Summer of Supernovas (19 page)

Now I’m positive. Irina
likes
Jordan. But she’d sooner chalk up her yes to an unexplained phenomenon than admit she likes the guy.

“What’s that?” Iri asks of my mumbling.

“Oh, you know, I just find it incredibly ironic that two days ago you were lecturing
me
on denial,” I reply with an innocent smile.

“And?” The word is a dare. Her expression, a double dare.

“You like Jordan,” I singsong.

She tosses an orange feather boa at me. “Do not.”

“Do too, Duchess of Denial.” I throw back the boa. “
And
you’ve stopped referring to him as Suit, Stiff, or Cactus Guy.” I rest my case.

Her eyes narrow. “Keep it up and I’ll be prying the
full
story of yesterday’s Betty Crocker bake-off out of you. Because you, comrade”—she points with her hanger—“are withholding.”

I quickly wipe the amusement from my face and drop it like it’s hot. “Hey, I’m gonna dig over here.” Moving to the “new arrivals” section, I start thumbing through the possibilities. Actually, I’d trade my thumbs for crowbars, considering how tightly these clothes are jammed in here.

But I’m thrilled Irina’s in need of my vintage-shopping expertise. After worrying myself sick over the tense incident between Grant and Seth, distractions have become my newfound hobby. And coming to the Rusted Zipper—my favorite vintage shop—is about the best kind of distraction a girl can ask for.

Iri squeezes her way into the next aisle. The store somehow crams ten thousand square feet of clothes into one thousand—defying both physics and reason.

In an effort to limit my hunt, I ask, “So, what are you thinking? Cocktail, floor-length, or—hold the freaking phone!” I pry out the garment, holding it up to admire it. “Iri! Ooh, Iri! You have to check out the most
spectacular
red wiggle dress I just fou—”

“Wil? Wil Carlisle, is that you?” The high-pitched giggle makes my skin crawl. “What on
earth
are you wearing?”

I whirl around, coming face to face with one of the
last
people I’d like to—Brittany Milford, aka Spawn of Satan.

I stand there blinking, waiting for my brain to catch up. Finally, the neurons fire. “Oh, hi…”

Oh my God, don’t say Spawn of Satan. Don’t say Spawn of Satan. I am totally going to say Spawn of Satan.

“Brittany,” I carefully enunciate. Yes! I deserve an award.

She props a French-manicured hand on her slender hip. Her eyebrows rise in dual judgment. Even her cute little sundress seems to mock me. “Please tell me this outfit is some kind of joke.”

“Yeah.” I pull my Fedora lower. “It’s just for fun.” I thumb toward the walking upholstery behind me. “You remember my friend Irina, don’t you?”

Duh. I mean, yes, of course she does. Irina’s one of the many reasons we aren’t friends anymore.

Once upon a time, Brittany and I had been inseparable. But then high school happened, and all the things that never mattered to me suddenly mattered to her.

Now, looking at Alexander High’s newest varsity head cheerleader, I see no evidence of the Brittany I knew. The girl who craved fun and star-fueled adventures. The girl who was equally curious to know what would happen if we put gummy bears in the microwave. Because that girl…has vanished.

Brittany twirls the blond ponytail trailing over her shoulder, smiling tightly like someone has given her a wedgie. In retrospect, maybe her smile has always had a constipated look about it. Cheerleading just perpetuated it.

“Hey,” she says to Iri, succeeding in making the one syllable sound like an obscenity. Brittany shifts her handbag so that the
COACH
tag is more visible.

The phrase “mortal enemies” comes to mind as I watch the two size each other up. And the tension in this already claustrophobic store makes my polyester jumpsuit feel eighty times less breathable.

I tug at my collar.

A malicious grin fixes on Irina’s lips as her gaze moves up from Spawn of Satan’s purse. “You should stick with insecurity. After all”—her tone sweet as honey—“it’s your signature accessory.” Irina then ducks into the changing-room stall, yanking the curtain shut.

Good one.

Brittany glares before shoving a hanger back on the rack. “Nothing here but used trash anyway.”

“That’s enough, Brittany,” I warn as my blood pressure soars.

“Whatever, Wil. You made your choice. The moment you sided with that”—she lowers her voice to a growl—
“Russian tramp.”

My eyes burn with a thousand fires as my hands curl into fists. “The only
tramp
is your boyfriend—whether you want to acknowledge it or not. Because Irina wouldn’t give him the time of day. Not then. Not ever.” I step back, putting more space between us. “I think you should leave now.”

Brittany folds her arms, holding her head high like royalty. “And I think you should be a little more careful what you say to me, Wilamena. Because I can make your senior year a living hell.
Try me.
”

Dozens of comebacks ping around my head. And not one has the decency to pass my lips. Instead of the constipated smile, I get the smug one. “That’s what I thought.” Brittany twirls around, elbowing her way through the clothes as she leaves.

I expel a fiery breath. I should’ve asked if her bacne ever cleared up. Or if—

“She’s jealous of you,
dorogaya,
” Iri says from the dressing room.

“Well”—I consult the dangling tag at my wrist—“for the bargain price of eighteen dollars her jealousy can be bought.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Iri steps out and faces the mirror. She wiggles and tugs at the stunning red dress I don’t at all remember handing off to her.

“Wow. It looks gorgeous on you.” I move in behind her, pulling up on the straps. “I think if we alter it a bit, it’ll be perfect for your artsy-fartsy event.”

Iri looks away from her reflection. Her face pinches. “I hate that you’re being persecuted for being my friend.”

I drop my hands. “Okay,
that’s
dramatic.”

“Wil…” Irina drops her voice but, unfortunately, not the subject. “That plasticized bitch is always looking for ways to tear into you. All because her douchebag boyfriend made a play for me.”

I groan. “How many times do we have to have this conversation, Iri?
It’s not your fault.
We stopped hanging out way before that happened. Come to think of it, it was probably around the time her bitchmorphosis kicked in. Anyway, Brittany and her threats can kiss my velour-covered booty.”

The repercussions of crossing Spawn of Satan and her entourage aren’t even a blip on my radar. Because honestly, I’d rather have five good friends than fifty fake ones.

And I’d still choose Iri over any of them.

I meet her brooding gaze in the mirror. “So, are you buying this fabulous dress or what? Because this synthetic nightmare is making me sweat. Not perspire—
sweat.
”

She pulls in a breath and on her exhale replies, “I think I like Jordan.”

“I know.”

Irina swallows. “I’m scared because I might give a shit.”

“I know,” I repeat, giving her hand a squeeze. “But it’s going to be okay.”

And I pray that it will be. For both our sakes.

Avoidance is a temporary bandage on a situation in need of a tourniquet.

I’m paraphrasing, but that’s the gist of Monday’s horoscope.

Thanks.

My panic is now beyond the reach of modern medicine.

The thing is,
I know
Seth is the right guy for me. So then why am I still consumed by thoughts of Grant? Why can’t I snuff out this silly infatuation? It isn’t as clichéd as wanting what I can’t have. I don’t work that way. So there has to be another explanation.

Epiphany strikes in the wee hours of the morning on the heels of a terrifying dream. I bolt upright in a tangle of bed sheets with my hair knotted from thrashing and my forehead slick with sweat. Mane of Leo! Could my nightmare be true? What if this goes light-years beyond an unlucky Fifth House? What if I am actually…
cursed
?

Sure, it’s a long shot, probably nothing more than grasping at supernatural straws. But I have to know for certain.

Heart thumping, I free myself from the cotton restraints and immediately research signs of an occult attack. In the glow of my laptop, I’m awash in horror as I identify many of the earmarks of an otherworldly assailant.

Nightmares: Check.

Health issues: Um…possible check? I had some residual achiness after the tower fall. Come to think of it, my tower tumble reinforces two more signs….

Bad luck: Check.

Relationship difficulties: Double check.

The more I investigate, the more the possibility has me on the verge of forming hives over every inch of my body.
And
there are only thirteen days left in June; I am officially closer to the end than the beginning. Stars above, I can almost taste the sun-ripe blueberries of July.

So—under threat of blueberries and hexes—I will take drastic measures.

I
tug the cord for my stop and jump off the bus the moment the doors open.

Heat radiates off the cracked and littered sidewalk of Dugan Street, a mere six blocks west of Inkporium. While two days ago might’ve been cool and rainy, today it’s hotter than blazes and the air is liquefied. Weather whiplash is but one of the many splendors of Midwest living.

Perspiration dampens the hair at my neck, a combination of nerves and the heat index. I double-check the address—
almost there.
I ignore the seedy guy chain-smoking outside Pinky’s Topless Bar—he doesn’t return the favor. He crams his grubby fingers in his mouth, producing an ear-splitting whistle. The words that follow are fouler than whatever’s decomposing on the sewer grate. If Gram were here, she’d have half a mind to break those fingers just to teach the man some respect. And normally, I’d have choice words of my own, but I steel myself to stay focused on the important task at hand.

I stop in front of 729 Dugan. The shabby brownstone is taller than it is wide, with barred windows spanning all six stories. I scan the nameplates beside the buzzers until I find the one I’m searching for:
LAVEAU
.

I ran across the name, along with a phone number, in one of Mama’s old astrology books. A book I was shocked to discover a number of years ago, buried in a pile beside the trunk that used to sit in Gram’s bedroom. Inside the book’s cover was my mother’s large, looping writing with the word “diviner” underlined numerous times.

I took to heart that it meant Miss Laveau was the genuine article—an honest-to-goodness
real
psychic, and about now I need every branch of metaphysical help I can get.

I press the call button. Fanning my face with my clutch, I unkink the crinoline of my dress with my free hand.

“Don’t take solicitors here. Includin’ religion,” the voice crackles over the ancient intercom.

Second thoughts have bombarded me since before I even stepped off the bus, and I’m sure as the North Star Gram wouldn’t approve of my coming. But I need clarity on this situation. Bad. And if I
do
have a curse on my hands, well, then it’ll take more than knowing the language of the sky to lift it.

I lean in to the speaker. “I, um…I called earlier this morning. I have an appointment with Miss Laveau.”

“You got a name?”

“Wil Carlisle.”

Caustic laughter echoes from the speaker. “Oh yeah, she been expectin’ you.”

I’m buzzed in and follow the zigzag of narrow stairs leading to apartment 8F. My trepidation rises with each floor. Will Miss Laveau be able to tell by looking at me whether I’ve been a victim of occult activity?

When I reach the top floor, the fluorescent hall lights flicker, and the door to 8F opens. A cloud of incense ambushes me, sweeter than any sage my mother used to burn.

A slight woman stands in the doorway. Her coal eyes probe, possessing both an age and a wisdom that are at odds with her dark, unlined skin. She scratches the silk scarf wrapped around her head. “I’m Angeline, Miss Laveau’s…
liaison,
so to speak. You bring what I told you, Wil Carlisle?”