The Curiosities (Carolrhoda Ya) (7 page)

Brenna writes about
high school in a way I never experienced
it: as if high school were a million different worlds, all coexisting, and they’re not only each legitimate and meaningful, but important. Without magic or monsters she makes these characters matter. I both wish my high school had been like that and am vehemently glad it wasn’t. —Tessa

The most obvious conclusion one could draw from this story is that girls are mean. Which may or may not be true. The underlying conclusion one could draw though, is that sometimes being who you are—whoever you are—is hard. Sometimes, you can have it all together and still drive yourself crazy. —Brenna

Hadley:

Valerie Solomon is perfect.

Her makeup is flawless and over-the-top, and her hair is always completely amazing. It never looks like someone styled it with an eggbeater unless she means it to.

We’re in the west-hall bathroom during the five-minute passing period between first and second, and she’s alone, which is weird because Valerie is insanely popular, and she is never, ever alone.

She stands at the mirror, painting on lip gloss, pursing her lips for her reflection. I don’t want to look, but I have to anyway.

Valerie is the girl all the other girls have a crush on. Not like a kissing crush—I mean, I guess some of them could have that too—but the kind of crush where everything a person does is irreproachable. The kind where you just want to be them.

So when she turns around and looks at me and says, “Hey are you going to that party at Clara Finn’s this weekend?” it’s like being acknowledged by the pope or something. You don’t know if you should kneel, or bow, or avert your eyes before some vengeful god strikes you down with lightning.

“It’s not really my scene,” I say, which is a massive understatement and also implies that I have a scene.

She nods like she’s thinking hard about something. Then she holds out her hand. “Here, let me see you,” she says.

It’s in the narrow window before the late call, but after the second bell. If we don’t leave now, we’re going to miss roll, but I step closer and hold very still while she stares at me.

Valerie:

I don’t know much about her. Just that she’s on lacrosse, which is the toughest sport Saint Paul’s has for girls, and her arms are thick and kind of built. She’s always covered in bruises. Usually that would be sort of gross, but on her they look almost decorative, like some kind of exotic body paint. Like someone has been dotting on purple splotches with a paintbrush. Her joints look hard and sturdy. She could take a punch, no problem.

I’m nearly done to death. I know I’m not supposed to say that, because this is the prime of my life and I am blithe and youthful and privileged and blah, blah, blah, but no. I am overly done to death, and yeah, I really mean that.

The texture of my life is so dense, so all-consuming, that I stop being able to think about trig or symbolism or who won the war. It’s like this time in eighth grade when Logan Baines told me he was going to kiss me and didn’t do it, and then it was just like this thing hanging over me for weeks and I couldn’t relax or concentrate. I never knew when that kiss was going to come out of nowhere.

Now it’s exactly like that, except for ski trips and parties, and I get kissed every weekend, but the feeling of waiting never goes away, like I am scrambled to pieces in my own skin.

The waiting is always hanging over me, and all I want is for the other shoe to drop.

Hadley:

Valerie sticks out her chin and rakes her hair back from her face, turning away from me. “You should come anyway,” she says to her reflection. “Or at least not worry about people or scenes or whatever, because that’s just stupid.”

“Why?” I say. And I mean, why come to Clara’s party, but also, why does she care one way or the other?

“Because it’s better to just do what you want. Whatever you want. You should do what it takes to be tough,” she says, and her voice sounds tired and annoyed.

“How do you mean?” I ask, not knowing quite how to take this. “What do you mean by tough? I mean, are you tough?”

“I used to be, sort of. But that was back when I was young and dumb or however you are in eighth grade, and that’s stupid.
I mean, it’s all Black Labels and Marlboro Reds and rebelling just to fit in.”

The shape of her mouth is bored. Over it, and I nod. A Marlboro Red is a cigarette. I have no idea what a Black Label is.

“Can I give you a makeover?” she says suddenly, talking fast, like I might say no. “Just a tiny one. A two-minute makeover.”

And I nod because I want her to, even though this is not how I would have pictured it. Makeovers are the kind of thing friends do, not complete strangers standing in the bathroom after the late bell.

She opens her makeup case and gets out a pale, iridescent liner. She draws a shimmery line around my eyes, then follows it up with a smear of glitter and candy-pink shadow. She does my eyelashes and my cheeks, rubbing in cream blush until I am very, very pink.

“There,” she says, stepping back. “Now you look like me.”

I don’t, but I do look different and kind of harmless. Even though I wear makeup sometimes, it never looks this soft when I put it on myself.

Valerie takes a deep breath, zipping her makeup case. “Here, stand right here and don’t move. I want to try something.”

So I stand with my arms at my sides, watching as she walks circles around me.

“Perfect,” she says under her breath, and her voice is shaking a little. “You really do look just like me.”

Her voice is so dark and ferocious that I flinch. I start to tell her no, that I’ll never be as pretty as her. I’ll never be Valerie, who is indeed perfect, even though her eyes are strangely red. Her mouth is working like she’s trying not to bite her lip.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She shakes her head and swallows hard. I half expect her to start crying.

Instead, she hauls back and punches me in the face.

This is a pretty Maggie story. I mean, it’s a story I think I would’ve written if I’d been Tessa instead of Maggie. Something about the banter and the teen voice and the angst seems very...I might just pretend I wrote it. Sometimes that happens when I’m remembering Merry Fates stories: I remember a Brenna story as a Tessa story or a Tessa story as one of mine. Sometimes I find stories of mine that I don’t remember writing. I always thought they were Tessa’s or Brenna’s. Basically what I’m saying is this is a very Maggie story, and if you ever ask me about it in person, I might lie and tell you I wrote it. —Maggie

One Monday I sat down at seven in the morning to write my story, and five hundred words later I deleted everything. I started over, and after nine hundred words realized everything was wrong. By noon I’d scrapped three stories, and by three I was lying on my living room floor in utter despair that I’d have to post a piece of crap because nothing was working. I stared at my ceiling and decided I wanted to write about lying on the carpet in despair. Only, for a better reason than writer-fail. Somehow, I pulled this story about courage and assumptions and dragons out of my butt. And it’s my favorite ever, basically.
—Tessa

S
ean Hardy is a dragon slayer.

It was a small dragon, only about the size of a barn, but still. He killed it.
They mounted its head on a flatbed truck and drove it around the country. Annie and I paid five bucks each to slip into a dark tent smelling of mold and musty seashells—it had been a saltwater dragon—for three minutes. They flashed the lights on and off and shot trails of fog at your ankles like they needed to make it scarier. The head just sat there, maw half open and greenish teeth filed down so nobody accidentally cut themselves and sued the carnival. Annie cowered back, hands clutching at her purse strap, but I reached out and touched its nose, just over the left nostril. The scales were rubbery there, and surprisingly soft. It reminded me of my dog’s belly.

. . .

Turned out, Sean Hardy came from a long line of dragon slayers, but he hadn’t known it. They weren’t Sigurd’s line or from any of the well-known Giant Killer clans. It was only this branch of a long-forgotten family that, back in Eastern Eurland in the fifteenth century, made a name for themselves going up into the mountains and returning with a horse-load of dragon eggs and hearts. One of their youngest daughters married a skald who moved to Eirelann and went native. They immigrated to the United States about three generations back and lost all the stories from back in Eurland. But Sean Hardy’s father did have a dragon tooth with one serrated edge a bunch of archaeologists said had to be from one of the Baltic saw-mouths that died out four hundred years ago. I guess that was proof.

He was hailed as the heir to Sigurd despite his somewhat questionable pedigree. Three war colleges gave him honorary degrees despite the fact that he was only eighteen, and he got a half-ten commercial deals. Everybody knew his face. I have to admit, it was one you’d want to know, too. Eyes as gray as smoke, that ruddy look of the Eirish, but with shockingly bright yellow hair.