THE SUBJECT OF MALICE

by Cynthia Kuhn

  “These are the best waffles I’ve ever had,” Calista said. “The rumors were true.”

  “There were rumors?” I said through a mouthful of deliciousness.

  “Yes. And you know what other rumors are afoot?” Nate asked, his eyes twinkling. “That you’re up for an award.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Calista asked as she cut another piece of waffle. “I mean, I heard about it and texted Aunt Vi. You didn’t tell her either.”

  “I didn’t tell anyone.” I swallowed and took a sip of water. “I don’t even really know what it is.”

  “It’s the New Voices Prize,” Calista said. “And you’re going to win.”

  “No, I’m not. No way. But they announced it at the welcome banquet, out of the blue. I didn’t even know it was a thing before that.”

  “And you’ll be on the special panel today, right?”

  “Yes, and I’m already wishing I could skip it.”

  Calista put down her fork. “Why?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. It’s not about the award, which I only learned about yesterday, so that part seems altogether unreal. It’s about...” I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm my nerves and zoom in on the cause for them simultaneously. “Probably because the panelists are Simone, Selene, Beckett, and me. One of these things is not like the other, you know?”

  “You’re every bit as good as they are,” Calista said indignantly. “Better, in my opinion.”

  “You’re sweet. And biased. But they’re already a unit, with similar backgrounds. And don’t get me wrong, Calista. We had fun growing up, never landing in one place for too long. It was an adventure.” I smiled at my cousin, who had lived with us after her parents passed away. We’d moved around the country as my mother careened from one art gig to another.

  “We did. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” She turned to Nate. “Of course, we didn’t have any money. Not a dime. Aunt Vi does now, though. She’s rich.”

  I hadn’t thought about it that way before, but Calista was right. “She doesn’t flaunt it.”

  “That makes all the difference,” she agreed. “And she gives a lot away, even though she works very hard to earn it.”

  “Look, I’m not saying that people shouldn’t have money,” I protested. “It’s not that at all. It’s about...”

  “Go on,” Nate urged.

  “Behavior. Sometimes the way the Raleighs act gets to me.”

  “Um. It gets to everyone,” Nate said. “Most of us didn’t grow up in actual mansions with buckets of gold lying around everywhere.”

  “Buckets of gold?” Calista laughed.

  “You know what I mean. Über-ostentatiousness Land.” He waved his knife and returned to cutting his next bite.

  “Mmm hmm.” I hesitated. “But I was thinking more of how they are so very sure of themselves at all times. Super confident.”

  “You might even say entitled,” Calista said, adding another splash of syrup to her plate.

  “Yes, that’s the right word,” Nate agreed. “So how does that translate into you wanting to skip your panel?”

  “Somehow their excessive confidence—”

  “Massive sense of entitlement,” my cousin interjected.

  “—flusters me at times. That’s all. And this is public. I don’t want to look like an idiot up there,” I said, slicing into a blueberry.

  They both reassured me that I wouldn’t look like an idiot.

  “Even if you do, we will love you,” Nate pronounced, then caught himself. “Wait. I’m not saying that you will look like an idiot. I’m saying that no matter what happens, we will still love you.” He winced. “No, that’s not right either. Obviously, I need more coffee.” He threw his hands into the air. “Please ignore what I just said and listen to this instead: everything you do is right and everything they do is wrong.”

  I laughed. “That’s definitely not true. Though something strange did happen this morning.” I waved it away. “Never mind. I’ll just do my best. It’s all I can do. That’s my lifelong mantra, anyway.”

  “Exactly right. Now what are you not telling us?” Calista paused, fork halfway to her mouth.

  “I don’t know if I should—”

  Nate tapped the knife against his water glass. “Lila, it’s us. Your most trusted confidants. You not only should but you must.”

  “You have to keep it to yourselves,” I warned them.

  They promised and leaned forward expectantly as I described Selene’s departure from Flynn’s room. Calista’s mouth fell open and Nate’s eyes widened.

  “Oh man, poor Beckett.” He shook his head. “I know you just made us swear on our firstborns—”

  “I did not!”

  “—but I feel like I should tell him, Lila.”

  I’d momentarily forgotten that Nate and Selene’s fiancé were longtime friends. Oops.

  “Nate, please don’t say anything.”

  “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Are you sure they were together?” Calista stared at me. “I mean: together together?”

  “Well, when I walked into the room, he thought I was her and asked if I was back for more. The implication was clear. But Flynn said to me later that it wasn’t what I thought. Or that he wasn’t what I thought. It was a little confusing. In fact, the whole conversation was strange.”

  “How so—”

  “We’re going to have to put a pin in that, Nate,” Calista said, tapping her watch, “because it’s almost time for the panel. Go get ’em, Lil.”

  “It is? I need to do something first,” I said. “Meet you there.”

  Chapter 11

  The panel was set up like every other one at the conference: two long tables on a riser at the front of the room. A cardboard nameplate identified each scholar’s place, and there were glasses and a pitcher of water waiting for us to share. Rows of folding chairs filled the rest of the room. Although I’d arrived a few minutes early, not a single empty seat remained, and there were individuals standing along the back wall.

  My stomach flipped and I turned to go back out into the hallway, only to come face to face with the Raleighs. Simone paused to speak with me, but Selene swept by. Beckett gave me a rueful smile—a silent acknowledgment of his fiancée’s icy blast—and followed in her wake as if towed by a rope.

  “Are we ready, Lila?” Simone’s crossed arms hugged a black three-ring binder to her chest. A matching binder had been delivered to my hotel room while I was at the after-party, with instructions to bring my current manuscript to the panel today.

  They were really making up this thing as they went along.

  Not great for the nerves, honestly.

  I’d been too tired last night to do anything about it, so I’d had to pop into the “business office” of the hotel—which had two ancient desktop computers, two newer printers, a pair of scissors, a stapler and a three-hole punch—after breakfast. I’d punched holes into my pages as fast as I could and shoved them into the binder. I’d managed to swing it, but these requirements were definitely ratcheting up the pressure.

  Simone’s eyes roved over the audience. “I love reading in public. There’s just something about the crowd hanging on your every word.”

  Hanging on your every word? That had not been my experience. Mostly, I tried to will them to remain in their seats at least until I’d finished.

  “You did a fine job the other day,” she said. “At your panel.”

  I waited for the forthcoming burn, the drop of acid that sizzled as it landed.

  She smiled at me.

  “Thank you,” I murmured, but I was confused. I knew how to handle the agenda-propelled insult-wrapped-inside-a-compliment Simone. This new version was throwing me for a loop.

  Then again, maybe that was her plan all along
.

  She gave a shimmy of excitement. “Ooh. They’re waving at us. It’s almost showtime.”

  Simone strutted up to the table, nimbly ascended the riser, and took a seat next to Beckett, who was farthest away from us. As I followed, I tripped over a cord on the floor and headed for a face plant. With a crouching quick step, I somehow managed to stop myself halfway and wrench my body upwards.

  Which was all well and good, except that I appeared to be bowing to my panel mates.

  In front of everyone.

  Perfect.

  I climbed the steps and fell into my seat next to Selene, who was repositioning the microphone between us, and tried to regain some dignity by acting like nothing had happened. When I leaned forward to retrieve the binder from my bag, I hit my forehead on the mic, which squealed loudly. The audience members covered their ears as I apologized.

  Selene snickered at the success of her little prank. I didn’t bother to look at her as I put my fingers to the spot on my head that was surely turning red at that very moment. It was tender but not bleeding, so I had no excuse to run from the room. Sadly. At least it had distracted me from the butterflies that had previously been using my stomach as a punching bag. So there was that.

  I couldn’t figure out what Selene was up to, though. Wouldn’t you think that if you’d been caught cheating on your fiancé, you’d not try to infuriate the one person who could tell the world? She seemed to be doing the opposite, orchestrating a microphone injury. That was not a normal thing to do. Was she daring me to say something? Did she want the world to know? Or maybe she wanted to break up with Beckett but didn’t have the guts, so was tricking me into doing her dirty work for her?

  I shook my head to clear that line of reasoning and sucked in my breath at the sharp pain emanating from what was surely, by now, a highly noticeable mark that was gaining visibility by the second. No worries. I’d just do my reading with a giant red circle on my forehead. It was the inside part I was worrying about now.

  Note to self: no sudden movements.

  Second note to self: start carrying a hat in case of head injury.

  A wave of dizziness passed over me. My brain seemed to be on overload. It was either the nervousness about the panel or Selene had knocked me into delirious mode.

  I gripped the table to center myself and counted to ten. She was not going to beat me before I even got started.

  A flutter in my peripheral vision drew my attention. Calista and Nate gave me thumbs-ups from their chairs in the middle of the room. They made faces too—my cousin blew me a kiss and Nate did what I thought at first was some sort of strong-man imitation, his version of telling me to be strong.

  Then I realized he was mouthing “Hulk smash.” I giggled. That helped.

  Even if it triggered another blast of pain in my injury site.

  Lex slipped into the room and leaned against the back wall. He winked at me. That helped too.

  Acadia moved swiftly down the center aisle and joined us onstage, positioning herself at the midpoint of the table. “Welcome, everyone. Thank you for joining us for the first-ever New Voices Award panel. Our judges, who will not be revealed until after the award has been determined, are here with us now. The structure for this panel is as follows. Each author will read for ten minutes. When all four authors have presented, they will take questions from the audience on their topics. You should have found some index cards on your chairs when you came in. As you listen to the panelists read, please feel free to write down your questions. They’ll be collected after the readings. Then I’ll ask some of your questions, blended in with”—she held up a bundle of index cards—“questions from the judges, which I have already gathered. And now, I’d like to introduce our panelists. All of them have books forthcoming from Fairlake University Press.”

  She gestured to the far end of the table. “First, we have Dr. Beckett Standhouse.”

  “The third,” Selene said loudly, just as she had when introducing him at the book signing. She was really invested in that, I guess.

  Acadia blinked a few times and continued. “Beckett is an assistant professor at Fairlake University and author of War Imagery in the Work of Flynn McMaster.” She went on to list the academic journals in which he had published articles. The majority of them, I noticed, were on Flynn McMaster.

  Beckett blushed furiously and bobbed his head throughout her entire introduction, as if he were listening to a song through an invisible pair of earplugs.

  “Next, we have Dr. Simone Raleigh and Dr. Selene Raleigh, co-authors of Brontë and Dare: Double Trouble. Selene is also at Fairlake University, and Simone is from Stonedale University. Both are assistant professors.” She gave the title of a chapter scheduled to appear in another anthology, also co-written by the sisters.

  The twins gave those odd sideways waves like they were princesses passing by the commoners in a carriage. Dainty and indifferent.

  “Finally, Dr. Lila Maclean, assistant professor at Stonedale University, is the author of Beyond the Veil: Isabella Dare and the Gothic.” I dipped my head once, slowly, and tried to smile. That was all I could manage. My face was aflame and my head had begun to throb.

  Acadia paused. “I hadn’t realized until I read those introductions aloud how perfectly balanced this is: we have two professors from Stonedale University and two from Fairlake University. May the best school win!”

  I hadn’t even considered the representing-our-school part until now. Added pressure, that. I was sure Chancellor Wellington would have an opinion on the subject.

  The audience turned their full attention to us. I’d never felt more like a pet waiting to be adopted.

  “Let’s mix things up, shall we?” Acadia asked, sounding like she was proposing something daring. “Rather than just going down the line, we’ll work from the outside in. Lila, why don’t you go first, then Beckett, then Simone and Selene, in whichever order you two prefer.”

  I opened my binder slowly and began to read. While I may have looked calm on the outside, my heart was racing along with my thoughts on the inside. I concentrated on keeping my voice steady—it has a tendency to quaver when I read my own writing aloud in front of a crowd—and remembering to breathe.

  Using a trick someone had taught me about keeping my eyes on the page until the initial wave of nerves passed, I read the first two pages focusing intently on the words. I dared to look up at that point and realized that the audience was smiling and nodding enthusiastically. My muscles began to relax and the reading became easier and more enjoyable. The rest of the selection went by in a blur, and after I said the last word, there was a burst of loud applause.

  Beckett went next—and although he cleared his throat for almost a full minute upfront and his face turned beet-red, he soon settled into a smooth pattern, his pleasant voice and sense of humor winning over the crowd. We all applauded eagerly for him.

  When he was done, Simone smiled at the crowd before beginning, which was an advantage. There was no doubt that the twins were drop-dead gorgeous. All that Beckett and I could do was hope the judges weren’t factoring our looks into the equation. He was handsome enough, but they were Grace Kelly clones, with allure in spades. Simone read a lively section about Jane Eyre, and the audience seemed to hang on her every word, just like she’d predicted they would. If she ever wanted a job as some sort of on-air talent, I was sure she could land one in a snap. In general, I’d wager, she could pretty much do anything she wanted. At the conclusion, she bowed her head gracefully.

  Selene applauded along with everyone else and turned to face the audience.

  “I—” She stopped, her mouth half-open, then her hand flew to her neck and she pitched forward onto her binder, her head twisted toward her sister. The room gasped.

  Simone put her arm on her twin’s back and called out her name. She peered into her face and screamed for help.

  The
room exploded with activity all at once. Acadia whipped her phone out and was talking to someone immediately. Some people turned to their neighbors and asked what was going on. Others jumped to their feet and ran out. Still more stayed, milling around anxiously. Throughout, Simone was gently shaking her sister.

  “She’s breathing,” she said. “Thank God.”

  “Should we sit her up?” I asked, worried about her position.

  “I don’t think she should be moved,” Acadia said. “You’re supposed to leave people where they are when they’re in an accident.”

  Beckett ignored that and pulled Selene backwards out of the chair into his arms. He sank down onto the floor behind the table where we’d been sitting and cradled her, crooning something quietly. We formed a circle around her, watching closely. She looked oddly serene but uncannily still. Like a beautiful, terrifying doll.

  I heard Lex’s voice telling people to go out into the hallway. Gradually, the room quieted, and he came around the riser to join us.

  He surveyed the situation, introduced himself as Detective Archer, and asked what happened.

  “She fainted or something,” Beckett said. “Out of nowhere.”

  “Has she fainted before?” Lex asked Simone, who was kneeling next to her sister, holding her hand.

  She didn’t take her eyes off of Selene’s face.

  Lex tried again. “I’m sorry, Simone, but we need to ask. Is there anything we should know about? Does she have a history of fainting?”

  Simone shook her head. “She’s quite healthy, physically. Never gets sick.”

  Just then, Selene stirred. She blinked slowly, opened her eyes, and shrank back when she saw all of us gazing down at her. “What’s happening?” She sounded scared.

  “You passed out, honey.” Beckett spoke to her gently. “Can you sit?” He tilted her slightly and she stayed there, looking confusedly up at us.

  “Here,” Acadia said, thrusting a small bottle of orange juice at Selene. “This should help.”

  “Thank you,” Selene moved into a sitting position, unscrewed the cap and, after a few sips, gave a decisive nod. “I’m feeling better now. So sorry, everyone.”