Lovely Vicious (7 page)

“She said she heard him walking downstairs.”

“It could very well have been a flashback. You said she’s on medication, right?”

“And seeing a psychologist every week.”

“Well, I’m sorry, kid, but if she’s doing those things already, there’s not a lot we can do for her.”

“She’s not crazy! Stop treating her like she is!”

“I’m not, okay? I’m just stating facts. We can keep a cop outside your house for seventy-two hours, if it makes you feel better, but that’s about it.”

“Yeah. That’d be good.”

He pats my shoulder. “Keep your chin up. She’ll get better.”

I watch his retreating back and murmur;

“That’s what they all say.”

***

After Mom’s scare, I sleep in her room on the air mattress every night. I do my homework in there with her as she reads or naps. We eat meals upstairs, since she can’t bring herself to go downstairs for more than a few minutes at a time. My own room starts to look weird and foreign when I walk in – like I’m a stranger in it. The cop outside helps. When she gets jumpy in the middle of the night, I point out her window to the cop car sitting under the streetlight, and she relaxes and manages to get some sleep. I don’t. I stay awake, listening for the sounds of the heavy footsteps. Waiting. Praying. Praying that the bastard comes in and gives me an excuse to slit his throat.

I wait and I pray and I thank any god who’s listening. Nameless might’ve fucked me over, but he didn’t mess me up as much as that guy did to Mom. My thing is nothing compared to hers. It doesn’t even deserve to be called a thing in light of what happened to Mom. To what happens to women everywhere, every day.
 
 

I call the office at school and Mom tells them I’m sick when I’m not. She calls her work and uses all her sick days, but by Friday she’s improved enough to go in. Or so she says. I don’t believe her, but I try to. If I believe, maybe that’ll make it more real.

Fridays at school are always good days, but today it’s just shitcake on a shitpie sandwich. Every part of me feels like I’m rotting from the inside out – I’ve gotten barely any sleep and I can’t focus on the work I have to catch up on. All I can think about is Mom – if she’s alright at work, if she’s coping okay, if she’ll remember to eat the lunch I made her. All thoughts of the war with Jack Hunter fly out the window. I’ve got no tactics, no urge to show him up. No nothing. I’m drained, and tired. And done.

Kayla nervously approaches me at recess. She clears her throat and I sit up from my place on the grass.

“Hi,” she starts.

“Hey.”

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to get some sleep.”

“Oh. Didn’t sleep well?”

“For a couple nights,” I agree. “It’s just, you know. Insomnia crap. Typical wacky teenage circadian rhythms.”

“You were absent.”

“Yeah. I was sick.”

“Oh.” She bites her lip and looks at her shoes before she blurts; “I’m really sorry. For what I said earlier this week. About you, and things. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“S’cool. I’ve been pretty mean to you too, lately.”

“Nu-uh!”

“I’ve been insensitive. About Jack, and how you like him. I’m sorry.”

There’s a long quiet. She reaches out her hand.

“Let’s start over? I’m Kayla Thermopolis.”

I shake her hand. “Isis. Isis Blake.”

“You’re really good at that history of the planet thing.”

“World history.” I smile as she repeats our first exchange at Avery’s party. Speak of the horned red-guy with a trident - Avery walks in at that moment. Kayla clearly sees her, but unlike most times she doesn’t scurry away to Avery’s side. She stays in front of me, and keeps talking.

“I’m…I’m having a party tonight. My parents are out of town, so. It’s just a little get-together. It’d be really awesome if could be there. There’ll be pretzels. And a piñata. You could even punch someone! But only if you really have to. Like, really really
really
have to. Like, if your life depends on it.” She thinks on that for a moment. “Actually, can you just not punch anyone there at all?”

“I’ll try,” I laugh.

“Okay! It starts at eight, so be there.”

I glance at Avery, who’s glaring swords at me. Claymores.
Axes
.

“Is Avery coming?” I ask. Kayla shrugs.

“No. She said she had something to do.”

“Are you sure you’re okay with her seeing me and you talking?”

“I’m – I don’t know. She doesn’t like it, but I owe you an apology, so. She’s really awesome and stuff, but I’m not gonna let her stop me from being polite.”

“Right. Cool. I’ll see you tonight, then.”

Kayla rushes back to Avery’s side, and Avery rips into her with snapped, quick words and barbed glances back at me.

After school, I rummage through my closet for something badass to wear, and settle on a black shirt with a red flannel over it, and a black skirt with tights. I used to not be into clothes. It’s hard to be into clothes when the only thing people see about you is the fat, not the fashion. After losing all that weight I couldn’t help but cultivate a newfound joy in dressing the body I’d worked so hard for.
 
 
  
 

“Are you going out tonight?” Mom peeks into my room and catches me applying eyeliner. I grin sheepishly.

“Uh, yeah. Kayla invited me at the last minute.”

“And who’s this Kayla?”

“The first person at school to call me something other than ‘New Girl’.”

Mom makes a little applauding motion. “I like her already.”

“Are you…” I trail off. “Are you gonna be okay alone, here?”

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me. When are you coming home?”

“I…I don’t know. Before midnight, definitely.”

“Good.”

“The cop will still be out there, tonight, so you don’t have to worry.”

She sweeps over and kisses the top of my head. “I know. I’m sorry for scaring you like that. It was just me being silly.”

I’m about to argue that it isn’t silly, but she pats my hand.

“Hurry now. You don’t want to be late.”

“But I do! It makes me seem important and busy!”

She laughs. I pull my hair into a side braid and grab my purse. Gum – check. Cash – check. Tampons – check. You never know when someone will start their period or when I’ll punch somebody and make their noses bleed. At least with tampons I can be considerate to my enemies.

Speaking of enemies, I have no idea if Jack will be there or not, and frankly I don’t care. I’m still not feeling the whole war thing, and I’m just barely in the mood to party to begin with. I throw together a hearty beef casserole and stick it in the oven for Mom before I go, and she waves as I pull out of the driveway. Halfway to Kayla’s house, she texts me to pick up red plastic cups. I make a haphazard u-turn and gun it to the nearest supermarket for the timeless keg party staple. I’m still feeling like crap, so I grab a jar of frosting to snack on. After losing eighty-five pounds, putting on two or three because of my still-shitty comfort eating habits is small time crime.

“Speaking of crime,” I whisper as I look into the rearview mirror. Two someones stroll along the sidewalk across from the supermarket, coming out of a fancy Italian restaurant. The guy’s messy but-way-too-perfectly-messy-if-you-get-my-drift hair and towering height gives him away – Jack Hunter. But he’s smiling. A warm, sincere smile decorates his angled cheekbones and makes him look more human than ever. A young woman in a to-die-for fur coat clutches his arm. I know the people of Northplains are mostly rich, but this woman looks Columbus-class rich. She belongs in the capital, in Seattle, LA, not here – her hair perfectly red and her lips soft and pouty. She can’t be more than four years older than me. Probably some rich guy’s daughter.

It hits me just then; Jack’s working. That would explain the smile. He’s getting paid to smile. I fight the urge to leap out of the car and follow them, and in a record time of point four seconds I pull my hood up and bolt out of the car and follow them. It’s a romantic walk, I have to admit. The streetlamps are wrought-iron in an old Victorian style, and the warm glow they produce drives off the chilly October night. Little tourist-trap shops filled with stained glass animals and soulless watercolors of the lake crowd the avenue. I duck behind potted plants and café signs whenever Jack or the lady’s head swivels too far. I’m so nervous and excited I uncap the frosting and dip my finger in it, eating it as I follow them. It’s like watching a movie with popcorn except a hundred times funnier, because it’s watching ice-pole-up-his-butt Jack try to be nice. Also, it’s intensely disturbing. Seeing him smile is as unnatural and weird as remembering your parents had to have sex in order to make you.

“I didn’t know your dad was an idiot,” Jack says. His voice is…teasing. Light. Nothing about it is boredly flat, like it usually is. The lady punches his arm playfully.

“Don’t make fun of him. He’s the one paying you, technically.”

“Ah, but I’d do this for nothing. That’s how beautifully distracting you are, Madison.”

I shovel more frosting in my mouth before I rip a hole in the space-time continuum with my explosive laughter. The lady finds it much more sincere, and giggles, leaning her beautiful head on his shoulder as they walk.

“Do you want to go back to the hotel?” She asks, quieter. “I bought new rope that needs breaking in.”

I yelp as I bite my own frosting-covered finger. Madison looks behind her first. Her expression gets flustered and confused. Jack turns around, and his face goes from a faintly-smiling mask to deadly-angry not-mask in less than point two seconds. I swallow and raise a sticky hand in abrupt greeting.

“Uh, hello! Don’t mind me! I’m just walking behind you. Not following you.”

“You’re really close,” Madison says warily.

“I’m just…watching so I can manage things!”

“Manage?” Madison raises a brow. Jack’s ice-blue eyes are colder than a snap frozen mountain river in December.

“Yup! I manage stuff! I’m a…manager! I’m his manager!” I point at Jack and wink and put on a corny-old-timey voice. “You’re going to Hollywood, kid!”

“I paid the fee, if that’s what you’re here about,” Madison starts. Jack looks to her, smile flashing on for a moment.

“Let me talk to her. Give me one second.”

“Okay,” Madison giggles. He kisses her passionately, so passionately I almost feel embarrassed for watching. When they part, she’s breathless, and Jack strides over to me with a brewing sneer. He grabs my elbow and pulls me in the other direction.

“Is that how you kissed me?” I ask, nearly tripping as he pulls me along. “Golly gee, it looks kind of mildly fucking embarrassing! No wonder people at school have been talking about it for weeks now. Golly gee!”

“Stop saying golly gee.”

“Tallyho, chaps!”

“Stop saying things!” He snarls, letting go of me only when we’re around the corner and a tea shop separates us from Madison’s view.

“Things!” I shout.

“How did you find me? If you hacked into the Club’s computer to look up my appointments - ”

“Whoa, I think you overestimate me, shitlord. Last time I checked all I did was be in the wrong place at the right time. I saw you and had to - ”

“Stalk me.”

“ - delicately approach you. In a sideways manner. From behind. Without being seen at all. For ten minutes.”

“Why are you even out? I thought you were sick.”

“I was. See, it’s this thing called an immune system -”

He holds up his hand and rubs his eyes. “Okay, stop. Shut all systems down and just. Stop. Talking.”

“Why?”

“It’s annoying.”

“That’s never stopped me before!”

“Why did you follow me?”

“I was…curious?”

“Not good enough.”

“You want me to be honest?”

“Preferably yes, so you don’t waste anymore of my time.”

“We
are
at war. Wars don’t exactly demand honesty. How are you enjoying suspension, by the way?”

“Wonderfully, thank you,” His voice drips acid sarcasm. “I’ve booked seven new clients and earned a thousand extra this week.”

“Impressive. Is that how much they pay for the dick, or for the hilariously cheesy compliments? Or are those extra? If so, count me in! I want to hear you serenade me with them while I choke on my own bile.”

He looks down at the jar of frosting I clutch in my hands. “Are you eating that out of the can?”

“Are you the king of stupid questions?” I fire back. “Of course I am! Frosting is the ambrosia of the gods. God, if you’re into that religious thing. Are you religious? Somehow I get the feeling the only church you’d join is the church of self-worship. Your body is your temple. Work it, boy.”

“What are you saying?” He snarls. “You’re blabbering!”

“At least I’m not whoring!”