Twice Shy (7 page)

She just sat there, staring. Ten seconds went by. Then twenty. Ani shifted in her chair, unable to look away.

"Okay," her mom said, raising a finger. "You're quitting the Lair." Ani opened her mouth, but the upraised finger stilled her tongue. "You can burn incense in your room. I'll give you a bit of an allowance, or you can sell booze to that little alcoholic boy who's always on your heels. But if you can't handle a job and your schoolwork, the job goes. You go to school, you come home, you do your homework, and then, if and when your grades improve, we can talk about another job somewhere." She dropped her hand.

"Mom, seriously, the Lair is the perfect job. No uniform, so I can stay covered up, I never have to go outside, and there's, like, zero chance of injury. It's perfect. I'll get my grades up pronto. I promise. I don't need to quit."

"Doesn't the marking period end Friday?"

"Yeah, but I can do make-up work. They'll let me. They love me."
Come on, Mom....You can't do this. You can't.

"Tell you what, I'm going to these conferences on Friday, and we'll re-evaluate then."

*  *  *

Ani stayed after every day, and did a mountain of make-up and extra credit work. Friday came and went. She got her new work schedule and posted it on the fridge. Her mom said nothing.

*  *  *

Tuesday, November 9th was another skating party, and Ani sold refreshments with her mom again. With her new system, she didn't have to worry about getting hungry. She tapped her fingers to the beat inside her coat. She was so small, and her hands so cold, that no one ever commented on the bulky jacket she had taken to wearing all the time. It gave her a place to hide chemical hot packs, too.

With the blade in her sleeve, she could cut right in front of people and they never noticed. Tiny cuts kept the edge off, and would heal without a trace in the bath overnight. Larger cuts could wait to be mended until she got home.

But today, Dylan was stuck watching his little sister, and that put him in the gym with her. He kept creeping looks at her wrists from the corner of his eye, as if she wouldn't notice.
Couldn't you at least look at my boobs like a normal person?
She couldn't understand what motivated these death-obsessed depressives, so full of life and so empty of spirit.

She was nothing like them. Nothing. An outsider in a clique of outsiders, what popularity she enjoyed was strictly a function of Fey's favor. The big-city Jersey girl had the emo crowd wrapped around her little finger, boys and girls vying for her attention at every turn. Angry, hopeless, trapped on a dead-end street of her own making, Fey for some reason had adopted Ani as her best friend. Perhaps her only friend.
These people are such a drag.

The opening riff to
California Girls
—Katy Perry, not the Beach Boys—set the little girls to delighted shrieking. She was more like them, full of life, full of hope for the future.
Mom will come through soon, and all this will be over. Please, God, let this be over.

"Who died?" Dylan hollered over the music. He'd walked up while she daydreamed.

She looked up at him from behind the refreshments table. "Excuse me?"
Do you remember, Dylan? And what the heck am I supposed to do about it if you do?

"You look like someone died," he said.

"Are you volunteering?" she asked.

He put a dollar on the table and picked up a pack of Skittles. "I'm just trying to be friendly." It must be some kind of special talent to be able to sulk while yelling.

"Sorry, I'm just grumpy," she said. Dylan wouldn't notice the
faux pas
—emo kids never apologize for negative emotions.

He dragged a folding chair across the floor and plopped it down next to her. Ani noticed with some satisfaction that his steps were small and accompanied by an occasional wince. He eased down into the chair, rested his elbows on his knees and popped a handful of candy into his mouth. "What's got you grumpy?"

Her gesture encompassed the room. His lack of response was refreshing. It was as normal as she'd ever seen him.

Unasked and unwanted, he helped Ani sell candy and soda to already-hyper children, but at every idle moment, his eyes drifted to her. He helped his sister with her skates, but as she laced up, he stared at the refreshment table. Over the course of an hour, his chair got closer and closer to hers. Her mom gave her a stern look—all she could do was shrug. Another shift, another inch, and she couldn't take it anymore.

"Jesus, what?"

He jerked back. He swallowed, hard, and looked at his feet. She waited. He leaned in so that she could feel his breath on her ear. "I need to talk to you about Halloween."

No no no no no no no.
She leaned in close, too close, so that her face wouldn't betray her. He smelled clean, with the familiar undertone of blood and meat that everyone carried. "What about Halloween?" She could taste his pulse, throbbing in his neck. The urge was a little rough today, but she'd had a lot worse.

"Did I...?" His exhale was sharp even over the throbbing bass line. "Did I...? What happened?"

Huh.
She pulled back so she could look in his eyes and to distance herself from his flesh. His grimace was pained, but his eyes showed nothing. "You tell me."

"I don't know. When I woke up I could smell you."
Gross.
"The incense and vanilla perfume and that medicine smell underneath, and...." He ran his hand through his Edward hair.

"And what?"
Don't say it, Dylan.
Her eyes flashed to her mom and back.
Please.

"And I really hurt." His eyes flicked to his crotch and then to the crowd of kids.

"Good," she said, her voice flat.

"Oh, God," he said, crestfallen. "I didn't hurt you, did I? I was drunk, and I'm so sorry—"

She put a finger to her lips. "It's okay, Dylan. You didn't do anything but get in my personal space. When you didn't back up, I backed you up. Forcibly. With my knee. That's all." He didn't say anything, so she added, "No big."

He collapsed in a slump as the song ended. "So we're cool?" he asked in the relative quiet.

"Sure, Dylan, we're cool."
Really, really cool.

*  *  *

Her mom let her walk home. It was only a few blocks, and delayed the inevitable bath. It was cold, and she could make out the Milky Way through the streetlights, but only just. After an evening of pounding dance music, she decided to mellow out with
Imogen Heap
on the walk home. iPod in hand, she didn't hear the Washingtons' Doberman until it was too late.

Sleek and lean, it stepped out of the hedgerow, bared teeth shining white in the moonlight. She killed the volume, wary, and kept walking.
Where's your leash, Mac?
The dog stepped forward, snarling, its breath frosting in the cold. Ani froze.
Everything runs from me. Everything.

She sidestepped toward the street, and Mac lunged. She shrieked, flailing, as the dog hit her. Teeth closed on her right arm, tearing through her coat and crushing her wrist as she fell. Her head bounced off the asphalt as Mac gnashed inches from her throat.

She slapped at Mac to dislodge him, kicked him off with both feet. She tried to stand and he bowled into her, knocking her back to the ground. He scrambled with her, snapping at her face. Desperate, she grabbed the dog's throat with her left hand. Her fingers dug in, and Mac's snarling turned to a whine. She closed her fist and pulled. Blood gushed over her face, hot and salty. Mac collapsed on top of her, and she almost shoved the meaty handful into her mouth. She threw it to the side, and a disappointed groan erupted from her mouth.

She pushed him off and rolled to her hands and knees. She licked her lips, shuddering in horrified ecstasy. Gasping in panic, she tore up her sleeve and raked with the razor blade, slicing skin and tearing her muscle, coated with canine blood, thick and black in the streetlight. She did it again. And again.
Better. Not good, but better.

Footsteps pounded up behind her, and she whirled, fists raised, razor still in hand. Mac's blood dripped down her face. Dylan slid to a stop three feet from her, eyes wide with shock.

Brains.

"Jesus, are you—" His face blanched. "Oh my God, Ani. You're… You… I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Hot blood. Meat. Brains.

She stared at him, fists still raised, and bared her teeth.
Calm down, Ani. That's a person.

He put his hands up, palms outward and fingers spread wide. "Easy, Ani. It's me. Dylan. It's okay."
It's anything but okay.
"The dog's not going to hurt you."

She stared at the vein in his throat, throbbing, pulsing, pumping blood to his brain.
Brains.
She stumbled backward, fists opening in supplication.

"Get away from me, Dylan." She gasped out the words.
Closer. Please, just a little closer.
"Go." Her stomach lurched, her throat constricted.
Brains!
The world started to haze red.

He stepped toward her. "I just want to make sure—"

"
GET AWAY!
" she screamed, taking a shambling step toward him.

He backpedaled, turned, and ran.

*  *  *

She was a sobbing wreck when she reached the house. She'd lost her wig, and the back of her head felt soft. Stringy wisps of hair—all she had left—were matted with dog blood and hung from her face. She stumbled in the side door behind her mother.

"Took you long enough," her mom said, turning. The chair fell to the floor as she leapt to her feet, and she backed toward the living room.
And the shotgun behind the couch.
"Ani?" she asked, voice quivering. Her face was sorrow and rage.

Ani shook her head. "Mom, I'm okay. It's dog blood. Washingtons' dog. Mac. He attacked me. I—I killed him."

Her mom’s mouth opened in an 'O' of concern and she rushed forward, arms open wide. Ani put out her hands. "Mom! Stop!"

She stopped, wary. "What is it, sweetie?"

"It's the blood. It's got me all wonky. I need a dose. Bad."

Her mom nodded toward the basement door. "There's one in the fridge. I'll meet you downstairs in twenty minutes. Give it time to kick in."

Ani lurched to the door and half-fell down the stairs. Her hands shook as she yanked open the fridge door, and it took her three tries to extract the liquid from the phial into the syringe. She heard furniture shift over her head.
Mom. Bloody. Delicious. Right upstairs.
She found the tiny hole in the back of her head where her mom administered injections, but the entire area was pliant and mushy. She jammed the needle in place and depressed the plunger.

*  *  *

Her mom stopped halfway down the stairs, shotgun in hand. "You sure you're feeling okay?"

Freshly injected with a cocktail of pituitary hormones, cerebral fluid and synthetic chemicals, Ani had rinsed her mouth with bleach and felt fifty times better.

"A hundred percent, Mom." She pointed at the gun. "No need for that."

"Don't point," her mother said, lowering the barrel. "It's rude." She came down the stairs and set the shotgun in the corner. "Now let's get you cleaned up, and you can tell me what happened."

As she cleaned up and her mom reconstructed the shattered back of her skull, Ani told her about everything. Everything but Dylan. And the cutting.

Chapter 10

The next day the bus was abuzz about Mac. The police and the DEC were investigating. Speculation ran from a bigger dog to a bear to a mountain lion, and parents were waiting with their children as the bus picked them up. School was worse—it was the only topic of conversation—but no one seemed to notice that Ani was back to wearing her old coat.

Dylan waited at her locker before homeroom.
Why aren't you afraid?
She walked toward him, forcing her feet to keep going. He didn't look upset, or worried, or anything, but he didn't so much as glance at Fey as she split off to avoid him.

"Hey," he said, stepping out of her way so she could open her locker. He inhaled as she cut past him, his eyes fluttering closed.
Is he smelling me?

"What's up?" she asked. It wasn't rhetorical.

His eyes snapped open. He slid a paper bag into her locker, its top folded, his eyes not leaving hers.

"What's this?" she asked. She unfolded the top and looked inside. A blood-soaked black tangle, trapped inside a zip top plastic bag.
My wig.
She shoved the bag in her purse and glared at him. Through clenched teeth she whispered, "Where did you get that?"

"The road. I went back to make sure there was nothing to put you there." A hint of a smile graced his black lips.

"Why would you do that?"

"Why would you hide that you have cancer?"

She blinked. "Cancer."

His smile blossomed, and for a moment, he was almost handsome. "You value your privacy. I get it. I really do." She opened her mouth to reply and he cut her off. "So no one needs to know about the dog. Or your hair. Or your—"

"Hey, Cutter," Devon's voice rang out behind her. "You doing animal sacrifices now?"

Ani kept her face in her locker as Dylan disappeared from view.
Just go away, Devon.

"Step back, freak!" Devon said. Ani turned around. Dylan had Devon backed against a wall, his face inches from hers, his hands against the wall on either side of her head, blocking her escape.

"The dog was fun," he said, "but we're starting on humans next. Girls. We're tired of cutting ourselves." He ran his tongue over his front teeth. Devon turned her head to the side, white-faced.

Ani saw Mike barreling down the hall, shouldering anyone and everyone out of his way. It was impossible not to admire his physique, and his confidence using it. "Dylan, back off," she warned. She put a hand on his shoulder.

He took a step back just as Mike checked him. He stumbled sideways and spun away, escaping down the hall as Mike turned to Ani. "What the hell was that?"