Brimstone (5 page)

Lip gloss wand suspended in midair, the lesser Jessica looked baffled. “No. My mom bought it for me at Saks when I was staying with her on spring break.”

Prime laughed, making me think about D&D Lisa, and the important distinction between laughing
with
and laughing
at
. “You didn’t get that at Saks.”

“I did!”

“Jess!” She grabbed the bag and pointed to the metal insignia on the front. “It says
Conch
. You didn’t buy a purse, you bought a type of fritter.”

Thespica peered at the name. “It does say Conch, Jess. I’m afraid you’ve been had.”

“Did you buy it off the back of a truck or something? Maybe your mother did.”

“No! She took me to the store!”

“It’s okay, Jess.” Prime patted her shoulder in a consoling, condescending way. “Everyone gets taken sometime.”

Jess had dropped the lip gloss in the sink and grabbed her purse with both hands, reading the metal tag. “It says ‘Coach.’ ” She sounded like a lost little girl. “You two are making fun of me.”

I never thought I’d feel sorry for a Jessica; her confused hurt almost made me forget she was one of them. That was one of the most loathsome things about the breed. The pack could turn on its weakest member just as quickly as on an outsider.

Queen Jessica finished applying her makeup, pressed her lips together, then studied the effect of her pout. “Don’t worry, Jess. As long as you hide that thing in your locker, we’ll still let you eat lunch with us.” While Jess Minor continued to examine her bag with a bewildered expression, Prime stepped back and studied her own reflection with the slightest frown. “Does this skirt make me look fat?”

“Of course not,” said Thespica, completing her own toilette. “I wish I had your figure.”

As far as I could tell, she did. I was so sick of their nonsense that I was ready to burst out of the stall and take my lumps. Whatever had possessed me to stay hidden in the first place? At this rate I’d be well prepared for a job with the
National Enquirer
.

Finally, they left. I barely stopped to wash my hands before I vacated the place myself. There was an intolerable stink in that bathroom, but it had nothing to do with the toilet.

m
y phone buzzed in my pocket only a moment after the bell rang. My father, according to Gran, is not eligible to have The Sight because he is a man, but Dad’s timing often makes me wonder.

“Are you free for lunch?” he asked when I said hello.

“Where are you?”

“Parked out front. Come eat with us.”

I didn’t know who “us” was, but I wasn’t going to turn down an excuse to get out of the building. We have an open campus, so I zipped out the door with the other parolees. Dad waved from beside his Saturn and I galloped down the stairs to meet him.

My steps slowed as a complete stranger unfolded himself from the shotgun seat and held the front door for me. Dad had brought a friend. A young and handsome friend, with a tall, lean build and a lopsided, Han Solo sort of smile. He wore an oxford shirt and khakis and his dark hair was cut conservatively short.

“Maggie,” said my dad, “this is Justin MacCallum. He’s a student in the history department. You don’t mind if he comes with us, do you?”

“No problem.” I was suddenly rather glad that Aunt Joyce’s shirt had been the only thing clean.

I got a bit of a Boy Scout vibe from the guy, which was confirmed when he held the door for me. Dad put the car in gear and asked, “Where do you want to eat?”

“I don’t care.” My stomach was pretty excited about the idea of food, though, and growled loudly. I tried not to blush. “Not too heavy, though; I have P.E. right after this.”

“Are you still swimming?” Dad laughed when I groaned an affirmative. “Maggie doesn’t like the water,” he told Justin.

“Dad!” Bad enough I was treating us to a gastric symphony. I didn’t need all my idiosyncrasies trotted out for the
Embarrass Maggie Show
.

Justin looked amused in a “laughing
with
you” way, only I wasn’t laughing. “Not even to drink?”

“I don’t like to get
in
the water,” I explained, shooting daggers at my father.

“She does take showers,” said my oblivious parent, “as you can tell by the fact we don’t have to roll down the windows.”

“Dad!”

“That’s interesting.” Justin leaned his elbows on our bucket seats. “Most people love the water. It’s natural, ingrained. Reminds us of the womb.”

“I must have been a really seasick fetus.”

That got a chuckle. Score for me.

“What’s the criteria, Mags?” asked Dad. “Has to be shallow?”

“I have to be able to see the bottom.”

“That’s right.” He glanced at Justin, who was still hanging between us. “I remember when Laura, her mother, tried to put her in a bubble bath one time. She screamed bloody murder until the bubbles went away.”

There ought to be a law against naked baby stories in front of strangers. I changed the subject. “You have class with my dad, Justin?”

“Yes. I’m doing some research on folklore, actually, and Professor Quinn was nice enough to introduce me to your grandmother. I wanted to hear some of her stories from the old country.”

I glanced sideways at my father. “The fairy stories?”

Dad kept his eyes on the road. “And some family history.”

My eyes narrowed. “What family history?”

“You should go see your gran after school” was Dad’s random answer. “If your day doesn’t improve.”

“Martians could invade and it would be an improvement on my day. What does that have to do with anything?” Justin and Dad exchanged glances in the rearview mirror and my suspicions flared. “All right. Cut to the chase. Why were you there? And for that matter, why are you
here
?”

Justin cleared his throat. “Your grandmother says that you—your family, that is—share a gift. She sensed that you were having a rough morning, in fact.”

I stared at my father, disbelieving and betrayed. “You
told
him? You told a perfect stranger?”

He took a placating tone. “It came up in the conversation. Your grandmother is not shy with a receptive audience.”

I scowled at Justin. “What, exactly, are you studying?”

“Well, my major is history, but I’m doing an independent study on the history of the occult in different cultures, from folk tales to high magic.…”

“Stop the car.”

“Oh, Maggie,” said Dad. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Stop. The. Car.”

He slammed on the brakes. It was a good thing we were only going twenty-five miles an hour and everyone was wearing their seat belt.

I turned to them both. “I am not some kind of freak. I don’t see things. I don’t
know
things. And even if I did have … whatever … I sure don’t want to be someone’s research project.” I opened the door and climbed out, hauling my backpack with me, which made my wrathful dignity a little harder to maintain.

Dad leaned across the gearshift. “What are you doing?”

“I’m walking back to school. It’s not that far.” I slammed the door. Dad argued with me through the open window for a while but I took a shortcut between two houses and left them behind.

By the time I got back to school I was still hot under the collar, but mostly from lugging my gargantuan book bag for five blocks. The angry churning in my stomach had time to die down, too, until I remembered it was time for P.E., and the pool.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t swim. I could keep my head above the water and move from place to place with all the grace of a Labrador retriever. I’d made it through the past five weeks by stubbornly moving down my lane in a sort of combination dog paddle/breaststroke so I could keep my eyes on the bottom of the pool, and anything that might be sneaking up on me from below.

The other problem with swimming in P.E., which had nothing to do with my fear of the water, was the difficulty of embarking on this exercise without, at some point, being completely naked in the locker room. Most of us changed in the shower stalls. But even so, to stand there in the buff, for even a transitory moment, while your classmates lurk on the other side of a very flimsy curtain was fifty kinds of vulnerable.

I had done extensive experiments in changing in stages: Remove pants. Slip suit on while shirt hides important bits. Wiggle arms out of sleeves while keeping shirt down around other bits, then contort out of bra and into remainder of suit.

Having worked up quite a sweat this way, I bundled up my clothes and bent to pick up my shoes. Gran’s cross swung lightly against my collarbone as I straightened. I’d forgotten about it until then. I debated for a moment, then unclasped the chain and stuffed it into my shoe.

We made our way out of the locker room and into the cavernous aquatics gym. The administration was always telling us how lucky we were to have a pool. Only they called it a “natatorium,” which is an old-fashioned term for “really expensive indoor swimming pool.” I hate that word. It’s too much like “crematorium” and I have enough liquid issues as it is.

Some sadist at the health department had decreed we had to shower before getting in the pool, so we trudged through the spigots then stood dripping in our swimsuits while we received instruction from the girls P.E. teacher. Coach Milner had the whipcord-lean frame of a long-distance runner. She’d competed in the Boston Marathon for ten consecutive years. Her age was difficult to determine, because her fitness regime clearly did not include the vigorous application of sunscreen.

The deal with Coach Milner was that she didn’t just run marathons, she lived them. “Quitters never win,” she had yelled at me as I wheezed around the track. “Never say die,” she hollered up at me as I dangled from a rope trying to climb more than four feet off the mat. “Mind over matter,” she cajoled as I threw up my lunch after taking a basketball to the gut. Fitness was her religion, and she preached these things like the Gospel according to Nike.

The class lined up like a multicolored, omnisize, Bizarro-world Miss America contest. Coach Milner strode in front of us, our judge, jury, and executioner.

“Congratulations, ladies. Today we move on to the diving portion of our aquatics unit. We’ll be in the deep pool now, so grab your towels and—” My hand shot into the air. “What is it, Quinn?”

“I just ate,” I lied. “Aren’t we supposed to wait an hour before going in the water?”

“Winners never make excuses. That’s an old wives’ tale. Twenty minutes is sufficient.” She grasped the whistle hanging around her neck and blew a rousing note, like Gideon on his trumpet. “Come on, ladies! This way.”

Coach marched us from our spot beside the lap pool (good-bye, safe haven of only moderate distaste) to the diving area (hello, bottomless pit of liquid doom).

“Are you all right?” A blur of fingers broke my gaze and I dragged my eyes from the depths and focused on the concerned little moon of Karen Foley’s face.

“Huh?” That was all I could manage. Behold the wordsmith.

“You look really pale.” Karen was one of the nicest girls I knew, which was why, though I pitied Stanley, after his spiteful words about her, I didn’t feel much sympathy for him.

I tried to rally. The champion who faced down Biff et al. should show a little gumption. “I’m always pale.”

“Yeah, but I think the undertone of green is new.” She touched my arm. “And you’re all clammy.”

A chorus of giggles made us turn. Jessica Prime and her henchbitches clustered together in a lump of malice. I usually gave the witless triplets a wide berth, but yesterday’s debacle had incurred the wrath of the Jessicas. As much as I wanted to ignore them, I was now firmly on their radar.

“You’re not scared of a little kiddy pool, are you, Maggie?” Prime taunted, with a toss of her blond head and a smile of parade-float insincerity.

I gave an exaggerated sigh. “Not everyone has installed personal flotation devices, Jessica.”

A scarlet flush darkened her perfect tan. I knew that expression; I had a close-up of it on disk. “You’d better watch it, Quinn. No one likes a smartass.”

“That must make the world a more comfortable place for you, then.”

“I’m warning you! Someone is going to serve you up a big plate of comeback one of these days. And it’s going to taste a lot like my foot up your butt.”

“I think you mean a ‘big plate of comeuppance.’ ”

“What?”

“Comeuppance. A ‘comeback’ is what John Travolta kept having in the nineties.”

Jessica showed me her palm. “Whatever. You are such a loser. I should have known you’d watch disco movies.”

“Let’s keep the line moving, ladies!”

Holy Cheez-Its. I’d been having so much fun baiting the Barbies that I’d almost forgotten about my imminent demise.

“Steady there.” Karen grabbed my elbow when my knees threatened to fail me.

It was Jessica Prime’s turn. She climbed onto the board, waggled her manicured fingers at me, then with a leap as graceful as a gazelle, made a perfect arc into the water. The board applauded with the “wocka wocka wocka” of its spring.

If I didn’t hate her before, I sure did now.