Текст книги "Lovely Vicious"
Автор книги: Sara Wolf
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 13 страниц)
“He’s so cute,” I say. “Darth is his name?”
“Short for Darth Vader. I mean, he’s all black, I’d just seen The Return of the Jedi, it made perfect sense at the time!”
“It’s way better than Fluffy.”
“Exactly!” She smiles. “He’s a mutt. Half Yorkshire Terrier and half sugar high chipmunk.”
The kettle dings, and Mrs. Hunter pours two cups of tea, and slides one to me.
“Your kitchen is amazing. The whole house is,” I try. She sips and smiles.
“You think? Truth be told I don’t use the kitchen much – it’s Jack who does most of the cooking. I just burn things and get paint everywhere. It makes him so mad.”
She laughs, and I laugh trying to imagine Jack’s screwed-up, exasperated face as he cleans paint off the counters. I burn to ask her a bunch of questions about Jack – here she is, the woman who bore him for nine months and put up with his crap for sixteen more years. She knows everything about him, I bet – how often he wet himself, what he was afraid of as a kid, what stupid-looking costumes she forced him into for Halloween. She probably knows about Sophia, too. My fingers twitch around my cup. Shut up, reflexes. This is no time to act up. Keep those wanton desires for knowledge inside, where she can’t see.
“So you and Jack must be friends, then?” Mrs. Hunter clears her throat. Darth Vader, finally exhausted by his valiant efforts, plops down at her feet.
“Ah…hahaha.” I smile. “Not exactly.”
She nods sympathetically. “I understand. He’s really hard to get along with, very withdrawn, a little snappish sometimes. He wasn’t always like that, but somewhere around middle school he started changing. Hormones, I guess. And without a father –”
She cuts off, staring at a space over my shoulder for a few moments. She shakes her head and sighs.
“I’m sorry. I’m babbling.”
“No, it’s okay,” I rush to say. “I mean, it’s not okay he doesn’t have a dad, or that your husband died, I mean, uh, crap.”
“It’s alright,” she chuckles. “No need to be careful on my part. I miss Oliver, god knows I do. But after seventeen years, I can say his name without breaking down. That’s an improvement, right?”
“Definitely.” I nod. “I’ve…I’ve got someone like that too. Someone whose name I can’t say.”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. What idiot boy would purposefully break your pretty heart like that? One who doesn’t deserve you, that’s who.”
I pull my sleeve down over my arm, and force a small smile. Pretty. She said it so off-handedly, like it was true. But it’s not. Of course it’s not.
“I have to use the restroom,” I start. “Do you know where –”
“Oh! Sure.” She gets out of her chair and gestures. “Right down the hall, through the living room, and to your left.”
“Thanks.”
“When you get back, let’s open this bag of Milanos! You like cookies, right?”
“I never want to meet the person who doesn’t!”
She smiles, and I trot down the hall, making a show of walking with loud footsteps so she thinks I’ve gone down it all the way. I climb the stairs as silently as I can, and inch the second right door open, sliding through when it’s just big enough to accommodate my fat butt.
Jack’s room is dim. The walls are painted dark blue, and dark blue curtains hang over the massive windows. The carpet is black, and the bed is king-sized and done neatly in all blue, too. But the blueness isn’t what weirds me out – it’s how clean it is. There’s not a single piece of dirty laundry lying around. His desk is organized neatly – pencils in a cup. His bookshelf isn’t alphabetical, but there are tons of impressive books on it; classics, some manga, and a small section of books fitted with paper-bag book covers. I pull the cover off one and snigger. Romance. He’s got a little section dedicated to it, and probably covered them so his mother wouldn’t see them. They must be Sophia’s favorites. There’s a TV and a Playstation 4 in the corner, and an Xbox. His computer is a laptop, and it’s sitting on his bed as if he just closed it to leave.
And the smell of him is everywhere.
It’s the smell of sleeping and studying and reading, of skin cells and rumpled clothes, of being a teenage boy but being a weird, clean one, who bathes with a particular type of soap and uses a particular cologne made of mint and honey that overlays his sweat. I don’t even know if it is cologne, anymore. It might just be how he smells, naturally. But it’s everywhere, and it’s intoxicating. My hands are sweating more and more with every inhale. It’s toying with my nerves – I feel like any second I’ll turn around and he’ll be standing there, glowering and plotting my ultimate demise.
I wonder if his mom knows what he does for a job? And why does he need to be an escort at all when his Mom is this loaded? It doesn’t make sense. Even if he wanted to have his own savings, which I respect, he could just get a normal part-time job like the rest of us. He didn’t have to go straight to escorting. With his looks, anybody would hire him. He could model! He could act! He could sell chicken wings and rake in the dough as ladies flocked to the counter daily just to see his face. Why escorting?
I shove the confusion into the time-out corner of my brain. You are being incredibly risky, Isis. You are asking big huge why questions while in the heart of enemy territory and last time I checked that gets people shot and killed. You’re the general! The war depends entirely on you! If you’re captured, it’s over!
Determined, I clench my fist and look around the room. Avery said it would be somewhere obvious, but still hidden. Thanks, Ave. That is basically extremely useful advice. I check under the bed, in the desk drawers, in his closet. Nothing. I’m running out of time. If I don’t get back downstairs quick, Mrs. Hunter will know something’s up and come looking for me. There’s only one place left – his dresser. I inch the drawers open and rummage through all of them. Except the underwear drawer. That thing can go to hell. At least he doesn’t fold his clothes precisely, because frankly the serial killer level of this room doesn’t need any further reason to go up.
And that’s when I find it. Mashed behind a bunch of shirts is a hard wooden box. I pull it out, the sweet smell of tobacco wafting up from the intricately carved Cuban cigar box. It was his father’s, or so Avery said. I briefly wonder how she knows so much about Jack when they don’t speak at all. They obviously knew each other in the past, but how well? Probably very well.
Whatever he did must have been unforgiveable, if Avery and Wren are so afraid of him, now.
I shake that thought out for the millionth time and open the box. Inside is a stack of carefully-arranged letters, each on the same pink stationary with clouds around the edges. I take the topmost; open it slightly to check the date to make sure it’s the most recent. It is. I shove the box back behind the shirts and hesitate before closing the drawer. Who even writes letters in this day and age? It’s so old fashioned and, as much as I hate to admit it, romantic. Finally, I have something from Sophia in my hands. The illusive, mysterious Sophia is right here, waiting for me to read her words. It would be so easy to just pry the letter open a little. Just one sentence. One sentence never killed anybody. Except it has, probably, somewhere down the line of thousands of years of human existence, but like hell that’s gonna stop me.
The handwriting is curly, elegant, and very girly.
Dear Jack,
Can you believe it’s October already? I put up a string of orange Christmas lights and paper bats over my bed. You’ll see it when you come next time – it’s really getting me into the spooky vibe. The nurses are saying we’ll carve a pumpkin and put it on my windowsill. I’m going to give it a fu manchu mustache and call it Mr. Miyagi. Or I’ll make it Hello Kitty. Which do you think would scare more people on the street below?
I’m doing well! Dr. Fenwall thinks I’ll be well enough for a day out after my next round of treatments. We should go somewhere you want to go, this time. And don’t argue! I dragged you to the carnival last time and I know you hate it so you can drag me wherever you want and I won’t complain at all! Promise. Okay, maybe a little whining. But only when my feet start to hurt or I see something cute I want. ;)
She really is sick. But she sounds so cheerful and sweet, I can’t help but like her already. And Jack at a carnival? I can only imagine the intensity of his glares whenever someone would try to offer him cotton candy or pull him into a game of ring toss. And on the ferris wheel? I scoff. He’d be bored the whole way through. He’s a party pooper like that. But even still, Sophia seems to really like him. She sees beyond it, somehow.
I know you’ve been feeling down lately and working extra hard for me, but don’t worry. Dr. Fenwall says he’s talked with the billing department, and they’ve got a grant just for people like me. So, it’s okay if you don’t work for a while. I’ll apply to it, and I know I’ll get it. That way you can just relax and have fun instead of worrying all the time.
I munch my bottom lip. Working? Is that why…is that why he works as an escort? To pay her hospital bills? Can’t her parents pay them? Does she have parents at all?
Anyway, I’m so happy to hear about the new girl. Isis, you said her name was? I know, I know, you hate her and you can’t see why hearing about her makes me so happy, but I am!
My heart jigs around in my chest. She’s talking about me!
But Jack, really. When was the last time someone affected you like this? You never talk about your classmates. She’s the first one you’ve mentioned to me. She must have made quite the impact on you. She sounds like so much fun. I’m so, so happy you’ve met your match. Yes, you heard me. Match. She’s kicking your butt, and you better step up if you want to win!
That’s why I’m happy. You have someone to fight against, and I know how happy that makes you, in a weird, competitive, perverse way. You always used to complain about how everyone at your school was so stupid and boring. You don’t have many friends. And I prayed everyday you’d find someone who’d give you a run for your money, who’d make you feel alive again, who might pique your interest enough for you to become friends. Well! There she is! You can thank me later. You’ll let me meet her, won’t you? I’d really like that.
Anyway, I better finish this and send it off. Nurse Brown poked her head into my room and caught me writing this at four in the morning. Heehee.
I love you like a brother, Jack. You know that. I miss you every day. You know that too.
Yours,
Sophia
I close the letter and wince. I feel like I’ve violated some sacred barrier by reading it now that I’ve finished it. I have to get back downstairs and leave. Holding this thing in my hand is making a sick guilty feeling pool in my stomach with every passing second.
I whirl around and collide with someone’s hard chest. Frigid blue eyes blaze with the coldest fire I have ever seen, the face they belong to carved in shadow and rage.
I squeak and shield myself. “Leave a pretty body for my mom.”
-10-
3 Years
17 Weeks
4 Days
I know two things for certain.
1. I’m not going to escape this house alive. I have good reason to believe this. Predominantly, the way Jack Hunter has been handling a butcher knife for over fifteen minutes.
2. I smell like dog poop. Possibly because as Jack marched me into the kitchen and sat me down, Darth Vader pooped on me. But not before I tied a ribbon to its tail. The savage sith lord is currently chasing himself in endless circles in the hall. I snicker.
Jack hasn’t said a word since he caught me in his room. He instantly plucked the letter from my hands, grabbed my wrist, and marched me down here and told me not to move or speak. Feeling all kinds of hells guilty, I do neither, and simply watch him mess about in the kitchen with cold, precise movements.
Jack cuts mushrooms and asparagus with practiced ease. He’s already chopped some beef and seared it with a delicious-smelling sweet soy sauce. He throws the vegetables in, and begins chopping bean sprouts and red bell pepper. When Jack’s back is turned, I grab a pepper piece and munch, then make a face and put it back. Jack absently grabs the same piece, not knowing I’ve bitten it, and bites the same end, chewing thoughtfully as if to gauge the taste.
“Ew, gross!” I say. “Now your germs and my germs are fraternizing and making germy little babies!”
He glares at me. I weigh the pros and cons of an early death and shut my mouth.
“Did you want jasmine rice or white rice, Jack?” Mrs. Hunter’s voice stabs through the tension in the kitchen as she walks in with two bags of rice, one in each arm. She sees me, and smiles.
“Oh! Hi Isis. Are you joining us for lunch?”
I shoot a look at Jack, who coolly ignores me and chooses the jasmine rice bag.
“Uh, yes? Provided I won’t be taken out back and shot afterwards?”
Mrs. Hunter laughs and settles beside me, and Jack just dumps the rice into the rice cooker on the counter.
“How was Sophia?” She asks her son.
“Fine,” He says tersely. “They’ve decorated for Halloween.”
“You should make her that pumpkin pudding you made last year. She’d love it.”
Jack’s hand goes still as he flips the stir-fry. It’s a quick-stutter stop motion, but he continues when the meat starts to burn.
“She can’t eat.”
“Oh no, not that stomach thing again,” Mrs. Hunter sighs. “I’m sorry, honey.”
“It’s fine. She’ll get better.” Jack says with hard conviction. Mrs. Hunter looks to me.
“Jack and Sophia were friends from a very young age. She’s such a sweet thing, but she’s bedridden in the hospital. Some genetic neurologic disorder. It’s so sad.”
“She’s fine,” Jack insists coldly. “And you don’t need to tell that girl. She already knows.”
Mrs. Hunter looks to me with surprise. “You do, Isis? Jack kept it under such tight wraps I didn’t know about it until a few years ago. I’m surprised he’d tell you.”
“I didn’t. She snooped.”
Shame washes over me, hot and red, but I push it out.
“Excuse me if I go around looking for your weaknesses when you posted mine all over the school,” I hiss.
“Being fat is not your weakness,” He snaps. “We both know it. You disproved that with that trashy outfit the next day. And I never asked Evans to do that. He went overboard. I never expected he would do something on that magnitude, and I never expected you to sneak into my house to try and get leverage.”
“You used to be fat?” Mrs. Hunter gasps. “I bet you were just as pretty then, too.”
Her compliment tears me out of my anger, but not for long.
“I’m sorry if I try to defend myself when you back me into a corner, jackass!”
Mrs. Hunter watches us snarl at each other, her head going back and forth like she’s watching a ping-pong match. With swords. And a flaming meteor as the ball. Darth Vader, hearing our rising voices, runs in and starts barking.
“I never backed you anywhere. Evans did,” Jack snaps.
“This is our war. Take some responsibility for your fucking actions!”
“So you decided it was alright to come into my house,” Jack’s voice rises minutely. “Go through my things, and read my personal letters? You were looking for ways to hurt me. But it’s not just me you’ll hurt, is it? You’ll go to Sophia and hurt her too, just to get back at me.”
I flinch. “I wouldn’t –”
“You would. You’re ruthless and maniacal and stubborn. You’ll do anything to hurt me because you hate me. You hate me so much you declared a petty little war on me.”
“You declared first!”
“You’ve hated me the second you saw me, and I can only assume it’s because I remind you of someone who hurt you.”
“Jack!” Mrs. Hunter looks shocked. “That’s a horrible thing to say!”
“Did he say you were fat?” Jack asks coolly. I go still, but he presses on. “Did Will say you were fat?”
“Shut up.” I growl, a roiling nausea creeping into my stomach.
“No,” Jack says lightly, as if to himself. “It must’ve been more than that. Did he call you stupid? Prudish? Ugly?”
Ugly.
“I said shut the hell up!”
“Jack, I don’t think you should –” Mrs. Hunter is cut off. Jack takes the stir-fry off the stove and turns, leaning against the oven and looking at me with sharp, chilly anger in his eyes. But something behind those fragments of ice suddenly goes soft. Sad warmth is in them, buried deep and buried well.
“Did he hit you?”
“Jack that’s hardly –” Mrs. Hunter starts. I stand so fast the barstool screeches and tips over.
“I’ll kill you,” I grit.
“Is that why you hate me? Because you think I’m like him?”
“Shut the hell up!”
Jack’s voice becomes even softer.
“Did he force you?”
“Jack!” Mrs. Hunter snaps. Darth Vader’s barks turn shrill.
“I swear,” I spit through my teeth digging into my lips so hard there’s blood. “I’ll fucking kill you if you keep talking.”
“Is that why you hate everyone? Because he hurt you bad? Because you trusted him, and he took that and set it on fire?”
“Jack Adam Hunter, I want you to stop speaking right now –”
Jack smiles, brittle. “That’s what you get for trusting someone. You should’ve known better.”
I lunge for him, but I’m too slow. A slap resounds, and Jack’s head whips to the side. The silence in the kitchen puts on pounds, tons. Darth Vader chokes off a whine and goes quiet. The hissing of the rice cooker is the only thing that dares to make noise. Mrs. Hunter puts her hand down, face contorted with equal parts fury and regret.
“You will not,” Her voice is slow and deliberate. “Speak to Isis again while she is here today. Is that understood?”
Jacks eyes glint with shock, and confusion. But he steels himself quickly and strides out of the kitchen without another word, without a glance at me. When he’s gone, Mrs. Hunter turns to me.
“I’m sorry, Isis. He’s…I won’t make excuses for him, but he’s not the best at recognizing when he’s hurting people beyond repair.”
“I’m fine,” I manage.
“Sweetie,” Mrs. Hunter says softly. “You’re not fine. You’re crying.”
I raise my hand to touch my face. It’s wet and cold.
Mrs. Hunter comforts me when I falter, hugging me. Every inch of my body shakes, and I break into choking sobs in her arms.
***
Mrs. Hunter holds me until I calm down, and then she insists I drink a cup of mint tea. It’s sweet and warm and opens my sad-clogged lungs. I thank her. She doesn’t bring up what just happened, and she doesn’t ask questions. She just busies herself with the tea and drinking her own cup of it.
Ugly. I finger the thing under my sleeve. I can feel the outline of it on my arm. It hurts, burns and smolders.
Ugly ugly ugly.
Jack doesn’t come down.
I leave after thanking her, making some excuse about dinner. Avery is in the car, still waiting, tapping away on her phone. She looks to me, irritated.
“What took you so long? Did you get it?”
“He caught me.”
“He WHAT?” Avery hisses. “But – But I didn’t even see his car pull up!”
I jerk my thumb behind me. Avery turns around and her eyes widen at the black sedan parked almost a block behind her.
“He saw my car,” I say.
“Why is his windshield streaky and brown?”
A single peal of laughter escapes my throat, but it cuts off quickly. Avery looks confused, and then shakes her head.
“What happened in there? You look sick.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I saw lowly, and start the car. Avery must see my red eyes, or snotty nose or the way I move like I’m drained of all energy, because she doesn’t push me to stay or go back and get it. Even ruthless popular girls have a heart, I guess. The highway flashes by as I take her back to her house.
“I read the letter,” I say dully. Avery’s eyes flash.
“Anything…did she anything about a surgery?”
“No.”
Avery exhales, a deep and worried thing that leaves her in one breath.
“Neurological, right?” I ask.
“Yeah. She didn’t show any symptoms until –”
Avery squeezes her eyes shut.
“It doesn’t matter. Just forget about it.”
“What did he do, Avery? For Christ’s sake, what the hell did he do that makes you and Wren so scared of him? He’s just a guy. A teenage boy.”
Avery turns her eyes to me, something hard and unknowable in them.
“No, fat girl. He’s not just a teenage boy. I know teenage boys. He’s not one of them. He might look like one, and his birth certificate might make him one, but he’s older. You feel it, right? Even you can’t be that thick.”
“Feel what?”
“The difference in him.”
She looks out the window, and I pull off the highway and onto the ramp. The trees flash by, green reflections in her eyes as she speaks.
“He’s not like the rest of us. And he never will be.”
Of course he’s not like the rest of us – he looks like he belongs in an American Eagle ad in a magazine. He’s got no heart – or at least, no heart for anyone whose name doesn’t start with Soph and ends in ia. Of course he’s not like us; he’s the Ice Prince.
Avery throws her phone in her purse in frustration. “Damn.”
“What?”
“I can’t get ahold of Kayla.”
“She’s probably busy slathering mud on her face and putting cucumber slices on her eyes or whatever it is you pretty girls do to primp. She has a date tomorrow night.”
“What? With who? It better fucking be Wren.”
“Wren? Why?”
Avery tries to play it off cool. “N-No reason. It is Wren, right?”
“No. It’s Jack.”
“I told her – Wren!” Avery snarls. “Wren, Wren, Wren, and then after Wren she could uselessly go after Jack all she wanted.”
“What are you talking about?”
Avery shoots me a look. “You saw how they got along at the bowling alley. Even Jack noticed. Outside of school, where she isn’t popular and he isn’t a dork, they’re great together. Wren’s had a crush on her forever.”
It dawns on me then.
“You’re using Kayla!” I snarl. “Oh my god, you’re using her to get the funding for your French club trip to the mountains! You’re using your friend!”
“It’s not just for me, okay?” Avery glowers a hole into my windshield. “Kayla will go. And so will Sophia. It’s the last chance I have, alright? The last chance I have to…to make it up to her. The surgery might not be now, but it’ll be soon. Jack told me.”
“That doesn’t excuse the fact you’re forcing Kayla to flirt with a guy she doesn’t like to get what you want – ”
“Did he tell you?” Avery interrupts me. “Did Jack tell you how long Sophia has?”
I swallow, hard, and for once my famed motor mouth comes to a standstill. Out of gas. Out of things to say.
Avery looks out the window at the passing forest. “France. We pretended when we were kids that we lived in France. Princesses. That’s what we’d play in her backyard. Princesses of France. And she’s got a book – I’m sure she still has it. We put it together. Maybe she burnt it. A scrapbook, of the things we wanted to do when we grew up. It’s full of French stuff. She was taking French, right before –”
She cuts off as I pull into her driveway.
“Avery, can’t you please, please tell me what happened to you and Sophia and Jack and Wren in middle school? Please?”
Avery’s green eyes flicker over me, as if she’s judging me.
“You’re like him, you know.”
“Say what?”
“You’re like him,” she repeats. “Jack. You’re different. People can feel it. That’s why you two are at odds, probably. You’re so similar. Like two magnets repelling each other.”
“Avery, what happened –”
“Back then I still liked Jack. I was like Kayla – obsessed. Sophia and Jack were…it was obvious to everyone they were in love. Meant to be together. I couldn’t stand it. So I arranged it. I bribed some of the low-wage guys who moved crates in my Mom’s shipping warehouse. Dock workers. Huge idiot guys who’d just go out and get drunk all the time. I bribed them. I did it. I was a stupid kid and I did it, and now I pay the price for it every day.”
My stomach curdles. But before it can shrivel in on itself, Avery opens the car door and walks out. Into her house. Away from me. Away from the truth.
When I get home, I throw together something easy – ham sandwiches. I take one to Mom, who’s reading in the living room, and she smiles and hugs me.
“You look so sad today, honey. Are you alright?”
I force a smile, but today it feels brittle. The conviction isn’t behind it. Nothing is behind it – just empty lies and too-full pain.
“I’m fine.”
“New school, all that new homework, new friends. And then me on top of it all! It was definitely not as stressful at your aunt’s. You must be exhausted.”
I shake my head fervently. “I’m happy to be here. Honestly. I’m just happy I can be here to help you.”
She gets up and kisses my head, murmuring into my hair.
“I’m so lucky to have you.”
As I’m leaving to head upstairs, Mom calls me back.
“I saw that girl again today. The one with red hair. I finally remembered where I saw her – she goes to my clinic. I’ve stood behind her in line at the receptionist’s – she’s prescribed the same medicine I’m getting.”
“For…?”
“Depression.”
She says it delicately, softly, but it’s so much better than what she used to do – pretend nothing was wrong with her at all, that she didn’t need meds.
“She goes to my school,” I say.
“I know. She’s so young to be on medication. It’s tragic.”
“I’m gonna go upstairs and finish up my applications.”
“Alright, honey. Good luck! Knock ‘em dead.”
I escape to my room and shut the door behind me. The most popular girl in school takes anti-depressants instead of molly or coke or the usual party drug suspects. The most popular girl in school set in motion a chain of events that echoes still today.
I’m getting closer to finding out what happened, and winning the war once and for all.
But do I still want to know? Do I still want to war? Jack defeated me totally today. He pulled out my every secret and laid it bare, chiseling it with a hammer of cruelty. I came to Ohio to escape, to get a fresh start, not to have everything brought up for people to see. He knows. And he could use it against me at any time. How could I have ever thought I liked him? There’s nothing there in my heart for him but cold grief, now. Grief and anger. I should’ve been expecting his savagery when I dabbled with Sophia’s letters. Avery warned me. She warned me he gets touchy when people reach into the past, and I ignored it. I should’ve told her to get the letter herself. I should’ve never started this war.
That’s what you get for trusting someone.
I should’ve never trusted Nameless.
I was an idiot for trusting Jack with my feelings, that night at the party.
I clutch at Ms. Muffin and curl up on the bed.
Ugly.
Ugly, ugly.
Is that what you thought this was? Love?
Dark hair. Dark eyes. The smell of a cigarette. A crooked smile that used to make my knees quake and my head go fuzzy, becoming something sinister and evil.
I don’t fall in love with fat, ugly girls. No one does.
Ugly.
Ugly.
Ugly girl.
Ms. Muffin’s black bead eyes watch me with no pity.
Maybe I’ll love you. Maybe, if you hold still.
