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.”
“Tallyho, chaps!”
“Stop saying things!” He snarls, letting go of me only when we’re around the corner and a tea shop separates us from Madison’s view.
“Things!” I shout.
“How did you find me? If you hacked into the Club’s computer to look up my appointments - ”
“Whoa, I think you overestimate me, shitlord. Last time I checked all I did was be in the wrong place at the right time. I saw you and had to - ”
“Stalk me.”
“ - delicately approach you. In a sideways manner. From behind. Without being seen at all. For ten minutes.”
“Why are you even out? I thought you were sick.”
“I was. See, it’s this thing called an immune system -”
He holds up his hand and rubs his eyes. “Okay, stop. Shut all systems down and just. Stop. Talking.”
“Why?”
“It’s annoying.”
“That’s never stopped me before!”
“Why did you follow me?”
“I was…curious?”
“Not good enough.”
“You want me to be honest?”
“Preferably yes, so you don’t waste anymore of my time.”
“We are at war. Wars don’t exactly demand honesty. How are you enjoying suspension, by the way?”
“Wonderfully, thank you,” His voice drips acid sarcasm. “I’ve booked seven new clients and earned a thousand extra this week.”
“Impressive. Is that how much they pay for the dick, or for the hilariously cheesy compliments? Or are those extra? If so, count me in! I want to hear you serenade me with them while I choke on my own bile.”
He looks down at the jar of frosting I clutch in my hands. “Are you eating that out of the can?”
“Are you the king of stupid questions?” I fire back. “Of course I am! Frosting is the ambrosia of the gods. God, if you’re into that religious thing. Are you religious? Somehow I get the feeling the only church you’d join is the church of self-worship. Your body is your temple. Work it, boy.”
“What are you saying?” He snarls. “You’re blabbering!”
“At least I’m not whoring!”
He rolls his eyes. “It’s not that simple.”
“Uh, really? Because it sounded as simple as a bunch of new rope and a hotel room, and frankly that recipe means you’re either going to get some kinky sex on, or you’re going to mutually hang yourselves.”
He sighs. “She likes being tied up, okay? I don’t. I don’t like any of this, okay? I’m getting paid. So you need to just piss off and go to whatever immature party you were going to in the first place.”
“How’d you know I’m going to a party?”
“The receipt for red plastic cups sticking out of your jacket. Your eyeliner. Girls don’t make eyeliner wings that big unless they plan on drinking.”
“Touché. You’re smarter than I gave you credit for.”
“And you’re far more annoying than I first suspected. If I’d known you’d stalk me like all the others, I never would’ve kissed you, even as payback.”
“Seriously, you kiss everyone like that though! It was nothing special.”
“Exactly. It was nothing special. So back off and leave me alone.”
He whirls around and strides away, and I wave madly at his back, jumping up and down.
“Bye, loser! Try not to suck! Or I guess you have to since you’re getting paid for it, huh?”
He flips me the bird over his shoulder but it only makes me laugh and fist pump in self-congratulations. This is the first time I’ve really seen him perturbed. Everything before now was just a bunch of cold sarcasm and stony glares. I got under his skin this time. I, Isis Blake, got under his permafrost skin. I skip the entire way to the car and blast a triumphant Katy Perry song on my way to the party. I don’t even particularly like Katy Perry. But for this second my victory is so sweet even mindless pop sounds like the battle trumpets of Roman gladiators and I’m shouting along to it anyway.
-6-
3 Years
14 Weeks
0 Days
Kayla’s front lawn is crowded with cars. I wedge my Beatle into a parking space between a tree and a BMW, and rush into the warmly-lit house.
“I come bearing gifts!” I shout above the already-thumping music. There must be a hundred people here, if not more. A little get-together, Kayla said. Pft. I could power a small jet plane on the body heat crammed into this room.
I dump the cups in the kitchen, where bottles of Jack and Bacardi crowd the counters. I guard my frosting jealously, nibbling on it as I meander through the party looking for Kayla. The usual writhing group of dancers congregate around the speakers, and the equally writhing makeouts are happening on every chair and couch. Someone throws a roll of purple streamers around, someone has a plastic horse-head mask on that creeps me out, and someone else is wiping puke off the bookshelf with a TV remote. I don’t recognize half the people in here – some of them must be from Midvale High. Kayla’s in the garden, a gorgeous gathering of ivy trellises and a gently burbling fountain. She’s breathtaking – her blue tube top and white skirt making her look like some tanned tennis goddess. She’s talking to some of Avery’s crowd, but when she sees me she trots over smiling.
“Hey! You made it!”
“Yeah, cups are in the kitchen.”
“Awesome. Thank you so much. You look really great.”
“You too. Gonna be on high alert tonight, fight off those creepers with a baseball bat if I have to.”
“Oh, chill out,” she laughs. “Go get something to drink!”
When I come back with a coke and rum, Kayla’s gone. I look around for her and find her dancing with some guy. He isn’t grinding on her or staring at her tits 99% of the time, so he’s fine with me. For now. When he happens to catch my eye I point two fingers at my eyes and then at him in an I’m-watching-you warning, and he must get it because he smiles nervously back and nods. Good boy.
“Threatening the male populace as usual?” A familiar voice says. I turn to see Wren, in a casual polo shirt and jeans. He’s clutching a drink, grinning in that sunny way and staring at me in that creepy hellbent way.
“Yup. What’s up with you, homes? Why are you here? Oh, that’s right – you’re the super coo
l prez. You don’t tattle on boozers.”
“Well, if I did tattle I wouldn’t be friends with quite so many people now, would I?”
“Ah, I see. You’re hungry for that popularity game.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “It’s not so much popularity as it’s…what’s the word? Amiable? I just like being liked.”
“Huh. Is that rooted in a deep-seated need for approval fostered by your alcoholic mother and workaholic father? That’d explain why you volunteer so much – trying to do good because no one does good for you.”
He looks like I zapped him. I wave my hand and laugh.
“I was kidding. I get crazy conclusiony when I get buzzed.”
“How did you –” He stops himself. “I guess I should stop asking that at this point. You and him never cease to amaze me.”
Him. He means Jack. I point at his cup to get him off the subject.
“Whaddya you drinking?”
“Grape juice.”
I laugh. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. I’m the designated driver for quite a few people tonight.”
“Ahh, prez.” I slap his back and he slops juice on the floor. “Always so straight-edge. You gotta learn to live a little!”
“I do! I live constantly!”
“Yeah, but it’s all living for other people and shit. No time to yourself. You’re gonna start resenting everybody pretty soon if you keep doing stuff for them and not you.”
The song changes to Royals by Lorde, and I scream a little and shove my cup at him.
“Hold this! I gotta go dance!”
“You dance?”
“Uh, yeah, I am well-versed in the butt-tango, thank you.”
Wren looks between the dance floor and me, his eyes darting back and forth.
“You wanna dance with me?” I shout.
“What?” His face drains to a pale white in a split second.
“C’mon! It’ll be fun!”
“I don’t dance.”
“Yeah, I don’t poop.”
“What? That sounds a little unhealthy.”
“C’mon, prez!” I grab his hand and pull him towards the ‘dance floor’, which is just a 10x10 of carpet in the corner pushed free of couches. I do my stupidest dances – making myself look like an idiot so Wren won’t feel so uptight about dancing ‘right’. People who don’t dance worry about making fools out of themselves, but when you make a fool out of yourself as often as I do, dancing is kind of easy. Wren laughs when I kneel on the floor and try to do a breakdance head-spin. I end up taking down two people before Kayla kicks me in a friendly manner to get me to stop. Wren bobs a little to the beat, looking nervous as hell. I dance around him, mostly, and when a slower song comes on, I put his arms around my waist and show him how to slow dance. Except he already knows.