by Iris RIvers
“What are you two waiting for?” Dunne asked as Kai and Lara stood awkwardly on stage. “Go on—try the lift.”
They started a few feet from one another, Lara on stage right, Kai on stage left, and then, quickly, Lara moved to Kai, her toes pointed and arms elongated. She leaped into Kai’s outstretched arms, her breathing labored, yet as soon as his hands held tight around her waist, Lara fell.
“Damn it, Lara,” Dunne exclaimed, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. “What is wrong with you? I know you can do this lift; I’ve seen you do it before.”
Kai had seen her do it before too. With countless dancers; with every dancer but him. “What are you so afraid of?” he angrily whispered as Lara stepped away from him. She stared into his eyes, the distance between them seeming to close as each second passed. Lara pulled her top lip up, clenching her teeth. Her jaw trembled under the pressure.
“You,” she said. You.
Kai stood there, eyes wide, nonplussed. Why? he wanted to ask. Why me?
She couldn’t have been intimidated, deterred by his bearing. So was it the same type of fear he felt when he saw her? The miserable, agonizing fear that corrupted his mind and tore open his insides? It must have been—it couldn’t have been anything else.
He wondered if she spent her nights staring up at the ceiling, thinking of him as he thought of her. Of hurting her.
He wanted to hurt her so badly, it scared him. Did it scare her?
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Kai said, aware of the lie. They were no longer talking about the lift, were they?
I am going to hurt you, he thought, but you mustn’t know that. You won’t know, not until I’m standing behind you, whispering foul things into your ear. Not until you look into my eyes, shocked and confused and hurt—most of all hurt.
Lara took a step closer, and suddenly the room around him disappeared. Evaporated into the bleakness of space-time. They were back on the street, back against the brick wall. The familiar smoke of his joint surrounded him, filling his nose, pounding against his ribcage. He could barely breathe, barely think.
There was no Dunne. There was no stage. There was only Lara.
There was only ever Lara.
“What if I want you to?” she whispered, staring into his unblinking eyes.
Was he dreaming? Had she truly killed him? Then I will, the words were on the tip of his tongue. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.
And then, as if their conversation hadn’t happened at all, Lara was back to reality, running into his arms and tightening her core. Kai caught her perfectly, surprised at his ability. He lifted her up, up into the air, and sucked in a tight breath, the smell of the joint still tingling his nose. Kai watched Lara look to the ceiling. He watched as her chest rose and fell, oxygen filling her lungs, and stared at her as she stared at everything but him, her eyelids falling in a slow blink—falling to cover her vision—like she was afraid she would unwillingly look down at him. At Kai.
Then, suddenly, the doors to the auditorium opened and slammed. It sounded like the breaking of a glass—like the one he’d dropped when he saw his parents’ stiff bodies. The one covered in blood and death and tears, so many tears.
Lara fell again, but not because of her inability to balance.
Because of him. She fell because of him.
He had shaken at the sound, trembled at the quick memory that entered and left his mind before he could understand that he wasn’t back in that afternoon—wasn’t back in his parents’ bathroom. Lara slipped out of his hands before he could catch her and landed painfully on the floor. Kai took a step back. He didn’t reach out his hand to help her up; he didn’t apologize or comfort her. He stood there, watching her, his vision coated in blood.
“What the fuck, Kai?” Lara yelped, hissing at the bruises he had just given her. His name on her tongue was a siren—a conjuring.
And then another voice sounded, one of tenacity and might, yelling Lara’s name.
Even the ghosts trapped inside my head love to say her name, Kai thought.
But it wasn’t a figment of his tormented imagination. It was Lara’s mother, Seo-Yun, standing at the back of the room looking, looking to Kai in burning contempt.
She looked like Lara. Now he knew where she had gotten her hair from.
Lara jumped from the floor. Her knees were bleeding; her skin torn and thinned. I did that, Kai thought. I made her bleed.
Is this what I wanted? Yes—yes, I think it is.
“Mom?” she shouted. She sounded terrified.
Madame Dunne turned around at the noise, her face pulled up in confusion. She slipped her glasses from her face. “Mrs. Blake?”
“I’d like to speak to you, Cherie,” she said, nodding to Dunne.
“Cherie?” Dunne narrowed her eyes.
“Would you like me to repeat myself?”
Lara stepped off the stage, grimacing as she landed on her feet. “Mom, stop. What are you doing here?”
Seo-Yun looked her daughter up and down, sneering at the stains on her rehearsal costume.
Lara began to shake. It was a small tremor, but Kai still saw it. He despised himself for it—for noticing every change, whether large or small, in Lara’s demeanor.
“I told you I’d help you with”—she looked over to Kai, her mouth turning downward—“him.” Kai pulled his brows together. His hand ached to touch the septum ring that he’d taken out before practice. Still, he couldn’t help but smile. This meant Lara had spoken about him. Maybe she was more infuriated with him than he thought. He had gotten to her.
“I told you,” Lara said, emphasizing each word, “I don’t need any help.”
“What is the matter here?” Dunne inquired.
“Kai,” Seo-Yun said. “Kai is the matter.”
Kai, who stood silent on stage, bit his lip to keep himself from laughing.
“I’m not following.” Dunne shook her head. “What’s wrong with Kai? He’s an exceptionable dancer. He’s the best I’ve ever had the pleasure of teaching.”
Lara snapped her head to Dunne, hurt painted across her face.
“Excuse me?” said Seo-Yun. She moved closer to Dunne. “And what of Lara?”
“Eomma—”
“Lara is incredible as well, Mrs. Blake,” she said. “But I’d like to know why you’re here. We were in the middle of a very important rehearsal.”
“Clearly,” she retorted. “Your greatest dancer dropped Lara like she was a bag of trash.”
“Lara lost her balance, Mrs. Blake. Your daughter has been struggling with this lift for quite some time now.”
“I didn’t—” Lara began, but she was interrupted for the second time.
“Struggling?” Seo-Yun repeated, looking to Lara. Lara took a fearful step back. Kai watched her fists clench. The blood on her knees had already begun to dry.
“Mom, I can explain.” Lara’s voice shook. “Let me explain. Please.”
Kai was strangely aware of Lara saying that last word. He wasn’t sure if he’d heard her say it before. It sounded wrong coming from her lips.
Seo-Yun crossed her arms, the material of her blazer stretching across her elbows. She turned back to Dunne. “I want him out. Out of the recital. Make Lara the sole lead.”
“Him?” Dunne barked out a laugh. “Him as in Kai?”
“Who else?”
“As I said before, Mrs. Blake: Kai is one of my greatest dancers,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, but I will not be removing him from my recital because you asked me to. That’s not how it works around here.”
“Name your price,” Seo-Yun said suddenly. “Whatever it is, I will give it to you.”
Kai raised his brows, stunned by her audacity. Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised though. Wouldn’t Lara do the same?
“Can we talk about this?” Lara begged. “Outside?”
Seo-Yun looked as if she was about to turn her daughter down—both Lara and Kai were sure she would. But, str
angely, she gave in, giving a slight nod to Lara.
“Will you be back, Lara?” Dunne asked as Lara hurried to grab her bag from a chair at the front. She nearly dropped it from her twitching hands.
“No, she won’t,” said Seo-Yun.
Lara looked back to Kai as she and her mother headed toward the door. They made eye contact for a few painful seconds, but it wasn’t enough.
Kai wondered if it ever would be.
VIOLET WAVED A GOODBYE to Sienna as she started up the stairs, gripping a tight hold of the strap of her bag.
Sienna had given it to her, telling her it contained antique items that belonged to Lithe. The girls knew a great deal about their founders, but still, there was so much left uncovered, so much history that they had left behind. To the others, it seemed impossible to digest it all. Yet to Violet, it was only a small quest in her continuous search for knowledge.
So, expectedly, Lithe collectively decided that Violet was the best girl to dig through their past. She was intrigued and tended to spend her time doing research anyway. More importantly, Violet was reclusive and antisocial enough to spend hours inside, analyzing things the others may have considered dull.
Violet set her bag down on the concrete floor once she reached her shared apartment. She filled a glass with water, set it beside the bag, and began.
They all knew Lithe had been created in 1929 by three girls: Anabelle Hall, Elizabeth Brown, and Lillian Hart. But no one knew why. They didn’t know why the trio had impulsively decided to become the genesis for a murderous cult of girls. Was it consequential?
Violet came to the conclusion that it must have been created out of the deep urge for revenge. One of the girls must’ve been hurt by a man. He must’ve done something so vile and indescribable that they had no choice but to create this—this captively brilliant orchestra of girls with nothing but vengeance and power on their hands.
As she pulled some of the papers from her bag, she remembered when she had first joined Lithe. When, after she came out as a lesbian to her Argentinian father, he’d kicked her out of the house and told her to Come back once you’ve changed. She’d met Ana only a day later. Lithe was introduced to Violet when Ana realized the gravity of her situation. A couple weeks later, Ana had asked her to take up the spare room in her apartment. Violet—who’d had no choice at the time—had said yes. That had been months ago, but she was still there, living with Ana. She had never bothered to look for other apartments, and Ana had never asked her to leave.
She remembered her first night there—when Ana had told her as much as she then knew about Lithe. That her real name was not Ana Hall but Ana Powell, because each leader of Lithe was required to take the last name of one of the founders. Violet had asked why, and Ana had mumbled something about leaders being metaphorical descendants rather than being blood-related to the original founders. Violet couldn’t remember much of that conversation—the descendant topic at the time was a whirl of jumbled words that Violet couldn’t bother to understand—but she did remember Ana telling her about initiation. That Violet was to kill a boy. An abuser. A liar.
Violet had decidedly killed a boy she knew in high school; a boy who had passionately screamed slurs at her and, once, tried to force her to sleep with him. He didn’t make it that far, but it still hurt. It hurt so badly that, when Ana told her she would have to kill someone, she knew it had to be him. Who else? she’d thought.
She could still remember his screams as she’d shot him once in the heart and twice in his arm—where he’d grabbed her; where he’d grabbed many other women. She could still remember the vividness of his blood—how the color seemed to leak an apology from his lifeless body. Later that night, with the help of Ana, Violet took an old rag and cleaned up the mess. She wiped away his blood, as if to say: Men like you will always be sorry. Men like you will never be forgiven. After that, she didn’t think of him again. He didn’t deserve the luxury of being remembered.
Bringing herself back to reality, Violet looked to the stack she’d pulled out—the papers crumpled and blemished, like they’d been hidden away for a very long time. She gingerly lifted a black-and-white photograph from the stack, its edges yellow and worn. It was—from left to right—Elizabeth, Lillian, and Anabelle. Their legs were tangled and their hands were intertwined—joined together by their limbs. Violet wondered who had taken the photo. She flipped it over to find a year scrawled across the back: 1931. Two years after Lithe began.
“Violet!” came a voice from behind her. She nearly yelped.
“Jesus,” Violet said, “you scared the shit out of me.”
Ana laughed as she approached her. “Did you not hear me come in?”
“Does it look like I did?” Violet moved to put the photograph she’d been holding back in the bag, but Ana stopped her, grabbing her arm and pulling the small picture from between her fingers.
“What is this?” Ana asked, her thumb tracing the outline of the women’s limbs.
Violet shrugged. “Sienna gave me some old stuff to look through. That was in it.”
Ana looked up at Violet, then back down to the photograph, then back up at Violet again. “Do you think they were together? Like, together together?”
Violet scratched at her neck, looking down at the photo. She observed the way they held each other, the way they left nearly no space between their arms and legs, the way their faces were lit up in a kind of indescribable joy. “I’d never thought about it,” she said.
“But it makes sense—doesn’t it?” said Ana. “I mean, maybe that’s why they killed a man. Maybe one of them had been hurt by one or, maybe, one was threatening to reveal the nature of their relationship.”
Violet nodded. “You make a good point.”
Ana brushed a finger across Anabelle’s face—her ancestor—and sighed. Violet pulled her brows together in confusion. “What?” she asked.
Ana looked up at Violet’s inquisitive face, then dropped the photograph down onto the stack of papers. She didn’t answer her question. “We have a meeting tonight.”
“Again?” Violet said. “What day is it?”
Ana stared at her in disbelief. “You’re insane.”
“I’m serious,” said Violet, frowning.
“I’m going out,” said Ana, walking over to the front door.
“Didn’t you just get here?”
“Yes,” she replied, “but some of us would rather spend our time outside of the house than inside.”
Violet crossed her arms over her chest. “Introverts are three times more likely to—”
“Oh my God, Violet. Please, shut up.” Ana threw open the door. “I’ll see you at the bell tower. Don’t be late—it’s annoying.”
Violet scowled; Ana smiled. “Goodbye,” she said, then slammed the door shut.
Violet stood there for a few more moments, staring at the closed door. Then, reluctantly, she sat back on the floor, resolving to spend the rest of her time sorting through some of the papers. The light above her flickered as she busied herself, silently knowing she would be late to the meeting—despite Ana’s warning.
Violet was always late.
LARA WAS THE SECOND to last to the Lithe meeting. Violet was the last.
“Violet!” Ana yelled from her seat. “What did I tell you?”
Violet looked up from the floor. “I don’t remember.”
Evelyn giggled loudly, smiling over at Violet.
This was Lara’s first meeting as an official member, and it felt different. In the strangest of ways. It was as if all of their boundaries had been stripped away. Now that Lara was one of them, they could finally allow themselves to be completely and utterly honest. They had nothing to be afraid of anymore. They belonged to one another; shared each other’s sins, celebrated each other’s triumphs. The moment they stepped onto the stone of this bell tower was the moment they’d found their home—even if some of them hadn’t realized it yet.
It was an incredible thing to see, the difference be
tween the Lithe of Lara’s first meeting and Lithe now. Lara liked it.
The dynamic between the group was interesting—they all seemed to differ from each other in the most obvious ways. Lara wondered if outside—away from the confines of the tower, apart from the devilry resting inside the bell—they got along. She hoped they did. She hoped that she would get along with the group; that she would finally have friends for the very first time.
Lara had never had friends—true friends—but she felt Lithe could be that for her. It was a startling thought.
“This meeting has a specific purpose,” said Lilah, looking at Lara as she said each word.
“Murder, obviously,” Mia said. Everyone let out a short laugh. Lara tried to, but it came out choked. Sana touched her shoulder as she giggled, laughing harder at Lara’s startled expression.
Lara pulled her shoulder out from under her touch. Evelyn noticed Lara’s sour expression. “You knew this was inevitable, Lara.”
Lara swallowed against her dry throat. “Of course I did.” She felt that Evelyn could somehow see through her false confidence, through the façade she’d maintained her entire life. She shifted uncomfortably under her stare.
“Right,” Lilah said, clearly not believing Lara’s words. “Let’s get started with initiation then.”
There was a short silence.
“There’s something we didn’t tell you,” said Ana, her face entirely serious.
“What?”
“Well, we sorta do something... unethical,” Sage spoke before Ana had the chance. Lara realized they did that a lot—spoke over one another. Not in an overpowering way, but as if their minds were not separated but allied.