Furious (14 page)

Her voice, when she finally speaks, seems to come out of the light, rather than from the throat and mouth of a normal human being. It vibrates with barely contained anger, and everyone in the room shifts uncomfortably in their seats.

“Those Furies had the gall, the unbridled audacity, to take up residence in the sacred temple of a goddess. I don’t care who they were after, or what their target supposedly did. How dare they? A goddess’s space is a sanctuary, a shrine of light, no place for the dark ugliness of revenge.”

I thought I’d gotten used to Ms. Pallas’s intensity, but this takes teacher pontificating to a whole new level. A layer of nervous sweat pops out on my forehead and in my armpits. Ms. Pallas places her hand on a copy of the Aeschylus plays, hard, like the book is alive and dangerous, a vicious animal that requires all of her strength to keep it down and in its place. She closes her eyes. She recites, like she’s soaking up the passage through her fingertips:

“‘Monsters, who lap the blood of live men’s bodies, this temple is no place for such as ye. But there where criminals are slain or mutilated is meet abode, and the feast ye love, ye loathsome goddesses.’”

In the unnerving silence that follows, I hear my breathing quicken. Her eyes pop open, her voice demands an answer: “Raymond, how do we get rid of these Furies?”

Flustered in a way that I’ve never seen Raymond flustered, he runs his finger down his outline, flips some pages. “As far as I can tell…”

“Go on,” she orders.

“… as long as there’s unfairness and injustice happening in the world, they can never be driven away, not like other monsters.”

“Never?” someone blurts out. It takes me a second to realize that this someone is Brendon, whose voice sounds dry and slightly strangled.

“That seems to be the situation.” Raymond is still hesitant, so unlike him. “They go to sleep for long periods of time, until a powerful person who has been wronged summons them again. Conditions need to be perfect, the stars in alignment, the Furies ripe to go, that kind of thing.” He turns to Ms. Pallas. “Did I get it right?”

It’s Ambrosia who responds without being called on. Her tone manages to combine reassurance and threat. “Don’t fret, everyone. There’s nothing to fear from the Furies if you behave yourself. You’re perfectly safe if you don’t act stupid and get in their way.”

One of the Double Ds giggles nervously, but it quickly dries up.

Brendon’s arm is in the air again. I study his profile, which is still and solemn, unreadable. He directs his question to Raymond: “You called them monsters, right? Creatures of darkness?”

Raymond nods.

“But you also describe them like they’re heroes? They avenge the innocent and combat injustice. How can these Furies be both monsters and do-gooders?”

Raymond’s face empties with the question, and it makes me wonder, too. Why are we called loathsome goddesses when we are doing what’s right? Why so much talk of blood and snakes and tears when we are standing up for the innocent? I know that artists have sometimes portrayed us as beautiful, but more often we are shown as vicious hags. Why so hideous and loathsome if we’re on the side of fairness? Why did the goddess want to banish the Furies from her temple? Why are we hated so much?

I see Raymond thinking hard, and I know him well enough to know that he’s stumped, too, lost in the same questions I am.

Ms. Pallas’s voice, sharp and penetrating, snaps him out of the reverie. She fires her own set of questions. “What is punishment? What is revenge? Who has the right to determine what is just and fair? Who decides when justice has been served? Well, Raymond? What happens when an eye for an eye goes on and on unchecked?”

“I don’t—”

“Take it to the conclusion! Everyone winds up blind. The Furies can be called up. But then what? Who can put them back to sleep?”

The light around Ms. Pallas flickers before fading out, casting her into shadow. “You’re only at the beginning of your research. This is what Raymond”—she aims a stern look at the rest of our group—“what all of you have to figure out. You have your work cut out for you. Don’t take it lightly.”

“We’re up for any challenge,” Ambrosia says. “We aim for the highest grade.”

“I’ve no doubt that you do.” Ms. Pallas rubs her temples, like she’s fighting off a headache. Maybe she already has one.

15

“Agreed?”
Raymond asks.

“Agreed,” I say.

“All of you. No backsies?”

“Agreed! Wow, you’re a pain,” Stephanie complains. “For about the twenty-fifth time, we promise not to get carried away and overdo it. We promise to use our powers only for the good of mankind. That’s what my whole life is about. You want us to sign a document?”

“In blood would be nice. With a clause about turning over your firstborn if you renege,” he suggests.

“Raymond!” Stephanie puts her hands on her hips. She turns very preachy very fast. “I took a vow in ninth grade. I’m never having any children. You should take the same vow of nonprocreation. We all should. The world’s overpopulated enough as it is.”

Raymond gives a thumbs-up. “Stephanie, going for the literal! What you lack in a fine-tuned, subtle sense of humor, you make up for in unsmiling solemnity of earnest purpose.”

“He’s just being Raymond,” I translate for Alix. “He was only joking about turning over our firstborn.”

He pushes through the double doors and holds them open in a mock-gallant manner as we exit. We’re more than ready to get out of school today. It was torture sitting through classes. Physics, trig, poetry, and all the rest suddenly seem like pointless busywork for little kids, given that we have real, substantial, grown-up work. The world is already much better with Pox in his place. We are ready to keep making a difference.

Ambrosia is last out the door, and Raymond lets it swing closed behind her. He goes on: “I’m just saying that Ms. Pallas has a point. Self-control is a good and noble quality.”

Ambrosia huffs in annoyance. “Control? Pallas is the one who’s a complete control freak, like most of those in a high position. Her kind doesn’t like it when young people have minds of their own. People in power don’t like sharing their power. She hates the competition.”

Alix is in total agreement. “Yeah, Pallas does like things done her way. Teachers—most grown-ups—treat us like we only have half a brain and—”

Raymond tries interrupting. “They do have a somewhat valid point. Teenage frontal lobes aren’t quite fully formed yet, and—”

Alix doesn’t want to hear it. “They treat us like we can’t be trusted. Like we don’t know right from wrong. It’s a pure power play…”

“… designed to keep the new generation down,” Stephanie finishes for her. “They want to keep the status quo.”

Raymond again. “Far be it from me to discount—”

This time it’s Ambrosia who cuts him off with “You can bow to Pallas if you want, but not me, not us.”

“Who’s bowing? I’m not bowing to anyone,” Raymond protests.

“Good to hear that,” she says, and flips her braid so that it hangs down her back almost to her tailbone. “Let’s keep walking, then. Being a Fury is not a nine-to-five job. It’s not for slackers. These girls have things to do, people to see.”

Despite her rant about Ms. Pallas and the little snip at Raymond, Ambrosia is in a noticeably good mood this afternoon, and so am I. I’m happy to be out of school for the day and stretching my legs. I’m happy to be discovering new talents in myself. I’m happy to be surrounded by new friends. I’m happy that Raymond is so supportive. I’m happy that …

A rumble of thunder—rare in this part of California—rolls over above us. The first big splats of rain hit me on the head. I don’t put up the hood of my rain jacket. I let the cool water soak into my hair. We run for the bus.

I’m happy that it’s raining.

I’m happy that I know exactly where we’re going right now.

I’m positively and completely happy.

*   *   *

The scenario that greets us: the Leech in the living room. The Pepto-Bismol pink of her housecoat clashes with the red plaid print of the couch. She reminds me of a big, rectangular bolt of fabric tossed randomly on top of another in a fabric store. She’s chewing a big wad of gum. I see the others glancing around, taking it in. This is my home, and it’s a depressing sight. The pink bolt speaks: “What the hell is this about?”

“Friends,” I say. “We have…”

I have practiced for this moment in my mind. My friends have given me a pep talk, but I feel a familiar timidity taking the power out of my voice. I sense myself sliding back to the way I used to be, just yesterday. I flood with doubt. The whole thing is probably a bad idea. I could wind up just making things worse for myself. She’s not so terrible. I can live with this. I want to give the Leech a last chance. Raymond nods with encouragement, and that’s enough to help me get out the rest of the sentence. “We have some work to do, Mrs. Leach. Schoolwork.”

With a moan she pushes herself to a seated position, fixes me like a bull’s-eye in her sight. “Does this look like a library? Do I want a bunch of hoodlums hanging around here?”

“Hoodlum? Me?” Raymond asks. He sounds pleased by the idea.

I’m tingling with anticipation and my fingers are jiggling by my side and my leg vibrates, like I’m the lead singer of some overcaffeinated girl group that’s standing in the wings about to perform in front of thousands. Only I’m not sure that I can go on. I’m not sure I have what it takes to be the leader.

He-Cat enters the room. He must have heard my voice and that was enough to overcome his dread of the Leech. When she hurls the remote control at him, any hesitation that’s left in me evaporates. Poor thing is too slow. Hit, he meows in pain and outrage before scampering back to the safety of my bedroom.

The Leech is pleased with her aim. “Worthless!”

The cat. Me.

Ambrosia, by my left ear, doesn’t even bother to whisper. “Justice delayed is justice denied.”

Raymond is by my right ear. “Go for it. Just don’t overdo it.”

I suck in my breath, and for some reason the lyrics to an old Doors song rush through my mind:
The time to hesitate is through.
But it’s a different first note that makes its way from deep in my belly, up my throat, and out through my lips. And another note and another and all my stage fright is gone like it never existed, and I’m singing and humming my way—our way—to the core of her.

To where she hides in lies and denial.

We turn loose her memories and force her to experience the hurts and sorrow that she’s caused. She tries to retreat. We don’t let go. She shivers. We shake the truth in her face. And as shame and regret for how she treats me and how she has treated others course through her, I experience the taste of something sweet and rich, like the first bite of food after you’ve been hungry for a long time.

Satisfaction. Justice served. It’s wonderful.

I remember Raymond’s warning.
Don’t overdo it.

This is enough. This is perfection.

I sound the last note to alert the others and lead them back out.

Here’s what we return to: There’s a couch. There’s the Leech in her pink housedress, and her eyes are big. “Please, please, Meg, can you forgive me? I want to change.”

“A wise choice,” Alix says.

“Things will be different. I promise. You have to believe me. What do you want?”

All eyes turn to me, Stephanie’s elbow in my ribs as encouragement. The possibilities unfold. What do I want? I slide my gaze to her feet. “I don’t want to ever touch those feet again. Ever.”

The Leech scoots her feet under the edge of the couch to hide them. The move is so quick and compliant that I realize something: I could ask her to take a hatchet and whack them off at the ankles and she would happily turn her legs into bloody stumps and then perform a tap dance, if that’s what I wanted. No questions asked.

Of course I would never suggest that, but I feel bolder now. Ambrosia urges me with her eyes to ask for more. She’s right. I deserve more. Why stop?

“Never order me to do
anything
.”

Alix and Stephanie exchange approving smiles.

I hesitate. Dare I? “I want a nicer room. I want clothes when I need them, even if I don’t really, really need them!” I turn to the others. “I can ask for that, right?” I don’t wait for an answer because I know what they would say. I’m on a roll now. One by one, I rattle off my demands:

“The money you get from foster care you spend on me.”

“My friends can hang out here whenever they want.”

“The way you talk to me? Be polite.”

He-Cat wanders back in, and when I call him by name he responds like he’s a dog and rushes to my side. I pick him up. “Another thing—the best kibble that money can buy for He-Cat. No skimping.”

The Leech actually takes notes, writing down my wishes on a piece of paper. He-Cat purrs, and I feel like purring, too. For so long I’ve been starved for justice, and now my appetite has been satisfied.

That is how we Furies spend Monday afternoon.

TUESDAY

We stand on the cliff as Alix paddles into the ocean to join the lineup of other surfers. With her mass of wild hair and a green-striped board, she’s the most flamboyant one in the water. I’m not being biased because she’s my fellow Fury. You can’t keep your eyes off of her, the way she appears everywhere, cutting back and forth. Before she left land, Alix told us exactly what to watch for.

“It’ll happen,” she assured us. “Guaranteed. People never change.”

“That’s right,” Ambrosia agreed. “Nobody will give you justice, Alix. You need to take it.”

Stephanie points toward a wave that is building into a classic shape, large and rolling. The pack of surfers angles for position. Only one of them will be able to ride it, and it’s an unspoken rule that the first surfer on the wave stays on and the others drop away.

I see the green board setting up, just as the lip of the wave begins its breaking curve. She’s at the perfect spot to catch it. Alix’s arms paddle hard and then she’s up, she’s standing. The way her hair flies behind her, dark as smoke, makes her look like a burning candle moving fast on a watery road.