7 Souls (10 page)

And then she stopped, so quickly that Dylan nearly ran into her. “Look,” she said, turning to face him. “Look, I told you before, you don’t have to do this; you don’t have to come.”

“You’re right,” Dylan said agreeably. “You told me before.”

“But—”

“If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t have come.”

Mary looked at him, trying to find any sarcasm or snark on his face that would betray his easy tone. But his eyes were clear. There was something profound about that, Mary thought. He made it sound so simple. How often could she say the same thing? How many times every week, every
day
, did she find herself somewhere she didn’t want to be, doing something she hated? It was like Dylan had casually revealed some secret code, some magic spell that made him immune to all that.

“Don’t worry,” Dylan said, putting his hand awkwardly on her shoulder. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

That’s not true
, Mary thought automatically.
It’s never true—and it’s looking especially wrong today
.

“Come on.” The heat of Dylan’s hand on her shoulder made her nervous, somehow; she pulled away and continued down the wide corridor, heels sinking into the thick, expensive carpet with the green and gold threads.

This day is all wrong
, she told herself again.
Everything’s all wrong; it’s like a waking dream, the kind where the whole world’s against you
.

Mary raised her fist, hesitated before knocking.

How bad is this going to be?

Dylan reached past her and knocked boldly on the door, three times.

Silence. Nothing.

It’s a trick
, she thought wearily.
He’s not going to—

The locks snapped over loudly and the door swung open. Mary squinted in the sudden bright light. Patrick’s vestibule—how many times had she stood here, opening the door for room service, fishing in Patrick’s wallet for a tip?—was brilliantly lit as usual, the gleaming, ice-white walls reflecting the recessed quartz track lights and the tastefully shaded table lamps. Patrick stood with his hand on the gold doorknob, smirking at her. It was the same maddening smirk he’d worn the last time she’d been this close to him, when he’d dumped her.

Patrick’s expression changed—slightly—as he looked past her at Dylan. Mary got some satisfaction from that.
Not everything goes the way you want it to
, she thought grimly.
I’m not as helpless without you as you think, Trick
.

But she didn’t feel any better, because Patrick didn’t look startled, or jealous, or anything that would
make
her feel better. He was smirking knowingly and nodding, as if to say,
You think I’m impressed? You think I care that you found another sucker to pick up where I left off, following you around and doing what you say?

“Hi,” Dylan said casually. “I’m Dylan.”

“Patrick Dawes.” Trick was stepping aside, making an exaggerated, sarcastic show of welcoming them. His tone implied that he couldn’t care less who Dylan was—that it wasn’t even worth his time to learn Dylan’s name. “Come on—let’s get this over with.”

“Good idea,” Mary agreed. It came out wrong—she had wanted to sound snide and bored, like she didn’t care one way or the other, but, hearing her own voice, she realized she sounded like a scared little girl following orders.

I won’t cry
, Mary insisted to herself as she rushed past Trick into the suite’s big living room (with the gold and green couches and the vast picture-window view of the Fifth Avenue lights. She didn’t want Patrick to see her face. She didn’t want him to see what it was doing to her, being here again, looking around at the place she’d spent so many lazy afternoons and torrid nights and Sunday room-service brunches, realizing that it was all over, that she’d never see it again.

She was trying to figure out a way to brush the tears from her face without Patrick seeing her do it, when she got the biggest shock of the day—or, as she realized much later, the biggest shock
so far
. What happened next was so insane, so unexpected and so
loud
that she nearly screamed.

“Surprise!”

They had appeared with incredible speed—from behind the couches, from the kitchenette and the bedroom, even from the
closets
—all her friends and dozens more people; what looked like the entire Chadwick senior class, all dressed up in their sickest party outfits, all grinning at her madly. At that moment somebody triggered a playlist somewhere and Panic! at the Disco started blasting at top volume from Patrick’s hidden Bose speakers while the entire crowd flocked toward her.
Surprise
—the word was still echoing in her ears like a thunderclap.

“Happy birthday!”

The scream was unanimous, deafening.

A surprise party
, Mary thought incredulously.
You’ve got to be kidding—a fucking surprise party
. There was no way to describe the feeling that flowed over her; it was like she’d already pounded four Jägermeister shots.

“Punk’d!”
Patrick yelled triumphantly, his eyes nearly mad with glee. “Oh, you are
so punk’d!”

“Look at her little tears!” Joon was right in front of her, playfully wiping at Mary’s face, sparkling from head to toe in a shiny zigzag headband, a crystal-covered Elie Saab minidress, and Christian Louboutin heels. “Oh, look at my tragic little Mary-fairy—”

“You
so
bought it,” Patrick rasped in her ear, having grabbed her from behind and squeezed her with his powerful arms. He kissed her neck. “You thought I’d
dumped
you! You actually
bought
it—”

Mary was crying—sobbing with relief and shock.
Ruining the Shu Uemura mascara
, she thought randomly.
So what
.

“Aww,”
Joon said, hugging her.
“Look
at her—look at our gullible little Mary….”

“Someone needs a drink,” Amy observed, materializing on Mary’s other side and stroking her shoulder possessively. The crowd surrounded them, pressing in like paparazzi flanking a starlet.

“Happy birthday!” Pete Schocken said, leaning in to hug her. He had changed into a nice shirt and pants—it was strange to see him out of the gym clothes he was always wearing. His face was transformed by his warm smile.

Was he
really
beating up Scott Sanders this morning?
Mary wondered, hugging Pete back.
Did that really happen? Did I dream it?

If Scott had been at the party, she would have interrogated him again—but, of course, he wasn’t there. Scott’s evenings were a mystery that nobody particularly wanted to solve; he was probably off having his own brand of fun, seeing
Iron Man 2
in IMAX for the twentieth time or something.

“Mary, Mary, Mary,” Joon said, placing her hands on both sides of Mary’s face, staring into her eyes from up close. Mary could see the lamplight glinting in Joon’s green eyes as she smiled a nasty smile. “Have a drink and chill. I
promise
you—it’s going to be one crazy night.”

4
9:12
P.M.

T
HE PULSE WAS ALL
around her, vibrating under her feet, sending tremors through the pale white lamp shades and the black wooden picture frames on the white walls. Pounding drums and shredding guitar and voices upon voices upon yet more voices, a screaming soprano section chiming in over the pounding bass like a sky full of cackling seagulls, warning of a storm still too far off the coast to see.

Mary was slamming a Patrón Silver shot that Patrick had just handed her. Her eyes watered from the explosive force of the tequila. Patrick had his arm around her bare shoulders. The sensation was disorienting, even though it shouldn’t have been. The room was packed, filled with Chadwick students and dozens of other people she didn’t recognize. The deafening kick drum was pounding its way through a mashup of 50 Cent’s “In Da Club” and the Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive.” At the edge of the big living room, a circle of well-coiffed older boys in V-necks and jeans and flip-flops stood at the doorway like a greeting committee gone wrong, barking out lyrics to each other and sharing long, meaningful man-hugs. She had never seen so many straight men hugging in her life—someone was already passing out the Ecstasy.

“So who’s that
guy
, anyway?” Patrick grinned down at her. He pointed at Dylan, who was across the room at one of the bottle-covered side tables
(credenzas
, she corrected herself) pouring scotch into a plastic cup. Joon was next to Mary, dancing in place while gazing around regally, like a Korean Alicia Keys.

“Just a boy,” Mary said. “A friend of Ellen’s.”

“A friend of Ellen’s,” Trick repeated, frowning.

“My
sister—?”

“Right, right—duh.” Patrick was barely listening; she noticed that he was scanning the crowd.
“Mase!”

Mary flinched as Patrick bellowed, practically screaming in her ear. Following his gaze, she was dismayed to see Trick’s ubiquitous dealer friend, Mason, a shirtless, gel-shellacked skeev whose last name Mary had never learned. Mason was gyrating on the makeshift dance floor, waving his huge steroid-enhanced biceps. His gangsta jeans barely clung to his white Calvin Klein briefs. Mason’s face was frozen in a pursed-lips, intense squint as he danced, grinding up against a skinny little tweaker girl in a hoochie dress who was shaking her nonexistent junk like she was auditioning for
Flavor of Love
. He apparently hadn’t heard Patrick’s shout, which was fine with Mary.

“Patrick, don’t—” Mary flinched, getting ready to hide from view.

“Mason!
Get over here!” Patrick shouted, waving. “My
man—”

Mason did a cartoonlike double take, peering around with his fists in the air before seeing Patrick (His
meal ticket
, Mary thought sourly) and beaming with exaggerated delight. “Mr.
Dawes
,” he bellowed, immediately losing interest in the tweaker girl and propelling himself toward them. He was talking to Trick but staring at Mary the way he always did—the way a starving dog stares at a steak.

“Yum, yum,” Joon said lasciviously, gazing at Mason’s perfect torso, a black-and-white underwear billboard come to life. “Work it, Mase! That’s what I’m talking about.”

“Solid, man, solid,” Mason intoned, arriving in a cloud of Axe body spray and loudly clasping hands with Patrick.
“This
is the shiznit!”

His eyes are dead
, Mary noticed as Mason predictably sized her up, scanning her body up and down, before leaning in for a kiss.
He’s got to be completely methed out
. The tweaker girl stood to one side, forgotten.
“There’s
my girl—’sup, Mary? I got a birthday present if you want it.”

“I’m not your girl,” Mary said. It was incredible that Mason would hit on her with Trick’s arm around her, but he did it every time. She forced herself not to look at his pecs and washboard stomach as she stared back. “Touch me and I’ll slap you.”

“Whoa!
I been
told
—” Mason recoiled comically. “’Sup, Joon?”

“Hello, darling,” Joon murmured, accepting Mason’s cheek kiss, brushing her fingers across his oversize upper arm. “Mmm—
that’s
what a boy’s shaped like.”

“Mase, are you heavy?” Patrick was frowning—Mary noticed something protruding from the back of Mason’s low-slung jeans. “That’s not cool—”

“Of
course
, man—you want to see it?” Mason’s eyes lit up like glossy cue balls. “Check this shit out, man—”

“No—Jesus, Mase—”

Before Patrick could stop him, Mason had reached back and pulled an automatic handgun from his pants. The gun gleamed in the amber lamplight as he held it out in his palm—Mary felt a cold wave of dread as she stared at its flawless brushed-satin finish. “Safety’s on,” Mason assured them as both girls gasped. “It’s all good.”

“Wow,” Joon said, her eyes bulging as she stared. “Can I hold it?”

“You can hold my gun
anytime
,” Mason agreed, handing the firearm to Joon. It sagged in her slim hand and she nearly dropped it. “You want to come shooting, baby? I’ll totally take you down to the range—”

“This is so
—wow
,” Joon murmured, awkwardly turning the gun around, her eyes wide. Mary was terrified—she could barely stop herself from dropping to the floor in a blind panic. “Check this out, Mary! It’s so
heavy
, but it fits in your hand like—”

“No guns!”
Patrick was looking around nervously, but the crowd was too thick for anyone to have seen. “Come on, man
—no guns!
Put it
away
, Mase!”

“No, no, no!” Mary insisted, but it was too late—before she knew what was happening Joon was pushing the gun into her palm. The black steel was like heavy ice against her fingers. “I don’t
want
to hold it!”

“Chill, Dawes, chill….” Mason smoothly retrieved the weapon, stuffing it back into his jeans. “I wouldn’t have whipped it out, but you had to ask if I—”

“Are you fucking crazy?”
Mary shouted in Mason’s face. The feel of the gun lingered on her fingers. “Get the hell out of my party
right now
, you fucking—”

“You are
so
fine, Mary—
especially
when you get mad,” Mason intoned, moving his pelvis toward her suggestively. Mary recoiled, disgusted. Mason did this every time—hit on her with all the nuance and subtlety of a dog humping a person’s leg—and there didn’t seem to be any way to stop him from doing it, more intensely each time.

“No, it’s cool,” Patrick said smoothly, taking Mary’s empty shot glass and producing another, as if by magic. “He’s cool; he’s cool. Have another shot, Mary.”

She did, and the warm fire of the smooth tequila flowed through her like spreading wings. Mason—adaptable as always—had turned his attention completely to Joon. He made exaggerated hip-hop gestures as he leaned to talk in her ear. Around them, the party seemed to be thickening. Sweaty, tatted, shirtless white boys, their Sean John jeans hanging off their Hilfiger boxers, were grinding up against a mix of Eighth Street skanks and young Park Avenue fashionistas, as Philippe, the Peninsula bellboy, pushed a hand truck stocked with wine and champagne. Mary’s blood pressure returned to normal as the smooth vibe of the party calmed her nerves. She was floating on a beautiful wave of bliss; the first good feeling she’d had since the day began. The feeling was intoxicating. It was hitting her at least as hard as the alcohol.

“Listen,” Patrick said, “I hope that wasn’t too lame, this morning.”

“What do you mean, ‘lame’?” Mary wrinkled her nose, looking up at him. Her eyes were watering from the force of the tequila shot. “It was
awful
. It was, like,
totally devastating.”
She pouted. “You do a
mean
breakup, Trick!”

“Time to dance,” Joon announced abruptly, curling her arm around Mason’s bare abdomen and pulling him toward the gyrating couples behind her. “Come on, sexy—let’s go find the groove.”

“Should we come with you?” Mary asked. Mason made her nervous, no matter what Trick said.

“You stay with Captain Crack Pipe,” Joon shouted back over the squeaking Bee Gees. “I’ll come find you later.”

“She’ll be fine,” Patrick said, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her forehead. “Don’t worry—enjoy your party.”

The feel of Patrick’s body against hers was more comforting than she’d ever known it could be.
I’ve got him back—what a relief
, she admitted to herself.
My God, what a relief. Because that was no fun at all
.

It was strange to have all her conspiracy theories confirmed, in such a
nice
way, but Mary wasn’t complaining. It was
flattering
—all the trouble they’d gone to just to fool her—the warm sensation of being liked, being
needed
, flowed through her like a rising tide. That feeling had been missing all day, and she welcomed it back.

Everything makes sense now
.

Patrick had taken his hands from her shoulders, snagging himself another shot from a tray and bumping fists with someone she didn’t recognize. He put his arm around her waist—and his forearm brushed against the scratches on her lower back.

Except everything
doesn’t
make sense. And you know it
.

Mary pushed the thought away.
Stop that—just relax and have fun
, she told herself angrily. It was clear that something was missing—the pieces didn’t all fit together—but she refused to think about it anymore. Instead, she gazed over at Joon, who had begun dancing with Mason.

I was being tactless
, Mary realized as she watched her friend.
I shouldn’t have said that about the ‘totally devastating’ breakup—that wasn’t very nice
.

Because Joon had been on the receiving end of a Patrick Dawes “devastating” breakup—except it had been real.

As soon as I said that, she left. I should have kept my mouth shut
.

It was an odd realization. The pounding bass was shaking her body like a leaf fluttering in a strong wind as she gazed through the crowd, trying to think clearly despite the cloud of alcohol in her brain.

I was being mean to Joon. Just now, without knowing it
.

Who else am I being mean to?

There was an obvious answer to that. Mary disengaged from Patrick’s possessive grip on her waist and began moving purposefully through the crowd.

She finally managed to propel herself across the room—everyone she passed stopped her to say happy birthday, some hugging, some kissing, some high-fiving—and came up behind Dylan, reaching for his wool-sheathed shoulder. He didn’t seem to know anyone else at the party, and being the only guy in the room wearing a suit made him look even more out of place. He turned around, saw her and raised his drink.

“Hey,” Dylan said, affably enough. “So, it turns out you’re not single after all.”

“Yeah,” Mary said, nodding. “Awkward, huh? I’m sorry.”

Dylan frowned as he shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault. I don’t mind.”

“Really?”

“Sure.” Dylan seemed profoundly unconcerned—but then, she thought, he could be faking it, just to be polite. “Look, if anyone’s to blame, it’s
me
. I should have realized it wasn’t plausible that you’d been dumped.” He looked embarrassed. “I mean—anyway, I called Ellen just now, and she couldn’t figure out what I was
doing
here. When I explained that I’d asked you out, she was like, ‘You idiot.’ And she’s right—I mean, if I’d taken a second and
checked with her
first, you know, I would have known better. She made me feel really stupid.”

Mary felt ashamed, suddenly. She knew the booze was intensifying the feeling, but she couldn’t help it. Her face was turning red—she could feel the flush through the tequila—and she turned away from Dylan, looking back across the crowd to where Mason and Joon were dancing. His enormous upper arms contrasted pleasantly with his narrow waist and ripped abdomen—Joon moved closer to him, leveling a regal glance his way. The girl who’d
been
dancing with Mason before—the one Joon had effortlessly brushed aside—was a few feet away, Mary saw; she was pretending to talk to a pair of girlfriends, but she looked upset.

“Happy birthday!”

A younger girl, yelling right in Mary’s face: Ally Kleiger, a junior she barely knew. Ally’s friend Chloe something (Chloe
Dennis
, she remembered) smiled nervously beside her. Both girls wore what looked like New Jersey prom dresses; the effect was all wrong, but, Mary thought, they’d have another year to get these things right. “We
love
you,” Chloe yelled earnestly. “We totally love you.”

“Even though you never call us back,” Ally added. Everyone was yelling over the music.

“We don’t mind!” Chloe said generously. Both juniors were completely plastered. “You don’t
have
to call us back!”

“Listen, I’m going to go,” Dylan interrupted. He put his cup down, a little too firmly, on the coffee table behind him. “Thanks for inviting me along.”

“‘Thanks’?” Mary raised her eyebrows and poked Dylan in the lapel. Her movements were too broad, too over-dramatic, but she couldn’t help it. It was the tequila, on top of the martini and wine. “Come on—you
volunteered
to come with me and I told you
not
to.” That hadn’t come out right. “What I mean is, I didn’t know I was inviting you to a party.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t have,” Dylan said easily. He was gazing levelly across the party, and Mary realized that he was looking at Patrick. “All things considered.”

“That’s not what I meant either,” Mary said.

“Well, I’m still going to take off.”

“Stick around! Have another drink.”

“Thanks anyway,” Dylan said, beginning to turn away toward the door.