Furious (29 page)

“Really?” I put on a distressed expression to match the concerned tone in my voice.

“Really! Look at how everyone is looking at you.”

Two juniors in surgical masks happen to be passing, so I whip around with a loud “Booga-booga!” They jump back, their eyes circles of horror, and scurry away. I laugh, rubbing my hands together like a movie mad scientist.

“You know what people are saying? That Brendon was innocent, that he didn’t know what Pox and the others were up to.”

“People don’t know what they’re talking about. Brendon took me by the hand into that room.”

“Because Ambrosia told him to. Have you thought about that? What about her role in all this?”

I order myself not to listen to him. No! I will not listen. These are just tricks designed to make me question what I already know. I was there that night. Brendon took me into that room. He let it happen. He didn’t do a thing to stand up for me. There’s no defense for that. And Raymond has no right to drag down Ambrosia. She rescued me from my old life and showed me who I can be. She’s on my side.

“Brendon got what was coming to him. They’re all getting what they deserve. If people are smart, they’ll stay out of our way.”

“Is that what you want for real? For everyone to be terrified of you?”

“Let me think about that.” I press a finger to my temple, remove it immediately. “Thinking is over. Terror is working. Why mess with proven success? I know what I’m doing!”

“Explain it to me then, because all I see is misery!”

“Do I really have to spell it out for you, Raymond? Look around. Because of us and what we’re doing, the Leech will never mistreat another foster kid. Alix says that it’s been totally chill out in the ocean with all the Plagues on indefinite bed rest. And around school? No bullying. No practical jokes. Our warning has been heard. We’re doing what needs to be done.”

He mimes pointing a gun in my face and pulls the thumb trigger. “By any means necessary?”

“If we don’t do it, who will?”

Raymond’s features collapse into his deep-thinking pose. He strokes the part of his chin where a beard would grow if he were far enough into puberty to grow one. I get impatient waiting because I know what he’s going to say. Here come all of his old, tired arguments. We’ve gone too far. We’re abusing our sacred power. There’s a justice system designed to punish the guilty. Or the karmic chain of the universe will eventually get around to sorting things out and making life fair. The righteous will be rewarded and the guilty punished.

But I don’t see evidence to support any of those arguments. I never have and never will.

The animation returns to Raymond’s face. At least he doesn’t insult me with clichés: “Meg, I honestly don’t know who will punish them. Or if they’ll get punished at all. Or if they deserve punishment. I can’t say that life will even things out or that it’s fair. Because I don’t know.”

“Wow! The Raymond oracle admits that he doesn’t know something.”

“Want to know what I
do
know?” He pauses. I don’t bite. “Well, don’t you want to know? The old Meg would be dying of curiosity.”

The new Meg shrugs with a complete lack of enthusiasm. I even fake a yawn. “Sure. Knock me out with your wisdom.”

He ignores my snarkiness. “I know that
this
—what you’re doing—isn’t right. You claim to be on the side of justice, but you’re as mean as the people you’re punishing. Frankly, you’re more vicious.”

“If we back off, it will be chaos again. People will do whatever they want ’cause they know they’ll get away with it. Hunter High needs our law and order.”

“It’s all black and white with you. People are people and they make mistakes. You don’t give anyone a break. You’re…”

“I’m what?”

“You’re a colossal, monomaniacal tool. You’re power crazy.”

“I’m just using my power!”

He gives a double thump of his baton. That’s how I know I’ve gotten to him. “Meg, your power is using you. And so is someone else—Ambrosia. She’s manipulating you.”

“You never did like her, Raymond. You’re jealous. You just want me to be your harmless, patient, forgiving little friend again. You think I should reenlist in the Good Girl Brigade.”

“Did I say that? No! I like having a sassy straight friend. You do have things to be angry about. So does Stephanie and so does Alix. I’m not arguing with you about that.”

“What’s your problem, then?”

“You think you’re in control, but Ambrosia is twisting your anger for her own purpose. That’s what Ms. Pallas told me. Ms. Pallas knows that you won’t listen to her, but you might listen to me. You
need
to listen to me. This is serious. You are up against something very powerful and dangerous. I want to help. I’m on your side. But I can only do so much. Ms. Pallas—”

I break in mockingly, spit out the words. “Ms. Pallas. When did you become completely devoted to her? What a suck-up! You sound exactly like her.”

“You want to talk about swallowing someone’s entire way of thinking? You sound like Ambrosia!”

“What if I do?”

“Ambrosia is not who she says she is.”

“And who is Ms. Pallas? Not some first-year teacher! What’s she up to?”

Instead of answering, he waves his hand in front of his nose. “Whew. Your breath. Have you been eating your young? Take a look at yourself.” He spins me around so I get a close-up of my face in the small locker mirror.

“What? What am I supposed to see?”

“You’re that blind? Let’s do a vision test.” He stands behind me, points to my eyes: “Healthy or bloodshot?” To my lips: “Kissable or cracked and raw?” To my skin: “Caramel-colored or puke green?” To my stomach: “Flat or bloated? And what’s with the enlarged pores? Honey, your complexion is like the surface of the moon. You’re unraveling fast, a total mess. You look as bad as your victims. Everyone but you can see it.”

I have to admit that I do look like Grade C dog doo. I let him fuss with my hair a little and push back some brittle strands, but others spring up to take their place. “I’m a little tired, that’s all. Maintaining law and order is a full-time job.”

“A little tired? What about Stephanie and her new fangs? Alix looks like the Incredible Hulk. Ms. Pallas says—”

Poof. Raymond’s moment of being tolerated is over. I don’t want to know what Ms. Pallas—whoever she is—has to say. I push away his hand. “Let’s do
your
vision test now. How many fingers am I holding up?” I flash him the middle one.

Raymond swallows hard. “I hardly recognize you, inside or out. All this hostility and anger, 24-7. Meg, when you make others live in misery, you wind up living in it, too.”

30

“There’s a certain
someone,” Ambrosia says. “A meddling type. She and I go way, way back. Sometimes she calls herself Athena, sometimes Minerva, sometimes she fancies herself up as
Pallas
Athena.”

I start to say
I knew it
, but Ambrosia tells us to listen. “She demands complete obedience, but I’m having none of that. She’s jealous of you three—your youth, your power, your unwillingness to compromise. She thinks that minor goddesses should kowtow to someone of her elevated stature.”

“Who’s she calling minor?” Alix readies her fists for a fight.

Stephanie’s jaw tenses. “No authority tells me what to do or not to do anymore.”

Ambrosia makes a tent with her hands, taps the fingers. “She’s stopped me before with her meddling. And now she’s brought in a compatriot and together they plan to dilute your power. This compatriot pretends to be your friend. He offers comfort and understanding, the family you never had. That’s how he sucks you in.”

I fold my arms over my chest and press my belly against the ocean railing. I’m barefoot and the cliff is cold against my feet. Out in the water, a pod of dolphins breaks the surface. Waves pound the rocks. Overhead, thick fog blocks out any hope of a sunny day.

“Your true enemy is doubt,” Ambrosia goes on. “They try to instill it in you. The slightest hint of doubt holds you back, keeps you from fulfilling your natural potential as jury and judge. You know why they do it? You know what they want?”

“To strip us of power,” Alix says, flexing her biceps.

“To tame us.” Stephanie runs her tongue over her fangs.

“Exactly! Athena wants to take the glorious, relentless Furies and dress you in nice, comfy aprons of bland femininity. She’s done it before. She’s trying again.”

Ambrosia opens her copy of Aeschylus, and in a sappy, mimicking voice she reads a section near the end of the play. “We sing of the gifts we will give: No storm-winds will strike at your trees, no searing heat will ever burn scorching the earth, blistering your buds.”

With the book raised overhead, she shouts, “Not this time, Pallas!” and hurls it into the ocean. “Do you know what the original Furies got in return for giving up their rage?”

I do know. I finished reading the play. The Furies are appeased and settle for minor-goddess status. They get a nice altar in a nice city. Some citizens honor them by giving them a new name: the Kindly Ones.

“Kindly!” Ambrosia points her sharp fingernail at the book floating in the ocean, and it springs back into her hand just so she can have the pleasure of heaving it back into the water again. “The original Furies—the OFs—had it all! Weak, pathetic humanity trembled in fear before them and begged them for their justice and protection. But they traded it all for…”

Her mouth bunches like she bit into something sour, bitter, and hot. She spits out the words in disgust. “For popularity.”

A wave picks up the collected works of Aeschylus and pounds it against the rocks. The current sucks it back out a little, but then it washes in again for another pounding. And another. And another. The pages are saturated and the plays sink.

Ambrosia’s face is so close to mine that it blocks out everything but her. “So what’s it going to be, Megaera? Your justice for the entire human realm? Or a nice friend to eat lunch with?”

“The OFs took a rotten deal,” I say. “I don’t want to be minor anything ever again.”

With her fingernail she draws an invisible star on my forehead. “Give yourself an A-plus for that answer. But it means certain things must be taken care of.”

*   *   *

I forgot to mention the football team.

Despite the fact that half the cars in the school parking lot have a waxed surfboard buckled onto the roof, Hunter High is not a beach-town freak in the world of high school sports. The glass display case at the front entrance has football trophies right next to the surfing ones, dozens of bronze-colored, muscle-popping masculine figures clutching footballs and frozen in mid-run. Like everywhere else, autumn means football, and we are smack in the middle of the traditional season. If this were any other year, there would be scrimmages and pep rallies, everything leading up to the all-important homecoming game.

Oh well. Traditions are made to be broken. People need to get used to that. This year just about the whole team is out with the mysterious wasting disease, and the rest of the student body is bummed about it. The cheerleaders, poor things, are shadows of their former bouncy selves. They’re all on some combination of Prozac, Ritalin, and antibiotics in hopes that a miracle of modern medicine will revive their perkiness. Plus, none of the coaches, players, parents, or band members from the other schools will set foot on the Hunter High campus. It’s too scary.

That’s why I’m flabbergasted when, during Western Civ, the
ding, dong, ding
of the classroom speaker comes on and, instead of Mr. and Mrs. H, Raymond’s voice blasts out a cheery:

“Don’t be square. Be there! Today’s big homecoming event!”

There’s a surprised, happy buzz among the few students still left in class. How irritating! I exchange grumpy looks with Alix and Stephanie. When did Raymond become pumped up on school spirit? All this cheeriness gives me a pounding headache. I lay my head on the desk, cupped in the circle of my crisscrossed arms. I get a concentrated sniff of something not good. What’s that funky smell? There’s something familiar about it. Oh yeah, the stink of the plant at Ambrosia’s house—and yeah, I guess it’s coming from me now, my rank breath coupled with my eau de armpits.

Raymond’s voice goes on with its optimistic chirp: “Who needs big bruisers in shoulder pads slamming each other to smithereens? Homecoming is about the music and the marching. The band and color guard—what’s left of it!—are all rehearsed and ready to wow you with their precision stepping and flag-twirling.”

Somebody in the room actually applauds, and I have to look up to believe it. It’s one of the band geeks whom we let slide—so far. How disrespectful. And then the Danish foreign exchange student shakes his fist in the air in triumph, and a girl known for her buckteeth makes a choking sound that turns out to be tears of joy. Joy!

For the first time since the Fall of Brendon, I feel a serious lack of anxiety among my fellow students. I actually sense the room growing lighter. All because of a public performance by the mercilessly mocked color guard? What’s this about?

Raymond again: “Today! Right after school in the football stadium. Music! Marching! Instant satisfaction guaranteed!”

I don’t like it.

Neither does Ambrosia. She stands, and the way her hands knot at her sides I think she’s going to take a flying leap at the loudspeaker, superhero-style, and destroy it with one perfectly placed blow of her fist. But she stays earthbound and stomps one of her designer pumps. She finally manages to mutter, “Not this time!” before storming out of the room.

Ms. Pallas looks pleased. Very pleased. To the already-closed door: “Permission to leave granted, Ambrosia.”

From the loudspeaker comes a triumphant blast of recorded Hunter High band music. At first I think it’s what Raymond refers to as a John Phillip Snooza tune. It sets my teeth on edge, makes me grind them with each flare of the trumpet. But something about its awfulness sounds familiar. I know this tune. I hum a few notes ahead and wait for the music to catch up. What is it? Where have I heard it before?