Lovely Vicious (21 page)

“Thanks. I guess.”

“Consider it an apology for the pictures.”

“It doesn’t make up for it. You’d need like, a million cakes and a dozen clones of Johnny Depp to even begin to make up for that.”

“There’s a very good cloning program at Duke –”

I politely scream UGH and slam the door shut behind me.

3 Years
                           

22 Weeks
                       

4 Days
                           

Knife-kid comes up to me nearly four weeks after Avery’s party – right before Thanksgiving break. We’re watching a movie in English, bags of chips and trays of cupcakes littering the counter from the last-day-before-break party Mr. Teller let us have. It’s dark, and people are whispering and laughing and making plans for break and not paying attention to the movie at all.

Knife-kid slides into the seat beside me.

“Hello, Your Pointy Highness,” I say. “What brings you to the neck of my new girl woods?”

“You aren’t new girl anymore.”

“Oh? So what am I?”

“Weird girl.”

I laugh. “Better than fat girl.”

“They call you that, too. But weird is the most used.”

I smirk. We watch the TV for a few seconds before he starts talking again.

“You and Jack like each other.”

I hunch my shoulders and squeeze my face together. “Are you high?”

“I saw you at the Halloween party. You danced together, and then you pulled him into that room.”

I feel my mouth drop open.

“I did not!”

“I saw,” He insists. “I’m only bringing it up because Jack’s cool. He’s the only one who’s never been a shithead to me in this place. And he seems kind of down. Lately. Ever since that party.”

“Down?” I sputter. “Jack? His face muscles have atrophied – he doesn’t know how to make expressions, let alone look ‘down’.”

Knife-kid shrugs. “He just seems bummed. You and him are the only two I don’t fantasize about stabbing. So. I thought you should know.”

“Oookay, nice talking to you. I gotta go. To India.”

I make a bathroom excuse and escape, running down the hall. Jack is in P.E. right now – I know because Kayla’s been chanting his schedule in her sleep like some weird ex-boyfriend purging ritual. I’m fueled by rage and at least seven cupcakes made by someone’s talented mother. How dare Jack lie to me! I mean, I know lying was standard issue back in the day when we were still warring, and maybe it’s also standard issue for everyday high school life, but c’mon! I trusted him! Bad move, but I still did it! I’m definitely not panicking about what actually went on in that room, I’m just concerned. Somewhat. And also making high-pitched eeeeee sounds.

I burst out of the front doors. Cold air nips at me as I run to the field, where the P.E. class is playing a lazy game of dodge ball. People stand still to purposely get hit so they can be out and sit in the grass and text and talk. Jack is lying on his back in the grass, looking up at the clouds. I march over and graciously kick his ribs.

“Ow! Shit –” He hisses and sits up. His glare stops short when he realizes it’s me.

“What happened in that room?”

“Isis –”

“What happened. In that. Room!” I shout. The P.E. teacher is too busy talking with the football coach to notice, but everyone else looks at me warily.

Jack runs a hand through his hair and breathes out, slowly. Now that we’re close I can see the dark circles under his eyes. When did he get those? And why does he look skinnier? His cheekbones and jaw stick out unhealthily.

“It was nothing,” Jack whispers. “Okay? Nothing. You just fell asleep.”

“Knife-kid said he saw me dragging you to that room. I was drunk. I can’t remember. So you better tell me the truth, or I swear to you, it’ll be a war all over again –”

“What do you want me to say, Isis?” He growls. “Do you want me to be the bad guy? Do you think I took advantage of you?”

I slap him, but he recovers quickly. The entire class goes silent, the dodge ball game ceasing at the sound of the slap to watch.

“Tell me what you did –”

“I didn’t do anything!” He shouts. “I didn’t do anything, I swear on my life!”

His constant unfeeling, low-voiced mask is broken. Nothing about him is calm or contained. He’s not the Ice Prince, anymore. He’s furious; his eyebrows tight and his mouth drawn in a cruel frown.

“I can’t trust what you say anymore,” I say.

“Then don’t! Don’t trust me. Don’t trust anyone! That’s the way you like it, right? That’s the way you’ve been moving through life for the past three years, right? It’s obviously working for you! So keep doing it. Have fucking fun trusting nobody for the rest of your life!” He roars.

His words sear like cold fire across my heart, leaving behind instant, dark scars. I run. I turn on my heel in one fluid motion and run. Everything is numb. I can only barely hear Jack calling after me. I’m underwater, deep, deep beneath the ocean of the past. Jack’s voice turns to Nameless’.

Ugly.

Did you think that’s what this was? Love?

I slam the driver’s side of my car shut and start the engine. I blast past the security booth and barrel home. Stoplights are mercifully green, and the ones that aren’t, I run through.

Ugly.

I don’t remember parking. I don’t remember getting out or running upstairs or locking my door.

I don’t remember what happened that night.
  

That’s what you get for trusting someone.

***

Mom is understanding. She knows this is my breakdown. The last one was just a warm-up. She understands breakdowns better than my aunt does, and much better than Dad does. She knows there are tiny breakdowns leading up to the big one. This is my Big One. I sleep for days. I don’t shower. My hair is a knotted mess. Mom brings me up food sometimes, but I pick at it and leave the rest. She’s so happy to help me like I’ve helped her. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I don’t cry and the don’t-cry times are somehow worse than the crying ones. Sometimes Mom holds me, sometimes I lock her out. Kayla visits me, bringing snacks and homework and talking happily about nothing at all and it helps. Her mindless chatter helps more than sleeping, more than crying. It reminds me I’m not the only one with problems, that Kayla’s life is fraught with problems that, to her, are just as big – a missing blush color at Sephora, how she forgot there was a sale at Macy’s she’d been waiting for a year on, how her little brother constantly gets into her bras and stretches them out by putting them on his head. She mentions Jack, and I snap at her to never mention him again.

“Geez, I know you hate him, but saying his name isn’t a crime, okay?”

“It might turn into one,” I mutter.

“Is he…is he why you’re so sad?”

I scoff. “As if. And I’m not sad. I have strep throat.”

“You have a lovely strep voice.”

I glower, and she smiles, handing me another cookie.

“Okay, I gotta go. Mom wants me to watch spitglob tonight while she goes out. Text me, okay?”

My anger fades. “Yeah. Thanks for coming over.”

“It’s the least I can do.” She hugs me, and then wrinkles her nose. “You smell. But I love you.”

“I love you too.” I grin.

I watch her go through the window, half wanting her to come back and half wanting her to never come back. After everything I’ve put her through, through the nasty remarks and my hidden jealousy, she’s still my friend. I’m a less-than-stellar person, but she’s stuck by me.

The days blur. It feels like I’ve been out of school for weeks, but it’s only been a few days. When I’m not sleeping, I research Northplains on Google, looking for any hint of what Jack did. The newspapers archives from back then don’t help. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. Two men. A baseball bat. Something that scared Avery and Wren into silence. Did Jack beat them? But why would that convince him to give Belina money? Was Belina the wife of one of the men?
 

Belina was the wife. It all falls into place. She was the wife of one of the men Jack took a baseball bat to -

Mom screams, the sound echoing from downstairs and into my room. My blood goes cold, pumps slow through my body.

Mom doesn’t scream like that except in her nightmares.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!”

My feet fly down the stairs, jumping the last few and landing painfully but pain doesn’t matter right now, all that matters is getting to the door, getting to her, fighting off whoever is making her scream like that –

“I’LL CALL THE COPS!”

“C’mon, Georgia. We both know you won’t. Just be sensible about this.”

Mom clutches the door for support, body twisted in terror around it. The man at the door is stocky, in khakis and a gray shirt, with a black beard and the kindest face I’ve ever seen – crevassed with smile lines and crow’s feet. But I know the truth behind it. And it sickens me. The man sees me and his face lights up in a smile.

“Isis! Good to see you –”

I pull Mom away and slam the door in his face and lock it. She trembles, terrified, and clings to me as I lead her to the couch to sit down. I pull the curtains, lock the back door and windows, and grip my cellphone tightly as I approach the door to check if he’s gone. Nope – his fat, bulky ass still looms through the mottled glass of the door.

“Isis, c’mon! Georgia, tell her to open the door! I just want to talk!”

“No!” I shout. “Nobody’s talking, Leo. Leave us alone!”

“You can’t be serious! I drove all the way up here for a friend. I’ve been on the road for a whole week! I’m dusty, sweaty. Just thought I’d stop by, since I was in the neighborhood. Could use a glass of water. How about a little hospitality?”

“How about you clear off my front steps before I call the cops?”

“I’ve done nothing wrong, you little bitch!” Leo’s voice switches from amiable to irritated. “Now open this door and let me talk to your mother!”

“This is your last warning, Leo. Leave, or I’ll call the cops.”

“This is an adult problem, not for snotty kids. So I’m only gonna tell you once – you open this goddamn door, or I’m breaking it.”

I suddenly can’t breathe.

“C’mon, bitch! Open up!”

He knocks on the door, hard, and the knocking turns to pounding, and Mom screams and covers her ears. With every hard pound she flinches and screams louder, burying herself into the couch, convulsing like each second of sound is a physical blow to her. This is not better. This is not healing. He’s hurting her all over again just by being here. The slams get louder, and I grab a heavy porcelain statuette from the table with one hand and start to dial 911 with the other.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“There’s – my name is Isis Blake,” I hate the shake in my voice, the shake in my hands. “1099 Thorton Avenue, Northplains Ohio. There’s a man trying to break into my house.”

“I understand. I need you to lock all doors and windows and get into a room.”

Leo roars, using his shoulder to pound the door down, like a furious bull.

“Isis?” The emergency responder’s plea is insistent. “Talk to me, Isis. Do you know this man?”

“He’s my mom’s ex-boyfriend. Please, you have to hurry!”

Something shatters, and I drop the phone as I watch in horror – Leo’s hand punches through the glass panes on either side of the door, and he’s reaching around to open the knob. Mom’s scream turns primal, shrill, and she flees from the couch and runs up to her room.

The door creaks open slowly, and he stands in the doorway, dark eyes gleaming. I’m the only thing between him and her. Me, a seventeen-year-old, clutching a heavy porcelain statue behind my back and shaking like a butterfly in a hurricane.

“Step aside, kid. I’m just here for your mother, not you. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

I look up, slowly. All the nights of Mom’s crying, all of her sad smiles, all of the days she couldn’t bring herself to leave her room and face me flash through my mind.

“You already have, asshole.”

He narrows his eyes, taking a step towards me. It’s a heavy step. My heart sinks with it. What hope do I have against a two-hundred-something pound guy? He carves wood. He hunts deer. He’s dangerous.

“Last chance. Get out of the way.”

“Over my dead body.” I grit my teeth.

He chuckles, sour and sinister. “You got guts. I like that.”

I’m trembling. I’m trembling so hard I can feel my teeth chattering and my fingers twitching. I can’t do this on my own. I can’t fight this demon. I can barely fight my own.

I hear Mom’s wailing from upstairs and grasp the statue more firmly.

But I have to fight. There’s no one who’ll come save me. No one will rescue me. No one saved me when Nameless held me down. No one rescued me in the shower afterward, not Mom, not Dad, not my aunt. I am alone. No one has ever tried to rescue me.

So I have to rescue myself.

Leo lunges for me, and I duck to the side and slam the heavy statue on the back of his neck. He flinches, roaring in pain, and whirls around and grabs me. He lifts me like a paper doll, a bag stuffed with cotton, something light. I’m easy to throw. I’m flying, sailing through the air for seconds, and then sharp pain sends shockwaves of agony tearing at my spine. I’m on my hands and knees, staring at the floor as it wobbles, dims, then comes back bright, then dims again.