by Jenn Bennett
And I might’ve done exactly that if someone hadn’t pounded against my shoulder blades. “Yo, Vincent. Let me in, man,” a muffled male voice complained from the other side of the door. “Nature’s calling. And it’s time for the movie.”
“Dammit,” Jack mumbled against my neck before letting me slowly slide between the door and his hard body until my tiptoes reached the ground. I tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let me. Not until he’d dropped another kiss on my lips and a couple more on my eyelids. And this just made me want to start up all over again.
More pounding. “Vincent! You hear me in there?”
“I hear you,” he answered in a rough voice. “Give me a sec.”
He held me at arm’s length, fingers gripping my shoulders, and he blew out a long, dramatic breath.
“Are you sure you are?” I whispered. Because, virgin or not, hell’s bells, that was good.
He grinned. “Pretty sure.”
Could’ve fooled me.
WHEN WE WALKED OUTSIDE, RINKY-DINK BACKYARD fireworks were popping and whistling around the neighborhood. Most of the party had gathered on the main deck to watch the movie, and as Jack made some final adjustments to the projector, I ignored the stares and found a space at the back of Sierra’s cushion mountain. I leaned one striped pillow against the stone bench seating and watched a couple of the boys light an entire box of sparklers at once. I was pretty sure Jack and I were the only sober people there, but I couldn’t have cared less.
I don’t think he cared, either, because he was all smiles as he announced “one of the greatest cinema treasures of all time”—a martial arts flick from 1973, Enter the Dragon, which I’d never heard of, starring Bruce Lee, whom I had. But when the deck lights were turned off and the movie raced across the white sheet, I couldn’t tell you a single thing about the plot. I was too busy being ridiculously happy inside the circle of Jack’s arm, which curled over my shoulders, and too busy memorizing how his chest felt under my cheek. And every time I tried to steal a glance at the movie’s white glow reflected in his face, he was smiling down at me.
But after the movie was over, instead of our retreating into his room—which is what I was hoping for, in all honestly—the party came to an abrupt end.
“Car out front!” Andy called out. “Hide everything!”
Everyone scurried around the decks, tossing drinks overboard, putting out cigarettes, and hiding the last bottle of Fernet inside the grill. As the madness subsided, the side gate creaked, and a couple walked around the side of the house.
“Might as well get this over with,” Jack mumbled, taking my hand.
“This” turned out to be one person I vaguely recognized: Mayor Vincent, who looked a lot less in a hurry than the first time I’d seen him, at the hospital. And walking at his side was a dark-haired woman in a lavender summer dress.
“You’re home early,” Jack said.
“And on first sight, nothing appears to be on fire,” the woman said, elbowing the mayor.
“Well, not now,” Jack said. “An hour ago, this place was a raging inferno.”
The mayor, who was a touch shorter than his son and wearing khakis and a button-up shirt one shade darker than the woman’s lavender dress, peered hard at Jack’s face. “You been drinking?”
“Tonight?”
“Jackson—”
“Kidding!” Jack said. “Jeez. Lighten up.”
The mayor did not care for this suggestion, like, at all. “I’ll lighten up when one of your friends wrecks his car and says he got drunk at our house. How’s that going to look in front of a judge, huh?”
“No one’s driving, Dad. You can relax. Your reputation remains sterling.”
“We’ll talk about this later. In the meantime, why don’t you make sure everyone gets to the Muni stop without waking the whole damn neighborhood.”
Yikes. His father was kind of scary—definitely not the smooth and friendly Mayor McDreamy I knew from the news. Not like I’d ever really paid much attention to him before Jack walked into my life. But still. Kind of a jackass, just like he was when I first saw him that afternoon at the hospital. And he had barely even looked my way, unlike the woman at his side, who was studying every stitch in my clothing. Who was this? Did the mayor have a girlfriend? Some sort of escort while his wife was institutionalized? When the woman’s gaze met mine, I expected to see the same kind of dismissive vibe the mayor was giving off. Instead, she smiled like she knew me.
“Hi,” she said, one oddly familiar dimple making an appearance as she extended a hand. “You must be Beatrix. I’m Marlena Vincent, Jackson’s mother.”
I shook her hand robotically, suddenly seeing how much more Jack looked like his mother than like the mayor. But if this was Jack’s mother, and Jack’s sister was overseas, who was in the hospital?
19
TWO NIGHTS LATER, I GOT THE ANSWER TO THAT question when I walked outside the anatomy lab. Jack was leaning against a tree, one foot up, hands in pockets. My heart leaped. I hadn’t seen him since he dropped me off at my house after the party, after which he apologized for his father’s lack of charisma and his mother’s surplus of it. She was excessively nice. She knew not only my name but my age and what school I went to, and that my mom was a nurse at the hospital. She’d even seen some of my drawings online, and she was “so very glad” Jack had found a “friend” with whom he had something in common.
I didn’t bother correcting that we were no longer “just friends,” since he’d all but melted my pan ties off when he pushed me against the door of his bedroom. And she was so polite, it was difficult to do anything much but be polite right back, especially when King Mayor was there, lording over everyone.
“Hey,” Jack said, pushing off the tree.
“Hi.” I stopped in front of him, feeling a little awkward. He’d kissed me good night when he dropped me off after the party, but it was a tiny, tender kiss, and that had been two days ago. And even though we’d texted and talked on the phone since, both of us had been busy, and now it felt a little like the morning after. What were we supposed to do? Were we together? Could I just jump him right here in front of the premed students strolling up and down the sidewalk? Because I wanted to, but at the same time I was also nervous to touch him. And it didn’t help that he’d called yesterday, sounding all mysterious and saying he wanted to show me something after my drawing session.
“How did it go?” His hands were still in his pockets, which made me feel guarded.
“Fine.” Drawing Minnie was never really fine, but I certainly wasn’t going to provide gruesome details or whip out my sketches. Ever again. “So, what’s on tonight’s agenda?”
“Walk with me?” he asked, extending his hand.
I took it, and he twined his fingers around mine, which instantly made me feel more relaxed. Him too, I guess, because he leaned down and quickly kissed my forehead in front of some professors. And that made my stomach flutter.
After a brisk walk in the twilight, we ended up at a four-story building. The psychiatric hospital. Jack didn’t say anything, just looked down at me like he was asking for approval. And when I nodded, he opened the door and ushered me inside.
The person at the desk recognized him. “I called Dr. Kapoor and got approval for a guest,” Jack said.
After a couple of phone calls, a muscle-bound orderly in green scrubs met us at a locked door, and we headed up in an elevator with him to the third floor. After Jack made introductions, Rupert told him, “Gotta be quick. Don’t want to get her wound up this late, and you know how she is about new people.”
“She might get overly excited,” Jack explained as we walked into a well-lit corridor on a surprisingly modern, pleasantly designed floor. Bright artwork filled the walls, and plants stretched in front of long windows. “Or she might withdraw. Don’t be offended, either way. It’s not personal.”
She, she, she. Who was this she? He hadn’t said a word about the gossip he’d overheard on the night o
f the party, and I’d been too embarrassed to admit that the person I’d oh-so-wrongly assumed to be his mother was, clearly, not. I greatly regretted my earlier cowardice and wished I’d just asked him. Too late now.
“Does she know I’m coming?” I asked, a slow panic brewing in my stomach.
“Yes. But she gets confused about time, so she might not be expecting you.”
“She’s expecting,” Rupert said. “She’s been talking nonstop about it since dinner. You tell her all the rules?” he said, motioning his head toward me.
“What rules?” I asked.
“Don’t give her anything,” Jack said. “And don’t let her take anything, either. No cords, no electronics, no shoelaces, no metal or glass.”
“Anything can be a weapon,” Rupert said. A weapon she’d use on me? Shoelaces? Would she try to strangle me?
“And don’t try to shake her hand or anything,” Jack added. “She sometimes gets freaked about touching.”
We passed a set of double doors marked DAY ROOM ONE and headed to a patient wing, passing a couple of nurses along the way. Other than that, it was quiet, which seemed bizarre—no screaming and wailing like the psych wards on TV. Midway down the corridor, a door cracked open and a head poked out, just for a moment. And all my slow panic speeded up significantly.
“Fifteen minutes,” Rupert said. “I’ll be at the end of the hall when you’re ready.”
Jack took a deep breath and knocked on the door before opening it. “It’s just me.”
No reply came. I followed him into a small private room that smelled of cigarette smoke. A darkened bathroom sat to the left of the entrance, and further in, the rest matched my mental image of a college dorm room: white walls, tiled floor, chunky wooden table, and some built-in shelves. A single bed sat under a window, and on the bed was a chubby girl who had short, dark hair and wore pink pajamas.
“Yo, Jillie,” Jack said. “I brought someone to meet you, just like I promised.”
Jillie. Jillian.
His sister was definitely not at a European boarding school.
The girl appeared to be our age. She looked relatively normal. No crazy eyes. Well, at least not that I could tell, because she wouldn’t look at me directly. She blinked a lot and tugged on a curling lock of hair at the back of her neck.
“Jillie, this is my friend Beatrix. Bex, this is Jillian, my twin sister.”
Twins.
I didn’t know what to say, but she still wasn’t looking at me, and things were getting uncomfortable. So I just said, “Hi there.”
It was enough to warm her up. She flicked a couple of furtive glances my way. Then she surprised me. “Jack told me about you. It’s your birthday.”
“Was her birthday,” Jack corrected. “A few weeks ago.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’m allergic to dairy, so I can’t have cake,” she said, picking up a pack of cigarettes hidden beneath a stuffed frog on her windowsill.
“You got your lighter back?” Jack asked.
“Out of pity,” she said. “Dr. Kapoor will eventually take it away. He always does.”
The window opened only partially, allowing a few inches of fresh air before a set of chains went taut. With shaking hands, Jillian lit up a cigarette and blew smoke through the cracked window. “They don’t want you to jump,” she said, catching me staring at the chains. “On the fifth floor, you can’t even open the windows.”
“The fifth floor blows,” Jack said, pulling out a chair from her table and gesturing for me to sit. He then perched on the bed next to Jillian. “You okay today?”
She drew her knees up to her chest. “Not really. Well, I guess I am. Pretty good. Yeah. Sort of.” She floundered as if she truly wasn’t sure how to answer, and took a long drag off her cigarette. “It’s not a bad day.”
“Excellent. I’m glad to hear it.”
“You’re really tiny,” Jillian said to me. “What’s your shoe size?”
I thought about the shoestring warning. Was she angling for my shoes? I fought the urge to hide my feet behind my sketchbook satchel. “Uh, five?”
“That’s small. I miss buying shoes. We only get the slip-ons,” she said, nodding toward a pair of Vans that were decorated with painted zigzags on the flaps. Then she tapped Jack on the shoulder. “Remember those purple heels Mom told me I couldn’t have? She said they looked like porn star shoes.”
“I remember,” Jack said.
“They had the bows on the straps. I loved those bows. Why do bows make everything cuter? If you have a shitty present you want to give someone, you can slap on bow on it, and then it’s okay. Doesn’t really matter what’s inside. If it’s wrapped nicely, no one is going to complain. And really, anyone who complains about a present is a dick. Unless it’s an inten—” She grimaced, sucking in a sharp breath, then tried again. “An in-ten-tionally bad present. Like, maybe if you hate someone, but you’re forced to give them a gift in one of those white elephant tiger safari exchanges.”
“Like at Christmas,” Jack supplied. “White elephant.”
“White elephant,” she repeated. “But not us. You already know what I’m getting you for Christmas. Another lame portrait.”
My gaze jumped to the wall at the foot of her bed. A collection of things was taped there: a green felt-tip marker, a packet of sugar, a rubber duck, and six paintings of faces. One was an alien man who matched the alien woman in Jack’s room.
“Shut up. I love your portraits,” he said.
Jillian ducked her head and beamed. “You shut up,” she said affectionately, squinting at him from the crook of her arm. Not crazy eyes, no. But there was something different about them, a weird, glassy look, as if she were drunk or high. The trembling hands and chain-smoking didn’t help.
“I remember seeing the”—crap. What if it wasn’t an alien?—“uh, the green one hanging on your brother’s wall.”
“You’ve been to his room?” She said this like it was an accusation.
I looked at Jack. Help me out here.
“That’s right, she has,” he said smoothly. “Not my old room. The guesthouse.”
“I remember,” she said irritably, flicking her cigarette butt out the window and lighting up another. The girl was a machine.
“Rupert said you need to go to sleep soon. Maybe you should make that one the last of the night.”
She ignored him and spoke to me. “I see why Jack likes you.”
“Oh?”
“You’re a lake.”
“A lake,” I repeated.
“What do you mean?” Jack said.
She tugged the curl at her neck. “Calm like a lake. Still water.”
If only she knew how crazy my life actually was under the surface, what with my sneaking around behind my mom’s back to draw dead bodies, being questioned by the police for romantic crimes committed by my felonious boyfriend, and having my cheating, gift-giving father trying to woo his way back into my heart.
“He’s got enough craziness in his life, so you’re the opposite,” she said, fanning smoke away. “And by craziness, yeah, I mean me. Did he tell you why I’m here?”
“Jillie,” he cautioned.
“It’s better to talk about it openly—that’s what Dr. Kapoor says. And it’s not like I’m here because I’m on vacation. I’m schizoid. I hear voices in my head. Sometimes I see things that make me feel like I’m dreaming while I’m awake. And I’m not dreaming. I’m just screwed up, and they can’t fix me.”
“They can, and they are,” Jack said.
“Okay, maybe I’m a little better.”
“A lot,” Jack said.
“Yeah, a lot,” she said dreamily. “Sometimes I’m a lot better. I really thought I was going to come home this summer until they nearly killed me with meds.”
“But they straightened it out.”
She laughed loudly and then spoke in a low, singsong voice. “ ‘Doctor, she hasn’t tried to kill herself lately. Better fill her full of poison to stay
on track.’ ” She made a gurgling sound effect and pantomimed swallowing a bottleful of pills.
“Not funny,” Jack said, pulling down her arm.
“I didn’t say it was.” She sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “But it’s all good now, because these old meds are the best. They make me feel pro . . . um, pro-duc-tive, and the doctors had to up my dose, so now I get a little buzz off them.”
“Jillie—”
“You want to know what it’s like,” she said to me in a flat voice. She was looking in my direction, but I wasn’t sure if she really saw me. “Everyone wants to know. It’s better to talk about it when I can, because sometimes I can’t, so I’ll tell you. It’s like when someone offers you candy, and you think, ‘I want that,’ but then another part of you says, ‘Sugar is bad for you.’ And for a moment you’re torn, because you’re not sure if you should eat the candy, and a little war goes on inside your brain. That’s what happens to me all day long. A little war in my head. And it stresses me out. And the more I get stressed out, the more soldiers join the war, and sometimes a few of those soldiers will start talking to me. Then it’s like a running commentary playing in the background, judging every move I make.”
“That sounds frustrating,” I said.
“That’s a nice way of putting it.” She made a grunting noise and closed her eyes. “What was I saying? God. The rambling. It’s enough to drive me crazy.” She gave me a quick smile before turning to Jack and smacking herself on the forehead. “Oh, yeah! Hey, I have a new puzzle for you. Can I show it? I know it’s our secret, but she’s been inside your room, so she can see it, right?”
“Yes,” Jack said, smiling at me from the bed. “She’s a good secret keeper.”
Jillian mumbled something to herself and furtively glanced over both her shoulders before tossing the second cigarette out the window. Then she ducked her head below the bed and whipped out a manila folder overflowing with wrinkled papers. “I lost the new one. . . . Oh, wait. Here it is.”