Dark Companion (16 page)

“What I mean is—” he began, and then we both heard the sounds outside of skidding and metal clanging against wood.

I’d left the front door open and now Jack strolled in, wearing his ragged shorts and an old t-shirt. “Hi, Jane. Lucky, I was looking all over for you.”

“Well, here I am.” Lucky moved away from me on the sofa.

“So I can see. You’ve gotta go. Dad wants to talk to you.”

“He’ll see me later.”

“He said
now
.”

When Lucky stood and walked to the door, I followed him. He scowled back at Jack. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Dad wants you, not me.”

“Whatever, jackass.” Lucky’s face flushed with anger. “See you tomorrow, Jane.”

“Okay, bye.”

Jack’s bike was propped haphazardly against the porch steps and Lucky kicked it as he went by. I watched him until the trees hid him from view. When I turned back to the living room, Jack was sitting in the armchair with his feet on the coffee table.

“Get your damn feet off the furniture.”

“Ooh, snappish.” He swung his legs down.

“I didn’t ask you to stay.”

“Do you have other plans?”

“I might go out with Mary Violet.”

“That’ll be news to her. Hattie told me that MV’s stuck with her crazy
grand-mére
all night. How’ve you been?”

I sat on the sofa. “If you thought Lucky might be here, you could have called.”

“This is more neighborly,” Jack said, and I noticed the warm timbre under the teasing of his voice. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“All you ever have is questions. I’ve been fine.”

He tipped his chin toward the mantel. “Is that one of Mrs. Holiday’s paintings?”

“She gave it to me. It’s the birches.”

“She must have a high opinion of you. Mrs. Holiday’s kind of famous and that’s probably valuable, so take care of it.”

“I’ll take care of it because it’s wonderful.”

“That’s an even better reason. I think so, too, but I love the birches.” He picked up my Latin book from the coffee table and flipped it open.
“Nihil boni mihi hic inveniri potest,”
he read slowly. “How was that?”

“Terrible. You’re supposed to pronounce the
v
’s like
w
’s.”

“Vhy?”

“Because that’s how it is.”

“Vhat does it mean?” He repeated the sentence.

I translated the words in my head. “Nothing good can be found here in my opinion.”

He gave a hoot. “That sounds about right. That should be the Birch Grove motto.” He repeated the sentence as if memorizing it. He slapped the book down on the table. “Why Latin instead of a modern language?”

“It will help with my science studies. I like it because it’s specific—the declensions break things down into gender, number, tense, and mood. English is too ambiguous and you’re always guessing what people actually mean.”

“Do you think everyone should say exactly what they mean?”

I glared at him. “I wish
you
would. You’d probably benefit from taking up Latin.”

“Maybe I vill. Everyone at school treating you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Because these schools can be a bit, you know, elitist and controlling. That’s why I decided to go somewhere else.”

“Yes, you already told me you didn’t like the rules, but your mother told me you went to public school for the music program.”

“And for the friendly girls, of course.”

As he sat there, I studied him and his out-of-control curls. His eyes were light and clear against the dark lashes and his strong nose was balanced by his broad forehead, wide cheekbones, and square chin.

“So, Jane, do you approve of what you see?”

“Your hair is a mess and you’ve got bike grease on your leg.”

He raised one thick eyebrow. “That’s another reason I couldn’t go to Evergreen Prep—my hair is too messy. Do you think I’m better-looking than my brother?”

“No one thinks you’re better-looking than Lucky.”

“You could at least pretend. You could have said that I was good-looking in my own unique way, like a snowflake.”

“You’re not a snowflake, and it’s obvious that Lucky is really good-looking.”

“Yeah, that’s what the mirror tells me, too. The girl I’m crazy for tells me that. Appearances are so important. And Lucky’s nicer than me, right, Halfling?”

“He has better manners. He doesn’t call me ridiculous names.” When Jack talked to me, I felt wide-awake because I had to be completely alert to follow the twists in his conversation. “But you did bring the pizza that time.”

“It was the neighborly thing to do, like this. A visit to chat. You should chat more.”

“I believe that we’re allotted a limited quota of words in our lifetime and you’re using all of mine up.”

“I’m borrowing them since you’ve got so many getting dusty in the attic.” He lifted his hand and wiggled it, saying, “I like your hair that way, like ripples in a stream. You’re as small and elusive as a fairy creature, yet you’re as silent and mysterious as a sphinx. Mary Violet would call that a sphinxling. Tell me something in your native woodland language. Or, since ve’re svitching
v
’s and
w
’s,
voodland
.”

“My native language would get me detention.”

His pond-green eyes sparkled with humor. “Jane, one day I’ll discover the magic words to win your trust. They may even be in Latin, although I think your tongue predates human history.” Then he stood up. “Guess I’ll go and get ready for my date. I’m taking Hattie out tonight. She’s gorgeous, don’t you think? She’s as gorgeous as Lucky is handsome.”

“What’s important to me is that she’s friendly and not stuck-up.”

“Not many girls are gorgeous and smart and talented, and her family has truckloads of money. Have you heard her play the piano? Like an angel, and she speaks French like Marcel Marceau. She draws extremely well.”

“You better not be late then.” I stood and walked him to the door. “Jack, did you break my flowerpot with your bike?”

“I don’t think so, but go ahead and blame me anyway. Aren’t you going to give me a hug good-bye?”

Jack stood waiting, holding his arms out, and I suddenly knew why Hattie would think he was sexy, with his eyes sparkling with mischief and wide, sensual mouth that was always curling up in amusement, his strong shoulders, his muscled legs, and his scent of fresh green things and earth.

“Jane, a hug is the
neighborly
thing to do.”

I thought of what it would be like to be pressed up against his body. “I come from a different neighborhood.” I swung the door shut before he could answer.

Then I wondered what had just happened. Why did everything the Radcliffe brothers said seem to have an alternative meaning?

I sat at the wooden desk and took out a new composition book. I drew a line vertically down the page. On one side, I wrote down everything I’d remembered Lucky telling me. On the other side, I wrote possible interpretations. Why had Lucky asked if I would mind if he used me? People who used people didn’t ask permission.

I didn’t have enough information, so I added all the bewildering things Jack had said, too. While I was doing this, all sorts of other questions came to me … including all the peculiarities around Bebe leaving the school and Claire Mason’s disappearance. I’d never even met them, but when they were mentioned, I got an uneasy sensation, like walking into a cobweb and feeling the invisible sticky threads catching at me.

There might be reasonable explanations for everything, but the more I thought about the unanswered questions, the stranger they seemed. I hid the notebook in the laundry room with my stash.

A nameless spell seemed to attach him to her; even the shudder which he felt in her presence, and which would not permit him to touch her, was not unmixed with pleasure, like that thrilling awful emotion felt when strains of sacred music float under the vault of some temple; he rather sought, therefore, than avoided this feeling.

Johann Ludwig Tieck, “Wake Not the Dead” (1800)

Chapter 15

On Sunday afternoon, I filed my short nails until the edges were even. I carefully stroked on the clear pink nail polish that was in the bag that MV had given me. Some smeared on my cuticles, and I had to start over again. When the nail polish dried, I got dressed in my best jeans and a black t-shirt under a purple sweater. I used some of the hair care samples and my hair waved glossily down my back.

I patted concealer on a red spot on my chin that had erupted overnight. I stroked on mascara, rubbed on a little blush, and slicked on lip gloss. I smelled the perfume samples and dabbed on the flowery one I liked best.

I left the porch light on and locked the front door as I left. The days had quickly become shorter and cooler. As I walked up the path toward the house on the hill, I passed the amphitheater. A faint ray of sunlight flashed off something on the ground among fallen leaves.

At first I thought it might be a bottle cap. With the edge of my shoe, I pushed aside the dry leaves and saw a silver penknife. As I leaned over to pick it up, I noticed two brownish maroon spots on the marble bench. On impulse, I licked the tip of my finger and dragged it across one of the spots. My finger came away rusty red. It was blood.

I examined the area nearby, but there were no signs of serious injury, like a trail of spots or splatters or a damp splotch.

The knife, less than four inches long, had the soft glow of old silver and a delicate floral etching. I thought of Hattie sitting here at night. The cutters I’d known had been like cracked glass, able to shatter at any moment, but Hattie was sure of herself. I put the knife in my pocket and walked up the hill to the headmistress’s house.

Mrs. Radcliffe answered my knock. “Hello, Jane. Don’t you look nice today!”

“Hello, Mrs. Radcliffe.” Once again, I was struck by how dim the interior of the house was.

“Lucky is in the boys’ study. Go upstairs, turn right, and it’s the second door.”

As I walked upstairs, the penknife in my pocket hit my thigh. My footsteps were muffled by a woven rug in shades of deep reds and browns, the color of dried blood and dead leaves. The door was open, and I walked into a comfortable room with windows facing the pines that crowded the house. There were desks against the walls and built-in bookcases. The back of a long blue sofa faced me. Opposite the sofa were a navy blue leather chair and an ottoman.

“Lucky?”

His blond head popped up from behind the sofa’s back. “Hey, Jane. Come on in.” His head dropped back out of sight.

I went around the sofa, where Lucky was lying on his back, tossing a baseball from hand to hand. I admired the tendons on his arms for a moment before saying, “You have your own study?”

“I’d rather have a home theater. My mom thinks the bigger the screen, the smaller the brain.” He swung his legs down and sat up. “I guess we better get to chem.”

I followed him to a desk and struggled to keep down my emotions as we spent an hour reviewing metric units of mass and volume. I helped him prep for his next chapter on the physical properties of matter. He kept up easily with the problems.

“You don’t need my help,” I blurted.

“I do need you, Jane.” He put down his pencil and faced me.

“I mean, you don’t need me to explain. You can do all this on your own.”

His blue eyes held mine for nerve-racking seconds. “You smell nice.”

I blushed and I kept my eyes on his.

Then he reached for my hand and held it, and a shiver went through me. “I can do the chemistry on my own, but I’ll do better if you keep me on track. I need someone beside me for support, someone I can confide in who won’t judge me. Don’t you want to be that person?”

We both jumped at the sound of someone in the hall. I leaned away from Lucky as Mrs. Radcliffe came in.

“Hope I’m not interrupting. Lucky, would you please unload my car now? I’ve got files in there that I’ve got to review,” she said. “Jane, dinner will be ready in about ten minutes.” Lucky tossed a glance at me as he and his mother left the room.

I stared at the chem book but could only think of Lucky’s hand on mine and the frustrating obscurity of his comments. I was so tense that I needed to move and decided to walk down the hall and see what was up here.

There was a small blue-and-white guest bath, linen closets, and then a spacious and neat black-and-white bedroom with sleek modern furniture. Dozens of sports trophies filled glass cases, and an entertainment center had game systems and a flatscreen. One wall was covered with baseball and ski team photos and photos of Lucky and his friends at parties. I tried to imagine myself in a picture here, but couldn’t.

I left the room and wandered to the end of the hall. A door was ajar, so I pushed it open to see a cluttered, sun-filled room as big as my cottage. Black, gray, and khaki clothes were strewn across the floor, and bicycles hung from hooks on the ceiling. Music equipment and guitars were everywhere, and club flyers covered giant bulletin boards.

Albums were sorted on shelves with handwritten labels:
WINTER, SANDSTORM, MELANCHOLY, WILD ANIMAL JAMBOREE, TANTALIZE ME, RUMINATE ON THIS
, and more. I tilted my head sideways and ran my fingers over the spines to read all the unfamiliar titles. A bookshelf was crammed from top to bottom with sci-fi and fantasy books and books about music.

On one side of the room, French windows opened onto a wide balcony. I wandered over to see the view but froze when I spotted Jack sitting on an old wooden chair there. He faced out toward the trees while he plucked a guitar. Beside him was a table with a notebook and a pencil. He’d play a few seconds and then write in the notebook.

A soft breeze blew back his bittersweet chocolate hair and when he dropped his head to write, I saw his profile. His lips twitched upward before he replayed an altered version of the tune.