One Past Midnight (8 page)

“It's just a scratch,” I said, uncomfortable with the attention.

“So you keep saying,” he said. I stared at him blankly. I hadn't realized I'd said anything since leaving the basement.

I needed to regroup. This was my party, and if I didn't get it together it would be a disaster. And in this life I simply couldn't afford the social downfall. Not after all the work I'd done to secure my reputation.

“Dex, I'm . . . ,” I started, straining for something to reassure him after what I did downstairs. “I . . . I've made some plans for graduation night.”

Dex kept working on my arm, but his eyes came up to meet mine. “Plans?”

“Yeah, you know . . .
you
and
me
plans.”

His eyes widened. “Oh! I see.
Plans
.”

I nodded, blushing.

The corners of his mouth went up. “Plans sound good.” He went back to his doctoring, putting a Band-Aid on my arm. “You should probably get a tetanus shot. You don't know what you might have cut yourself on down there.”

I nodded just as Miriam came gliding into the kitchen.

“Whoa. You okay, Sabine?” She paused in the doorway. Miriam doesn't do blood.

“I am now, thanks to Dex.” I hopped off the counter and planted a kiss on Dex's cheek, making a quick getaway before I had to divulge any more about the “plans.”

I slipped an arm through Miriam's on my way out of the kitchen to cover my shaking hands. As we headed to the pool she proceeded to tell me in graphic, and unwanted, detail about her last thirty minutes with Brett. In my bedroom.

Some things are best left unshared.

Someone passed me a drink, and despite my still feeling sick and light-headed I sipped on it, claiming a lounge chair at the head of the pool. The next two hours passed by in a welcome blur.

At last Lucas shut off the music.

No one seemed to mind, and I couldn't have been happier to hear the pounding stop. Lucas launched into
adult mode: patrolling, telling kids to get lost, checking that the drinkers weren't driving. Then he simply up and left. That was Lucas.

I figured he didn't want to stay behind and explain any of the night to Mom, who walked in about five minutes after he left, took one look at me, and ordered me upstairs to bed.

I guess it was obvious I was drunk.

Her parting words informed me we'd be having a more in-depth discussion in the morning. I nodded and told her tipsily I was looking forward to the follow-up.

By some miracle, I managed to get out of my dress and into my pajamas before I collapsed, face-first, onto my bed.

When I woke up, it took no time at all for everything to come flooding back. It felt like reality reached out and walloped me across the face. Hard.

I was out of bed and in front of my mirror in an instant, staring at the same image of myself I always saw in this world—if a little puffy around the eyes. My long brown hair was stuck to one side of my face and hung down to just above my waist. I lifted my top to show a very normal bare expanse of skin over my ribs and belly, and both my legs and arms were unmarked, except for the relatively small scratch I'd received in the basement.

I grabbed my watch off the nightstand. It was just after midday, which meant the laxatives had had plenty of time to work their way into my system.

I went to the bathroom. No sign of the package-promised results. But while I was in there I did throw up. Due, I'm fairly sure, to my vodka-punch consumption over the course of the night more than anything else. I mentally chastised myself and resolved never to get drunk again.

Having no idea what to do with all this newfound information, I opted for routine. I took a shower, changed into a cute sundress, and put on my favorite red kitten heels. I couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry, so I plastered a smile on my face and went downstairs—only to endure a forty-five-minute lecture from Mom.

After the tenth time she said, “I just want what's best for you,” I zoned out, studying the walnut grain of the dining-room table. Her heart wasn't in it anyway. And when she huffed and pushed a sandwich in front of me, saying, “You look like you're fading away,” I knew the lecture was over.

The smart thing would've been to go back to bed. I needed more sleep. I'd lost count of how many hours I'd been awake—in both lives—before finally passing out in the early hours of the morning. But with my swirling thoughts sleep wasn't really an option. And besides, there was something even more pressing that I
absolutely
had to do.

• • •

“Cut it. Not too much, and shape it around the sides, leaving the length at the back. Color needs to be much lighter, but with tones. Make sure you keep some warmth in there. But definitely blond.”

The stylist forced a smile, looking at me like she was having second thoughts about her career choice. I sympathized, but held my ground. I wasn't going to let the hairdresser have free rein in this life. It was essential that my new hair be Wellesley appropriate.

While she shampooed and conditioned my hair with organic products, I finally let my mind slide into murky waters. The thing was, now that I was in this new situation, I couldn't imagine a way back. Not knowing what I now knew.

All my life, there'd been no choice. I lived two lives and that was it. Never just one or the other—broken in two and all alone. But now . . . now there was a chance. Hope. The possibility of a
normal
existence.

If the physical parts of me were not connected . . . If what I did in one life in no way affected the other . . . If I could bleed in one and not the other, cut off parts of myself, dye them different colors . . . If I could take laxatives and get drunk and have none of those things cause any reaction in my other body, then to some degree—a very
relevant
degree—I was
two
separate
bodies. And if I was two separate bodies—and one of me was to stop existing—the other should continue.

And I'd have just the one life.

But
. . .

There was still one more test to carry out before things could go any further.

My new blond hair, styled the way it had been crying out to be for so long in this world, did not disappoint.

When Mom saw me, she was so delighted she forgot all about being unhappy with me and shooed me away when I offered to help with the cleaning up.

A multilevel victory.

It would have been the perfect opportunity to visit Miriam and Lucy for a gloat session. Or better yet, Dex. I was certain he would forgive my strange behavior last night when he saw the new me. But I was dead on my feet after the three-hour makeover and still had a hangover. Bed was the only option.

Lying back on my silk sheets in the early evening, confidence on high, I decided on my next move.

It was a risk.

But if I could get through this final test, I would have
options I'd never thought possible. I considered setting an alarm to wake me up before the Shift, but I was so tired I couldn't be bothered. Waking up groggy in this world or the next, it made little difference right now, and at least I wouldn't have to go through the pre-Shift jitters.

The transition turned out to be the smoothest in days. I'd been fast asleep in my Wellesley world when I shifted back to Roxbury. Normally the conflict of a sleeping mind being thrust into an alert physical body was disorienting to the extreme. But I was so exhausted, I was almost numb to the change. Post-Shift I simply registered my still-broken wrist, the cuts aching on my leg, belly, and arm, and then rode the adjustment period, dropping off to sleep soon after in my gray flannel sheets.

I'm sure I could've slept for hours, but instead my sleep was seriously interrupted as, several frantic times, I paid for my experiment.

The laxatives had kicked in.

By the time I had no fluid left in my body, I crawled back into bed with every intention of spending the entire day sleeping it off. Maddie, however, had other ideas.

By mid-morning she was bouncing persistently on the end of my bed. At first I mumbled for her to go away and buried my head under the blankets, but then I remembered that today was . . . well,
today
.

I had things to do.

“Binie, come on, get up! Mom says you have to come down and see her before she goes to work.”

I groaned, rubbing my eyes and sitting up. Everything hurt.

“I didn't think she was working today,” I muttered.

Maddie just shrugged and took one final jump on the bed, landing on her butt beside me. “Said she's going in with Dad to do something.”

“Oh,” I said, still sifting through my thoughts. “What are you up to today, kiddo?” I tried to keep my voice light, but I couldn't look after her today.

Maddie slumped. “Mrs. Jefferies is picking me up.”

I gave the top of her head a rub and kissed it. “You'll be okay. You always have fun in the end.”

She squirmed. “Yeah, but I want to stay here with you.”

“I'd love that too, but I have to go out today and do some stuff. We can hang out tomorrow after school if you like. Maybe go to the park?”

Maddie never missed a beat. “What stuff do you have to do today? Are you going to be home tonight?”

“Not sure, kiddo. I might be staying out.”

She slid off the bed and trudged toward the door.

“Love you, Maddie,” I said lightly.

She couldn't help but turn and give me a little smile. “Love you
too
, Binie.” Then she leaped into my arms and
gave me a Maddie specialty death squeeze before she was gone, her feet bounding loudly down the stairs.

I dropped my face into my good hand and sighed.

“What are you doing, Sabine?” I whispered, but just as quickly I rubbed my hand up and down, as if I could scrub the thought from my mind.

I
had
to know.

After an awkward, arm-wrapped-in-plastic-bag shower, I reapplied Band-Aids to last night's handiwork, dressed in a black cotton skirt, longer than usual at just above my knee, and a fitted burgundy T-shirt with long sleeves. It took twice as long to get ready with my banged-up wrist, but I managed to work out most things—even my standard heavy-handed application of eyeliner and mascara, which worked well with my new black shaggy cut.

I sat down on my bed to start grappling with my boots, but instead I picked up my bag and found myself holding the plain white box of pills that would be my final test. I cringed when I remembered dropping my bag and how badly things could've gone when Ethan found the pills.

I couldn't risk something like that happening again.

Without another thought I started popping out the pills and placing them on my bedside table. One by one, I used the base of my water glass to crush them, reminding myself not to crush too many, but just enough.

Digoxin was the perfect drug. I'd seen people come into the drugstore after taking an incorrect dose. As a heart medica-tion, mistakes resulted in an array of side effects, including blurred vision, heart palpitations, nausea—it was quite a long list. It was the ideal way to test an internal physical response to a toxin. Best of all, there was an antidote—Digibind—so if things went completely out of control, something could be done about it.

“A responsible risk,” I murmured while I searched around my room. “Aha!”

I pulled the necklace out from a pile of junk on my dresser and started to twist the top off the silver butterfly pendant. Capri and I had both bought pendant necklaces at the flea market last year. Hers had a silver skull, but I'd preferred the butterfly, and we'd both liked that they had secret chambers. At the time, we'd joked that they'd come in handy when we were smuggling drugs.

Carefully I swept the powdered digoxin onto a piece of paper and funneled it into the bullet-shaped body of the butterfly before securing the head back in place.

If only Capri could see me now.

I cleaned away the evidence, taking the rest of the digoxin and packing it, along with my slice-and-dice tools, into my backpack. I'd keep it with me and dump it at some stage during the day. I didn't want stuff like this lying around, especially the pills, where Maddie could
stumble across them. I slipped on the pendant, grabbed my backpack, and headed down to the kitchen just as the front door closed.

“Maddie?” I asked Mom and Dad, who were sitting at the kitchen table rifling through paperwork.

Mom glanced up briefly, her glasses resting halfway down her nose, making her look older than she was. “Just left with Mrs. Jefferies.”

I nodded, poured some water into the kettle, and began making toast. I also doled out a couple of painkillers the doctor had prescribed for my wrist. It wasn't actually causing me much trouble, but I figured the pain relief might help with my still-throbbing cuts.

When I sat at the table, no one was talking. Mom stared at Dad like she was waiting for something, but Dad ignored her and readjusted his pale-blue tie. He insisted on wearing one every day. As if the tie alone could make him, make
us
, better somehow.