Devilish

by Maureen Johnson

  She pulled me inside, slipping and staggering along in her stocking feet, leading me through to a massive living room—or rather a series of linked living rooms and dining rooms and sitting rooms that were connected by a few wide archways, making one massive room. The room had much too much furniture in it, and all of it was random, large, and from totally different historical periods. Our house was full of totally random pieces of furniture as well, but the effect was different. The Tremones said, “We give money to museums from time to time.” Ours said, “We baby-proofed once and never upgraded.”

  “David!” she yelled. “A girl is here! Be decent!”

  “Who’s David?” I asked weakly, looking around. There were several antique sofas, chests, vases, and tables, but nothing that looked like it might be called David.

  In reply, a pale hand holding a clove cigarette slowly rose from one of the low red sofas by the fire. Then a figure with jet-black hair that was as obviously dyed as my own propped himself up and gazed at me with luminous brown eyes and an utterly uninterested expression.

  “My parents are away,” she said. “It’s just me and David right now. He’s like a family friend. Don’t worry about David.”

  He smiled lazily and nodded at this.

  “You look terrible,” she said. “Sit down. David, go take a bath. We have to talk girl stuff.”

  David stubbed out the cigarette and picked up an enormous glass of red wine. When he stood, he revealed himself to be as tall and lanky as his friend. Without a word, he walked past us and up the stairs.

  “You don’t have to—” I began.

  Lanalee took me by the shoulders and pressed me into the warm sinkhole on the sofa that David had just vacated.

  “He likes to take baths,” Lanalee cut me off. “Believe me, you’re doing me a favor.”

  I had no idea what that meant or what kind of unlikely drama I’d just walked in on. There was a heavy, wrought-iron table between us that looked like it was made of pieces of old gates, sheeted with glass. Sitting on this was a platter of about two dozen cupcakes—a huge variety, all with pastel frosting and sprinkles.

  “Did you have a party?” I asked.

  “No. I just like cupcakes. Have a few. Want some wine?”

  She held up a bottle.

  “No thanks,” I said. But I couldn’t fail to be impressed with the casual way in which she offered it. It looked like good wine, too—it had a yellowed label written in French, which was dated 1986.

  “My parents have a cellar,” she said, noticing what I was looking at. “They have cases and cases of the stuff. They don’t mind if I have some. They think wine is pretty much a food. They’re kind of European that way. You know—teach them to drink responsibly—that kind of thing. It’s not a big deal.”

  There was a creak on the stair, and David leaned down and looked at us.

  “Lana …” he mumbled. “Um. Do you have … um … soap?”

  “Look in the cabinet,” she snapped.

  He whipped his head back and disappeared.

  “Okay,” she said, shrugging an apology. “What’s going on? Why so sad?”

  She plucked up a cupcake and tore into it eagerly.

  “I’m sorry I’m throwing this on you,” I said, feeling a little weird that I had crashed into this strange scene, with wine and wine cellars and bathing boyfriends. “If you guys are having a …”

  “Don’t worry about David,” she said. “Talk. Tell Lanalee. Lanalee fix.”

  I opened my mouth but found myself uncertain as to where to begin.

  “Allison …” was all I managed before breaking into a sudden and totally unexpected storm of tears. I mean, really—I had no idea where it came from. This prompted Lanalee to bound over and sink into the sofa next to me to wrap me in a lanky embrace. It took me a few minutes to get myself under control. I felt Lanalee playing with my spikes consolingly.

  “I just saw Allison with my ex,” I said, sniffing hard.

  “This is the ex you mentioned before?”

  “There’s only one,” I said. “I mean, they can date. It’s not like they’re not allowed. But she knows how I would feel. That’s why she was being so secret. She was sneaking off. Allison … sneaking.”

  “Let’s back up,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me about this guy? Purge. Only way.”

  “His name is Elton,” I said. “Andy Elton. We met freshman year. He’s really … smart. He was the most genuine person. We were friends. We did everything together, the three of us.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I forgot that in the end, he was just a guy,” I said.

  “They all are, dumpling,” Lanalee said sympathetically. “Why did this one stand out?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “This is going to sound weird, but …”

  I was about to tell Lanalee one of my deepest secrets. One that only Allison and Joan knew.

  “I just never … liked guys. All of them seem so …”

  “Juvenile? Dumb? Hygiene-challenged? Obsessed with one thing only? Stop me when you hear it.”

  “Well,” I said, “yeah. Kind of. But Elton was different. He was my friend first. We were friends for two years before we started to date.”

  “How long did you go out?” she asked.

  “Seven months. And two weeks.”

  “And he broke up with you?”

  “He said he thought we should really be friends,” I explained. “Except that he hasn’t spoken to me since that day.”

  “Weak,” she said.

  “There’s more,” I said, torn between wiping my nose and ripping the paper off a cupcake. I went for the cupcake, and Lanalee actually reached over with a napkin and dabbed at my nose for me, like my mom used to do when I was little. “Allison’s joined something weird. I don’t exactly know what it is, but it’s some kind of group that’s giving her money.”

  “What kind of group?” she said.

  “She called them private investors. People who give out scholarships. But it’s not just money for school—it’s more for getting her hair done, money for clothes. She said they came to school and picked her out to help her develop her potential.”

  “You win best story of the day,” she said, pulling at a handful of hair thoughtfully.

  “And Allison wants me to go to Boston with her and Elton tomorrow. So what do I do?”

  “Some cagey moves here,” Lanalee said thoughtfully. “There has to be a reason for that—something big. Tell me this, do you hate her? Right now?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Be honest. You’re entitled to what you feel.”

  “I could never hate her,” I said, wiping my nose with a napkin. “I just can’t believe this. I have no idea what’s happening in my life. It’s like everyone made a pact to be weird.”

  “Well, one thing seems clear. You have to get to the bottom of this. Go with them tomorrow. You need to find out more about what she’s doing. You’re the smart one, Jane. She needs you.”

  “I guess,” I said, without much conviction.

  “It’s just one day. It’s not like it will kill you. And you can call me if you’re having problems, and I’ll help you. I’ll be like that person back at headquarters who talks you through things.”

  As torturous as it was, it was a help to have Lanalee. She really did seem to have a broader, more balanced perspective—like she’d seen it all, done it all, and worn the T-shirt out. That was Bobbin for you.

  “One day,” she said. “Won’t it be worth it if it gives you all the answers?”

  eighteen

  Ever hear those stories about people forced to dig their own graves at gunpoint?

  On the entire train ride to Boston, I sat across from Elton and Ally and dug my imaginary grave. I considered the length of the shovel handle, how long it would take me to climb out of the hole, just how much satisfaction I would derive from showing dignity in the final moments of my life.

  I always used to wonder
about whether or not I’d do it. I think I’d probably throw down my shovel and say, “You do it. You’re going to shoot me anyway.” But then again, if you dig really slow, you get to live that much longer. And there’s always the possibility that you’ll figure out a really clever way of evading your captors, probably by whapping them with the shovel or throwing dirt in their eyes.

  By the time we got into South Station, I had decided that I would probably start a refusal speech, but then they’d lower the barrel of the gun at me, and I’d immediately crack and start crying and begging. Then they’d shoot me before I was done, just to get me to shut up.

  It’s the worst ending to the scenario, but I knew it was the most accurate one. At least for the way I was feeling at the moment.

  I was doing it. I was on the world’s worst fact-finding mission. There they sat across from me, not knowing that I knew about them, pretending to be innocent. Elton looked formally uncomfortable, like someone had an antiaircraft weapon trained on his seat, which they would fire at any point if he made the wrong move. He also looked good, long and lanky with an untucked striped dress shirt. He always made an effort. Elton ironed if he felt it was necessary. He was that kind of a guy.

  And Allison, whose idea this was, sat silent. She was blue pale, like the color of fat-free milk. An elegant blue pale, offset by a deep blue dress and black boots. I hadn’t dressed for the occasion—I just had on a gray chunky knit sweater and jeans because it was cold. I felt grubby and small next to Allison.

  “So,” Elton said, “what do you guys want to do? Lunch?”

  “Sure,” Allison said, not turning from the window. “Whatever you want.”

  She was completely absolving herself from responsibility for this situation. She kept her eyes fixed on the rolling view, as if she was trying to drink it all in—all the convenience stores, train station parking lots, the backs of housing developments. It was as if she hadn’t asked me to come here, hadn’t said that Elton was her friend too. She was barely with us.

  Elton put on his headphones. The only thing I had in my bag was that stupid vampire novel, so I opened it on my lap and stared into its pages, occasionally flipping one for show. My eyes burned. My heart struggled to get out of my chest. I kept reflexively balling my sweaty hands up. But I managed to keep my composure.

  It was a cold, stern Tuesday in Boston, and we arrived with no better idea of what we meant to do than what we started with. We ended up at Quincy Market, a former major Boston landmark with a four-column Greek facade, now a mall with a long, fancy food court. We split up in search of food. Allison only wanted a chai tea. Elton went for a heavy curry. I had no appetite but didn’t want to be seen as the bitter ex-girlfriend who refused to eat. I ended up with a clam roll because the seafood place was the only one without a line. As soon as we sat down, Ally excused herself, leaving Elton and me to our lunches.

  He dug into his curry. I rearranged my clam roll a few times and tried a few bites but soon gave up the effort. Elton set down his fork. We looked at each other.

  “So …” he said. “This is awkward.”

  “All part of the new Allison,” I said.

  “I think she’s just kind of growing into herself,” he said.

  “I’m just saying. New clothes, new friends …”

  “What new friends?” he asked.

  So, Elton didn’t know anything about this society. Well, obviously, I had to tell Elton about this. Elton was perceptive. Elton would have insight. And Elton and I would have something to talk about. And we would save Allison together from the clutches of weirdos. And then we would …

  One step at a time, I reminded myself.

  “She’s met some people,” I said. “I’ve been kind of worried about it. They’re giving her money. They say it’s a scholarship, but …”

  “Oh, I know she got a scholarship.”

  That deflated me a bit. But I pressed on.

  “No,” I said. “They funding her in all kinds of weird ways. Giving her money to buy things like clothes, purses, a new cell phone. That’s where all of her new stuff has been coming from.”

  “They don’t give out scholarships for that,” he said, looking over with a slightly cocked eyebrow.

  “That’s my point,” I said. “Doesn’t this make you kind of worried?”

  “Her aunt gave her some money for clothes,” he said, spearing a curry-stained potato with his fork. “And she got a scholarship.”

  “It’s not her aunt,” I said again, much more firmly. “Don’t you see? She told me it wasn’t her aunt.”

  “She told me it was.”

  “Then she lied to one of us,” I said, leaning back and pushing my tray just slightly in his direction, in an act of minor defiance.

  Elton shook his head and chomped down a few quick bites of curry. Then he tapped the fork thoughtfully on the side of the black plastic plate.

  “Don’t you think you probably just misunderstood her?” he asked.

  “That’s a big misunderstanding,” I said. “I’d have to be really stupid to get that confused.”

  “People make mistakes. But okay—so what if you’re right? What if she did get a scholarship like that? You should be happy for her. I don’t see why you’re not. Why are you just trying to pick everything apart about it? Is it because you didn’t get it?”

  This was more than I could bear. It was so wrong.

  “You think I don’t know,” I said, tears burning at my eyes. “But I know. I saw you.”

  He knew. All annoyance fell from his face and was replaced by a truly horrified expression.

  “Jane,” he said. “Look …”

  I couldn’t take it.

  “Here,” I said, pushing the clam roll at him. “Take it. Just take everything.”

  I went directly to the bathroom. It was time to get this out in the open. Allison was there, gazing into the mirror, touching her face with the tips of her fingers, making small circles on her cheeks, admiring herself with a silent awe.

  “Jane,” she said, not turning around. “I’m glad you’re here. We should talk….”

  She leaned herself against the wall. She was getting a little thermometer-headed, pale right up to the hairline.

  “I’ve made a terrible mistake,” she said, “and I can’t fix it. I thought it would all be okay if I was here with both of you because you two can fix anything. But I realized on the train that you can’t fix this. You can’t even talk to each other. This is pointless.”

  Slow tears began to dribble down her face, ruining her perfect makeup. I took a heavy breath, and it staggered in my chest.

  “I know,” I said. “I know all about it.”

  “You do?” she said. Her eyes grew bright.

  “Yes. I saw you. I followed you.”

  “Followed me where?”

  “To Elton’s.”

  “Oh. Yeah. I should have figured that.”

  Her chin sank, and she seemed instantly bored with that topic. I wasn’t quite expecting that reaction. I was expecting more of a dropping to the knees and begging for forgiveness. Instead, she went to the window and pushed it open with the flat of her hand. A sharp burst of cold air came in, and she breathed it deeply.

  “I need your help,” she said. “I need you to talk to her for me.”

  “Talk to who?” I said, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand.

  “Her.”

  “Her who?”

  “The demon,” she said matter-of-factly.

  All of my personal trauma dissipated, and I stood very still. Things had just changed. They had gone in a very unexpected direction, one that I immediately knew we wouldn’t be returning from for a long time.

  All I could think to reply was, “The demon is a her?” Not, “What the hell are you talking about?” or, “What size rubber sack do you think they’ll put you in?”

  “She is right now.”

  “And she’s … nearby?” I asked.

  “She’s at our school
.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “I traded my soul, Jane,” she said.

  “Right.”

  “I did. This is not a joke.”

  “I’m not laughing.”

  “I signed a contract,” she went on. “I was desperate. But there’s still time if you talk to her …”

  I’d read somewhere that there is really no such thing as “crazy,” that we all slide along a scale of acceptable behavior and thought. But when someone starts telling you that they’ve been talking to demons—this is a sign that they’ve gone down the slippery slope to the far end of the scale. You are supposed to take them by the hand and escort them back to their seat in reality or find someone who can.

  “I know you don’t believe me,” she said. “I was afraid of this.”

  She pulled a small medicine bottle out of her purse.

  “I took these from my mom’s bathroom cabinet this morning,” she said. “I don’t want to … but I have to take them.”

  “What are they?” I asked.

  “Penicillin.”

  This would have little impact on most people, but it meant a lot to me. Allison was allergic to penicillin. One pill could probably do her serious harm. More than one would kill her for sure.

  This is one of those moments in life that I feel like certain “very special episodes” of television shows and well-meaning school counselors try to prepare you for, but nothing can get you ready for an actual emergency. These moments aren’t backed up by musical sound tracks and careful camera angles. This was just me, in a Boston bathroom, my best friend holding a bottle full of a substance that was incredibly toxic to her.

  “Allison,” I said, “give those to me. Put them in my hand.”

  I held out my hand as far as I could without moving from my spot and spooking her.

  “She doesn’t believe me,” Allison said quietly to the void. “If Jane won’t listen, no one will listen.”

  “Come on,” I said again. “Give those to me.”

  She popped the top off the bottle.

  “Don’t come any closer,” she said. “Go.”

  I had twelve thoughts at once. I would call 911. I would my dad. I would call Lanalee. Strangely, it flashed through my mind to call Owen since he was clearly waiting to hear from me. I would bound across the room and snatch the bottle and take them myself. The ceiling would fall down, knocking them from her hand.