Black Iris

by Leah Raeder

  “Oh, fuck off. You really think I’d lie to you?”

  “That’s what friends do.”

  “I’m not that kind of friend.” Her hand trailed to my jaw, her fingers soft. “You can’t even see it. You have the most perfect little doll’s face.”

  A charge prickled over my skin, turning every nerve up to full brightness. I pulled away.

  “Seriously,” I muttered. “I don’t want some skeezy dude.”

  “I’m trying to get you laid, not bloody married.”

  “Not interested.”

  “You’re a teenage girl. Your libido could solve the global energy crisis.” She grazed my elbow with a fingernail, and I jumped. “See? Way too tense.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Two Xanax deep and still grinding your teeth.”

  “So you’re a doctor now, too?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’re always defensive when you’re hiding something. I’ll figure it out.”

  God, wasn’t it obvious?

  Arms McStud and his buddies were still watching us. One licked a finger and ran it over his crotch.

  Blythe exhaled in their direction. “That’s about as sexy as a dog licking its balls.”

  They broke into lupine grins. McStud threw his head back and howled.

  “And you want to hook me up with that,” I said.

  “No.” She ground her cigarette in the ash can. “I want to fuck with the male gaze.”

  “Blythe, don’t do something crazy.”

  “Are you in?”

  “God. Okay. Yes.”

  She flung an arm around my shoulders and before I could react, she bit my earlobe, hard. It took all my self-control not to yelp. The guys fell silent. I couldn’t move. Teeth touching tender flesh. Hot breath melting my spine into mercury. Sensory overload. Finally she pulled away and the guys started catcalling again, but this time it was stuff like So fucking hot and Now make out.

  Blythe walked us to the door. Her face was pure smugness.

  “You could’ve warned me,” I said, a little breathily.

  “It’s no fun that way.”

  She didn’t let go till we reached the bar, and when her arm dropped I felt a pang of loss and thought, Careful.

  I’d been to Umbra almost every night since July. By now it was home. Tonight Armin deejayed in the underground room, the Oubliette. Each wing had its own theme: the Oubliette was a dungeon full of dry ice and filthy raw electro-house, while the Aerie on the top floor was high and open, percolating with sugary pop. Blythe liked the main room, the Cathedral, best, because that was where you went to be seen.

  “Sex on the Beach, please,” she told the bartender. My favorite.

  He eyed me dubiously while he fixed her drink. I clasped her hand, passing her an oxy. We both tucked our hair back and tongued the pills from our palms in perfect sync. The simplest way to not get caught doing a bad thing is to do it in front of everyone. Because most people are good—or scared, which is the same thing, functionally—and good people associate badness with guilt. Skulking, hiding. Lurking in the dark. They assume you feel their shame, that you’ll try to hide your sins. They try to catch you in the shadows. No one looks for badness in the light.

  The bartender nudged a glass across the counter.

  “Cheers,” Blythe said, tipping her head back. Her mouth was a ruby kiss through the sunset colors of the drink. When she gave me the glass I turned it till the imprint of her lip balm faced me.

  She watched me drink. Her gaze touched my throat like fingertips.

  Afterward we wandered through the club. Blythe was restless, never stopping to dance or banter with the guys who hit on her. We crossed the Cathedral twice before heading downstairs. The oxy had started to kick in, blurring the edges off everything. No more hard surfaces. My feet didn’t hit the steps but touched down in soft white cloud, and that cool numbness twined around my legs, inscribing my veins with frost.

  Blythe stopped suddenly in the middle of the stairway. People forked around us.

  “When are you going to let me read your book?” she said.

  This conversation again.

  “I told you, it’s not that good.”

  She came back up the steps, looming. “And I told you, that shit needs to breathe. If you keep it locked inside, it’ll rot. It’ll become so insular and personal it won’t mean anything to anyone but you.”

  “It’s already too personal.”

  “All the more reason to let it out.”

  “It’s stupid teenage diary bullshit, Blythe.”

  “Keats died at twenty-five. Shelley was twenty-nine. Byron, thirty-six. Their stupid teenage diary bullshit is now considered high art.”

  “I’m not Lord fucking Byron.”

  “You’re a terrible judge of your own work, like every writer who’s worth a shit.”

  I looked up at the ceiling. “You’re going to ruin it. Just let it go.”

  “Ruin what?”

  “The mystery. Before you know someone, you build them up in your head.”

  She winced. She actually looked hurt. “You think I don’t know you. That I’ve got some fantasy in my head. Laney Keating, tortured artist, undiscovered genius.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “How do you think I see you, then?”

  Perfect little doll’s face. “I think we all have illusions about each other.”

  “Christ, this pompous crap sounds like Armin.”

  It was true. And I could feel everything careening in the wrong direction, so I blurted, “Fine. You can read it. But only if you swear not to show him.”

  The sparkle instantly returned to her eyes. She smiled, and I could imagine the proverbial bird feathers between her teeth.

  “I knew I’d wear you down. Deal.”

  “You manipulative bitch,” I said.

  “A bitch is a woman who gets what she wants.”

  “Then you are the biggest bitch ever. And you swear you won’t show him.”

  She laughed.

  “I’m serious, Blythe.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  I grabbed her shoulder. Her inked skin was soft. “Donnie’s the only one who’s read it. I don’t want anyone else to see. Only you.”

  She peered into my face. Too close. Her eyes were so pale and clear the light went straight through, flashing off the silvery backs like a mirror. The sudden intensity unnerved me.

  “When will you really trust me?” Her breath was sweet, orange spiked with vodka. “Is there a secret test?”

  Not for you, I thought. Never for you.

  I opened my mouth and someone staggered into me, spinning me half around.

  Some club guy. I didn’t recognize him, but I sensed Blythe tensing.

  “Watch your fucking step, mate.”

  He shot me a smile. It was Arms McStud, beer bottle in one hand.

  “Sorry there. I was distracted by your friend.” His real focus was on Blythe. “You ladies like a drink?”

  “We’re good,” I said.

  He kept smiling, as if I’d said something cute. “How about a dance?”

  “We’re good,” I repeated, firmer.

  The guy looked at me, his smile snapping flat like a jackknife. “Ugly Friend can wait until the tens are done talking.”

  It struck somewhere in my solar plexus. Welcome back to high school, Laney.

  Blythe stared at him icily. “You’ve got five seconds to get the fuck out of my face.”

  The smile returned. He looked at her, then me, disbelieving.

  “Four,” Blythe said.

  “Hey.” The guy elbowed me aside, towering over us. “Let’s try this again. I’m—”

  “Tired of counting,” Blythe said, and shoved a palm into his thick c
hest.

  He lost his balance, tripping on a step and sitting down hard. His beer tipped into his lap and foamed over his jeans. His face went red as raw meat.

  He stared balefully up at us both. Settled on Blythe.

  “You slut.”

  I knew it was coming, and still I flinched. She didn’t.

  McStud pulled himself up with one arm, giving us a good view of roid bulge laced with veins. His T-shirt looked painted on, tight as skin. “You’re going to regret that, slut.”

  My jaw clenched. “Stop talking.”

  He ignored me. He was locked in some eye duel with Blythe, both of them wearing the same grim, avid expression, alpha versus alpha. A crazed energy crackled between them, almost sexual. With plunging dismay I realized I could envision her fucking this guy. This stone-dumb sexist piece of shit.

  “I know you,” McStud said. “You’re the Aussie whore they pass around. Any dick here you haven’t sucked yet?”

  “Just yours.”

  He laughed. Music throbbed below us, a deep dull ache.

  “Let me buy you a drink,” he said incongruously, switching the charm back on. Typical pickup tactic: neg the girl, then woo her.

  Blythe smiled her heartbreaker smile. “You’re not great at reading the situation, mate. Here’s a little hint: fuck off.”

  The charm dissolved. He glanced at me again, seemed to see me for the first time. I mentally cringed in anticipation of what came next. When a girl doesn’t fall to pieces over some pheromone-drenched caveman, she’s one of two things. She’s either ugly like me, or—

  “Not worth it,” he said. “Couple of dykes.”

  All I saw was the blood. I didn’t even see Blythe hit him. Just a brilliant bouquet of liquid red petals bursting in his face.

  People surged around us, yelling, grabbing, stopping the fight, and in the chaos I got pushed to the back of the crowd. Someone had Blythe by the elbows, holding her while she writhed like a wildcat. They lifted McStud to his feet as he spouted off about suing the club and the drunk slut for all they were worth. Blythe didn’t flinch. In her eyes I caught a maniacal glint of delight.

  “You stupid cunt,” she crowed at him. “You can’t slut-shame me if I love being a slut.”

  Two minutes later, bouncers dumped us all on the street.

  ———

  By the time McStud ducked into a cab with one last Cro-Magnon glower, all the fight had drained from Blythe. We sat on a curb in a pool of warm whiskey streetlight, heads hanging, hair tumbling over our knees. Blythe flipped her cigarette box end over end. Nervous habit.

  “Armin’s going to kill me,” she said.

  I held out my hand for a cig.

  We lit up, sent smoke spiraling into the light. A police siren wailed far away, keening and lonely, melancholy.

  “Why’d you hit that guy?” I said.

  “Because he’s a fucking useless prick.”

  I raised an eyebrow. She raised one back.

  “And it improved his face.”

  We started giggling.

  “It’s not funny,” I said. “They’ll ban us for life. They’ll deport you.”

  “So stop laughing, you lunatic.”

  “I can’t if you won’t.”

  This made her laugh harder. She tried to take a drag and smeared blood on her lip.

  “You’re bleeding,” I said, alarmed.

  “It’s mostly his.” She scrubbed her hand over her mouth, spreading that rusty redness, then smiled, more of a leer. “Am I still pretty, Laney?”

  God, yes. “You look feral.”

  Blythe threw her head back, roared hoarsely at the sky. Sweat glazed her neck, freckled with stray glitter from the club, like stardust.

  “Why’d you hit him, really?”

  She scraped her cigarette on the pavement, painting a trail of sparks. “Because he deserved it. Because of how he treated you.”

  “Not because of that slut stuff?”

  “A girl who likes sex is a slut. A guy who likes sex is a stud.” Blythe crushed her cig messily, a confetti of ash and ember spraying up over her hand. “Double standard crap. I’m doing my part to spread feminist enlightenment.”

  “One broken nose at a time.”

  We laughed. But I thought, You hit him when he called us something else.

  I flicked a pebble into a sewer grate.

  “Don’t let them scare you off,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Blokes like that. They think they’re entitled to my attention because God gave them a dick and the world owes them beautiful women to put it in. They feel threatened by you.”

  My heart quickened. “Why?”

  “Because they don’t understand us.” She squinted into the streetlight. “You and I may as well be speaking our own language. You’re the only one I can really talk to about anything. About everything.”

  The blood on her mouth looked like smudged lipstick. On me it would’ve been deranged, but on her it was weirdly beautiful. Even sitting still she was a hurricane. Always going two hundred miles an hour, so gorgeous in that haphazard, unwound way, the kind that pulled you in and then shredded you up.

  “Want to know the truth?” I said. “I’ve been dying to show you my book. But I’m terrified, too, because then you’ll really know me.” I looked at my hands, my fingers ticking nervously. “I hide myself in my words. There’s a cipher, and one half is in my writing and the other half is in me, and if you have them both then you’ll understand everything. Strangers think it’s just a story, but you’ll know what’s real. You’ll know who I really am.”

  She gave me a sidelong glance.

  “Does that sound crazy?” I said.

  “It sounds exactly like me. I have a confession, too. Armin hasn’t read my new stuff. Only you have.”

  “How come?”

  “He wouldn’t understand.”

  “He’s actually pretty insightful.”

  “Then maybe I don’t want him to understand.”

  I swallowed. Why? I thought, but I already knew.

  Blythe dug into her purse for a tissue. Dabbed her bloody knuckles, wiped her mouth ineffectually.

  “You’re just making it worse.” I touched her wrist. “Here.”

  I got it all except one stubborn spot. She smiled faintly and I decided, Fuck it. Licked my thumb and swabbed the blood from the corner of her mouth, pulling her lower lip open. My hand shook.

  She stared me straight in the eyes. I couldn’t meet that stare.

  “You’re falling for him, aren’t you?” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Armin.”

  I almost fell over. “Are you crazy?”

  “You’ve been twitchy all week. Whenever I bring it up, you dodge the question.”

  “I’ve actually been happy all week.”

  “Then why do you look electrocuted when anyone touches you?”

  Not anyone.

  “Don’t lie to me, Laney. If my best friends are falling for each other, I have a right to know.”

  “Can we stop talking about—” I began, then blinked. “Wait, what?”

  Blythe sighed at the sky. “Christ. My life is a young adult novel.”

  “Did you just say I’m one of your best friends?”

  “You are my best friend, you twit.”

  The planet tilted. Gravity shift. My limbs went ridiculously light, my body made of papier-mâché.

  “Don’t look so shocked,” Blythe said. “It’s no big—”

  I grasped her hand. “You’re my best friend, too.”

  I thought she’d brush it off the way she usually did when things got serious, but she squeezed back, hard. It felt so good. So right. The whole summer was inside of us.

  “Ever get déjà vu abou
t people?” she said. “Like you’ve met them before, somewhere. Maybe in another life.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s fucking weird.”

  “It’s not. I feel like I’ve always known you, Blythe.”

  That trademark smirk slanted over her mouth. “Maybe we were literary giants once. Grandiose and tragic, snuffed out before our time.”

  “Like Scott and Zelda.”

  “The Fitzgeralds. Bloody brilliant. Though if I end up in a sanatorium, it’s your fault.”

  “What if I’m the crazy one?”

  She gave me a droll, knowing look.

  “I’ll never be as good as F. Scott anyway,” I said.

  “Rubbish. You’re halfway there. You’re a self-loathing alcoholic. Now you just need money and talent.”

  I shoved her away. “I’m never showing you anything,” I said, laughing.

  Blythe threw an arm around my neck. “You will. Someday you’ll show me everything.”

  Her face was closer than I realized, her breath warm on my ear. Her expression was gleefully devious but as I looked at her it cleared, steadied, and she returned my gaze a moment too long. My breathing felt strangely pronounced, as if it filled my whole body rather than my lungs.

  I broke eye contact.

  “Hey.” She touched my knee, her voice lower now. “No matter what happens between you and Armin, I’m your friend. You don’t have to hide anything from me.”

  God, how did she not see it?

  “Nothing’s going on with me and him.”

  “Right. That’s why you tell me to fuck off whenever I mention some bloke.”

  “Maybe I don’t want some bloke,” I said impulsively. “Maybe I just want you.”

  It was like I’d fired a gun. She suddenly looked at me. Really looked.

  Everything went off balance again. Lights veered one way, sounds the other. My heart spun in my chest like a toy top. Her eyes danced back and forth, searching mine, her eyelashes glimmering and her mouth so red and soft-looking and sweet and without thinking I leaned in and she did, too, all the blood in me flooding my skull, ringing, roaring, leaving my hands tingling and hollow. Her face tilted toward mine. I mirrored it, started to close my eyes.

  “Blythe?”

  Armin’s voice.

  We both whirled around. A silhouette stood against the streetlight.