7 Souls

by Barnabas Miller; Jordan Orlando

  Was he really beating up Scott Sanders this morning? Mary wondered, hugging Pete back. Did that really happen? Did I dream it?

  If Scott had been at the party, she would have interrogated him again—but, of course, he wasn’t there. Scott’s evenings were a mystery that nobody particularly wanted to solve; he was probably off having his own brand of fun, seeing Iron Man 2 in IMAX for the twentieth time or something.

  “Mary, Mary, Mary,” Joon said, placing her hands on both sides of Mary’s face, staring into her eyes from up close. Mary could see the lamplight glinting in Joon’s green eyes as she smiled a nasty smile. “Have a drink and chill. I promise you—it’s going to be one crazy night.”

  4

  9:12 P.M.

  THE PULSE WAS ALL around her, vibrating under her feet, sending tremors through the pale white lamp shades and the black wooden picture frames on the white walls. Pounding drums and shredding guitar and voices upon voices upon yet more voices, a screaming soprano section chiming in over the pounding bass like a sky full of cackling seagulls, warning of a storm still too far off the coast to see.

  Mary was slamming a Patrón Silver shot that Patrick had just handed her. Her eyes watered from the explosive force of the tequila. Patrick had his arm around her bare shoulders. The sensation was disorienting, even though it shouldn’t have been. The room was packed, filled with Chadwick students and dozens of other people she didn’t recognize. The deafening kick drum was pounding its way through a mashup of 50 Cent’s “In Da Club” and the Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive.” At the edge of the big living room, a circle of well-coiffed older boys in V-necks and jeans and flip-flops stood at the doorway like a greeting committee gone wrong, barking out lyrics to each other and sharing long, meaningful man-hugs. She had never seen so many straight men hugging in her life—someone was already passing out the Ecstasy.

  “So who’s that guy, anyway?” Patrick grinned down at her. He pointed at Dylan, who was across the room at one of the bottle-covered side tables (credenzas, she corrected herself) pouring scotch into a plastic cup. Joon was next to Mary, dancing in place while gazing around regally, like a Korean Alicia Keys.

  “Just a boy,” Mary said. “A friend of Ellen’s.”

  “A friend of Ellen’s,” Trick repeated, frowning.

  “My sister—?”

  “Right, right—duh.” Patrick was barely listening; she noticed that he was scanning the crowd. “Mase!”

  Mary flinched as Patrick bellowed, practically screaming in her ear. Following his gaze, she was dismayed to see Trick’s ubiquitous dealer friend, Mason, a shirtless, gel-shellacked skeev whose last name Mary had never learned. Mason was gyrating on the makeshift dance floor, waving his huge steroid-enhanced biceps. His gangsta jeans barely clung to his white Calvin Klein briefs. Mason’s face was frozen in a pursed-lips, intense squint as he danced, grinding up against a skinny little tweaker girl in a hoochie dress who was shaking her nonexistent junk like she was auditioning for Flavor of Love. He apparently hadn’t heard Patrick’s shout, which was fine with Mary.

  “Patrick, don’t—” Mary flinched, getting ready to hide from view.

  “Mason! Get over here!” Patrick shouted, waving. “My man—”

  Mason did a cartoonlike double take, peering around with his fists in the air before seeing Patrick (His meal ticket, Mary thought sourly) and beaming with exaggerated delight. “Mr. Dawes,” he bellowed, immediately losing interest in the tweaker girl and propelling himself toward them. He was talking to Trick but staring at Mary the way he always did—the way a starving dog stares at a steak.

  “Yum, yum,” Joon said lasciviously, gazing at Mason’s perfect torso, a black-and-white underwear billboard come to life. “Work it, Mase! That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “Solid, man, solid,” Mason intoned, arriving in a cloud of Axe body spray and loudly clasping hands with Patrick. “This is the shiznit!”

  His eyes are dead, Mary noticed as Mason predictably sized her up, scanning her body up and down, before leaning in for a kiss. He’s got to be completely methed out. The tweaker girl stood to one side, forgotten. “There’s my girl—’sup, Mary? I got a birthday present if you want it.”

  “I’m not your girl,” Mary said. It was incredible that Mason would hit on her with Trick’s arm around her, but he did it every time. She forced herself not to look at his pecs and washboard stomach as she stared back. “Touch me and I’ll slap you.”

  “Whoa! I been told—” Mason recoiled comically. “’Sup, Joon?”

  “Hello, darling,” Joon murmured, accepting Mason’s cheek kiss, brushing her fingers across his oversize upper arm. “Mmm—that’s what a boy’s shaped like.”

  “Mase, are you heavy?” Patrick was frowning—Mary noticed something protruding from the back of Mason’s low-slung jeans. “That’s not cool—”

  “Of course, man—you want to see it?” Mason’s eyes lit up like glossy cue balls. “Check this shit out, man—”

  “No—Jesus, Mase—”

  Before Patrick could stop him, Mason had reached back and pulled an automatic handgun from his pants. The gun gleamed in the amber lamplight as he held it out in his palm—Mary felt a cold wave of dread as she stared at its flawless brushed-satin finish. “Safety’s on,” Mason assured them as both girls gasped. “It’s all good.”

  “Wow,” Joon said, her eyes bulging as she stared. “Can I hold it?”

  “You can hold my gun anytime,” Mason agreed, handing the firearm to Joon. It sagged in her slim hand and she nearly dropped it. “You want to come shooting, baby? I’ll totally take you down to the range—”

  “This is so—wow,” Joon murmured, awkwardly turning the gun around, her eyes wide. Mary was terrified—she could barely stop herself from dropping to the floor in a blind panic. “Check this out, Mary! It’s so heavy, but it fits in your hand like—”

  “No guns!” Patrick was looking around nervously, but the crowd was too thick for anyone to have seen. “Come on, man—no guns! Put it away, Mase!”

  “No, no, no!” Mary insisted, but it was too late—before she knew what was happening Joon was pushing the gun into her palm. The black steel was like heavy ice against her fingers. “I don’t want to hold it!”

  “Chill, Dawes, chill….” Mason smoothly retrieved the weapon, stuffing it back into his jeans. “I wouldn’t have whipped it out, but you had to ask if I—”

  “Are you fucking crazy?” Mary shouted in Mason’s face. The feel of the gun lingered on her fingers. “Get the hell out of my party right now, you fucking—”

  “You are so fine, Mary—especially when you get mad,” Mason intoned, moving his pelvis toward her suggestively. Mary recoiled, disgusted. Mason did this every time—hit on her with all the nuance and subtlety of a dog humping a person’s leg—and there didn’t seem to be any way to stop him from doing it, more intensely each time.

  “No, it’s cool,” Patrick said smoothly, taking Mary’s empty shot glass and producing another, as if by magic. “He’s cool; he’s cool. Have another shot, Mary.”

  She did, and the warm fire of the smooth tequila flowed through her like spreading wings. Mason—adaptable as always—had turned his attention completely to Joon. He made exaggerated hip-hop gestures as he leaned to talk in her ear. Around them, the party seemed to be thickening. Sweaty, tatted, shirtless white boys, their Sean John jeans hanging off their Hilfiger boxers, were grinding up against a mix of Eighth Street skanks and young Park Avenue fashionistas, as Philippe, the Peninsula bellboy, pushed a hand truck stocked with wine and champagne. Mary’s blood pressure returned to normal as the smooth vibe of the party calmed her nerves. She was floating on a beautiful wave of bliss; the first good feeling she’d had since the day began. The feeling was intoxicating. It was hitting her at least as hard as the alcohol.

  “Listen,” Patrick said, “I hope that wasn’t too lame, this morning.”

  “What do you mean, ‘lame’?” Mary wrinkled her nose, lo
oking up at him. Her eyes were watering from the force of the tequila shot. “It was awful. It was, like, totally devastating.” She pouted. “You do a mean breakup, Trick!”

  “Time to dance,” Joon announced abruptly, curling her arm around Mason’s bare abdomen and pulling him toward the gyrating couples behind her. “Come on, sexy—let’s go find the groove.”

  “Should we come with you?” Mary asked. Mason made her nervous, no matter what Trick said.

  “You stay with Captain Crack Pipe,” Joon shouted back over the squeaking Bee Gees. “I’ll come find you later.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Patrick said, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her forehead. “Don’t worry—enjoy your party.”

  The feel of Patrick’s body against hers was more comforting than she’d ever known it could be. I’ve got him back—what a relief, she admitted to herself. My God, what a relief. Because that was no fun at all.

  It was strange to have all her conspiracy theories confirmed, in such a nice way, but Mary wasn’t complaining. It was flattering—all the trouble they’d gone to just to fool her—the warm sensation of being liked, being needed, flowed through her like a rising tide. That feeling had been missing all day, and she welcomed it back.

  Everything makes sense now.

  Patrick had taken his hands from her shoulders, snagging himself another shot from a tray and bumping fists with someone she didn’t recognize. He put his arm around her waist—and his forearm brushed against the scratches on her lower back.

  Except everything doesn’t make sense. And you know it.

  Mary pushed the thought away. Stop that—just relax and have fun, she told herself angrily. It was clear that something was missing—the pieces didn’t all fit together—but she refused to think about it anymore. Instead, she gazed over at Joon, who had begun dancing with Mason.

  I was being tactless, Mary realized as she watched her friend. I shouldn’t have said that about the ‘totally devastating’ breakup—that wasn’t very nice.

  Because Joon had been on the receiving end of a Patrick Dawes “devastating” breakup—except it had been real.

  As soon as I said that, she left. I should have kept my mouth shut.

  It was an odd realization. The pounding bass was shaking her body like a leaf fluttering in a strong wind as she gazed through the crowd, trying to think clearly despite the cloud of alcohol in her brain.

  I was being mean to Joon. Just now, without knowing it.

  Who else am I being mean to?

  There was an obvious answer to that. Mary disengaged from Patrick’s possessive grip on her waist and began moving purposefully through the crowd.

  She finally managed to propel herself across the room—everyone she passed stopped her to say happy birthday, some hugging, some kissing, some high-fiving—and came up behind Dylan, reaching for his wool-sheathed shoulder. He didn’t seem to know anyone else at the party, and being the only guy in the room wearing a suit made him look even more out of place. He turned around, saw her and raised his drink.

  “Hey,” Dylan said, affably enough. “So, it turns out you’re not single after all.”

  “Yeah,” Mary said, nodding. “Awkward, huh? I’m sorry.”

  Dylan frowned as he shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault. I don’t mind.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.” Dylan seemed profoundly unconcerned—but then, she thought, he could be faking it, just to be polite. “Look, if anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I should have realized it wasn’t plausible that you’d been dumped.” He looked embarrassed. “I mean—anyway, I called Ellen just now, and she couldn’t figure out what I was doing here. When I explained that I’d asked you out, she was like, ‘You idiot.’ And she’s right—I mean, if I’d taken a second and checked with her first, you know, I would have known better. She made me feel really stupid.”

  Mary felt ashamed, suddenly. She knew the booze was intensifying the feeling, but she couldn’t help it. Her face was turning red—she could feel the flush through the tequila—and she turned away from Dylan, looking back across the crowd to where Mason and Joon were dancing. His enormous upper arms contrasted pleasantly with his narrow waist and ripped abdomen—Joon moved closer to him, leveling a regal glance his way. The girl who’d been dancing with Mason before—the one Joon had effortlessly brushed aside—was a few feet away, Mary saw; she was pretending to talk to a pair of girlfriends, but she looked upset.

  “Happy birthday!”

  A younger girl, yelling right in Mary’s face: Ally Kleiger, a junior she barely knew. Ally’s friend Chloe something (Chloe Dennis, she remembered) smiled nervously beside her. Both girls wore what looked like New Jersey prom dresses; the effect was all wrong, but, Mary thought, they’d have another year to get these things right. “We love you,” Chloe yelled earnestly. “We totally love you.”

  “Even though you never call us back,” Ally added. Everyone was yelling over the music.

  “We don’t mind!” Chloe said generously. Both juniors were completely plastered. “You don’t have to call us back!”

  “Listen, I’m going to go,” Dylan interrupted. He put his cup down, a little too firmly, on the coffee table behind him. “Thanks for inviting me along.”

  “‘Thanks’?” Mary raised her eyebrows and poked Dylan in the lapel. Her movements were too broad, too over-dramatic, but she couldn’t help it. It was the tequila, on top of the martini and wine. “Come on—you volunteered to come with me and I told you not to.” That hadn’t come out right. “What I mean is, I didn’t know I was inviting you to a party.”

  “Maybe you wouldn’t have,” Dylan said easily. He was gazing levelly across the party, and Mary realized that he was looking at Patrick. “All things considered.”

  “That’s not what I meant either,” Mary said.

  “Well, I’m still going to take off.”

  “Stick around! Have another drink.”

  “Thanks anyway,” Dylan said, beginning to turn away toward the door.

  “We never had dinner,” she blurted out. “Maybe we can have dinner another time.”

  “The next time your boyfriend pretends to break up with you? No, that’s okay. Happy birthday, Mary.”

  “I’m sorry,” she called out. The music was so loud that it wasn’t clear if he’d heard her or not. “I’m really sorry.”

  “That’s all right.” Dylan smiled, leaning in so she could hear him. “I should have known better, that’s all. I learned my lesson.”

  He waved and moved away and the crowd closed around him. Mary could just make out the back of his shaggy head as he got to the suite’s wide front door and pulled it open against the tide of partiers. Then he was gone.

  He learned his lesson, Mary thought, turning away and groping for a champagne glass. He should have known better than to ask me out.

  A murmur went through the crowd right then—a gasp that spread like pond ripples—and Mary was nearly knocked over by the elbows and backs of the partiers behind her. Turning around, she saw a commotion at the center of the dancing crowd.

  What the hell—?

  “What was that, bitch?” a young man was yelling over the pounding music. Mary didn’t recognize the voice—she pushed between bodies, trying to get closer. “What was that?”

  “Back off, man,” came the low, threatening reply. The voice was familiar. Mary could see clearly now; she’d gotten close enough to spot Mason, in the middle of a ring of dancers who’d stopped moving and turned to watch him face off against another skeevy boy—a tall, stoop-shouldered teenager in a Giants jersey and a backwards baseball cap. The kid’s head was shaved, and he was so skinny that sinews and veins protruded from his smooth arms like wax dripping down the side of a candle. “Back off—you don’t want to do this, man,” Mason told him, the track lights gleaming off his sweat-oiled muscles.

  “Fight! Fight!” Some of the football team at the back of the crowd began chanting. Joon was still dancing, apparently uncon
cerned, but the rest of the crowd had drawn back, making a clearing around the two combatants. Mary saw the faces of the other dancers, eyes widened in shock or surprise, but she couldn’t see anything else. All around, people were talking, leaning to whisper in each other’s ears, but there was no way to tell what had happened, how the confrontation had begun.

  “You want to go, bitch?” The skinny kid lunged forward, shoving Mason in the shoulders. “You want to fucking mess with me?”

  The crowd went ahhh—Mary could hear it clearly over the music. Joon stopped dancing, stumbling backward as Mason and the kid in the baseball cap scuffled, and then there was a blur of motion and a tumbling, thumping noise.

  Bang! A deafening blast filled the room; Mary felt her ears pop. It sounded like something had exploded, like one of Patrick’s glass coffee tables (one of the hotel’s glass coffee tables) had cracked and shattered. The crowd gasped again, pulling away like scattering pigeons from the gleaming black object on the carpeted floor. A girl screamed.

  Mason’s gun, Mary realized incredulously. Oh my God, his gun went off—

  “Break it up!”

  Trick’s voice had lost all its languid cadences; suddenly he was right there, pushing the skinny kid backward as Mason stooped to retrieve his gun and Joon stood motionless, pinned in place with her hands pressed against her mouth. “You fucking asshole, you want to get me kicked out of here? Both of you”—Patrick’s chiseled face was bright red; Mary had never seen him so angry—“both of you take it outside.”

  The crowd was pushing backward, everyone trying to get as far away from the fight and the weapon as they could. Five or six people tumbled into Mary and she nearly lost her balance. I’m drunk, she thought dazedly as she spun her arms, trying to stay upright. The kid in the baseball cap made for the suite’s front door and the crowd cheered. Then Patrick was handing Mason a crumpled T-shirt (the one he arrived in, Mary assumed) and pushing him toward the door. “I can’t have it, man,” Trick was telling Mason, shaking his head; Mary could barely hear over the endlessly pounding drumbeats, but the crowd seemed to be laughing again, like everything was all right. When she tried to locate Joon, she couldn’t find her; she was wondering what to do about that when somebody pressed a fresh glass of champagne into her hand and she gratefully gulped it down.