Kiss Kill Vanish (16 page)

Rent was due three days ago. Nanette's been nice about a lot of things, but I know this will not be one of them. She doesn't have the money to cover me. Nobody in this dump does; that's why we're all here. The question is how long crotchety Monsieur Cabot will take to remove me, and what I'm supposed to do if it's before Emilio comes.

Emilio. Maybe he's reading my texts right now. I pick up the phone, already knowing I haven't missed a call.

Nothing. Same as last time I checked, four minutes ago.

I wish I'd made him tell me exactly how he was going to get money. Then I'd have something solid to lean my anxiety against. What if Papi or one of my sisters caught him stealing something? I picture Papi's face, not the face I used to know, but the man I saw from the closet, and shudder. I don't know.

And if he hurt Emilio, what I would do then? I don't know that either.

My hand vibrates. Every nerve in my palm sizzles with the tremor, and I'm bringing the phone to my ear, sitting straight up, before that first ring can even end.

“Emilio,” I gasp.

An inch of silence. That's all it takes for me to realize what I've done. Emilio is not the only person who has this number.

“No.”

Panic courses through me, so hot and electric it's crippling, and now I can't speak at all. Marcel, Marcel, Marcel, Marcel. What does Marcel even know? I have to focus. He thinks I only just met Emilio at LaFleur's show. But now he thinks . . .

“Jane?”

“Marcel. Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Sorry, I didn't—I'm just—”

“Yeah,” he says.

I take a deep breath and hold it. This is not the end of the world. I only said
Emilio
. So what? If he asks, I could say Emilio asked me for my number at the LaFleur show, and I didn't look at the caller display. Or I could say I have a cousin named Emilio. Lame, but he might buy it. I wish he'd say something.

“How are you?” he asks finally.

“Fine.”

“You sound out of breath.”

“Out of breath?” Lola's knowing voice comes to my head:
The best lies are the true ones
. She should know. She was a veteran class cutter, curfew breaker, sick-faker—an all-around princess of lies. “The elevator is broken. I just climbed seven flights of stairs.” At least the first half of that is true.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Interesting.”

“Do you want to come try the elevator out yourself?”

“No.”

“You saw my building. It shouldn't be hard to believe it's a little run-down on the inside.”

“I never said I didn't believe you,” he says.

“Fine, then.”

He goes silent again, and I feel bad. That defensive freak-out was definitely uncalled for. “So, how are you?” I ask.

“Um . . .”

Wrong question. Now he's thinking that
I'm
thinking about the crying, which I'm not. Or I wasn't. Now I am.

“I'm fine,” he says. “Actually, I'm hungry. Do you want to eat?”

I glance at the empty cellophane bag beside the cot. Of course I want to eat. I want to eat something expensive and delicious with take-home potential. If it wasn't Marcel I'd have already said yes, but it is Marcel, and I have no clue why we would go somewhere together again, or why he even called. I've already given up on asking him for the money Lucien owes me. Watching him sob his way through that movie made me realize I'm not quite heartless enough to make him feel used right now.

That doesn't mean I want to be around him, though. Grieving Marcel is still Marcel, just with the attitude and sliminess somewhat repressed. He needs to find a better shoulder to cry on, one belonging to someone who doesn't have to be heartless. And I really need to play Emilio's mandolin tonight.

“I know this good Japanese restaurant,” he says. “Do you eat sushi?”

Damn him. “Yes.”

“I'll pick you up in an hour.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

I
wait out front in the dark. The entryway is temptingly warm, but I don't want Marcel seeing the greasy walls, or the crooked plastic plant with only four leaves, or even the permanently wrenched-open elevator. I spend the time staring at Marcel's number in my phone, promising myself to never mistake that number for Emilio's again. I should program him in, but I can't bring myself to put Marcel's name into my phone when I'm not even allowed to put Emilio's name in it.

Marcel pulls up, and I get in but not quick enough. I catch him giving the building a lingering, skeptical look. Or maybe the skeptical look is aimed at me.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

He pulls smoothly back into traffic, and the memory of Lucien's jerkiness behind the wheel bubbles up unbidden. Accelerator-brake-accelerator-brake. Of all the stupid things to be sentimental about, spastic driving shouldn't be one of them. I push it away.

I run my palms along the leather, taking in all the things I somehow missed last time. The car is warm and soft, not masculine like the outside, and smooth as skin. And it's silent. I stare at the console. Surely this thing has a top-of-the-line sound system. I want him to turn on music, but I don't want to ask, and I'm not going to just reach over and do it myself. Maybe he doesn't even listen to music—but who doesn't listen to music?

I glance at him. His lip ring is gone. I'm still a little unnerved by the short hair and clear eyes, so I stare out the window while I work on something to say. I've got nothing. The silence is a big fat reminder of the obvious: we don't know anything about each other. This is weird.

“We might have a bit of a wait,” he says finally. “This place is always busy.”

“Okay.”

“We can wander around, though. There are some cool buildings in the area.”

“Sure.” So Marcel is a respecter of
cool buildings.
That's something. Maybe he likes architecture.

The silence forces its way back between us.

“So, how was school this week?” I ask.

“I didn't go. ‘Bereavement' is a powerful word.” He changes gears, and the engine hums. “Nobody thought I'd be there anyway. I've had some truancy issues this year.”

“Truancy issues.”

“Meaning I don't go when I don't feel like it. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Why aren't you in school?”

I picture where I should be: Trinity Prep, nestled in the palms of Coconut Grove between the boutiques and the ocean. I can see the terra-cotta roofs roasting under the sun, the sprawling Spanish colonials connected by hibiscus-lined walkways. I should be sitting on the north side of the quad with Drea and Kim, tanning the six inches of thigh between pleated skirt and knee-highs. I should be making fun of Tony and Cameron. Flirting with Diego.

Another twinge of nostalgia pulses through me. I miss those girls and the endless flow of gossip. I miss those guys in their navy blazers and cocky smiles. I had nothing deep with any of them, but I had fun. Fun is something.

I rest my hands on the thighs of my leggings—my cheaper-than-jeans go-to. Who'd have thought I'd ever miss that plaid skirt?

“Let me guess—you have truancy issues of your own,” he says, pulling me back.

I bristle. “I'm nineteen. Why would I still be in high school?”

“I never said high school. Interesting that you immediately thought of high school, though. I assumed secondary education exists in whatever place you said you're from. Was it Colorado?”

“California.”

“Right. California.”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. He's either trying to goad me into saying too much, or he really believes me and wants to know more. I don't like either.

“So Californians don't go to university,” he says. “That makes sense. It's all Hollywood or Compton.”

“Funny. I just wanted to live in Montreal.”

“Why?”

A whole jumble of weak lies comes to my mind, but they're all equally unbelievable. I can't pick. “Seemed like an interesting place,” I offer.

“Yeah, but . . . okay. Whatever.”

The best lies are the true ones.
The wisdom of Lola to the rescue again, and twice in one day, too.
“And I wanted some space from my family.”

He says nothing, and my insensitivity rings loudly in my ears. Did I really say that to someone who just lost his only brother? I slide my hand under my leg to keep from slapping my forehead and making things even more uncomfortable.

“So you aren't going to college,” he says.

“I'm going. Just not right now.”

He doesn't believe me, but I don't know if I believe me. College has always been a given, but the givens have been torn away. My lens is focused on now—running away from my family, basic survival, finding a way to be with Emilio. There's nothing else. College is another sacrificed luxury.

“I'm thinking of going back,” he says, and it takes me a second to understand what he's talking about.

“What, to school?”

“Yeah. Maybe. I only stopped going to annoy people. I used to sort of like school.”

“Quitting school to annoy people—that's a little extreme.”

“Well, I didn't exactly quit. I just stopped going.”

“Right.”

“And they really deserved to be annoyed.”

“Your parents, I'm assuming.”

“And Lucien.” He says the name so casually, for a moment Lucien isn't dead. He's in a room somewhere, staring at a canvas and nibbling on the end of his paintbrush with that pretentious smirk on his face.

The illusion dissipates. “Did it work?” I ask.

He runs a hand through his hair, like he still can't believe it's short. “I think so. With Lucien, at least.”

“Wait, I thought you both went to boarding school in England.”

“I was only there for two years. I didn't want to be there without Lucien, so I left when he graduated.”

I wait. He must hear the gap he's left—he wanted to be with Lucien; he wanted to annoy Lucien—but he doesn't fill it for me.

“So,” I say, “have you seen much of your friends since . . . all of this?”

“No.” His eyes are cold and fixed on the road ahead. “But they weren't exactly my friends. Just people I was using to piss off Lucien.”

I must look appalled, because Marcel snorts and says, “Don't feel too bad for them. They didn't mind being used.”

“Are you sure about that?”

He shrugs. “Whatever. Friends are overrated. You're in Montreal alone, I'm assuming.”

“I'm here alone.” I picture them again, the girls in shortened plaid and lip gloss, the boys with sand in their hair and bleached teeth. “I guess I miss my friends. I miss hanging out, not having to worry about anything.”

“And you're worried now.”

I don't answer him.

Marcel's face is less puffy today, less pale, to the point of looking like blood might flow through his veins, as opposed to vodka. Maybe it's just his profile, but the features are more pointed too.

“What are you so worried about?” he asks, catching me staring.

I look away, out the window to where the storefronts and signs and faces have become Chinese. I have to do a better job at steering this conversation. His questions are too focused, and it's getting harder to believe he doesn't know what he's aiming at. “Getting a job.”

“How can that be hard? Walk into a Club Monaco or Anthropologie. You have retail sexpot written all over you.”

I glare at him. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Chill out. It's a compliment.”

“That's how you compliment people?”

“I meant you look like you'd wear their clothes well, okay? If you think you're too good for retail, sorry. I misunderstood.”

“I'm not too good for retail. I don't have a visa to work here.”

“Oh.”

There's nothing to say now. Our tenuous dynamic can't support him being a jerk and me being defensive. We settle back into silence.

I stare out the window and watch the signs turn from what I thought was Chinese to what I think is Vietnamese to what I think is Korean to what I just can't tell. Then we're back to the familiar mix of skyscrapers and fairy tale. I've nearly grown used to it, the way this city meshes Camelot and Metropolis. It's a fabric of old-world punctured by modern structures. I won't miss Montreal—when Emilio comes for me, I'll leave without looking back, without tears—but eventually I might be able to work up some sort of nostalgia for it.

Except then I'd have to remember the terror I've felt here. Maybe I'll leave nostalgia be.

The drive goes on and on, and by the time Marcel parks, I'm certain that the finest sushi in the world isn't worth another hour of this torture.

“It's right there,” he says, pointing to a sign up ahead.
KRU
.
The font is stretched and angled like a blade, the color of steel.

He roots around for something in the backseat while I get out of the car and walk ahead, pulled by my stomach and the promise of ambient noise.

“Wait up,” he calls.

I have to force myself to slow down. Being civil shouldn't be so hard. Marcel opens the door for me and leans close as I pass through. “It's traditional Japanese,” he says softly, like he needs to demonstrate how loud I should talk.

I whisper back, “In that case I'll order California rolls and a Diet Coke.”

If he smiles, I don't catch it.

Inside, Kru
is sparse and light. Lotus blossoms float in cups on tables, and crisply shaven bonsai accent ledges. I breathe. The air is delicate. It's ginger and soy and sake braided together, a fishtail of scents. Kimono-wrapped women glide from table to table, the fish on their trays glistening like bars of ruby and pearl.