7 Souls (21 page)

Amy slammed the closet door shut and locked it, just as she always did when Mary came over. Once she was sure it was secure, she darted to her chaise, swiped it clean and laid one of her pillows and a billowy white quilt on top for Mary. Then she ran back to her door and opened it.

“All clear,” she laughed nervously.

“Whatever,” Mary murmured, stumbling past the Italian marble fireplace.

“Here, I made up the chaise,” Amy said.

“I want the bed.” Mary took two giant leaps and threw herself into Amy’s canopy bed, landing with a thud. She rolled around in the sea of light blue Ralph Lauren accent pillows and let out a string of snort-laughs. Mary always snorted her laughs when she was drunk and, of course, hearing her own snorts only made her laugh more, which only made her snort more, and so on….

Amy took the chaise longue, instead. She plopped down on the quilt, crossed her arms over her embarrassingly braless chest and chewed on her pinky nail, still recovering from the spike in her heartbeat when Mary almost saw the Mary Closet.

“Amy,” Mary said, laughing. “You don’t have to sleep on the chaise, you can come on the bed. It’s your bed.”

The suggestion launched another uncomfortable spike in Amy’s pulse. “No, you can take the bed tonight.”

Mary propped herself up on her elbows and rolled her eyes. She took a long, unexpectedly penetrating look at Amy. “Ame. Take that ridiculous robe off and get in here.”

Something about that look sent a burning sensation through Amy’s chest. It wasn’t pain exactly, or panic, it was just … something. Something like excited, something like thrilled, something like longing, but mostly just confusion. “Are you sure?”

“That chaise thing is like sleeping on cement,” Mary mumbled. “Come on.” She coaxed Amy over with a pat on the bed, like she was coaxing a distrustful puppy. Then she turned her back to Amy, flipping onto her side, and bunching up the pillow in her hands. Amy waited in the ticking silence of her antique grandfather clock until Mary reached her hand back and patted the bed again.

Finally, Amy swallowed hard and stood from the chaise. She stepped gingerly over to the bed and dropped her robe to the floor, feeling absolutely buck naked despite the fact that she was wearing pajamas and Mary’s back was turned. She quickly climbed into her bed and lay flat on her back like a stiff corpse. She pulled the sheet up to her shoulders and shuffled herself to the very edge, trying to keep an appropriate distance from Mary.

But Mary erased the distance when she took hold of Amy’s arm and pulled it around her waist, spooning them together like a mother and child.

“G’night, Mamy,” she whispered. Then she snorted out another laugh. “I mean, Amy,” she giggled into her pillow. “Mamy. That’s a good name for you. Mamy …”

Mary’s breaths grew lighter. Bordering on sleep, Amy thought. Amy’s arm was still wrapped around Mary’s taut stomach, but it felt completely detached from the rest of her body. It was like her arm wasn’t allowed to hold Mary like this and be attached to her body at the same time. She was straining her neck awkwardly to keep from letting her chin rest next to Mary’s long tendrils of hair on the pillow. She was startled out of her skin when Mary spoke again.

“Mamy,” she said, half asleep. “Is it just me, or am I only awake like a third of the time?” She laughed.

“Yeah,” Amy said. “I think you only pay attention to about a third of what’s going on.”

“Yeah,” Mary whispered. “Don’t want to pay attention. Just want to sleep.” She pulled Amy’s arm more tightly around her waist.

Amy studied the contour of Mary’s bare shoulder where the other lemon-yellow spaghetti strap had now fallen down. “Do you need anything?” she asked. It was all she could think to say.

“Just you,” Mary said, cuddling closer. She smiled with her eyes shut. “You’re a good person, Mamy.” She snorted another little laugh to herself, pressing Amy’s hand flat against her stomach.

Something happened to Amy in that moment. Something she couldn’t understand and didn’t really want to—something about Mary’s relaxed laughter, or the darkness in the room, or the smell of cinnamon and violets. Maybe it was the way Mary’s stomach quivered against Amy’s outstretched fingers as she laughed. Maybe it was the way they were spooning when Amy had been fast asleep only minutes before. Whatever it was, Amy felt something give—the fear and caution and tension in her entire body that she held so constantly in Mary’s presence. She only noticed all that tension now that it was gone. Even if it was only for a moment, something in Amy finally let go.

“Mary?” she said.

“Hmm?”

“Can I kiss you goodnight?”

Mostly asleep, Mary turned her head back toward Amy and puckered up her lips like a four-year-old who’d been trained to kiss her grandmother goodnight. Amy leaned down and gave Mary a peck. Mary turned her head back to sleep.

“Mary,” Amy whispered.

“Hmm?”

“Can I kiss you again?”

Mary brought her head back again and puckered up. “Quick one,” she said with her eyes still shut, now speaking purely in a baby voice.

Amy leaned down more slowly this time, feeling everything in her give over to this seemingly unreal moment. She slid her hand carefully under Mary’s neck and cradled her fragile body in her arms. She felt just like she was Burt Lancaster cradling Deborah Kerr on the beach in
From Here to Eternity
. They were wrapped up together in every perfect love scene from every classic 1940s movie, floating on the blue sea of throw pillows in her bed. But, as surreal as it was, Amy had actually never felt so real in her life. This, she realized, was what real felt like.

She pressed her lips against Mary’s and let her tongue graze Mary’s perfect lips.

“Ewww!”
Mary shoved Amy’s face back with a snap and rolled away. “Watch it there, L Word!
Puh, puh…
.” Mary swiped at her lips like a little kid who’d just accidentally eaten dirt. “Ugh, gross!”

Amy felt her entire body go numb. “I was just
kidding
,” she insisted. “God! It was a
joke.”

The room suddenly felt so cold. Everything felt cold and ugly and awful.

“Bluch. Euch….” Mary swiped at her lips a few more times. “Grossest joke ever.
God.”

Amy catapulted herself from the bed and snagged her robe. She tied the sash so tight that the knot cut into her stomach. “It was a joke,” she said again. She didn’t know what to look at. She crawled back onto the chaise and rolled herself up in the quilt, fixing her eyes on the cream-colored wall. “God … you really can’t take a joke, can you.”

“Yeah, right,” Mary muttered. She settled back into her pillow, then flipped over onto her stomach. Amy could tell she had decided to fall back asleep on purpose. “Whatever,” Mary added. “You know you’re totally in love with me.”

Amy couldn’t speak.

“Gay Amy,” Mary muttered. “Gamy.” She snorted out another laugh.

“What?” Amy felt a hole growing in her chest. A dark black hole. “What did you just say?”

“I know, Joon says it’s mean, but I’m just kidding around, Ame. You can’t help it if you’re—”

“Just go to
sleep
, Mary,” Amy snapped. “Go to sleep. Just pretend I’m not here. You’re good at that.”

“Okay,” Mary said easily. “G’night, Gamy.” She snorted again at her own joke. “Come on, it sounds funny.”

Amy could only pretend to sleep now, her eyes tensely shut. That was all she could think of to make it out of this night and to never think of it again.

“Amy …?” Mary’s voice drifted over from the bed. “Ame …? Don’t worry, okay? I probably won’t even remember this in the morning.”

“Yes you will,” Amy said, staring at the wall. “You’ll remember. But you’ll act like you don’t.”

C
OLLAPSED IN THE BACKSEAT
of Scott’s luxury sedan, trapped inside Amy’s tall, buxom body, Mary found herself trembling uncontrollably. Outside the car, the rain pounded down and thunder blasted again, crashing hammers on a heavenly scale, like warfare of the gods.

I was drunk
, Mary insisted weakly.
I was drunk and I didn’t say or do any of that as a conscious, sober girl because
I don’t remember.

But again, was that really true?

The tingle on her lips; the odd sensation of reacting and not reacting; something familiar becoming strange and vice versa …

No! I don’t remember!

But she did. Amy had been right about pretending. Mary knew—she knew it all.

It was just like what she’d learned from Scott’s and Joon’s memories—the same miserable pattern of rationalization and denial.

I’ve been using everybody
, she thought dismally.
This is no different from what I’ve been doing to Scott
.

But it
was
different. It hit closer to home; it made her feel something deep inside herself that felt wrong, almost criminal. Her love of Amy was so strong; it was one of the fundamental pillars of her life. Their Crayola-rendered Best Friend Contract was a precious artifact, planted deep in her bedroom closet like a secret relic, a symbol of everything and everyone on earth she could completely trust.

And she called me a bitch
, Mary remembered, feeling her eyes—Amy’s eyes—beginning to sting.
She enjoyed hearing me scream
.

Somehow, every one of her friends had snapped at once—they’d all come together into a single juggernaut, a tightly planned conspiracy to ruin her life.

What made them all snap? Why today? Why now?

“How much farther?” Joon was asking. Mary could hear a strange eagerness in her voice that chilled her to the bone despite the humid air inside the car. She still felt powerless, unable to move or speak. “He’s taking her straight to Trick’s, right? And then it’s revenge city.”

“That’s right,” Scott said. He sounded eager, too—like they were driving to Disneyland. “Then—” Scott held his hand up to his head and mimed a gun firing.

“Where’s my bag?”
Joon asked suddenly, looking around at the front seat and the floor. “What happened to my b—”

“In the trunk,” Scott told her. “I put all your stuff in the trunk, when I picked you up.”

“Good.”
Joon exhaled in relief. “I was afraid I’d lost the gun.”

(WHOM DO YOU HATE THE MOST?)

They’re going to kill me. This was just the warm-up; later they’ll kill me. They’ll try to get me to do it myself, and when I don’t go through with it they’ll shoot me dead
.

That was all it took—her paralysis snapped and she lunged forward between the front seats, slamming her left hand against the steering wheel. Honking the horn.

“What in the Sam Hill—” The blast of the horn was huge, deafening; Scott swerved the car, trying to keep them moving straight. “Are you insane?”

Joon was reacting, turning in her leather seat and grabbing Amy’s—Mary’s—arms, trying to pull them away from the horn. They struggled and the car swerved, speeding forward as Scott inadvertently stamped on the gas while trying to elbow Mary’s arms aside.

“What the hell are you doing?”
Joon shouted, while Mary kept the pressure on the horn—a series of blasts that echoed across the Parkway like the screams of a wild animal.

In front of them, the Taurus picked up speed.

Joon finally managed to push her back. Joon’s eyes were blazing with fury—in all the years they’d known each other, Mary had never seen such
hatred
in her eyes.

“What are you
doing?”
Scott asked, staring in disbelief at her in the rearview mirror. “Have you lost your
mind
, Amy? Are you trying to blow the entire plan?”

“I’m not—” Mary coughed. She realized that Joon’s flailing fists had hit her in the throat; it was painful to speak. “No, I’m not—”

But it doesn’t matter
, she told herself bleakly.

Who was she kidding? She couldn’t warn Real Mary in the next car about what was going to happen. She’d tried three times now to change the day, to somehow make Real Mary aware of what was coming. And it hadn’t made any difference. Obviously, it
couldn’t
make any difference. Whatever she did, it had already happened, already been done. Scott had yelled at her on the street that morning in front of Chadwick—and she’d ignored it. Joon had tried desperately to keep her from falling into the treacherous hole in the ground—but the bandage on her mouth had kept Mary from understanding her. Now Amy had honked the car horn, but, she remembered dismally, that hadn’t made any difference either.

No
, she told herself firmly. I
won’t accept that. I won’t give up
.

Lunging forward, her hair dangling on Scott’s shoulder, she slammed the car horn again—a series of frantic blasts.

Look out, Mary!
she thought desperately.

This time Joon
hit
her—struck her so hard in the face that her vision flared, a series of bright stars that exploded across her view of the rain-drenched windshield. A blast of pain spread across her temple and forehead and cheek; it felt like she’d been clocked with a lead pipe. Her hand slipped from the steering wheel and she fell back against the rear seat, whimpering.

“Nobody chickens out, Amy,” Joon told her severely. “Nobody turns back. We’re all in this all the way—that was the deal.”

“Oh,
not good
—” Scott yelled, slamming on the brakes.

In front of them, the Taurus suddenly slowed and pin-wheeled. Mary could hear its tires squealing and skidding on the wet road. Scott somehow managed to avoid a head-on collision; all three of them were tossed back and forth like dice as the Japanese car’s antilock brakes absorbed the momentum. A high-pitched, metallic screaming came from the left side of the car as Scott sideswiped the steel divider that separated them from the oncoming traffic.

Mary knew what had happened, without looking. She remembered perfectly.

Dylan’s Taurus had corkscrewed on the road, suddenly making for one of the Riverdale exits.