Teen Frankenstein (23 page)

One look at me and Cassidy sighed. None of us exactly screamed “fashion critic.”

“Let's try them all on,” she said, and added another suit in a different shade of gray to the pile. I started to sit down in one of the chairs reserved for people-who-hated-to-shop-so-much-they-could-no-longer-physically-stand, but just as my rear end grazed the cheap, red velour fabric, Cassidy snatched me by the elbow. “Not so fast. We need you in there.”

Owen was performing a slow pirouette in the mirror. “I think I'm going to get this,” he said, tugging on the lapels. “I look very dapper, if I do say so myself.”

“You're missing the pants.” I pointed at his jeans, cuffed over a pair of untied sneakers.

“Ew, Tor. These are rentals. Someone else's balls have been in those.”

Cassidy glared. Owen blushed and he tugged on the neck of his shirt.

Cassidy pulled Adam and me toward the back of the store to a row of dressing rooms. I cast Owen a
help me
look. He responded by waving, then returning to browse.

The dressing rooms of HP Gold Formalwear hadn't been updated since back before that powder-blue blazer was in style. Four narrow stalls with full-length mirrors lined the back wall. The carpets were a sea of shaggy red. The store seemed really into the red motif. I guessed it was supposed to be fancy or romantic or something. It all looked as if it could use a good cleaning.

I thought about Owen's “balls” comment. Something told me patrons would be even less pleased to learn that a dead guy had worn these clothes, not to mention while he was actually dead.

People were weird about getting too close to death. It was like it was contagious. There was a house down the road that took five whole years to sell because the former owner had killed himself in the kitchen. Even then, the buyers mowed it down and used the land for farming. Pretty soon, the field where we found the body would have its own urban legends, I imagined.

Cassidy stuffed a heap of suits onto a set of hooks inside one of the fitting rooms on the right and ushered Adam in. “You have to come out and model,” she said, closing the door behind her. We both plopped down on a bench—more red velour—outside of the fitting room.

Underneath the door, we could see Adam's jeans drop to his ankles. I wondered if Cassidy would be horrified to learn how many times I'd seen Adam in his underwear.

Cassidy bumped shoulders with me and looked at me out of the corner of her eye with a small smile playing on her lips. “Paisley says I should worry about you.” At this, she rolled her eyes. “But you know her. She can be such an alpha bitch sometimes. It's been such a freaking relief having you around. Seriously, Victoria.”

Seriously what?

Fabric rustled from behind the closed door, and I watched as a pair of socked feet stepped in and out of slacks. Cassidy kept her voice low. “If I didn't know you two were practically siblings, maybe I'd feel threatened, I guess. I mean, I'd have to if y'all's connection was more full frontal than familial.”

A strangled sound came from the dressing room. “Are you okay in there?” I called.

There was a grunt and then a pause before the door flew open and banged into the wall behind it. Adam stood in the frame. His eyes were dark pools, hooded in shadow. I recognized the clench in his jaw as the same look as after a recharge. Something was wrong.

The gray suit was too tight around the chest and not long enough in the leg. The hem hovered an inch above his tennis shoes. Cassidy crossed the space between them and led Adam to a larger mirror with three reflective sides so he could see the panoramic view. She hovered behind him and tugged one of the sleeves down over the cuff of his white dress shirt. “A little snug, but what do you think of the color?”

Adam mumbled something unintelligible. I didn't think Cassidy was even listening, because without another word, she pushed him back into the dressing room. “Next! Don't forget, the black suit goes with the black shirt.” Turning to me—“Did that color say Wall Street or James Bond to you? I don't want to go too middle-aged corporate, if you know what I mean.”

“It's strange. Menswear has always been very quiet around me.”

“Ha. Ha.” She sat down again and crossed her legs. “You know, no girl is too good for a dress. Not even you, Victoria Frankenstein. I could help you look for one.”

It wasn't that I was too good for a dress, it was that I had better things to do than care about dresses, but it wasn't worth explaining the difference.

Owen strolled up with his chin lifted and a plaid ascot tied around his neck. “Ladies.” He adjusted the puffy neck scarf.

His expression drooped when Cassidy totally ignored him. When it came to my scrawny, towheaded best friend, she seemed to have a wide blind spot. “Seems like he's taking a long time, doesn't it?” She went to the door and knocked. “How's it coming, Adam?”

Moments later the latch clicked and the door slowly drifted open. Adam was breathing heavy. His fists constricted into tight balls at his sides. His lower teeth jutted out in front of his upper ones. The all-black getup only served to make him look more dangerous.

Cassidy buttoned his collar. “If you don't like this one, maybe you'll like the pinstripe better.” The black suit was long enough for each of his limbs and the pant legs reached all the way to the floor as they were supposed to.

“No.” Adam's eyes cut away from her.

She cocked her head. “Navy then? You really do look handsome in the black, though. With a silver tie, I think.” She frowned.

He trained his gaze on his tennis shoes, which looked out of place when paired with the dress pants. “I look like a monster.”

My eyes snapped up. A monster. The word roared in my ears like the sound of an 18-wheeler on a highway. I peered around him into the fitting room and the long mirror inside, and it all clicked into place. Adam didn't have a mirror in the cellar. Adam had been given strict instructions not to change or shower with the other boys on the team. Adam was different. But he'd never seen the full extent of just how much so.

I felt as if I were trying to swallow a wad of steel wool. Cassidy's laugh was shaky and high-pitched. “You're a tough one to figure out, Smith.” Then she balanced on her tippy-toes and kissed his cheek. Adam couldn't feel it, I knew, and seemed only vaguely aware that Cassidy's mouth was grazing his own cold, dead skin.

A monster.

I wouldn't have thought of it like that, and I was a little angry at him for using that particular noun.
A monster
. His features grew darker and more sunken in, as if Adam was actually retreating into himself. Before now, he'd looked down and seen the scars left on his body. Why didn't I realize the full extent of the damage, once finally appreciated, would bother him?

“One more.” Cassidy held up a finger. “Pretty please? For me?” What was it about attractive girls that made pouting an acceptable means to an end after the age of four and a half? “White shirt with this one,” she said.

“I thought the black shirt looked nice,” I added hastily. “Maybe keep it on.”

“With pinstripes?” Cassidy gave a small shake of her head. Adam clomped back into the dressing room, where a pinstripe suit awaited. I drummed my finger on my knee. I would have ripped the mirror off the wall if I could have, but it would have been hard to come up with an excuse for Cassidy. Only vampires and ghosts were afraid of mirrors. Maybe I could claim he was one of those.

Cassidy, Owen, and I fell quiet. I imagined that we all felt like intruders listening to the struggles of man versus fabric taking place within the tiny confines of that fitting room. I heard the rip of a seam and a frustrated growl. Owen's eyes went wide. A heavy crash. Then the din of cracking glass like a fault line traveling through an iced-over pond.

When Adam bellowed, it sounded like a trapped animal. Fibers split and scraps of black fell to the floor. The door flew open and banged against the wall. That was the moment the shards of mirror lost their hold and clattered to the ground around Adam's bare feet.

“Adam,” Cassidy gasped.

A river of blood flowed from his knuckles. Red spotted the white tails of his untucked shirt, which had been ripped at the shoulders and collar. Adam's eyes were hard, as if they'd died two weeks ago along with the rest of him. But this time for good.

Unseeing, he shoved past the three of us, just in time for the store manager to see him break into a run out of the store. “Sir!” the manager called. “Sir, you haven't paid for those.”

Cassidy hadn't seen this side of him. Neither had Owen, not really. Only I had. “Get his things,” I ordered Owen. “I'm going after him.”

The bell attached to the door jangled on my way out. I knew they'd expect us to pay for the damage. I also knew I didn't have the money and my list of repairs—phone, car, Adam—was already long enough as it was.

I found the nearest exit to my left and sprinted toward it. Orange light seeped out of the horizon, turning the sky's clouds into an inverted map of the world. Below, the dimming parking lot was empty. I ran both ways, searching. “Adam!” I called. “Adam! Wait!” I wheezed the last few words before I had to hunch over and put my hands over my knees.

“What the hell was that?” Cassidy demanded. She marched to the edge of the curb and looked at the same thing I was looking at, which was a bunch of cars and nothing.

Owen had Adam's shoes in one hand and his jeans and shirt in the other. “Yeah, what was that,
Tor
?” he asked flatly.

The only option was the truth. Or at least some version of the truth. I scanned the parking lot one last time for Adam. Cars whizzed by on the adjacent road.

“Adam doesn't like his scars,” I said. “He … he was in an accident. He never likes to look at them. You have to promise me, you won't ever try to look,” I told Cassidy.

Her lower lip trembled. “I'm sorry. I didn't know. He didn't tell me. What kind of accident?”

My eyes flitted over to Owen. “A car accident.” The more truth I told, the fewer lies I had to keep up with. “He doesn't like to talk about that either, though. You can't ask him.”

“I won't,” she answered quickly, then traced a cross over her heart with her fingernail. “Cross my heart. Can we go find him?”

No
, I wanted to scream.
We
can't go find him. Not while my creation was in a self-examinatory tailspin of epic proportions, but instead I just said, “I think it'd be better if it was just us.”

A thin line of water sprung from her lower eyelid and balanced there. She nodded. “I'll go deal with the manager in there, I guess.” She placed her hands on my shoulders and said, “Just take care of our boy, okay?”

After that, I couldn't get away fast enough. It sure wasn't Cassidy slicing open his chest and stitching it back together, so I couldn't grasp what her claim to him might be. She made out with him? From what I gathered, she'd done that with plenty of boys and never claimed any sort of ownership over them.

Owen drove, so we found his car in a sea of SUV crossovers. He dumped Adam's belongings in my lap.

“That's it. We're screwed.” He thumped the steering wheel and then rested his forehead on it. “I knew this would happen. Elvis has left the building, people.” Owen was still wearing the powder-blue blazer and ascot.

I slid the seat belt across and clicked it into place. “We're not screwed,” I said. “Just drive, okay?”

Shaking his head, Owen obeyed, removing his forehead from the steering wheel, which had left a red indent on his skin. He reversed his Jeep out of the spot and guided it out of the lot and onto the road. “Which way?” He sounded resigned.

I scanned the roads. “That way.” I pointed down a long stretch of road lined with half-full rain ditches on either side. “Toward my house.”

Owen pressed the accelerator, and the car lurched onto the road. “We're three miles from your house.”

“Just do it.” We followed a minivan with one taillight out. The driver of the minivan must have been ninety years old because she—or maybe he—was driving slower than a sloth with cement bricks for feet. “Go around them.”

“I can't go around them. It's a double yellow line.”

I slammed back against the headrest, then thought better of it and reached over to honk the horn. “Get out of the way!”

Owen swatted my hand. I leaned closer to the windshield and tried to make out what was farther down the road. I thought I saw something bobbing along the side.

“I told you we would get caught.” Owen shook his head. “Didn't I tell you?” Owen looked deranged in his evening clothes. “My face is way too innocent for prison, Tor. Look at it. It's the face of a child. Someone will shank me with a knife made from toilet paper rolls and bedsheets before I can even learn how to make moonshine out of rotten fruit.”

I grabbed Owen's arm too hard and he swerved. “That's him.” I scooted to the edge of my seat. “That's him!”

Owen nudged the brakes so that we could drive at the same speed as Adam was running. I rolled down the window. “What are you doing?” I asked. Blood covered his hand and the torn shirt. What he looked like he was doing was running from the scene of an ax murder. He grunted but kept running. His bare feet slapped the pavement. “Adam, will you please get in?”

“I'm hideous.” Sweat soaked the tattered white dress shirt. “Why did you not tell me I'm hideous, Victoria?”

“You're not hideous. You're special.” His breaths came in powerful huffs. “This is crazy, Adam. You knew what—I mean, you knew
who
you were. Why are you running?” I asked.

He didn't answer, but he didn't stop, either. Nothing we said or did persuaded him to get into the car. And so it was blood-splattered and sticky that he finally finished the three-mile run to my house. He didn't speak. Instead, he retreated into the depths of his lair and was gone.