Betwixt (7 page)

Morgan looked at the woman standing. Yvonne had changed into a pair of hip-hugger jeans and a fashionable, though tight, pink
sweater. In the half dark they looked almost the same age — Yvonne eighteen years older than her daughter.

“Looks like you’ve even dressed for a party. Except your fupa is showing.”

Draping the coat over the porch railing, Yvonne took a drag off her cigarette, and eyed the girl sitting on the steps.

“I’m going to Carla’s, smartass. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Fupa.
” She tugged at the jeans that bulged below her belly. “Sometimes you’re a real bitch, Morgan.”

The girl ignored her. “Oh, you’re not going to try to crash this party like you did the last one? Well, maybe I’ll run into
you later at the Laurelthirst. That’s where your personal bartender works, isn’t it? What is he — nineteen?”

“He’s twenty-seven. And he has a name. Todd, remember?”

“Right.
Todd.
” Morgan sniffed and turned to face the road. “It’s disgusting.” She looked her mother up and down. “You’re hardly Demi Moore.”

Yvonne stared. “You are so cruel. How did you get to be so cruel?”

Morgan ignored her, but it was hard. Somewhere inside she asked herself:
How did I get to be so cruel?
And she heard the voices in the forest.
Morgana.

She dug into her purse for her mirror, a habit she had of looking at herself, as if to make sure she was still there, still
the same person. A car had appeared down the road and was now pulling up the gravel driveway leading to the D’Amici house.
Yvonne watched her daughter’s expression melt into sweetness. She had seen her do it before when friends came to the house.
The girls would be passionate friends for a few weeks, a month,
maybe, then the girl would disappear. Yvonne would ask about it and Morgan would say they’d had a fight and she didn’t like
the bitch anymore. It never seemed to affect the girl’s popularity, though. There was something so charming, so weightless
about Morgan. Nothing stuck. Accusations slid off the dark-haired beauty and there was always yet another fawning girl to
bring around. The latest, Neve, the pale, pretty daughter of Jacob Clowes, who owned Jacob’s Pizza, had lasted the longest.

Shame
he
was married, Yvonne thought.

This wasn’t Neve, though. It was Ondine, Morgan’s other friend. Two at the same time — some kind of record. Morgan’s interest
in Ondine Mason seemed different, though. Less bored, more intrigued. Cropped ink-jet photos of Ondine lined her walls. Every
time the girl called, Morgan took the call alone, in her room, careful to shut the door. It was as if she wanted to soak Ondine
in, get as much out of her as she could.

Ondine was good for her, Yvonne thought. She was a good girl, a sweet girl, and Morgan’s … difficult attitude … that was a
phase. Her daughter’s vulnerability touched Yvonne and she reached out and stroked her back as she rose to meet the oncoming
car.

Morgan smiled and turned to her mother to hug her. The headlights of the car lit them up. Though Yvonne knew Morgan was being
affectionate for the spotlight now, she still couldn’t
resist hugging her daughter back. She tried not to think about how cold Morgan’s arms felt around her torso, how rigid and
unfeeling.

“Bye, Mom,” Morgan said and kissed her on the cheek, then grinned at Ondine and waved. She skipped down the steps to the car.
Yvonne saw a slim brown arm and the top of a head peek out the driver’s window.

“Hey, Mrs. D’Amici!”

Yvonne waved.

“Hi, Ondine. Be good tonight.”

She nodded. “Don’t worry, we will.”

“Love you, Mom,” Morgan called back, opening the car door. “K.A. and I will call you later.”

Yvonne smiled. “Love you, too.”

She did love Morgan, she thought, rubbing her arms to get the chill of the evening air out of them. She loved her daughter.
It was crazy, Yvonne knew — but she was afraid of her, too.

I
N THE PARKING LOT OF
O’B
RIAN
’
S
, Ondine looked in the rearview mirror, pulling a stray braid from her smooth brown forehead. She had put a little eyeliner
on for the booze-buying excursion, but she didn’t like makeup and anyway, nothing could make her soft, big-eyed face look
older than the seventeen years
it was. Clear cinnamon skin; those violet, almond-shaped eyes, fine eyebrows, and a mouth she thought was too pouty gave her
the look of a perpetual child, though she was almost an adult. She looked at Morgan next to her, rummaging through her purse
for the dark red lipstick she favored.

Equally delicate, Morgan arranged her face so as to telegraph its seriousness. Ondine was fascinated by the way that Morgan
could shift, with the fluidity of wind across water, into a woman twice her age. Nothing about her face changed; its components
only combined differently to make a different impression.

Right now she was becoming the kind of woman who bought alcohol for a party on a Saturday night.

“I am
so
twenty-one years old.” Morgan smirked, raising an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

“I’m impressed,” Ondine replied, opening the car door. Morgan followed and they walked across the glass-strewn pavement of
O’Brian’s — a run-down liquor store on a block surrounded by a garage and a few empty lots.

In the cashier’s cage a middle-aged man in a maroon Windbreaker and soiled khakis sat on a stool reading the sports pages.
He smiled and looked Morgan up and down, then waved at the girls as they walked in. Morgan headed straight for the liquor
aisle.

“See.” She smirked, jerking a thumb back at him. “This’ll be a breeze.”

Ondine stayed quiet. She had never tried to buy alcohol
before, never given a party. Trish and Ralph let her have sips of wine and beer when she wanted it, but Ondine didn’t care
that much for booze. It made her sleepy at parties and she always ended up the quiet girl on the couch, dozing, waiting to
drive her friends home.

“I’ll go get the wine,” Morgan announced, heading off toward the back of the store.

“Yeah, okay,” Ondine called after her. She didn’t know much about wine so she was glad Morgan had taken the initiative, although
the meagerness of O’Brian’s selection suggested that she didn’t have to know too much to make her choice. Screw top or carton?
That about summed it up.

Something about Morgan’s focused attention unnerved her though. She had turned back to Ondine and was staring at her. Ondine
smiled.

“Um, Ondine?” Morgan asked, her voice hushed.

“Yeah?”

“Were you going to stand there all night
like a high schooler
” — Morgan’s voice fell to a whisper — “or were you maybe going to pick up a few bottles of the hard stuff?”

“The hard stuff?” Ondine was a little shocked. Had the girl just ordered her around? “What? Oh, right. Of course.”

She grabbed a cart and walked down a bottle-lined aisle, trying to concentrate. The party had been Morgan’s idea, but it seemed
a good-enough plan. Ondine always wanted to be older
than she was, vested with more responsibility than she was given. Inside she felt older, always had. A sophisticated party
with a few of the rising seniors seemed like just the thing to improve her mood.

But earnest as it seemed, Ondine knew that neither Morgan’s friendship nor their proposed party would make up for the hole
that had opened up inside her when her parents had left that morning. Why didn’t she go to Chicago? Why was she so determined
never to get close to anyone — even her family, even her father, who’d brought her into the world? She knew she couldn’t trust
people to share things she herself had a hard time accepting. She would never tell Morgan, for instance, the way she felt
about her paintings or how lately she felt she’d been losing her fix on reality. But if not Morgan, her supposed friend, then
whom?

Enough. Enough with your creative temperament, Ondine.

Browsing the aisles, staring at the rows of clear and dark liquor, she could almost hear her mother’s voice, chiding her for
indulging herself that one step too much.
Fuck it. I’m having a party.
She was determined to have fun and hummed a Flame song she liked, trying to get her spirits up.

Hurry — hurry — hurry! — ring of fire —

Ring of fire! Spin round, ring of fire —

Quick — quick! Wooden doll,

Hurry, lovely wooden doll, spin round —

She reached for bottles with her right hand, balancing them in the crook of her left arm. She made her choices by color as
much as anything else. Vodka with its icy clarity. Warm brown whiskey. And what was it, Pernod — green, and
French.
She was examining a ridiculous bottle of liqueur claiming to taste like chocolate milk when a rustle of black and gray caught
her eye. Startled, Ondine turned.

“Hello, Ondine.”

The lithe older boy with wild dark-brown hair and green sparkling eyes — eyes that matched the bottle of Pernod nestled in
her arm — laughed. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.” He was scratching a trimmed soul patch with his top teeth. He grinned
and arched an eyebrow.

Didn’t soul patches go out like ten years ago? That was about when James Motherwell was in high school. Since then he’d been
a fixture around Portland’s skate parks, bookstores, coffee shops, and parties. Never seeming to go anywhere.

“Hey, Moth.” She smiled tightly and turned back to the liquor, which she took up with doubled interest. James Motherwell,
or “Moth,” as he called himself, had long tried to hit on Ondine and every other teenaged girl in Portland. Though she’d had
a few conversations with the twenty-something boy, he seemed rather interested in checking out other girls’ butts in between
speaking to her breasts. An unfortunate tic, and she found him tiresome.

“You’re looking enticing as ever,” Moth continued, stepping closer. “What are you deciding between, my love?” He took the
bottle of chocolate liqueur out of her hands. “I suggest something less sweet.”

“Moth, don’t you have some fifteen-year-olds to hit on?”

He laughed and raised his eyebrows.

“I’m
matooring,
Ondine. Everyone’s got to grow up sometime.” He stepped back and checked the black band around his wrist. Ondine could just
make out the blue tip of a tattoo underneath the strap. She wondered what it was. Something “deep,” like an om? Other than
the watch, Moth was dressed simply: black jeans and a black long-sleeved T-shirt with a narrow collar, which flattered his
slim face and high cheekbones. He wore a single heavy braided silver ring on his right middle finger. Even she had to admit
there was something skeevily sexy about the boy.

Ew! What are you thinking, Ondine?
She turned back to the shelves.

Moth continued unfazed. “So what time is our party starting?”

“What?” She whipped her head around.

He bent down and tied one of his shoelaces, still staring. “I said, what time is the party starting? I don’t want to be late.”

The girl narrowed her eyes and stepped closer. Moth didn’t flinch. She was surprised. People normally flinched.

“There is no party.”

“Sure there is, pet.” He straightened up and smiled. “At your place. Your parents left today and you’re having —”

Before Ondine had the chance to ask the older boy how the hell he knew about her parents leaving, Morgan rounded the corner.
As soon as she saw their new companion she slowed, slinking catlike toward Ondine but looking at Moth, the bottles in her
hands clinking.

Moth stared back. “Vision number two? Well, isn’t this my lucky night!”

“Fly away, Moth,” Ondine whispered.

“I’m Morgan,” the black-haired girl intoned, tilting her head. “And you?”

He grinned. “James Motherwell.”

“Like the painter?”

“Very good.” He nodded. “A muse. But you can call me Moth.” He extended a few fingertips, which Morgan grazed, her lips parting
into a knowing smile.

“I was just asking our friend Ondine here what time your party starts this evening.”

“The party starts at ten,” Morgan replied, ignoring Ondine’s shaking head. “We’re just stocking up now.” She held up four
bottles of wine gripped in both hands.

“What lovely jugs.”

Morgan threw back her head and laughed. “Why, thank you.”

Ondine stared. “Oh. My. God. You’re such an asshole.” She turned to the boy then glared at her friend. “You’re not invited,
Moth. Moth tends to attract a difficult crowd. He can’t come.”

Ignoring her, Morgan eyed Moth up and down, a smile lingering.

“Oh. Too bad.”

“Hm.” He considered the loot. “There’s no way you’re going to be able to buy that yourself, though.”

“
Au contraire,
my friend.” Ondine pointed down the aisle at the cashier reading his newspaper behind the counter. “Morgan buys here all
the time. That guy is
in love
with her.”

Morgan shrugged, still smiling.

“Of course he is.” Moth winked but shook his head. “Not tonight, though. Not without Moth’s help.” His face became serious.
“And we might as well have fun tonight, before everything starts.”