The Merciless (4 page)

“She was even horrible to Grace,” Alexis says, passing me the wine bottle. “And she barely knows her.”

“She was okay to me,” I say. I let the wine roll over my tongue, holding it in my mouth.

“Really?” Grace asks.

I shrug. “I mean, we didn't paint each other's nails or anything, but she gave me a Band-Aid.”

Alexis snickers. “Can you imagine doing your nails with Brooklyn? I bet every bottle of polish she owns is black.”

Alexis giggles even harder, but Riley suddenly sits up straight.

“Wait a second. Maybe you
should
,” she says. There's a manic, excited light in her pale eyes—and she's aiming them right at me. “Hang out with Brooklyn, I mean. I don't think she's seen you with us yet. You can find out why she's such a bitch now.”

“You want me to spy on her?” I ask.

“Come on, Ri, don't ask her to do that.” Grace throws a piece of popcorn at Riley. “It's weird.”

“I guess it does sound like spying.” Riley's shoulders slump. “Sorry, Sof, I didn't mean it like that. I was just thinking it'd be cool if we could help her.”

“Right, of course,” I say, but the idea sticks in my head. I chose Riley and her friends over Brooklyn, and I definitely prefer Nutella and red wine over animal mutilation and locker room séances. Still, I wonder what Brooklyn's really like.

Suddenly, Alexis sits up, dropping the rest of her caramel corn on the floor.

“Guys, let's do something else,” she says, wiping the popcorn dust coating her fingers onto one of the sleeping bags. “Sofia's going to think that all we do is sit around and gossip about Brooklyn.”

“Speak for yourself,” Grace says. “I barely even knew that psycho.”

“Hand me that.” Alexis points to the wine bottle I'm still holding, and I pass it to her. She takes a deep drink. “Okay, so this is a game Ri and I used to play all the time when we were kids. It's called
concentration
.”

“Ugh! No.” Riley groans, making a face. “That game is so stupid, Lexie.”

“Shut up. It's perfect,” Alexis says. “Come on, Grace. I'll do you first.”

Grace crawls over to Alexis and sits in front of her, clenching her eyes shut. Alexis knocks on the top of her head, then slides her fingers over the back of her neck and shoulders. Grace snickers.

“After I finish speaking, you will be put into a trance,” Alexis continues, walking her fingers up and down Grace's spine. “This trance will allow you to see the most important moment of your life, past or present.”

“Oh, god,” I groan. Riley laughs through her clenched lips.

“Shut up,” Alexis says. “This is totally scientific.”

“Ignore them. I'm ready,” Grace says.

“Good. Now concentrate,” Alexis whispers. She knife-chops her hands against Grace's back and kneads her fingers against her neck and shoulders. Grace's head drops in relaxation, and her eyes close. “What do you see?”

“I see . . .” Grace sways back in forth. Her eyelids flicker, and her lips part in a faint smile. “I see a beach. It's long and white. Stretched out in front of it is the most beautiful, sparkling blue ocean.”

“Good,” Alexis whispers. “What else?”

Grace's smile fades. “I'm not alone,” she says. There's a chill in her voice now. I shiver. “There's someone there. Someone I can't see.”

“Turn around,” Alexis says. Grace nods. She stops swaying, and her whole body goes rigid. “Look at who's standing behind you, Grace. Now . . . describe him to me.”

Grace's eyes shoot open.

“It's Tom,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. “He's spread out across a beach towel, shirtless. He wants to help rub suntan lotion on my back.”

Alexis smacks Grace on the arm, and Grace snorts with laughter. “Loser,” Alexis says, smiling. “Okay, who's next? Riley?”

Riley takes another drink of wine, shaking her head. “No way. I'm protesting.”

Alexis rolls her eyes. “Sofia, then. Come on.”

“Fine,” I say, cracking a smile. I slide over to Alexis, and she sits up on her knees, putting her hands on my arms. She digs her knuckles into my shoulders, then drags her fingers down my back.

“Concentrate,” she whispers as I close my eyes. “Listen to the sound of my voice. . . .”

With my eyes closed, I notice how warm it is in this room. Heat hovers around my skin and presses against my arms. I sway a little, then release a bubbling giggle. I'm a lightweight—the wine has already made me drunk.

Alexis's fingers dig into my back, and I try not to laugh again. It tickles. The other girls have gone silent. I want to open my eyes and see what they're doing, but my eyelids are so heavy. My mind spins. Jesus, how much wine did I have? I'm starting to feel dizzy. . . .

“Concentrate,” Alexis repeats, and to my surprise something does flicker against my eyelids. It's a memory from my old school.

“Tell me what you see,” Alexis says.

• • •

A sharp elbow jams into my side, and I stumble into a row of puke-green lockers. My books fall from my arms and slap against the floor.

Whoever elbowed me snickers as he continues down the hallway. I drop to my knees to gather my things, not bothering to lift my head.

“Let me help you.” Karen kneels to pick up my books. Karen is barely five feet tall, with bobbed blond hair and freckles—the kind of cute-pretty that makes her less likely to be a total bitch, unlike all the other cheerleaders at this school. Even so, I'm sure she wouldn't talk to me at all if we weren't lab partners in biology.

She hands me my textbook. “You excited?” she asks as we walk into class and slide onto the rickety wooden stools next to our lab table. “The big experiment is today.”

I roll my eyes. All week, our bio teacher, Mr. Baer, has been talking about our class “experiment” like it's this huge event. Really, we'll just be swiping the countertops and trash cans with Q-tips to see if we can collect some germs to grow in a petri dish. “Oh yeah. I'm so excited.”

Karen laughs. “Where do you think we'll find the most germs?” she asks. She narrows her eyes as she looks around the room, settling on Mr. Baer. “How about the gap between Mr. Baer's teeth?”

“Ew! You're probably right. His coffee breath is bad enough to take out a village.”

Lila swivels around on her stool, leaning her back against the lab table directly in front of us. Karen chokes back the rest of her laughter.

“What are you laughing at, Greasy?” Lila asks. Lila's a senior, a varsity cheerleader, and so far out of my social circle that the only time I see her outside of class is when she's on top of the human pyramid at pep rallies.

My cheeks burn and I duck my head, letting my hair swing forward to cover my blushing face. I got the nickname Greasy a couple of months ago, when some JV cheerleader in my English class said it looked like I never washed my hair. I wash my hair every day, but my mom's been on this all-natural kick lately. The shampoo she buys is made from avocados, and it weighs my hair down, making it look shiny and clumpy.

“Careful, Karen,” Lila's lab partner, Erin, says without turning around on her stool. She brushes her own perfect brunette waves back behind one ear. “Get close enough to Greasy and you're going to catch whatever she has.”

“Right,” Karen says, but when Lila turns back around she glances back at me. “Ignore them,” she whispers. She says it quietly, though, and she shoots a glance at Lila and Erin, obviously hoping they don't hear.

• • •

“Sof? Sofia, can you hear us?”

I open my eyes. Riley, Alexis, and Grace are all staring at me. My cheeks burn with embarrassment and I blink, trying to remember the last thing Alexis said.

“Well?” Grace asks. “What did you see?”

I roll my lower lip between my teeth, the memory still fresh in my head.

Riley gives me a quizzical look. “Are you okay, Sof?” she asks. “Did you really see something?”

“Yes,” I say. Then I grab a stray piece of popcorn from the floor and throw it at Grace. “I saw Tom. He said you should apply your own sunscreen.”

Alexis hoots with laughter. Riley takes the Nutella from her and licks the back of the spoon. She catches my eye and winks. “Looks like Sofia fits in better than we thought.”

“H
ow did you all like
The Divine Comedy
?” Ms. Carey asks our English lit class the next day. I stare down at my notebook, doodling in the margins. I hate class discussions, and being tired and a little hungover from last night doesn't help. It feels as if someone's pressing my eyes closed—I have to fight to keep them open.

“Isn't this book about Satan?” asks some blond girl I've never talked to before. “Should we be reading about Satan at school?”

I deepen the familiar lines of Quetzalcoatl's feathered tail with my pen. That sounds like something Riley would say. Ms. Carey nods.

“That's a good point, Angela. Can anyone tell me why we'd read
The Divine Comedy
in high school?”

No one answers. Ms. Carey taps a leather loafer on the floor.

“Come on, guys, there are no wrong answers here. What do you think? Why are we reading
this
book?”

“Because high school is hell.”

I stop sketching and glance over my shoulder. Brooklyn sits in the back corner next to the windows. Usually she spends class with her head on her desk, but today she's staring at Ms. Carey, defiant. She stretches the chain that hangs from her neck between two fingers, and the gold ring swings from side to side, like a pendulum.

“If we have to live it, we may as well read about it,” she adds.

“Well, that was more colorfully put than I'd have liked,” Ms. Carey says as the students around us snicker. I stop doodling and my pen bleeds ink onto the page.

In the back row, Brooklyn flicks her own paperback copy of the book with one finger, sending it sliding over her desk and onto the floor. I shake my head, a little impressed. She really doesn't care what anyone around her thinks. Must be nice.

Before Ms. Carey can comment further, the bell rings and the rest of the students start gathering their things. Brooklyn winds her way through the chairs and desks. She walks past me without a word.

Making a quick decision, I shove my notebook into my bag and drop behind her as she makes her way down the hall. Riley didn't mention the spying thing again, and by this morning I'm pretty sure everyone forgot about it. But I keep wondering about Brooklyn, if she's really into séances and chanting and animal mutilation, or if it's all just rumors. And my biggest question: If she really was friends with Riley, why would she throw that away?

“Hey,” I say. When Brooklyn doesn't turn around, I jog up next to her. “That was funny—what you said about high school being like hell.”

“Was it?” Brooklyn shuffles through her bag, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. The entire box is covered in black Sharpie scribbles, so you can't even see the brand name. Brooklyn slides a cigarette from the pack and puts it in her mouth, unlit. We aren't even out of school yet.

“Are you doing anything now?” My lame attempt at being laid-back makes me cringe. Brooklyn stops walking in the middle of the hallway, forcing the kids behind us to move around her.

“Aren't you one of Riley's?”

“What does that mean?”

“That she's collected you.” Brooklyn fumbles with the gold ring at her neck, sliding it on and off one of her fingers. “Riley likes new girls. She takes it upon herself to ‘befriend the friendless.'”

“I can't hang out with both of you?” I ask.

Brooklyn shrugs and starts walking again. “Do what you want.”

It isn't exactly an invitation, but I follow her out the school doors and over to the bike rack anyway.

“What's with the ring?” I ask, nodding at her necklace. Brooklyn grins.

“Souvenir from one of my lovers.” She holds the ring up to the light so I see the engraving on the inside:
CARLTON & JULIANNA 1979
.

I wrinkle my nose. “That's sick,” I say. Brooklyn just laughs.

Even before we reach the bike rack, I can tell which is hers—the vintage eighties one with the handlebars that curl around the rider's hands. Brooklyn painted it bright pink with flecks of black, so it looks like a watermelon, and the handlebars and seat are covered in peeling green duct tape.

I stand awkwardly next to her while she unlocks her bike, then loops the thick chain around her arm and starts to push it away.

“I've got an appointment,” Brooklyn says. The cigarette, still unlit, dangles from her lips. “Tag along if you like.”

I hesitate, but curiosity gets the better of me. “Sure.” I pull my bag over my shoulder and trail after her as she wheels her bike through the parking lot, toward a sidewalk that leads in the direction opposite my neighborhood. When she isn't looking, I pull my cell phone out to check the time. Grandmother will be fine if I'm a half an hour late.

Brooklyn takes me to an old service road past the main street into town. We pass a dive bar and an alley leading to an empty parking lot. Brooklyn stops at a tiny tattoo parlor and starts to lock up her bike.

“This is where your appointment is?” I squint through the dirty windows. I can just make out the hazy shapes of a counter and plastic chairs.

“‘Appointment' might be stretching it.” Brooklyn takes the cigarette she never did get around to smoking out of her mouth and sticks it behind one ear. Then she leans against the door of the tattoo parlor to push it open. It smells like smoke inside, and some sort of lemon-scented disinfectant. Brooklyn walks up to the counter and slides her elbows over the dingy vinyl.

“Ollie! You here?” she shouts. She leans over the counter like she's trying to see into the back room. I take the rest of the shop in. The walls are covered with hand-drawn illustrations of rose and skull tattoos, with nude
Playboy
centerfolds taped between them. Classy.

“Hey, new girl!”

The voice comes from behind me and I jump, nearly tripping over my own feet as I spin around. Charlie is sitting cross-legged on the cracked plastic couch, a textbook propped open on his knees. In his rumpled polo and faded jeans, he looks as out of place here as I do.

“It's Sofia, actually.” A blush creeps up my neck. “What are you doing here?”

“Homework.” He motions to the textbook on his lap and smiles. A dimple appears in his cheek, and for a second I can't help but stare. His eyes shift behind me.

“Hey, Brooklyn,” he says with a nod.

“Charlie-boy,” Brooklyn says. “Your brother around?”

“Yeah. Don't think he's going to be happy to see you, though. He's got a customer at four.”

“We'll see about that.” Brooklyn shifts her weight to her arms, hoists herself onto the counter, and scoots across.

“Hey.” Charlie pushes aside his textbook and stands as Brooklyn slides off the other side of the counter. “You know we have a door, right?”

“Doors are for suckers.” Brooklyn sticks out her tongue and disappears into the back of the shop. I hesitate, not sure if I should follow her.

“Here.” Charlie unlatches a gate in the display case, swinging it open for me. “See? We're not all heathens.”

“Thanks,” I say. Giving him one last shy smile, I make my way to the back to find Brooklyn.

The tattoo parlor is cleaner than I expected. The green-and-white vinyl floors are cracked and peeling, but it looks as if they've been mopped recently. The entire room has a worn-in, laid-back vibe that actually feels kind of homey. Like a familiar booth at your favorite cheesy diner.

Red plastic chairs are scattered across the room, all covered in duct tape, with metal trays set up next to them. Brooklyn leans against one of the chairs, talking to an older version of Charlie—a guy who's tall and thin, with dark eyes. A thorny rose tattoo stretches across his neck, and three thick metal piercings jut out from his each of his ears like nails.

“Come on, Ollie,” Brooklyn's saying as I approach. Ollie shakes his head.

“Look, I don't have time today.”

Brooklyn peels a strip of duct tape off the chair. “Santos isn't here. You can just let me use his equipment. I think I could do it myself.”

“You kidding? You're sixteen.”

Brooklyn smiles, so wide I could count all her teeth if I wanted to. “That never stopped you before.”

The bell above the door out front jingles. I glance over my shoulder as a college girl in a jean skirt and Uggs walks in, her hair pulled into a high ponytail. Out front, Charlie says something to her about Ollie being out in a minute.

Ollie's considering Brooklyn now, like he's trying to decide if she'll cause more trouble out front with his customer or back with his needles. He comes to the same conclusion I do.

“Just wait for me back here,” he says. ”I'll try to fit you in later.”

Brooklyn folds her hands over her chest, fluttering her eyelashes. “My hero.” Ollie groans and heads back out front while Brooklyn leans against a chair half hidden by a curtain off to the left. Dozens of identical black stickers cover the chair, the words
SANTOS AND THE RAISONETTES
printed on all of them.

“Santos's band,” Brooklyn says, nodding at the stickers. “Isn't that the worst band name you ever heard?”

“How do you even know these people?” I ask, sitting down in the chair. Brooklyn grabs a bar stool and pulls it up next to me.

“I used to work here,” she says. “I had a fake license, and Ollie let me apprentice with him until Charlie ratted me out and told him I was only sixteen.”

“You've given people tattoos?”

“Nah, I did mostly piercings. See this one?” Brooklyn pushes back her hair to show me a large safety pin running from her cartilage to her earlobe.

“Did that myself,” she says proudly. “You got anything pierced?” I shake my head. Brooklyn's mouth drops open. “Not even ears?”

“My mom doesn't like piercings,” I say.

“And you . . . what? Just let her make those decisions for you?”

“What are you going to get tattooed?” I ask to change the subject.

“Dunno yet,” Brooklyn says. “I was thinking of that snake thing you had on your hand a couple of days ago. That was pretty cool.”

“Quetzalcoatl?”

“Is that what it's called?” Brooklyn asks. “You think you could draw it for Ollie?”

“Sure. If you want me to.” I'm flattered, and my fingers itch to reach for my pen. Brooklyn narrows her eyes at me.

“You know, you'd look wicked cool with an eyebrow ring.”

“You think so?” Almost unconsciously, I lift a finger to my eyebrow. Then, thinking of my mom's reaction, I push the thought away. There was a time I would have done it just to get a reaction from her, but it's not worth it now, not when things are going so well.

“Is it because of your little friends?” Brooklyn snickers, staring down at the tray next to her. It's covered in needles, tiny hoop earrings, ointments, and, inexplicably, a cucumber-melon-scented candle from Bath & Body Works. “I bet they think piercings are a
sin
. God, I don't know how you can stand the holier-than-thou crew.”

“I thought you all used to be friends,” I say. Brooklyn slides a needle off the metal table and holds it between two fingers.

“You've been talking about me?” she asks. I shift my eyes away from the needle. It's thick—thicker than I expected it to be.

“They just said you used to hang out with them, and that you changed,” I say.

Brooklyn shrugs, turning the needle in her fingers. “Let's just say that after years of worshipping at the altar of Riley, I decided I wanted to have some
fun
.” The fluorescent light buzzes overhead, casting a flickering yellow glow across the needle's surface. “Be honest now, Sofia. Do you really want to spend high school praying? Because you look like someone who knows how to have fun.”

I think of my Goth friends showing their fake IDs to the bouncer at Club Trash, or my last boyfriend—if you could even call him that—who was more interested in his bong than in me. Last night, with Riley, Grace, and Alexis, I finally felt like I belonged.

Still, sitting here with Brooklyn fits, too. The duct-tape-covered vinyl and indie rock blasting from the iPod in the corner remind me of dozens of nights in smoky basements. I lift my eyes to meet Brooklyn's, and a rush of adrenaline spreads through me, like warmth uncurling beneath my skin. I can't help imagining her threading that needle through my eyebrow, the bright pain as it tears through my skin.

“Come on,” she urges, touching the needle to my eyebrow. “I dare you.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I really can't.”

“It wouldn't be forever,” Brooklyn says. “You can take the ring out whenever you want, and your mom wouldn't even know you had it.”

I stare down at the rings, imagining how cool it'd be to have a secret piercing, to get away with this right under my mom's nose. I could even hide it from Riley and the others, if I wanted. I begin to smile.

“Jesus.” Brooklyn hops on her stool, then curls a hand beneath the seat, like she's forcing herself to stay put. “You
have
to.”

I laugh, and her voice echoes in my head.
I dare you.
I lean forward, and the soaring, whooping feeling of adrenaline rises in my chest. I don't want it to go away.

“Fine. Do it,” I say.

Brooklyn grins, the same wolfish grin that shows all her teeth. She sets the needle back down on the tray and picks up a cotton swab and a bottle without a label.

“Eyebrow, right?” she asks, squirting clear liquid onto the swab. I nod, and she leans forward and dabs at my face. “This is just antiseptic. It'll keep you from getting an infection.”

“Okay,” I say. Brooklyn tosses the cotton aside and picks up the needle again.

“Keep still or it'll be crooked.”

I take a deep breath and hold it, digging my teeth into my lower lip. Brooklyn moves in close to me, and I stare at her eyes to keep from looking at the needle. They're dark brown, almost black. I can barely see the outline of her pupil.