It was only later that I realized she didn’t accept my apology.
I’m out in the employee parking lot before I realize I have no way to get home. Melody drove me here, and, clearly, Melody isn’t here anymore. I survey the lot just to be sure, but her car is gone. She left me.
She left me. Again.
I feel bad, but I feel worse that I’m actually surprised.
My phone chooses this moment to buzz against my hip. I pull it out to see the indicator light blinking, and swipe across the screen to see that I have eight new voice mails and fourteen new texts. I scroll through. Melody. Melody. Melody. I read a few: Where are you? S this isnt funny come back. S we are getting worried come back. I listen to a voice mail, the most recent one, in which Melody babbles that I need to come back or they’re going to have to call the cops and we’re all going to get in major trouble so please just come back.
I wonder where I went.
It’s still buzzing, Melody flashing on the screen, so I pick up. “Morning,” I say, and Melody unleashes a gust of wind in my ear.
“Oh my God, Scarlett, you’re alive,” she says. “Where were you? Where are you now?”
“What are you talking about?” I say. The bad feelings are still simmering inside my stomach, bubbles of bad traveling up my throat and popping in my mouth. “You left me here.”
Another gust of wind. “You were so drunk,” she says. “You probably don’t remember.”
I’m about to tell her everything I do remember, the drinking in the storage room and the passing out and the swirls of colors like in Skywoman and waking up in the park, but I stop myself. I want to hear what she has to say first, in case she’s going to lie. “What?”
“I shouldn’t have let you drink so much,” Melody says. “Kat just kept egging you on. I feel bad.”
“What happened?”
She is a sack of sighs. “The stuff Kat had was super, super strong,” Melody says. “Like, ridiculous strong. I have a pretty good tolerance, and even I was feeling it after half a cup. You have no tolerance. You had no chance.”
No. I was drugged. I had to have been drugged. It felt just like it looked in the cartoon. “I drank too much and passed out?”
“You downed, like, that whole cup,” Melody says. “And you were already out of it, but you had some more. Finally we went out into the park, and you fell over on the cobblestones and blacked out for a little. I thought I was going to have to call the cops and we were all going to get in so much trouble and I was going to get arrested, and that wouldn’t have—”
“I know, your college applications,” I say impatiently. The pit in my stomach is back. “What happened then?”
“We were trying to lift you to carry you out, but you popped up on your own,” Melody says. “And took off. We tried to chase you, but we lost you. Seriously, Scarlett, we looked for you all freaking night. I’m so tired right now and I have to go to practice.”
It sounds plausible. So plausible it might be true. “But I don’t remember drinking that much,” I say. “Why didn’t you call someone? I could’ve been dead somewhere.”
Melody hesitates, and in that hesitation I can hear college applications. “Never mind,” I go on. I don’t want to hear whatever lie she’s formulating. “What about Katharina?”
“We ran around looking for you together,” she says. “Eventually we had to get out because the park was going to open. Where were you?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Can you come get me?”
“I have to go to practice. Can’t you walk?”
“Are you kidding me?”
She’s silent for a moment, then blows a long breath into my ear. This one isn’t a sigh. “Fine,” she says. “I’ll be there in a few minutes. Be ready to go.” She hangs up without saying goodbye.
—
My mind swirls the whole ride home, which is fortunate, as Melody doesn’t speak to me and I need something to do besides look out the window at the nauseatingly fast-moving trees and mailboxes flashing by. Why was I so convinced I’d been drugged? Was I really that eager to think the worst about my sister, about Katharina?
I don’t know what I think about Katharina.
Melody drops me off and I crawl straight into sheets that smell too much like me and sleep.
I don’t dream.
I wake up a few hours later feeling at least somewhat refreshed, and set about planning for the bonfire. Yes, I’m still going. I need something, anything, to distract myself from everything else going on right now.
I pick out my clothes (long white maxidress, about as far as I can get from the Five Banners uniform, and it covers my right hip and the scars on my back, which is the most important thing) and take a shower, then settle in to wait for dusk. I cocoon myself on the couch and grab a book from my childhood and turn on Food Network in the background and plug my ears with my iPod. Basically, I do all I can to keep myself from thinking, and Matthew and my dad are kind enough to let me. My dad takes Matthew to a friend’s house and then shuts himself in his office to work or whatever.
Finally evening rolls around, and I unplug my ears and toss the book onto the table and flip off the TV to find I’m still in the same world as I was this morning. I shoulder the disappointment well and go off to change. I select cute sandals and even put on makeup, a shimmery layer of lip gloss and a swoop of eyeliner, though I know chances are good I’ll sweat it off later.
The drive to Connor’s takes me down a series of increasingly dark and winding roads that reach deep into the woods, then open up into a wash of pastoral farms. I pass fields of what I think is corn, of hay swaying in the breeze and waiting to be baled (whatever that means), fields ambling with horses. Fences are nothing more than markers of wood. Houses are squat and cheerful and all have chimneys, and bright red barns dot the landscape. I would quite like to live here, I think. Maybe I can convince my dad to move and take up farming. Maybe baling hay would make Melody’s college applications glow.
Connor’s house fits right in. I pull into a winding dirt driveway and park my car at the end of a long row; I’m evidently not the first one here. There’s still a ways to walk to get to the top of the driveway. When I get out of my car, I’m greeted by the sound of faraway laughter and the crisp, summery smell of burning leaves and what might be the whinny of a horse.
Connor’s house, a small brown ranch, sits dark and alone in the middle of an expanse of fields that ends in woods several hundred feet away. Near the edge is what I’m guessing is a barn, though it’s rough and unpainted and doesn’t fit in with its cheery red compatriots. The ground is scoured down to the dirt and scattered with bits of hay, though one part of the fields is lush and green—that must be the pasture for the horses. Everybody is gathered near the woods, where they’re silhouetted black against the glow of the bonfire; words and laughter float above the crackling of the blaze, and movements are hazy, spooky, through the billowing smoke.
“Hey, Scarlett,” a familiar voice calls. Cynthia.
Hay bales are scattered about for seating; on one bale sit Cynthia and a few other girls I vaguely recognize from the park, all clutching red Solo cups that glisten with condensation. Cynthia grins at me. “Glad you could make it,” she says, and lets out a laugh that sounds very much like a cackle. “Connor will be glad to see you.”
I blame the heat that climbs my throat and cheeks on the nearby fire. “Hey, Cynthia. How are you?”
“Go get a drink.” Cynthia points behind her, nearly toppling off the bale of hay with the effort; she cackles again as her friends lift her back up. “Don’t drink too much, though,” she shouts, and her friends laugh. “It’s bad for you!”
You don’t need to tell me twice. Yet somehow I find myself wanting a drink anyway. Tonight can be a test—I can see if the colors come back to visit.
There are a lot of people here, but somehow, maybe because we’re outside, it doesn’t feel claustrophobic. I weave my way through the crowd, saying hello to
people who may or may not be fellow Five Banners peons. It’s hard to tell without the shirts, and near impossible to remember any names without the name tags.
Several kids are clustered around a fold-up table loaded down with drinks and stacks of red cups. They part as I approach, revealing a kid I don’t recognize, shaking and stirring and pouring. The “bartender” looks up and grins, and I realize it’s Rob.
Though I’ve seen his gauges and tattoos before, somehow it’s hard to reconcile uniformed Rob with the Rob in front of me now. This Rob, while still short and thick and hobbitlike, is decked out in black from head to toe, with silver spikes jutting out from unexpected places, like his left shoulder. Piercings glitter in his eyebrow and his lip, and the gauges stretch out his ears, so large I can see two nickel-size slices of the woods through them. Gel slicks his hair to his head, and the tattoos crawling over his shoulders, leering faces and skulls and flowers and initials in Gothic font, are in full, glaring display. I haven’t had anything to drink yet, but I already feel a little dizzy. “Evening, Scarlett,” he says. “What’s your poison of choice?”
“Um.” I survey the options. The table is loaded with a staggering array of drinks; if this is Connor’s parents’ raided liquor cabinet, he must come from a family of alcoholics. “Just make me something sweet. Please.”
He tips an imaginary hat. “Sweet it is.” He shakes and stirs and pours from a glittering glass bottle, topping it off with something purple and syrupy. He presents it to me with a flourish, like he’s handing over a crystal goblet rather than a plastic cup. “It’s pomegranate.”
I smell it, and it smells enough like juice that it doesn’t make my stomach lurch. “Thanks.”
“Enjoy.” He turns to the next person, a girl I’ve worked with a few times at headquarters. “Denise. You look like you’re in the mood for tequila.”
I don’t hear Denise’s reply; I’ve already melted back into the crowd. The taste of pomegranate and sugar makes my back teeth tingle, and warmth floods my belly. I need to get close to the fire, I decide. I take another sip of my drink, and it’s like the fire is inside me. No colors though, I note.
Somebody claps me on the shoulder. “Scarlett!” It’s Cady. Her cheeks and forehead are shiny with sweat; streaks of mascara decorate her cheeks like war paint. “Scarlett, I’m so, so happy to see you.”
Her words are slurred. I try to wiggle away, but she drapes an arm, slick and damp and fuzzy as sealskin, around me and pulls me in close. Her breath stinks of beer. “It’s so, so, so good to see you. I’m so happy you came. You’re a good friend.”
“Um, okay.” I wiggle again, trying to extricate myself, but her grip is a vise. I take a gulp from my cup. If I were drunk, this wouldn’t be nearly as painful. At least, I hope not. Only one way to know for sure!
“Monica was a good friend too,” Cady says. I recoil from her breath; it smells the way being hit feels. “But I think Monica is probably dead. I want you to be my friend now, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. “Maybe you should sit down.”
She laughs and leans in closer. Her forehead rubs against mine. “Let’s sit down,” she says. “Let’s sit down on the hay. There’s so much hay everywhere. I hate hay. There’s so much hay.”
“Okay.” I duck under her arm and spin away before she can latch on again, all without spilling even a drop of my drink. Then I sigh. The fire shines before me like a beacon, but I can’t leave Cady here, crying by herself. “Come on.” I move back into her orbit and let her grab my arm again. She leaves enough space for me to snag the drink from her hand and inconspicuously spill it into the nearest bale of hay; some splashes onto Cady’s shorts, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “Let’s go sit.”
By some miracle, we manage to push our way through the crowd and find an empty bale without Cady accosting anyone else or falling over. I sit her down and look around. I’m certainly not going to shove her and Connor together more than necessary, but I don’t know who else she’s friends with. “Do you have any good friends here?” I ask.
Her eyes fill with tears and overflow. “Monica was my good friend.” The tears make rivers down her cheeks. “And Connor was my boyfriend, but he dumped me. He doesn’t love me anymore. Scarlett, why doesn’t he love me? I still love him.” She shakes her head, and when she speaks again, her voice is low and determined. “It’s just a break, right? We’re still best friends. He’ll come around. That’s what M-Monica would say. We’ll get back together.”
And I’m certainly not getting into that with her. “Okay, okay.” It’s either sit here with her myself and listen to her talk about Connor or find someone to take care of her. Cynthia, maybe? Except Cynthia didn’t look much more sober than Cady does. I sit down with a sigh that echoes the rush of the hay settling beneath me. “Let’s just sit and take deep breaths.”
Cady sniffles. “I miss Monica,” she says. “I met her on my first day at Adventure World. We worked in headquarters together. Nobody had taught us how to use the cash register, but we didn’t tell them, and somehow everything came out right at the end of the day.” She lets out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. It might be a sob. “We called ourselves the Register Mafia.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We got promoted on the same day. She didn’t have a boyfriend, but she would come hang out with me and C-Connor anyway. She called herself the third wheel, and I always told her, ‘You’re never a third wheel. Connor is the third wheel.’ And she would laugh, but Connor wouldn’t laugh. He didn’t think it was funny.” She rests her head on my shoulder. My arm twitches as her tears soak into my dress. “I miss Monica. I miss my boyfriend.”
“I know. You already said that.” There’s a tender spot, somewhere deep inside me under all the caked-on annoyance and frustration, that twinges when her tears touch my skin.
“Cade?” Someone pulls Cady off my shoulder. It’s warm outside, verging on sticky hot, but the air feels chill where she was. “What’s going on? Is she okay?”
I turn. I recognize the speaker vaguely as a girl from Adventure World, but her name escapes me without the aid of her name tag. Mina, maybe, or Nina. Tina? Yeah, Tina. “I think she just had too much to drink,” I say. “She’ll live.”
Tina heaves a sigh. “Oh, Cade,” she says. “What to do with you.” She looks over at me. “Thanks for taking care of her. I got it now.”
She doesn’t need to tell me twice. The sweat and tears are beginning to dry on my skin. “Okay,” I say, but hesitate. “I hope you feel better, Cady.”
Cady’s face is already buried in Tina’s shoulder. I’m clearly not needed anymore, but I still can’t help hesitating again before plunging back into the crowd.
By now my drink is lukewarm, and the buzz in my head is amplified by the buzz of the crowd. I wave hello to a few people I may or may not know, neatly duck under outstretched arms and around groups of girls taking selfies, and set my eyes on an empty bale of hay on the other side of the fire. It’s not as crowded over there, perhaps because of the area’s proximity to the dark woods. But here people would hear me if I screamed. I fight my way through and collapse onto the empty bale with a huff; there’s finally space for me to breathe.
The fire crackles so loudly, spitting sparks like fireflies into the air, that I can hardly hear the other people whooping and laughing and talking. I stare deep into the flames, looking for the molten blue center. I can’t see it, but I know it has to be there. This fire can’t be missing a center.
A log crashes into the fire, spitting up more sparks and making me gasp a lungful of smoke. I’m so busy coughing I barely notice when somebody crunches onto the hay bale next to me. The smoke irritates my eyes, but I don’t want to rub them and smear the makeup that I so painstakingly applied. By the time I’m done blinking the smoke away, my chin tilted up at the stars so that tears won’t overflow and smear that stupid eyeliner, Connor’s already been there for a few minutes, so close I could fall over and land in his lap.
/> “Hello to you too,” I say.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to notice me,” he says. His smile is crooked, like one of his front teeth, and the sheen of sweat on his face makes his freckles look like glitter. “What are you thinking?”
“That your freckles look like glitter,” I say without thinking, and glare down at my drink. Stupid alcohol. “I can’t believe I just said that. This is so embarrassing.” And I can’t believe I just said that. They should really raise the drinking age. To, like, eighty. Not that that would’ve stopped us tonight.
“They’re not freckles,” Connor says seriously, but his eyes are dancing, or maybe that’s just the reflection of the flames. “They’re angel kisses.”
“Angel kisses?” As if of their own accord, my fingers drift over and trace the constellations of pigment on his right cheek. I feel his breath catch in his throat. “You’re telling me this many angels were willing to put their lips on your face?” I say to lighten the mood.
“That’s what my mom says.” He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. I realize I’m not breathing either.
My shoulder, where Cady rested earlier, suddenly begins to itch like it’s caught fire. I jerk my hand away and draw in a great gulp of air. “Did you see Cady?” I say, swinging back toward the fire. Through the flames and the billowing clouds of smoke, the other partygoers are nothing more than shadows. “She had too much to drink and she was crying. She thinks you’re going to get back together.”
“We’re not getting back together. I told you, it’s over.” Still, he looks around for her; when his eyes land on her and Tina, he says, “And Tina’s taking care of her, anyway. She doesn’t need me. She’s fine.” He shifts closer; his drink sloshes over the rim of his cup, and a few drops splatter my bare foot. My muscles clench, but I don’t move. “Are you fine?”
“So fine.” I’m suddenly very aware of all the ways my body is working to keep me fine: the thud of my heart, the rush of blood through arteries and veins, the sloshing of acid in my stomach and intestines. “So where are the famous horses? I was promised horses.”
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