I Am Her Revenge (7 page)

He helped me carry them up to my room, where we hid them in my closet. But Helper must have been watching us, because not nearly an hour had passed before he told Mother. She stormed into my room, pushing Arthur aside without a word. I clutched the mewling kittens as she towered over me. Slowly, she reached out a hand, and I only had the strength to hesitate for a second before handing her one of the helpless creatures. I remember she kept her eyes on mine as a knife flashed in her hand and she slit the kitten’s throat. I remember the gurgling scream the kitten gave as its life flowed out of it. I think I’ll remember that scream for the rest of my life.

By the time Mother had killed the last one, tears were streaming so thickly down my face that I couldn’t see her gray eyes glaring into mine.

“Remember this, Vivian,” Mother said, her voice calm and cold. “I will kill anything you love.” Then the ice left her eyes and she reached out, cradling my chin in her hand. “I will not let love destroy you,” she said softly.

After she left, Arthur hugged me close and let me cry until I had nothing left.

I knew even then that she did what she did to show me how painful love could be. I knew it was a lesson I needed to learn. A lesson I would never forget.

I shut my eyes tightly against the memory and step out of the shower. Back in my room, I curl up in a blanket on my bed and write a quick email to Mother, telling her that I got closer to Ben while implementing my desirable and intriguing outsider status. I recount the scenes from the literary magazine meeting and dinner the night before and hope that will be enough. I close the laptop before I can read her reply and take out a notebook.

Mother sent several notebooks along with my textbooks so that I could take notes, or at least pretend to, in class, but I’ll appropriate one as a sketchbook. My fingers itch as soon as I touch the paper, and when I find a pencil, I let it fly across the page. I’m sketching my cottage, my new refuge, so that when I can’t visit it, at least I can see it. I can see the rough wooden walls, the wide hearthside, the bit of remaining roof that shelters me from the rain. It’s different from my usual drawings, the ones that show a harsh, cruel world—the world as it truly is.

I keep going, losing myself in these drawings, sketching one of the trees I have seen clinging to the land. And then I sketch Ben. I look for the arrogant features in his face, drawing the enemy as I need to see him. I want to draw Arthur. But I don’t. I can’t quite capture him yet. He’s too unfamiliar, too wild. Instead, I draw an abstract of him, a figure bearing down on the viewer, blocking the way. He’s a force trying to stop me, and that’s how I need to think of him.

The Arthur I used to know was the one person who knew about my art, and he would write poems to go along with my drawings. Ekphrasis, he called it, poetry to echo the beauty of visual art. His poems were like bursts of fresh air in the stillness. We would hide away and spend hours trading sketches and poems, making our own conversation, responding to each other’s creativity. He made my art matter.

I’m so wrapped up in thinking about the way things used to be between us that I don’t even notice when Claire comes in.

“Thank goodness you’re all right!” she yells, startling the pencil from my grasp. “Where’d you go?”

She’s standing over me, glancing down curiously at my sketchbook. I cover the drawing of Ben’s conceited face with my hand, but I’m not quick enough. I see a flash of recognition in her eyes.

She looks up to meet my gaze, and I shake my head, silently begging her not to say anything. She doesn’t. She just waits for an answer to her initial question.

I tell her what I told Harriford about my getting lost in the moors.

“Are you okay?” she asks, genuinely concerned. Her forehead wrinkles as she peers down at me.

I nod. “I’m fine. Just stupid, that’s all.”

She looks like she wants to keep lecturing me, but she keeps her mouth shut. Instead, she hands me a small package wrapped in napkins. “I thought you might be hungry.”

She’s made me a sandwich, sliced chicken breast and cheese on thick wheat bread. My stomach rumbles, and I look up at her with what I hope is a thankful expression. “This is perfect,” I say before tearing into it, barely chewing before I swallow.

Claire looks pleased as she settles down at her desk. I don’t understand this girl. But I begin to think that if I had been raised as a normal human being, if I wasn’t a weapon constantly aimed at others, I would truly want her to be my friend.

On Sundays we’re
allowed to go into town, and I’m the first one in line for the shuttle. Loworth, the nearest village, is a ten-minute drive, and as soon as I step off the bus onto a muddy sidewalk, I know there won’t be much here for me.

The village is only a small collection of short stone buildings, little more than an intersection of two streets. There are a few generic shops, a pub, and a post office. All of the buildings are frighteningly close to the road, and as I walk past what must be a couple of apartment buildings, I can see right into the windows, where one family is gathered around a kitchen table and one man watches a soccer game in nothing but his underwear. A few elderly women sit outside on a bench, shaking their heads as their quiet town becomes overrun with Madigan students.

I head for the charity shop first, where they sell ratty old clothing and broken pieces of pottery and other strange treasures all jumbled together on rickety racks and wooden shelves. I don’t find any art supplies, but I do discover a blue and white china teacup with the handle missing. If I fill it with water and place some small flowers in it, it will brighten up my desk. Or, I can break it into pieces and make a mosaic. That little teacup, sold for only fifty pence, makes me hum with anticipation.

I also find a pair of beaten-up combat boots that will be perfect for stomping around the moors. They fit well enough, and I put them on as soon as I pay for them.

The drugstore has charcoal pencils, brushes, and adequate- quality paints, and in the bookstore, I find a little journal hidden away in the sales rack. It’s made of worn brown leather and filled with blank, rough-cut pages. Perfect for an impromptu sketchbook and much better than the lined notebook I’ve been using. I’ll just tell Mother these expenses were for seductive clothing or some other necessary purchase.

Suddenly I hear the nasal twang of Arabella’s voice before I see her. I creep around the bookshelves until I spot her with several of her hangers-on, laughing at the covers of cheesy romances. Her friends all laugh the way she does: their hands covering their mouths, the gleeful giggles escaping through the space between their fingers.

I wait until they move toward the teen fiction section in the back before paying for my new sketchbook and slipping out of the store.

I explore for the next hour, wandering around the village in my new boots and peering into more windows. All the buildings are made of stone, built to last. The windows are tiny, some with warped glass panes that must have survived at least a century.

Before I even realize it, I wander into a cemetery. I survey the graves, covered with slate and rising crookedly above the ground, all jammed together under the watchful eye of the church clock tower. The day is gray and misty, and I shiver in the gloom as I shuffle through the plots, reading about infants and women and men who died all too young. My feet sink into the muddy ground, but I hardly notice. I’m too caught up in the depictions of angels and skulls and crossbones on the headstones around me. I have never been in a cemetery before, but I can’t help but be enchanted by its bleakness. It reminds me of home.

And yet Loworth is nothing like the concrete-and-brick towns I’m used to back home. History seems to shimmer on the air here, and I wonder if I can capture that feeling in a drawing.

I meander out of the cemetery and behind the parsonage, where I come upon a house. It’s a freestanding stone structure, narrow and tall. The gabled roof is pockmarked and missing several of its stone shingles. It rises high above me, and when I crane my neck, I see a flock of ravens shooting into the air, their caws sending shivers down my spine as their giant black wings flap wildly. The gardens surrounding the house are overgrown, their vines strangling a dying tree and climbing up the gray stone walls. The windows are shuttered and dark.

I stop for several moments, staring, as if I expect the house to shake off its stillness and reveal its secrets to me. Or maybe I’m expecting it to sink into the earth that seems to be trying so hard to claim it.

I hear a muffled sound behind me and whirl around. Two people are having a whispered conversation somewhere in the graveyard, and I head toward it. Because there’s one voice I recognize. And it belongs to someone I need to talk to.

G-Man stands in a secluded corner of the cemetery, half-hidden by a straggly tree and a tall obelisk over a grave. He’s handing something to a boy I faintly recognize from the halls, and the boy looks around. I duck behind a wide headstone, pressing my hands against its smooth, cold surface, before he can see me.

He leaves with whatever party favors he’s acquired, and I stand up and walk toward G-Man.

I step on a pile of dead leaves. Their crunch gives me away, and G-Man turns around to face me. But he doesn’t seem surprised to see me. Instead, his smile curves up in a knowing way. He has no idea how much he doesn’t know about me.

“Come for more rainy-day supplies?” he asks, sliding a hand in his pocket and leaning against the gray stone wall surrounding the graveyard, one foot braced against it. He’s trying to look cool, and I’m trying not to roll my eyes.

I step closer to him, a smile growing on my face. “Something like that,” I murmur.

His eyes widen a bit as I move even closer to him, invading his personal space for a change. His foot slips off the wall.

I let my gaze fall to his lips, then drag my eyes back up to his. “How much for a few hits of Molly?”

He has to clear his throat before he speaks. “It depends.”

“What do you mean?” I ask innocently.

He attempts a leer and leans into me. “Well, there’s a friends-and-family discount.” And a discount for popular kids, too, I assume, as long as they invite him to their parties.

I look up at him through my eyelashes. “And do I count as a friend?” I coo.

He nods slowly. “I think so.”

I reward him with a dazzling smile and step back.

He takes a breath, clearing his head. “How much you want, then?”

“How much you got?”

He sells me several pills, enough for a few months, at least. Plenty of time to get Ben addicted to them and addicted to me. It costs me nearly all of the money Mother provided for this task, but not quite. She’ll be pleased with that detail.

I put the packets in my purse and lean back toward G-Man again. I give him a quick peck on the cheek and hurry away before he can ask for more, then manage to catch the last shuttle of the day.

I clutch my new sketchbook in my lap all the way back to school, but it’s only when I’m alone in my room that I open the cover and let myself get lost in its pages for a few hours. I try to sketch the house I found beside the graveyard, but it won’t spark to life under my fingers. I rip the wasted pages out and crumple them in frustration. I stick to sketching Ben’s face, showing him as the cocky adversary I must control and destroy.

When I glance at the clock, it’s almost nine. Mother will be waiting for my call.

I run to the hall, but there’s another girl on the phone. She chats contentedly with someone, twirling her hair around her fingers as she laughs and says, “That’s ridiculous,” over and over again.

I hover over her, crowding her until she gives me an ugly glare. “Have to go, Ames. Some bitch wants the phone.”

I simply raise my eyebrows at her until she finally hangs up and walks away, muttering more nasty names as she goes.

My fingers tremble as I dial, and I take a deep breath, forcing them to be still.

She answers on the first ring. “Late” is all she says.

“Sorry, Mom,” I say, trying to sound happy and privileged and not sorry at all. “There was a line. How are you?”

“Have you drawn him in?” she asks.

“I think so. The literary magazine meeting went well,” I hedge, looking around the hall to make sure I’m alone.

“Not good enough. Have you talked to him yet? Alone?”

“No,” I admit, waiting for her wrath.

It comes swiftly. “What on earth are you doing there, then? Wasting time and my money? Don’t think that just because you are off in England I can’t get to you.”

I hold the phone away from me as she continues shouting her rage through the line. When she stops, I press the phone back to my ear. “I did talk to a new friend, who gave me some not-too-expensive presents.”

“Fine. But still not good enough.”

“I am sorry,” I whisper. I don’t put emotion into my voice. She doesn’t respond to emotion. “I will draw him in as soon as possible, I promise.”

“You better,” she says darkly. The line clicks, and she’s gone. When I stumble back to my room, I have to put my head between my knees to stop the nausea rising in my stomach.

It’s going to be okay. I can do this. It’s what I was born for.

I wake the next morning determined to make contact with Ben. Alone. If I catch him when he has friends or admirers around, it’ll be harder to establish a connection. If I get him alone, he’ll be more malleable. More himself.

But I can’t find an opportunity all day. Or for the next two weeks. He’s always surrounded, even in our Thursday literary magazine meetings, and though he still glances at me and seems to study me when he thinks I’m not looking, I can’t seem to find a way to capitalize on that interest. I email Mother every night, assuring her that I’m trying. I know I’m running out of time.

It’s Arabella whom I encounter alone first. I’ve felt her eyeing me in the hallways ever since the night almost three weeks ago when we snuck out onto the moors. I know she doesn’t know what to make of me.

I’m heading for the shower one morning when she’s standing at the bathroom mirror, putting on one of her several layers of makeup. She pauses when I come in, pulling the mascara wand away from her eye. “Hi,” she says, a bit coldly.

I have to play this carefully before I reveal how much of an enemy I’m going to be. Surprise attacks are always the most devastating.

So I put on my brightest smile and say, “Hi!” like I couldn’t be more thrilled to see her. “Thanks so much for letting me come along the other night,” I add. This will make her feel like she has power of approval over me, and I see her eyes light up as she looks at me.

“Sure thing. If you want to join in again, just let me know.” She looks me up and down as she puts away her mascara, still trying to judge if I’m worthy, but she’s giving me the benefit of the doubt. For now.

“Thanks,” I simper. “Claire tells me you’re the most popular girl at Madigan. I can see why.”

It’s much too sycophantic, but she eats it right up, her smile growing wider as she turns to the mirror again, fluffing her red hair.

“Claire also told me about your best friend, Emily,” I say in my most innocent voice.

Arabella rolls her eyes in the mirror. “That slag was
not
my best friend.”

“Sure she was,” I say casually. “I’ve heard the stories about you. Where else would she have learned to be such a slut?”

She whirls on me, but she only opens then closes her mouth with shock.

I smirk and step into a shower stall. As I lock the door, I can almost feel her fuming on the other side of it.