Drain You (22 page)

“Right after that he stopped calling me. We never even, like, broke up, he just ignored me at school and told everyone I was a prude and that was it.”

I shook my head.

“Then like a month later I saw him, and I could tell he wasn’t Stiles anymore.” Naomi wasn’t being wistful, she wasn’t lost in some reverie.

“How’d he do it?”

She said, “How have we avoided it?” but didn’t wait for an answer. “
We
didn’t ask for it. He did. You look hard enough, you’ll find anything.”

“Freak,” I whispered.

“Most people didn’t even notice. Even when it happened to Sanders. Then their friends.”

My mouth was hanging open.

This was all happening. At my boring high school.

“So…Stiles changed all three of them?”

“Probably.”

“Did you tell James about it?”

“No.” She eyed me tiredly, like she knew I’d bring things back to James. “But when he came back this summer, I really wanted to. I was following him that night at your video store.”

I froze, caught off guard. That was like ancient history. Multiple lifetimes ago.

“He’d been home a few days, sulking. We barely talked anymore. I just wanted to see what it was like. I wanted to see where he was always disappearing to.” She shrugged like this was the most obvious desire, not the sickest one. “He stopped outside your video store. Then a lady came out and he pulled her off the road, somewhere, I don’t know.”

My mind rewound itself, first in fast motion, then slow-mo.

Pause: the action buff.

“He was just…drinking her blood. Feeding. Whatever.” She breathed slowly, like she was trying to think straight. “I thought I could watch, but I started screaming. I went crazy. I tried to shake her awake, but she was already dead. That was her blood.”

“On your hands.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my God.”

“James was mad I’d followed him, but I didn’t care.” Then she looked up at me, serious. “It was the worst thing ever. I hope you never have to see that. But maybe you should see it. Because then you wouldn’t forgive him, like I don’t.”

“I’m sorry.” I reached a hand out to touch her knee, but she pushed it away.

“Don’t be. That’s not why I’m telling you any of this.”

My heart sank, every nerve on edge.

“You can’t forget what it means to be like them. Like James. Stiles. You have to understand how it works.”

“I do.”

“You and James killed one of them. Now they’ll kill one of you. One of us.”

“They made a truce.”

“Don’t be such a baby. You can’t reason with them, they’re not people. You can’t make a truce with instincts. Or thirst.”

“James ended it. It’s over.”

“Until they’re dead, they’ll never stop.”

Last night’s optimism was gone. Her words made me ill. James. “No, it can be different. It doesn’t have to be so vicious.”

“Quinn. I know you love him.” She looked dead into me. “But that’s only possible because he still acts so human. Way more than Stiles or any of the others.”

I closed my eyes.

“And those parts of him that you love—the weak, nice human parts—are the exact reasons we can’t trust him to save us from all this.” She put her hand on my knee, lowered her voice. “You’re only here right now because James wants to be like a human, and wants to love other humans.
None
of the others want that.”

My eyes still closed, I shook my head. Not to say no, just to get the words out of my ears.

“They know he’s weak too. Whatever Sanders told him isn’t true. There’s no peace, no secret handshake or anything.” The scorn in her voice was rising.

My head was starting to pound. I opened my eyes. “You’re acting like you think all of them should die.”

“And you’re acting like they’d all make good boyfriends.”

“No. Just one of them.”

Would no one in this family stick up for James? When he’d offered Sanders God knows what for all of our safety in return?

“Naomi, I’m sorry. I just think we should leave it up to James.”

Naomi grabbed both my knees and dug her fingers in. “Do. You. Want. Him?” she asked. “Because if you do, your only fear should be losing him. I’m trying to make that not happen. So help me do what he won’t.”

“Help do what?”

She didn’t flinch. “Burn whatever life is left out of them.”

“We’re already breaking the truce?” I had to repeat the word. I clung to its meaning.

“You’re not understanding,” Naomi said. “If Stiles and Sanders are gone, the truce won’t matter. There are no consequences if there’s no one left to be betrayed.”

“But we’re betraying James. He’ll never forgive us.”

She sat back, blew air out of her mouth. “Don’t be stupid. He forgave you and Whit for pulling that stunt that got us here in the first place. He even forgave you for sleeping with Whit.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I never slept with Whit.”

“Whatever.”

“Whatever, I didn’t.”

“Well, he’ll forgive you when you do.”

I was fuming now. “Last night you were out of your mind when you saw Cooper’s body. I saw you, you lost it. What’s changed? You want to kill someone now?”

She got excited, leaned in toward me. “I did lose it. But then I saw you.”

I
had
been into it. I still was. But that didn’t mean what Naomi wanted it to mean.

“This would be just like that. More of them dead. That’s what you want, right?”

“I guess,” I said.

“You know I’m right about Stiles and Sanders.”

Maybe I did.

“You know they’re the worst.”

They were.

“And they’re not finished with this family. Or you.”

Maybe they weren’t.

I couldn’t believe I was saying it even as the words were leaving my mouth. “Fine. What do we do?”

Naomi placed my LeSportsac on the bed next to me. “How long do you need?”

“Two minutes.” Less. I wasn’t even considering brushing my teeth or hair; I hadn’t even packed a toothbrush or a comb.

“I’ll be in the living room. Come the second you’re ready.”

“What are we going to do, though?” I asked, rummaging through the bag for my shorts, shaking it to find my eyeliner.

“There’s a can of gasoline in Morgan’s garage,” Naomi said plainly. “I found it earlier while you were asleep.”

No way. Too insane. And yet too totally sane.

Then she said, “Two minutes,” and walked out the door.

I had everything on in one. Cutoffs, Nirvana shirt, Docs, eyeliner—the contents of my bag, minus one
cardigan. I dressed with purpose. My hands were steady. If I wouldn’t be scared tomorrow, then why be scared now? I did want those Spaders to burn. Couldn’t deny that anymore.

Naomi was staring out a window at the pool in the backyard. Somewhere in that blue mass of water, a soggy promise letter might still be floating. James had come back. But not to fight. I’d do him one better then. I didn’t need his strength during the day. During the day I could fight for him.

“I have to say good-bye to Morgan real quick.”

“We’ll be back in less than an hour. He won’t even know we left.”

“But what if he wakes up and we’re gone?”

“Okay go, hurry.” She shooed me off.

Down the hall I opened the door to Morgan’s bedroom and slipped in. He was lying on his back, spread out like a starfish. So that’s how he slept. Just like me. I perched at the foot of his bed and shook his ankle, then said his name once, twice, three times, until he opened his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked, confused.

“Yeah, no, I’m great,” I said softly. “Naomi and I just woke up a little early. We’re going to get doughnuts. Want one?” It was a bad lie. Now we’d have to burn down a guesthouse and then stop for breakfast.

“Uh”—his eyes were barely open, his voice barely there—“no thanks.”

Lucky break.

“Okay, going now.” I got off the bed.

“Hey.” He sat up on his elbows. “Naomi’s kind of hot.”

“I told you.”

“Did you?” He grinned, blinked his eyes, pretending not to remember.

“It’s cool beans, Morgan,” I said, threw up a peace sign, opened the door, and shut it behind me.

Naomi was already by the front door. She had a can of gasoline in one hand, only it wasn’t really a can. It was more like a giant jug, and by the way it swung when she walked, I could tell it was heavy and full. It stank, too.

“Whoa,” I said. “Are we going to burn down the whole neighborhood?”

“Whatever. There’s a brush fire in the canyon, like, every week. It’s fine.”

Apparently Naomi and I were the new natural disaster.

“Okay, let me just say bye to Whit now.” I started to walk to his room, but she grabbed my arm.

“No. He doesn’t trust you. Leave him alone.”

“I’ll tell him we’re getting bagels.”

She stared at me like I was crazy. “Are you crazy?”

“Fine.”
Bye, Whit
, I thought, as she yanked me
through the door, into the bright sunlight of a summer morning.
I’ll buy you a milkshake if we make it through this.

As we walked out toward the driveway, my eyes drifted across the lawn, the stupid antique wheelbarrow, the driveway, and it hit me: no car. Of course. James had taken it last night. I wanted to throw a rock through a window. Our plan aborted before it was even begun. It wasn’t fair. I looked to Naomi.

“Calm down. We’ll take that.” She pointed to a sun-bleached white beach cruiser leaning against the side of the garage.

“I can’t ride a bike.”

“Just get on and hold this, okay?” She handed me the jug, wheeled the bike into the driveway, and swung a leg over the seat.

“Are you kidding?”

But she was not kidding. Not even a little. Not at all.

The ride felt longer than it actually was, longer than it would’ve felt even if you thought about how long it felt to ride a bicycle three miles in the sun, up the canyons, while sharing about two inches of a banana seat with someone who didn’t like you very much.

But the roads were mainly empty, a light wind blew through my hair, and the stench of gasoline was making
me high in a semi-psychedelic, chill way. Nothing seemed that dangerous in the sunshine. Nothing seemed ominous at eight thirty in the morning.

Then we were there, slowing to a stop, Naomi sticking out her legs to keep us balanced. I got off, and she wheeled the bike to some dense bushes in the front yard of the neighbor’s house and stashed it there. I glanced up and down the street, scanning for movement. But no one was really around. One dad-looking guy a few houses down came out and picked up his
L.A. Times
, but that was it.

We stood at the top of the driveway, staring down toward the guesthouse. I noticed in the morning light that most of the grass and plants around the house were tan or brownish, scorched by the deep summer and no rain. Everything was dry. I wished the place were burning already. Everything looked flammable.

We took off at a brisk pace down the driveway. I held the jug. When we got about ten feet from the front door, Naomi pulled a crappy blue 7-Eleven cigarette lighter with a yin-yang on it from her pocket.

“You ready?” She sounded keyed up.

“Do we have to go inside? I don’t want to,” I whispered.

“Too bad.” She squinted up at the roof. “We can’t do real damage unless we’re inside. But the wood on the roof looks old. It’s gonna come right down.”

It was time.

We crept up to the door and tried the doorknob. Locked. Naomi’s eyes scanned: no welcome mat, no rocks, no plants, no porch furniture. Then she reached up and slid her hand along the top of the door frame until something shiny fell to the ground with a
ding
. Stupid, obvious, suburban Spaders.

Naomi turned the key and cracked the door an inch and peered inside, waiting for a second, then swung it open all the way, and we stepped quietly in. A bad wave of déjà vu flooded through me. The place was the same. Still. Silent. Strangely cold. The same thick, heavy curtains covered the windows, the same minimal furniture and generic decorations. No one with a soul lived here. Real people had real stuff. This was just some dark, empty crash pad for burnouts with nothing to live for. I felt myself getting pissed. It felt awesome.

I twisted the cap off the gasoline jug and poured a little on the couch cushions. It splashed out and soaked in.

“More,” Naomi whispered.

So I tilted the jug at a steeper angle and liquid came gushing out, all over the couch and carpet. I walked around pouring more on the coffee table, the walls, the curtains. Naomi pointed to the ceiling, where two wood beams crossed with two others.

“How?” I asked.

She grabbed the jug from my hands and climbed up on the kitchen counter so she was higher, then started dousing the old wooden crossbeams. Gas was dripping from the ceiling now, making puddles on the kitchen floor, a weird gasoline rain. The fumes were thickening, the smell was overwhelming. I was huffing chemicals, staggering around, hallucinating. I felt like laughing. Screw these jerks. Screw their empty truce. I gave the thumbs-up to Naomi, who shot me back a loopy, drugged smile. She wobbled across the kitchen counter, draining the jug all over everything, the fridge, the stove, more chairs, until the flow dribbled to a stop. It was empty. She shook it dry, then tossed it in the middle of the floor and laughed out loud.

Then I heard my own voice: “Do it.”

And I heard my own thought:
Burn it down.

Naomi hopped off the counter onto the carpet, which was like a sponge now, soggy with gasoline, and we both stumbled toward the front door. The room reeked. I felt brain cells dying. I felt happy.

Then Naomi reached her lighter out toward the curtains and, with a flick of her thumb, sparked it.

Then we were outside, the fresh air in my lungs like a splash of cold water to the face. We slowly backed away, sobering up, watching the walls flame up, watching the curtains sizzle with pale blue fire. At first it was almost
delicate the way the flames crawled and spread across the house, little tendrils of orange and yellow slipping through the paneling on the roof. Smoke began gently spewing into the sky.