Locked (9 page)

Ouch. “You sound like a fashionista saying you don’t
do
green, or something.”

“You come up with the strangest comparisons.”

“I have to find some way to bug you.”

“Congratulations on your success.”

“Anyway, never?” I ask, even though I should probably just shut up. “You must have—”

“And here we are.” He stops so suddenly that I bump into him. We’re standing in front of a little white house, identical to every other house on the block. There’s a collection of dying flowers by the front steps. “Casa de Brown.”

I hug myself to ward off the chill that runs down my spine. “Sherlock, I’m not—”

But he’s already knocking. And Daphne’s already opening the door.

I’ve had a few classes with the small, glasses-wearing girl who always wears a T-shirt with the logo of some TV show or comic, but she’s never stood out to me until now. She never looked like the type of person to ruin someone’s reputation with a photo. I’d basically been picturing someone from
Mean Girls
.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes, right?” she says warily, though I can detect a spark of interest. Sherlock—drawing girls in with his accent and his cheekbones, and pushing them away again with his personality.

“I am,” he says. “And I’ve come to join your club.”

I do my best not to splutter.

“I’m very interested in comic books,” he says. “Particularly
Danger Girl
. My favorite character is Sydney. I adore her complicated love/hate relationship with Johnny Barracuda. Irene, if you require the Heimlich maneuver, just let me know.”

I attempt to control the choking noise I’ve been making as a result of suppressed laughter.

“Irene?” says Daphne slowly. “Irene Adler?” She looks past Sherlock, straight into my eyes, and something bad dawns on her face.

“He’s also a big
Danger Girl
fan,” he says, showing no indication that he’s going to pick up and run, which is what I very much want to do right now. “Your club is open to all students, is it not?”

“Um…yeah.” Her voice is husky. She takes off her glasses and rubs them mechanically on her shirt. “I guess…come in…”

Sherlock signals for me to follow him. I definitely do not want to follow him, and Daphne won’t meet my eyes, but Sherlock just holds the door open wider. Eventually I trail through into the dim hallway.

“You are so a comic book geek,” I whisper to him.

“Wikipedia,” he whispers back.

The house is neat, but dull—even the curtains seem faded. Yard sale curtains. A series of report cards are taped to the fridge, all B’s. In the living room, eight people are arranged around stacks of comic books and bags of microwave popcorn. I recognize them all from Daphne’s quiet group at school.

“This is Sherlock. And…Irene.” Daphne still refuses to look at me. I’m all too happy not to look at her either. “They’re joining the club.”

There’s some nearly-hushed gasps and I wince at the stares of people who’ve seen me naked, but they only last for a minute. Then the stares swing over to Sherlock as everyone understands what kind of weirdo he is at once.
Their
kind of weirdo. If only Sherlock really was just into comic books.

“Daphne,” he says, ignoring them all. People are endlessly fascinated by him, and he’s never fascinated back. “A minute alone in the kitchen.”

Daphne pales eight shades. This time she does look at me. “Why? We were just about to—”

“Oh, I’d just like you explain the meeting times to us, the rules, other various uninteresting things I’m sure we don’t need to bore everyone else with.” He grabs her elbow and steers her back into the kitchen. I’ve been steered by Sherlock enough times that I feel a twinge of pity.

Except—no. This girl had sent naked pictures of me to the entire school. I should be feeling the opposite of pity. Anti-pity.

“Tea?” she offers weakly once we’re all in the kitchen. I start counting the number of novelty saltshakers on the windowsill.

“I’d prefer something stronger. Like the truth,” says Sherlock.

Dramatic as always.

Nearly half the saltshakers are Christmas-themed.

“What?” she mumbles. She casts around for a distraction and lands on me. “Oh, Irene…I heard about the photo thing. Must suck.”

“Yes, it must,” he says conversationally. “Just like you hoped it would when you emailed it to every single person at this school.”

Daphne is glued to the cabinets. “I didn’t.”

“You don’t lie as well as you Photoshop.”

“Photoshop? But I didn’t—I didn’t Photoshop—”

“Christ,” I mutter. “Leave her alone.”

Sherlock rounds on me, his tone suddenly terse. “Irene if you could act just a bit more human for five seconds so I could accurately predict—“

“Human?” I completely lose interest in the salt shakers. “I’m the one who’s not human? Me? You’re the one who’s not!”

Daphne stares between us. Dead silence from the living room. Everyone is listening.

Sherlock’s expression is unreadable. “Humans are malicious and petty and enjoy retribution and by all accounts
you
, Irene, if you are in fact human, should be relishing this.”

“Well, I’m not.”

There’s a moment of silence so uncomfortable it nearly twangs, like a taut guitar string. Then Daphne makes a shuddering noise. Her face is crimson. “I don’t care! I don’t care. You deserved it. I’m not apologizing.”

Sherlock throws me a
getting angry yet?
look.

I’m not
, I mouth back.

She slams her fist on the kitchen counter, making the water in a nearby glass jump. “I always thought you were nice, Irene! I felt bad for you when your sister died. I really did. I don’t know why you had to do this. Ethan must have told you about me. He
must
have.”

Okay, now I’m starting to get mad, but I won’t give Sherlock the satisfaction of showing it. “You asked me to do it.”

Daphne laughs furiously. “That is the absolute most bullshit excuse for an excuse I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“She’s right.” Sherlock is smirking.
Smirking.
I hate him. “You’re wrong, Irene.”

“
You’re
the one who gave me the letter!” If only I could smash the water glass on Sherlock’s insufferable head. “Addressed to Ares!
Go see if my boyfriend will make out with you so I know in advance if he’s going to cheat on me or not
—”

“You’re Ares?” Daphne’s voice radiates with shock. Too much shock to be fake.

Sherlock leans against the kitchen countertop, placing his fingertips together like an actual supervillain. Somehow I know Robyn would find it sexy. “What did we think we knew about the person who sent your picture out, Irene? That they knew the truth about you. But Daphne doesn’t. And yet she most certainly sent the photograph out. Meaning…”

“Someone else contacted Ares,” I mumble. “You were right.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, her voice shaking. “All I know is that you hooked up with my boyfriend and then sent a picture to our club’s Twitter account.”

Every muscle in her face is rigid. I’d always seen her as a sidelines girl—in my classes, but not on my radar. Quiet enough not to stand out, not weird enough to get made fun of. Always in a tight knot of friends, never really speaking to anyone else. But all I can see now is someone I hurt.

Judging by Sherlock’s expression, all he can see is someone who hurt me. His eyes are pitiless. “And you chose to handle your personal problems by sending someone’s naked photograph to everyone in school. Oh, sorry—someone’s clothed photograph that you made naked utilizing the considerable Photoshop skills you’ve acquired by making that scintillating fan art you’re always posting on Facebook.”

Then his tone changes as he visibly registers something. “The club’s Twitter account, you say?”

“Yeah, it’s not just mine.” Daphne is wavering, breaking down under all his forcefulness. “We post updates, and stuff…”

“Irene!” he exclaims and suddenly my shoulders are in his excited grip. “Do you know what that means?”

His face is way too close for me to locate my lungs.

“
It was someone in the club
. Someone with access to that Twitter account. They must use it on a rotating schedule. The person whose turn it was to use it before Daphne is the one who contacted Ares. They knew Daphne would be the one to log on next and get your message with the photograph.”

I push him away. Daphne’s crying. Oh no. “Daphne…”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.” She scrubs her eyes with a fury I’m familiar with. “I got that message, and…”

“Daphne, hey.” I’m so tired of tears. From anyone. Especially when they’re because of me. “I’m really, really sorry. I thought it was something you wanted. If I could take it back—”

“Don’t apologize, Irene. Apologizing for things that aren’t one’s fault are for idiots and masochists, and I’d hope to believe you aren’t either.” Sherlock is steel again. He flicks his MRI-stare over Daphne and I know what’s coming.

“You were only dating him for two weeks. You’ve still got the movie ticket stub from your first date in your back pocket. Hardly worth revenge at this level. Your parents are overprotective and don’t let you date, that’s why you kept the relationship as secret as you could, and also why you don’t know how this works. But I know how it works, Daphne, as I am highly observant, and so I’ll tell you: Ethan never cared about you. He took advantage of the fact that you’d been shown little attention by men before and assumed you’d be grateful enough to sleep with him without much effort on his part—”

And then Sherlock is blinking water from his eyes. He looks down at the liquid soaking his shirt. I count to three before placing the now-empty glass back on the counter.

“Irene,” he says.

“Get out,” I say. “Now.”

“But the cause of this entire debacle is sitting in the living room and I need to consult—”

“Out.
Now
.”

Something flickers in his expression before he obeys. He disappears from the kitchen. I hear the front door shut quietly behind him.

“I’m sorry.” Everything is hopeless. I’m hopeless. Sherlock is the most hopeless of all. “He’s…he doesn’t mean—”

“Oh, yes he did mean.” Daphne keeps wiping her face, over and over, even though she wasn’t the one who had a glass of water thrown in her face. “See, you’re lucky. Your boyfriend’ll do anything to hurt someone who hurt you. Mine—doesn’t care. Never cared. Sherlock’s right.”

“Sherlock isn’t—”

“Right? Your boyfriend?” Daphne laughs and buries her face in her hands. “I don’t believe you either way. Get out of my house.”

“But—”

“Go
away
!” she screams. I turn, and half the comic book club is standing in the doorway, staring at me. More stares. Always more stares. I rip myself away, make himself walk—not run—outside.

Where the sun is shining.

And Sherlock is standing by the front fence, smoking. I march up to him and snatch the cigarette from his fingers.

“For a second I thought you were going to slap me,” he says.

“Still considering it.” I stamp the ashes into the ground. “Stop smoking, unless you want to get lung cancer and lose your voice and then you’ll never be able to make anyone angry ever again. God knows what else you’d do with your time.”

He stares at me for a long time. For some reason, the stare feels different than the ones from Daphne’s comic book club. “I was right, by the way.”

“Oh, thank the Lord.” I throw my hands up. Daphne is crying and I’m still shaking and Sherlock is so incredibly infuriating. At least the wind’s died down. “God forbid you should ever not be right.”

“Didn’t know you were religious, Irene.”

“I’m not—just—shut up. What were you right about?”

“Two things. Someone else contacted Ares to sabotage Daphne’s relationship.” He rests his elbow on the fence. “And you’re not human.”

I pull my sweater up higher over my shoulders. “Let’s just go home before Daphne sends her comic book army out after us.”

“Humans hate me,” he says. “Without fail.”

“And I don’t?” I’m being mean, but I’m so pissed about what he said to Daphne, and I really have no idea how I feel about him. Confused, maybe. Annoyed, definitely. Although I’m pretty sure it’s not hate.

“You don’t want me to get lung cancer.”

I half-laugh, half-groan. “You have low standards for people liking you.”

“I didn’t say like.” His face is inscrutable. “I said not hate.”

“That’s something, then.” I shade my eyes against the sun. “Can we please go back to your house and eat the cold pizza that’s currently on your floor?”

“You make it sound so appetizing.”

And he slows his pace for me the whole way home.

“You better not have brought me here to get sentimental about the moon.”

|||

(written on the inside of an empty pizza box)

I am a scientist. I form hypotheses, I prove them right. Irene Adler: ruining my hypotheses. One after the other.

Hypothesis: no one would ever want to be friends with me. Previously proven correct. Now disproven.

Hypothesis: a person can stand my presence for a minimum of one day before they stop speaking to me. Previously proven correct. Now disproven.

She’s an anomaly.

A puzzle.

Need puzzles. Without them, my mind runs itself into the ground. So: need Irene.

People = so easy to read. So transparent. Except her. Nothing to do in this town. Must analyze when I can. Find a challenge where I can. Show off when I can. Would rather impress people than have them like me. Irene is impressed AND likes me. (Doesn’t hate.) Unprecedented situation. Expresses concern for my welfare. Very unusual. Not sure what to do about it.

If only I had a better distraction. A puzzle to solve. Like a murder. That would be nice.

Should push her away.

Can’t.

|||

Gym class.

The hell of the 21
^st
century.

The worst part is that I used to like gym class. I used to be
good
at gym class. I used to go for runs. Grief is about the worst thing in the world for physical fitness. Worse than cake.