Mercury Boys

by Chandra Prasad

  Saskia gasped. “A grand? You can’t open that . . .”

  “Oh, I can, and I will.”

  Paige winked at Saskia. “We have to finish it, too . . . and bury the bottle. Get rid of the evidence, if you know what I mean.”

  “Let’s just hope it doesn’t taste like horse piss,” Sara Beth joked.

  Paige distributed a stack of Dixie cups—uncharacteristically lowbrow for the Sampras family—and Sara Beth poured. Saskia took a small sip. Giddily, nervously, she wondered how much money was sliding down her throat.

  “To the club,” Paige said, lifting her cup above her head.

  “Hear, hear!” cheered Sara Beth.

  “Adrienne’s gonna regret missing this,” Saskia said, taking a slug. She liked the way the whiskey slid down hot and spicy, wending a warm path through her body. Pretty soon she felt different, relaxed, like maybe the club really was going to be easier from here on in. Sara Beth refilled her cup.

  “Hope this helps me sleep tonight,” Paige remarked from beside her.

  “Why?” asked Saskia.

  “Oh my god, I’ve had terrible insomnia lately.”

  “Even with your mom’s Restoril?”

  “Oh, forget about that. I’ve taken so much I’ve built up a tolerance.”

  “What about the other pills?”

  “The baggie? That’s like popping M&M’s for me now. They don’t do anything. For Sara Beth, either. Do they work for you?”

  “I don’t really use them,” Saskia admitted.

  “What do you do when you can’t sleep?”

  “I just . . . don’t sleep.”

  “I wish there was an easier way,” Paige said. Saskia noticed a subtle spread of freckles on the bridge of her nose, probably from the summer sun. They made her beauty a little more relatable.

  “I could try to find a dealer, but I don’t trust them,” Paige continued. “How do you know what you’re getting is legit? Safe?”

  Saskia nodded in agreement, not that she had any experience with drug dealers.

  “Hey, Sask, isn’t your father a doctor?” Sara Beth asked, inserting herself into the conversation.

  “A nurse.” Saskia felt a shred of shame and hated herself for it.

  “But he works in the hospital, right?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Couldn’t he, like, help us out?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked cautiously. “Like, help us steal medicine?”

  Paige stared at her, all long lashes and cornflower-blue eyes. “God no! Nothing like that. That could get him fired. I just thought if your dad’s in the hospital, then he must be around meds a lot. Maybe you could visit him. Maybe see what’s around. If something good’s in reach, and no one’s looking, you know . . .”

  Saskia shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  Paige nodded understandingly. “Fair enough. But at least think about it—maybe for the future. Some of that prescription stuff would save us a lot of sleepless nights.”

  “Okay, I will,” Saskia said, although she knew she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t risk her father’s new job—not even for Paige.

  “Thanks,” Paige said, bumping her shoulder against Saskia’s affectionately. “Even one bottle would help. We could cut the pills in half, make them last. This could be a one-time thing—until we come up with a better plan.”

  “Sure . . .”

  Saskia went to take another sip from her cup, but it was empty. Hadn’t Sara Beth just filled it up? She must have already drunk two of those little cups—or was it three? Enough that she felt like she could melt into a warm puddle. Enough that her head was spinning a little, and this time it had nothing to do with vertigo. Enough that she had to pee. She muttered something about needing the bathroom. Lila, who had abstained from drinking as usual, watched her go with a vague look of concern.

  Saskia slipped through the branches, across the yard, and inside the Sampras house. After the heat of the whiskey, the cool blast of AC felt refreshing.

  She found the nearest bathroom—she wasn’t sure how many there were in the house, but she’d been in at least four. This one, like the others, was massive, expensive-looking, and a little garish, with floor-to-ceiling Spanish tiles, shiny bronze hardware, a tub as big as a toolshed, and cascading tropical plants. The air smelled like the foil-wrapped, triple-milled French soaps that were heaped in a basket on the sink console. She felt indulgent as she locked the door behind her.

  She lingered after she was finished, fingering a tower of cloud-soft towels in a closet. They were all perfectly folded and blindingly white. The towels in Saskia’s house, by contrast, were a hodgepodge of colors, styles, and sizes. The only things they had in common were stains and threadbare edges.

  Saskia splashed cold water on her face, selected a towel from the closet, and held it to her wet skin. It was then that she heard the voices. Unfamiliar voices. A man and a woman. Her first thought was that they belonged to burglars. But wouldn’t burglars whisper? These voices were loud and animated.

  Saskia realized with a start that Mr. and Mrs. Sampras must be home. Was it possible? The sisters’ parents were like elusive legends: unicorns or yetis.

  She had to investigate. Opening the door quietly, she tiptoed in the direction of the conversation. It was coming from the kitchen. As she got closer, she realized that Mrs. Sampras sounded very much like Sara Beth. Saskia wondered if she looked like her, too.

  She crept to the archway leading to the kitchen and pressed herself against a wall, careful not to make a sound. Much as she wanted to see the parents, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be seen.

  “The realtor?” Mrs. Sampras said. “She said five hundred K. I think that’s a little high for the Cape, don’t you? It’s not like it’s the Hamptons. But, honey, we could lowball.”

  “I don’t understand why we can’t rent,” Mr. Sampras complained.

  “You know I can’t stand the idea of other people’s houses. Other people’s things. Other people’s beds.”

  “We can’t buy a house in every single place we vacation.”

  “Not every single one. Just this one,” Mrs. Sampras countered.

  “Sure, you say that now.”

  Saskia heard the clink of a cup hitting a saucer. A slurp of coffee or tea. The rustle of a magazine.

  “Todd, while I remember, do you know where my grandfather’s collection is?”

  “Isn’t it usually in your dresser?” Mr. Sampras asked.

  “Yes, but it’s not there.”

  “You must’ve moved it.”

  “I never touched it,” Mrs. Sampras said. “I think the housekeeper took it—the one we fired.”

  “Out of everything in this house, why on earth would she take your grandfather’s junk?”

  “It’s not junk! I was watching Antiques Roadshow—it’s a very interesting show, by the way—and I was thinking maybe I should have his things appraised.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “I wouldn’t mind knowing what they’re worth.”

  “I’ll tell you what they’re worth,” Mr. Sampras said. “Nada.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “Come on, what’s in there?”

  “A pendant, and part of his uniform, and some letters. War memorabilia is very hot right now.”

  “Listen to you.”

  “Listen to Antiques Roadshow! Anyway, it’s not like I’m going to sell anything. I’m just—curious.”

  Again, the rustle of paper. A loud sip. “Alexis, did you get the brioche rolls? The good ones?”

  “They’re in the pantry.”

  Seconds passed. Saskia heard nothing but her own breath, in and out. Faster and faster. Her body still felt overheated—was it the whiskey or her nerves?

  “Not to encourage you,” Mr. Samp
ras said, “but I may have seen your grandfather’s things in Paige’s room a while ago. An old medal was on her desk. It has a striped ribbon, right?”

  “What would Paige want with my grandfather’s stuff?”

  “She mentioned she’s reading about it.”

  In Saskia’s head, the pieces were beginning to snap together. And the picture they were forming was beyond disturbing.

  “Well, now, that’s a new interest,” Mrs. Sampras said.

  “She’s already read every book in this house and most of what’s in the town library. What do you expect?”

  “Maybe she saw Antiques Roadshow. Like mother, like daughter.”

  They both giggled, and then Mrs. Sampras unconvincingly complained, “Hey—stop that!”

  “You’ve got some time . . . I don’t take long.”

  Saskia found their lilting laughter grotesque. Infuriating. Here she was, feeling like she’d been punched in the gut, and there they were—acting like, well, teenagers. She was glad her back was to a wall; there was a serious chance her legs would give out from under her.

  The medal—Samuel’s medal—was no token of his love. He hadn’t given it to Paige in a dream. He hadn’t given it to her at all. It was simply a Sampras family heirloom, something that had been kicking around the house. The ironic thing was that the “lost” medal was, right now, in Saskia’s pocket. She’d put it there when she’d dressed in the morning, thinking it was lucky, a talisman, a totem, a sign of a friend’s devotion.

  Chewing on a fingernail, Saskia wished to god she’d listened to her instincts. She’d had her doubts about the medal’s authenticity from the beginning. She remembered how she hadn’t been able to bring Cornelius’s newspaper from the past to the present. Why should Paige’s experience have been any different?

  The suspicious medal was one thread, but now that Saskia had pulled it, Paige’s whole story started to unravel. If she’d lied about the medal, then chances were she’d lied about other things, too. Her “dates” with Samuel, their conversations and adventures, had they all been invented? And her participation in the Mercury Boys Club? Indeed, her founding of the club?

  Was it all a sick, elaborate joke?

  Her legs still threatening to give out, Saskia retraced her steps out of the house and toward the giant tree. She didn’t know if Mr. and Mrs. Sampras heard her exit, and she didn’t care. She no longer wanted to see what they looked like. In light of what she’d learned, everything related to Paige was different now. Tainted and distorted. Even the tree—their sacred meeting place—looked ugly, mocking, monstrous.

  Saskia rustled through the branches. Adrienne was still missing, but the other girls were just as she’d left them. And yet, at the same time, completely different. She took the medal out of her pocket and hurled it at Paige, narrowly missing her head.

  “What the hell, Saskia!” Paige cried.

  “I overheard your parents,” Saskia hissed, glaring. “They were talking about a war medal. How it belonged to your grandfather . . .”

  She continued to feel unsteady, like the ground beneath her couldn’t be trusted, like it was as suspect as the mesh floor she’d sat upon at Arrivo.

  Paige stared at her without a hint of guilt. “Oh—that. Well, yes, he does have a medal. But it’s different. It’s just a coincidence that there are two. You didn’t have to go ballistic; I could have explained.”

  How easily lies flew off her tongue! It was a talent, truly. Or an illness. Looking back, Saskia remembered how effortlessly Paige had deceived Rich, Jimmy, and how many others? Was Saskia just one more notch on her belt?

  “Come on, Paige. Give it up. I know.”

  Paige glanced at Sara Beth, whose smirk confirmed Saskia’s worst fears. Paige didn’t have to confess. The truth was written in her sister’s mischievous expression.

  “What’s going on?” Lila asked.

  “It’s a lie,” Saskia told her. “All of it. Everything she said about Samuel. She just invented it.”

  Lila flinched. Her face turned a sickly shade. Meanwhile, Paige extended her arms in an idle stretch. Swimmer’s arms, long and toned, inches longer than the sleeves of her dress. She had the audacity to yawn.

  “I prefer to think of it as a game, not a lie,” she said. Hearing this, Sara Beth let loose a low whistle.

  Saskia’s insides felt molten all of a sudden, like an internal volcano about to spew. “Why?” she asked, barely getting the word out.

  “Why?” Paige repeated. “I’ll show you.” She lifted the hem of the gossamer lawn dress, pulling it all the way up to her waist. She was wearing underpants that matched her flesh, underpants so tiny and sheer she might as well have been naked. Saskia averted her eyes. All these weeks, and still she wasn’t used to the sisters’ utter lack of inhibition.

  Boldly, Paige held her pose until Saskia looked. There, in tiny letters below Paige’s hip bone, were not the letters MBC, but rather JM. Saskia felt the hot feeling climb up her throat. It singed her tongue until she was speechless.

  JM.

  Josh McClane. Oh god.

  “I think Jimmy did a good job. He should have, considering the special bonus he thought he was gonna get from us,” said Paige. “He had no idea what JM stood for, but I made something up.”

  “You always do,” said Sara Beth admiringly.

  “Thanks, Sis,” Paige said, blowing her a kiss.

  “All of this,” Saskia whispered, still struggling to find her voice, “because of Josh?”

  “Because you’re a sneaky little slut,” sneered Paige, suddenly contemptuous. “A sneaky little slut who should consider herself lucky. Usually Sara Beth and I aren’t so forgiving.”

  The smile on Sara Beth’s face now appeared dangerous to Saskia: reckless, vicious, lupine. “Paige is right. Other girls who’ve bothered us have learned never to do it again.”

  “Bet you didn’t know my sister was kicked out of her last two schools,” added Paige, her voice spiked with pride. “‘Aggression and severe behavioral problems’—it’s on her record.”

  Even if Paige was lying about that, too, it didn’t matter. Goose bumps prickled Saskia’s skin, every one of them a red alert. Clearly the sisters were no passive Victorian ladies. They were formidable enemies, cunning, strong, and unrelenting.

  Saskia considered Lila, feisty but tiny, and realized that Paige and Sara Beth would easily win in a fight if it were two against two. Was that what was about to happen? Or would it be worse?

  “God, this is crazy,” she said, looking Paige in the eye. “We could have fixed this at the very beginning. I wouldn’t have even talked to Josh if I’d known you guys were together. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong.”

  Paige laughed gaily. “You didn’t mean to. I see. You didn’t mean to flirt with my boyfriend at Ethan’s party. Or to throw yourself at him. Or fool around in an empty room with him. No, of course not. I’m so sorry for thinking you had.”

  “I was going to explain,” Saskia protested. “I really was. I just . . . couldn’t.”

  “No, just like you couldn’t resist stealing someone else’s boyfriend.”

  “I didn’t think you were with him anymore,” she repeated coldly.

  “You know what I think, Saskia? I think it wouldn’t have mattered to you. Not one bit. Even if Josh and I were attached at the hip, you still would have made a move. Because that’s just the kind of person you are. Someone so insecure and pathetic that you’ll do whatever it takes to feel better about yourself. To feel wanted. You’ll break friendships—you’ll break people—just to feel loved for one night.”

  Saskia winced. Paige’s assessment hit too close to home.

  Paige continued, “Thank god Adrienne was at that party and keeping an eye on Josh for me, or else I’d never have known.”

  “Did Adrienne know all of this?” Saskia asked her,
her voice porcelain-brittle. “The lies?”

  “Are you kidding? Adrienne’s loyal, but she can barely spell her own name.”

  “Bless her dumb little heart,” added Sara Beth.

  “Then why put her through it?” asked Lila angrily.

  “The more players, the better the game,” answered Paige.

  “Why do you keep calling it that? A game?” Saskia demanded. Her fists were clenched so hard her hands ached.

  Paige looked at her sister. “You want to do the honors?”

  “Sure,” Sara Beth said cheerfully, as if agreeing to lead another toast. “The purpose of our little project, Saskia, was to make you suffer. I wanted an all-out assault. But my sister is more ambitious. She wanted something unique, something big and memorable. And she figured out what. Actually, you gave her the idea. You and your photo of Cornelius. All Paige and I had to do was pretend to believe your weird little secret. It’s crazy how fast you fell for our stories, the club, the rules. Everything. You lapped it up.”

  “And licked the bowl clean,” added Paige.

  “But you missed the red flags,” Sara Beth continued. “Samuel’s not even Paige’s type. He’s basic and vanilla. With about as much charm as a dirty Kleenex. My sister likes guys like Harry Styles—know anyone like that?”

  Saskia turned away from Sara Beth’s antagonistic glare, almost as ashamed as she was furious. She thought back to the first time she’d been in the Sampras house. How she’d marveled at the huge wall of books in the den. Paige’s books, Sara Beth had said. She’s read every one. Twice. Back then, Saskia should have realized Paige was a girl who loved stories. A girl with an unbridled imagination.

  Saskia had vastly underestimated her.

  Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Was that a line from one of Saskia’s classic movies? Or was it just an old saying? Either way, it was evidently true.

  “My sister’s got mad creative skills, doesn’t she?” said Sara Beth admiringly. “Me? I’m the straitlaced, boring one. I may have gotten kicked out of school, but I’ve never done drugs, smoked cigarettes, or gotten a tattoo. And I never would.”