Wicked Sense Page 7

  “Right,” she says, seeing through my lie. “Remember what I told you: have fun.” She gives me an odd look. We hear a crashing sound coming from the kitchen and she leaves me to attend to it. She yells, “Can’t you guys wait until the party starts to trash my house?”

  Priscilla is acting weird, and for a moment I wonder if she’s hitting on me. Having had no previous experience, I’m unsure. Maybe she has a collection thing going on, and I’m one of the few, if not the only, Greenwood guy missing from her list.

  I thought Skye and Priscilla were friends. On the other hand, nobody earns The Predator title for no reason.

  No, I’m probably just imagining things.

  ***

  Soon the party begins for real. A swarm of guys and girls pumped up by energy drinks arrive, and not only Greenwood students. Even a few college guys show up, including Priscilla’s latest fling, which puts to rest any suspicions of mine that she might be interested in me.

  Some of the newcomers sneak beer into the house. I don’t care; I don’t drink. After you set fire to your house because of a cigarette, you get a Pavlovian response to alcohol, tobacco, drugs, gambling…

  Boulder, unburdened by such concerns, already did Boulder things. He drank, barfed in the pool, forgot about it, and then cannonballed into the water. In a testament to his intimidating nature, nobody said a peep. He just sauntered into the house’s master bathroom, took a shower, brushed his teeth, and got back to chatting the girls up. It’s telling that he carries a change of clothes in the trunk of his Mustang.

  Boulder makes swaggering an art form. He saunters as if he owns the place and has a gamble credit and/or a secret file with indiscretions from everybody in the room. He nods to strangers, and they feel compelled to nod back. The day he got his temporary license, he strolled into an Audi dealership—wearing flip-flops—and test-drove the hell out of an A5.

  Things that would embarrass, shame, or ridicule the most composed monk simply don’t affect him. It’s neither charm, because he has none, nor the linebacker’s body, because he only uses it to intimidate other freaks of his approximate size. He just exudes this unshakeable confidence… I guess he’s so certain of his entitlement that others must feel stupid doubting it.

  I envy him like hell.

  Since nobody is talking to me, I look for Sean. But he’s already sucking face with some girl I don’t know.

  Like Boulder, Sean always gets girls. He was a kind of groupie wrangler for Boulder, the football star. Which meant Sean got second choice too. His reputation only increased.

  I need to stop comparing myself to them. It’s reeeally bad for me. However, I don’t feel like a loser. I’m very practical. I can’t have self-esteem issues if I don’t have self-esteem in the first place.

  In the opposite mood of everybody else at the party, and bummed that I’m not Boulder, I go outside, ambling toward the dark street. The house is huge—an estate, really—and no neighbors are close enough to complain about the noise. I weave between the badly parked cars on the road, on my way to the Volvo. I parked it away from the house, already thinking about an early escape. The chilly air makes my breath visible under the distant light of street lamps. I’m almost back to my car when I see an unmistakable red bike.

  Sitting on it, Jane sips a beer, and smokes a cigarette as only someone who’s had years of practice would. The cold night air doesn’t bother her: she wears a camouflage tank top. She nods to me and says, “Got lost, Drake?”

  “H-Hey, Jane,” I stammer. She has never talked to me before. “My car,” I point to the Volvo a little down the road, behind her, but she doesn’t turn her head.

  I’m not going to lie: she terrifies me. First, I truly believe she’d beat me up in a fight, even though I’ll never admit it to another human being. Secondly, I wouldn’t put it past her having a butterfly knife or something, and being skilled with it. And thirdly, I think of her as a woman. I mean, to me, she’s not a girl, but a woman. For some reason, that intimidates me.

  “Skye left you, huh?” she says and takes another sip. When she sees my quizzical expression, she adds, “Word travels.”

  “She left the school,” I say.

  “Come on, talk to me,” she taps the space next to her on the seat of the bike. I obey, mostly because I believe I have no alternative.

  “Beer?” she asks. She has a cooler bag hanging from the side of the bike. I just shake my head. Jane shrugs and takes another sip from hers. “Are you okay?”

  “Why do you hate each other?” The question bursts out of me. Great, another holiday for my brain.

  “Skye? Didn’t she tell you?” Jane raises her eyebrows. “I hooked up with her ex. British dude. Goes to U-Dub.” She sees my surprised face and asks, “She never told you?”

  I shake my head. She reaches into the cooler and produces a bottle.

  “I don’t think this is the time for drinking,” I say.

  “Drake, this is the perfect time for drinking.” She pops the cap with her keychain bottle opener. She puts the beer in my hand. “Come on, have one. It’s good stuff. Imported.”

  I stare at the label. It’s in German, I guess. I’m angry at Skye—she wasn’t truthful. I’m angry at Boulder—I’m not him. I’m angry at myself. I take a sip.

  I’ve tasted beer before, but I don’t remember it being this bitter. “It’s strong,” I say, not caring that I sound like a wimp.

  “I told you. It’s good stuff.” She raises her bottle toward mine, and we clink them in an unspoken toast. She downs hers and fishes another one out of the cooler.

  The terror is gone, and now I’m kind of feeling cool, being friendly with the most badass girl in school. Actually, she’s not as scary as I thought.

  “Are you still together?” I ask. “I mean, you and the guy?”

  “Connor? Sometimes.”

  I feel small. Boulder and Jane, these larger-than-life people, live in another world, a fuller world, more exciting, more grown-up, more… everything. I felt I’d have a chance to experience it when Skye spent the day with me, but here I am, back to my ordinary existence. I take another sip of my beer, which doesn’t taste as bitter now. Jane watches me.

  “You look so young,” she says.

  “What are you talking about? We’re in the same grade,” I say.

  “Yeah, but I’m twenty.”

  “Really?” I take another sip. “Why are you still in high school?”

  She looks at her crimson fingernails. “I got left behind,” she says. Her voice has just the slightest quiver.

  I cock my head involuntarily. “You look good for your age.”

  Jane turns to me, a hint of a smile on her full lips. “Oh, you’re so cute I could eat you up,” she says in a baby voice, while she pinches my cheek. She stares at me for a second, and then her natural voice comes back. “Actually, maybe I will.”

  I’ve never seen her so close. She’s got these unique features. I mean, I knew she was hot: her tight leather pants leave nothing to the imagination. But now, sitting next to her, I notice Jane as I never did before. Her short black hair actually brings attention to her angular face. Her sunken cheeks are balanced by light gray eyes, thin eyebrows, long eyelashes. And her strong nose, full of personality, matches her serious mouth.

  She holds my gaze, and I feel embarrassed for staring. I look away and take a long swig of my beer. From the corner of my eyes I see her finishing her cigarette, flicking it to the ground, and staring into the night.

  Under the moonlight, a silver tattoo on her shoulder blade seems to glow. A heart pierced by a dagger.

  I’m a little buzzed now, but I don’t panic. The chill, the darkness around us, the presence of this strange woman by my side: they all reinforce the impression I’m in this different place. I feel simultaneously empowered and intimidated. I want to explore this new world; I want to know its secrets.

  As if reading my mind, Jane turns to me. She throws her bottle to the side of the road. In the otherwise sil
ent night, the sharp noise of shattered glass sounds foreboding.

  She reaches for mine and does the same with my bottle. Her hands go behind my neck. She gently pulls my head toward hers, until our lips touch.

  I surrender. I don’t know where she’s taking me, but I don’t care.

  Jane’s kiss is very Jane-y. Her tongue aggressively searches for mine, her breath smelling of beer, nicotine, and cherry—I’ve never imagined it as a tantalizing combination.

  After a while, things become more intense. She bites my lips, my neck; her hands search inside my shirt. Her body scent is minty, earthy. She’s a force of nature.

  We move away from her bike, going at each other, wrestling, pulling and pushing, angry. It feels wrong and right at the same time. I’m buzzed, suspended from reality. Somehow I open my Volvo and we stumble inside, a mass of two bodies, thirsty, wanting, longing.

  That’s the last thing I remember.

  Chapter 18: Skye

  London at night is mysterious and cozy at the same time. Even inside the house, I can imagine the city flowing around me: workers coming home, dinners getting ready, friends calling friends, happy people filling the pubs after a long day. The city is a creature: it breathes, it lives, it has its triumphs and regrets. It’s around me, pulsing, making me part of its existence.

  It just feels right.

  I’m not at the epicenter of ancient magic, but I’m close enough. I feel more attuned with magical energy here. In a sense, it makes me feel like I truly belong with my Sisters.

  I leave my room and stop in the hallway. Uneasiness takes over me, as if my own old house is a stranger. Our house is elegant, pristine, and lifeless. Everything is so put together it resembles a movie set. Doors and walls are white, but the doors have details in gold: tiny suns and moons in bas-relief. I look down to the floor below to the foyer, a solemn chamber, with its chandelier adorned with several crystals and the light carpeting next to the door. By the lateral walls, tables with intricate carvings are crowned by porcelain vases inhabited by fresh flowers, picked just this morning from the back garden. Tasteful pictures by insufferable artists (friends of Mum’s) hang all over the ground floor walls. My gaze follows the staircase—white and gold, of course—before resting on the door of Mum’s room.

  Since I lived with Mum, I had my True Sight tingling permanently on. I could sense her comings and goings, and yes, that includes her sneaking lovers into the house or adjacent hotel rooms late at night.

  I shake my head and knock on Mum’s door. She tells me to come in.

  She’s in bed. The reading glasses she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing in public sit on the bridge of her nose. Cards litter her bed. Mum gestures to them, explaining, “Well-wishers. Friends and fans.” With a hint of pride in her voice, she adds, “Not to mention the postings on my web site, the tweets, and Spacebook messages.”

  I giggle, but I don’t correct her. “Since when do you tweet?”

  “Of course I don’t. It’s all Mimi, bless her soul.” Mimi is Mum’s publicist. In the last few days I learned that Mum’s illness triggered a frenetic time for her publicist and agent, and even for her personal trainer and stylist. I have no idea how she pays this whole staff, but once Mum told me it was “the cost of doing business.” They all came to visit her, but the conversations usually moved quickly from “How are you?” to “What’s the message?” Apparently, releasing news about her is a balancing act: she must appear sick enough to get sympathies, but not so sick that producers would be concerned and insurance would skyrocket.

  “It’s a science,” Mimi told me. With a straight face.

  Mum swipes all the cards to one side of the bed and taps the opened area of the mattress, inviting me to sit next to her. I do, and she hugs me affectionately. “So, how is Seattle?” she asks, after she lets go of me.

  I think about it. “It’s not London,” I say.

  She chuckles, but quickly becomes serious. “Don’t let the mean kids get to you.” She puts her index finger on my nose, a gesture from my childhood.

  I take a deep breath and explain in detail what happened in the locker room, making it very clear it wasn’t only a practical joke.

  Her eyes widen, and she says, “Oh, darling! I had no idea.” She hugs me again, saying, “I’m sorry. I was so callous on the phone.”

  She gets it. That’s all I wanted to hear. All my hard feelings are gone for good now.

  “Do you still want to go back there?” she asks.

  I break our embrace and say, “Well, the Mothers made it clear I must. And it’s not all bad. I’ve made friends, actually.”

  It gets her attention. I never had many friends. “Boy friends?”

  It’s my turn to chuckle. “One boy and one girl. She’s a bit kooky but very cool. She’s been texting me asking how you are, and she doesn’t even know you’re… you.” I say that because I guess it’ll make Priscilla a great friend in Mum’s eyes. When Mum nods her approval, I know I’m right. Besides, Priscilla and Mum both love to date. They could compare notes.

  “And the lad?”

  I shrug and look away. “He’s sweet. He came to visit me when I had the locker room… incident.”

  She cocks her head, examining me. “You two are together.” It’s not a question.

  “No,” I say, but she sees right through my protest. I feel the pressure and confess, “Well, we snogged.” Uh-oh, only two days back here and I’m British-ing up again.

  She nods, absorbing the information. “What about Connor?”

  “Golden boy Connor didn’t care I was humiliated,” I say. Goddess, I hate how whiny it makes me sound.

  “Maybe he made the same mistake I did, Skye,” she says, brushing the hair off my face.

  Mum, like the other Sisters, thinks Connor can do no wrong. They all would love him as a son-in-law. Of course, they can’t understand how I had him and let him slip away, as Judi put it.

  They don’t know the whole story.

  The silence makes Mum uncomfortable, and she says, “What are you going to do with the boy you snogged?”

  “Drake?” I tell her about the tree falling on him, and taking him to the hospital, but I don’t mention the ritual I performed to save him. I’m not supposed to have done it; I’m not experienced enough, and it could have backfired. But I tell her parts of our day together.

  “It seems you shared more than a kiss,” she says.

  I throw my arms in the air. “But when I left, I ended things with him. Not that there was actually a thing to end.”

  “But if you’re coming back…” Her voice trails off.

  “I haven’t thought about it much. I need to know where Connor and I stand before I do anything.”

  Mum looks at me in a strange way.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Sometimes you have more sense than I do,” she says, shaking her head.

  Chapter 19: Drake

  After hooking up with Jane, I have to reevaluate some things. First one: that is what being hit by a truck feels like.

  I wake up the next day in my freezing Volvo, alone. The road is deserted but for my car and a minefield of empty cans littering the stretch until Priscilla’s house. Oh, yeah, the party.

  I groan, and the sound is amplified inside my skull. As a result, I groan again, and it hurts my head even more, until I have the good sense of staying quiet to starve the cycle of torture. I’ve never had a hangover, but I recognize the signs.

  A few sips of beer can do that? I had half a bottle before, and my tongue didn’t taste like papier-mâché the next day, nor were all muscles of my body stiff. The world didn’t spin around me, either.

  My cell is on the floor, showing 11:30 a.m. If I’m not mistaken, I blacked out for twelve hours. Jane was wrong. That beer is not “the good stuff.”

  Jane! Where is she? My fingers instinctively touch my mouth. I recall the kissing. My lips are even a bit swollen. Some grinding, too. Was there more? I lower my eyes. My pants are on. I sear
ch for my wallet and find my condoms just like they’ve been for the last couple of years: untouched. In a way, I’m glad: I’d like to be, you know, conscious for my first time.

  I sit on the passenger side. The door is ajar and my feet are outside. I, very slowly, put my head between my hands, pressing slightly and trying to make the migraine go away.

  But Jane! Why did she make out with me? We had never talked before. Maybe she was bored. What did she say? That she and Skye’s boyfriend were together. She might be trying to retrace Skye’s footsteps, romantic-wise. Or is Jane trying to get back at Skye?

  No, that doesn’t make sense. She doesn’t know about Skye and me. And Skye’s gone.

  What about Jane? Even with her tough-girl attitude, she was so… feminine last night. So vulnerable, so likable. I have no idea what’s going on.

  I call Boulder. No answer. I call Sean. After a few rings, he picks up.

  “Drake!” he says, but not in a friendly or concerned way. “You bolted, man! You were supposed to take us home. Not cool!” The call ends.

  Well, I guess they got home okay—somehow. Wait: why am I worried about them? They left me here, passed out. Okay, maybe they didn’t know. Other people must have seen me in my car, but nobody cared, apparently. It doesn’t surprise me.

  Which brings me back to Jane once again. Did she leave me? What happened?

  I raise my head and see Priscilla’s house. I walk there. I don’t even care the road is spinning.

  I ring the doorbell. After a few minutes, Priscilla answers the door. She sports puffy eyes and a murderous look.

  “Drake?” She somehow becomes more pissed off after she recognizes me. “Did you forget something?”

  “Twelve hours,” I say, leaning against the door frame.

  She cocks her head, studying my sorry face. Then she yells, “ARE YOU HUNG OVER?”

  I slide down the floor in a heap, my hands pressing my ears, my head exploding. “Why did you do that?” I whisper.

  Priscilla says, “Come in. We’ve got to talk.” She goes inside, leaving the door open.