You should’ve known better than to go to Evans. I don’t care if it’s not what you told him to do – those pictures all over still happened. And you made it happen. So I can’t forgive you. Ever.”

Wren walks in just then, a stack of papers in his hands. He plops them on the desk and starts talking to Mr. Bernard about robotics club funding. And then he sees me. Wren’s face is five times more expressive than Jack’s. His mouth pops open and hangs there like an ajar door, and he clears his throat and adjusts his glasses quickly.

“I-Isis. Good morning.”

“Hey, prez!” I get out of the desk and hug him. He makes a strangled-cat noise and adjusts his glasses so hard they fly off his face. I pick them off the floor.

“You okay?”

“I-I’m fine. Um. You look – you look, uh, you look – ”

“Nice?” I offer.

“Really…really nice,” Wren exhales. “Nice doesn’t actually cover it.”

For some reason, the compliment coming from Wren means a lot more to me than the dozens of stares and wolf whistles.

“Are you just going to stand there and gawk, Wren?” Jack sneers. “Or are you going to get on with your presidential business? I’m sure more club advisors have papers that need delivering.”

Wren turns red, and glances sheepishly at Jack.

“Right. I should go. Bye, Isis.”

“See ya!” I wave.

“And you, Mr. Bernard,” Jack continues savagely. “Last time I checked they don’t pay you to ogle teenage girls. They pay you to teach. So start teaching.”

Mr. Bernard jumps in his chair, clears his throat, and hurriedly goes to the whiteboard and starts writing equations. Knife-kid laughs. I salute Jack as I bow out the door.

“Have a great day, Jackoff.”

“Try not to get molested, cow,” He snaps.

“Oh my stars!” I fan my face. “Could it be? Could East Summit High’s Ice Prince be expressing concern for me?”

“Get out,” Jack says.

“That’s the only command of yours I’ll obey.” I wink, and flounce through the door. It’s obvious I’ve won this battle. By lunchtime everyone is talking about how slutty I look instead of how fat my butt crack used to be. It’s not much of an improvement, but it’s the best I’ll get. The whispers are the sound of me winning the war again Jack Hunter.

Boom, bitch.

-8-

3 Years

16 Weeks

1 Day

I pick Mom up after her shrink sessions downtown. I wait in the car outside the brick building and watch the late-afternoon sun dance its golden fingers across the sidewalk and through the trees. Northplains might be quiet, and chock full of a whole lot of nothing, but it’s incredibly pretty in the fall. Orange and red leaves litter the ground, dreamy clouds of steam and smoke pour out of the chimneys, and the sky is a cold, bright blue, like a chilled porcelain dish. I pull my scarf up over my nose. It’s way chillier than Florida, but if I freeze to death, at least I’ll die far, far away from where Nameless can see. I bump my head against the headrest thoughtfully. Nameless. He hasn’t crossed my mind in a while. He’s always been there, like a massive poopstain in my brain, but with the war against Jack and Mom’s problems, I hadn’t thought about him for weeks.

That’s a lie, of course. I always think about him when I see a mirror, or the thing on my wrist. There’s no escaping him. He’s the reason I look the way I do, now. Maybe someday I’ll get rid of him. I hope so, at least. But hope is hard to hold without cutting yourself on it, so I try not to hold on too tight.

Mom’s taking longer than normal, so I grab my coffee and head inside the building. Neat offices line the hall, and a lobby with fake plants and faker girls on the magazine covers greets me. The receptionist is a woman with gray hair and eyes and a sad sort of smile. She’s helping someone at the counter with flaming red hair.

Hair that can’t be mistaken for anyone else but Avery.

“Hey, Avery!” I wave.

The girl freezes, shoulders seizing up as she slowly, so slowly, turns around. It’s Avery alright, bright green eyes glaring at me and her freckled nose twitching. She says something to the receptionist, and walks over to me.

“What the hell are you doing here?” She asks. Non-threateningly.

“Uh, my Mom goes here. For things. What about you? Why are you here? Oh, uh, shit, is that insensitive to ask?”

“Slightly,” Avery drawls.

“You’re here for someone else too, huh? Duh. Avery Brighton doesn’t go to a shrink.”

“Of course,” Avery says quickly. “I’m here to pick up my…cousin.”

“Ms. Brighton?” The receptionist calls. “Here’s your prescription. Would you like to schedule another appointment for next week?”

Avery winces, composes herself, and turns to the receptionist and takes the prescription. She marches back to me with a super angry face.

“Don’t you dare say anything.”

“Uh, I won’t. It’s cool.”

“It’s not cool,” Avery’s voice pitches up. “Don’t you get it? It’s the fucking opposite of cool, what I’m doing here, so just keep your mouth shut.”

“Look, it’s fine, I’m not gonna tattle. It’s Jack I’m after, not you.”

“So you don’t know about Kayla and Wren then?”

I frown. “What? What about them?”

Avery’s face relaxes visibly. “Never mind.”

“Wait a second, I might not be after you, but I care about Kayla. What the hell did you mean by ‘Kayla and Wren’?”

Avery flips her fiery hair. “Remember how I said I’m never inviting you to a thing of mine ever again?”

“Vividly.”

“Well I’m inviting you now. And I hope you’ll return the favor and not talk about what you saw here.”

“Suuuree,” I say slowly. Avery narrows her eyes.

“The Grand 9 bowling alley, in downtown Columbus. Saturday at noon. Be there.”

“But what about Kayla and Wren?”

Avery scoffs. “It’ll be clear when you come to the alley. So just come.”

“Yes? Okay? I guess?”

She pushes past me and is gone before I can ask more questions.

“Isis!” Mom comes up behind me, hugging me and turning me to face her. “I’m sorry I’m late, honey, the session went long.”

Her eyes are a little red, and she’s clutching a wad of tissues. It must’ve been a hard session. Hard, and sad.

“It’s fine.” I smile. “Let’s go. I’ve got some pizza dough rising in the oven.”

“Homemade pizza!” She laughs and looks to the receptionist, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me into a hug. “I’ve got the best daughter in the world, I swear.”

When we get home, I roll the dough out and put sauce on it and decorate with mushrooms, olives, and a few onion slices. I sprinkle it with garlic salt and mozzarella, and put it in the oven. The smell soon permeates the house in a cloud of cheesy, saucy scent. Mom is upstairs taking a nap when the phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Isis! How’re you doing, sweetie?”

“Hi Dad. Wow, I’m sorry I haven’t called? It’s been crazy over here.”

“Your mother told me! Apparently you’ve made friends and have been going to parties! I’d be proud if I wasn’t so insanely worried.”

“I’m fine, Dad,” I laugh. “It’s really okay. I’m smart and careful.”

“No boys yet?”

“Never boys.”

“Good. Keep that off your plate for a while, you don’t need the distraction when you’re so close to graduating and going to college.”

Jack’s dangerously handsome face instantly pops into my mind, and I smirk.

“Don’t worry. No distractions here.”

***

There are only two things people will ask you in your Senior year of high school; What colleges you’re applying to, and whether or not you have a boyfriend. Everything else seems completely irrelevant – no one will ask after your mental state (deteriorating rapidly with all my homework and essays), what you do to have fun (stare at my bedroom ceiling and pick the nail polish off my nails), or whether or not you actually want to go to college (no, I don’t, I’m tired of school, but I’ll go because everyone is making me and flipping burgers at McDonald’s for seven bucks an hour sounds revolting). So far I’ve applied to a couple, and the only one I really want is Ohio State. It’s close to Mom, so I can take care of her if she has another breakdown, or if she just needs me, period. I can’t go too far, obviously, not with her nightmares and flashbacks. She’d forget to eat without me here to cook for her, I’m sure. And I’m not gonna let her waste away.

What I really wanna do is take what I earned from my summers of part-time jobbing and go to Europe, eat the food, see the people, bike around the countryside. It’d be incredible. And incredibly terrifying to be on my own like that. But I’d manage. Struggling through young adulthood is half the fun, or so I’ve been told.

Except we all know that’s bullshit. It wasn’t fun at all.

It was painful, and now I just wanna go somewhere no one knows me, start the next chapter of my life fresh. But I can’t. I have Mom. And I love her more than I love my freedom. I have to protect her, and help her get better.

So I’ll do the college thing Dad and Mom expect of me. I’ll get a degree in Poopology or something. I’ll be the daughter they want me to be until I figure out the person I want to be.

The Grand 9 bowling alley in downtown Columbus is awesome – a massive neon sign greeting me with the number 9 and a dancing electronic bear of some kind draped over it. It’s cheap and looks like it’ll be greasy as hell, and I’m already loving it. I park and go in, and I’m instantly greeted by that particular bowling-alley smell – wax and sweaty shoes and soggy French fries. An overweight man jerks his thumb to the last lane and hands me a pair of size 7 shoes.

“Oh. Thank you? How did you know my size?”

“Pretty boy told me.” The man grunts. Pretty boy? I walk over to the last lane, the counter riddled with soda cups, a pitcher of root beer, and empty nacho wrappers. Wren is bowling at the lane, arcing a perfect split. Kayla smiles and high-fives him as he comes off the lane. Avery is grumpily sipping her root beer, and to my surprise and general disgust, Jack Hunter is sitting at the lane, looking even more insufferably cool, if that’s at all humanly possible.

 “I see everyone’s here!” I cheerily bounce into a seat next to him and unlace my shoes. I glance over, as if seeing him for the first time. “Alright, which one of you’s been dabbling in demon summoning and hasn’t told me about it?”

Avery rolls her eyes and takes out a flask of, presumably, alcohol, and dumps it into her soda.

“Nice to see you in something other than prostitute clothes,” Jack says.

“You’d know all about prostitute clothes, wouldn’t you?” I smile, and choose a bright pink ball before sitting down again. “Who –”

“I’m here because Kayla asked me,” He interrupts. “And I guessed your shoe size.”

“Accurate guess.”

“Your measurements are 38-28-36, and you’re 5’5. It’s not hard to guess a shoe size based on that.”

“And you know my measurements!” I clap my hands excitedly. “However did you guess those? Wait, let me think – you were staring at me!”

“I have a gift,” He says dryly. “For observation.”

“And for being extremely creepy.”

“Your prostitute outfit the other day was the first time you wore tight enough clothes for me to estimate correctly.”

“I would love to slap you right now, but I’m currently wielding a nine pound ball and I’m afraid that would be called murder.”

He half-laughs, half-scoffs, and gets up to pour himself a soda. I turn to Avery.

“So? Who’s winning?”

“Can’t you read numbers?” Avery sighs, and motions to the board. Jack is ahead of everyone by a good fifty points and they’re only in the fifth round, his card decorated with straight strikes.

“Look at all those X’s! It’s like a strip club sign! You’d almost think they had some kind of hidden meaning,” I muse aloud. Very loudly.

“The meaning that I’m winning?” Jack raises a brow.

“Or that you’re a stripper at a gay bar,” I announce.

“I’ve only stripped once, and it was for a woman, thank you very much,” Jack hisses.

“Yeah? Do tell.” Avery suddenly looks very interested. Jack makes a disgusted noise and stands to bowl his turn. Kayla bounces over to me.

“Aw, Kayla, look at you! Eager as a puppy and pretty as a picture. Not of a puppy. Because pictures of puppies sometimes look kind of slimy and you are not slimy and oh my god Wren are you wearing contacts?”

Wren coughs, and adjusts his shirt collar, eyes busy boring a nervous hole into the back of Jack’s head.

“Y-Yes? I just came from volunteering at the Salvation Army, so I didn’t have time to take them out. It’s good to see you. We thought you weren’t coming.”

“Oh I always come. Especially where I’m not wanted!”

Kayla frowns. “That’s not true. Um. Avery, um, you wanted her here, right?”