Betwixt

by Tara Bray Smith

  “Request.”

  Nix had been planning to meet K.A. that night. D’Amici was taking him to a party at some rich girl’s house — a friend of his sister’s — in Northeast. It was the one thing he had looked forward to in this wreck of a day. He was going to get fucked up, and then he was going to get more fucked up, and then he was going to take dust, and then he was going to go to sleep. In that sleep he was going to figure out a way to get into those tunnels and out onto one of those boats in the ocean, to never come back.

  “You can’t tell me when to take this, man! That’s none of your business! Jesus. What is your deal?”

  “Those are my terms,” the man repeated.

  Nix covered his eyes with his hands. What was going on? How did this guy know him? Why was he even considering obeying his wishes? He felt confused again. Why couldn’t things just be normal, like when he was small, when it was just Bettina and him and his vision hadn’t started to change?

  The man spoke softly but his voice was strong. He raised his right hand. “You must promise, Nicholas Saint-Michael.”

  Saint-Michael. The words echoed in Nix’s head. Saint-Michael. How did he know his name? Nix was too confused to think. Something about that hand — that little X.

  “All right. I promise.” He got up to leave. “But I’m not calling you again, and I don’t want to see you around. Ever. Period,” he threw in, desperate to convince himself.

  For the first time, the man on the bench looked at the younger boy. His eyes were obscured by his glasses, the rest of his face was in shadow — but Nix did notice two things. The stranger was smiling and, despite an odd curve to his incisors that gave him a hungry, wolfish look, that smile, for the first time, didn’t fill Nix with dread.

  DARKNESS HAD SETTLED OVER THE WOODS at the edge of the ragged field past the D’Amici’s white vinyl-sided house. Morgan sat on the front steps and waited for Ondine. She ran her hand along her smooth legs. The night was still. Owls lived in the woods beyond the house and Morgan could hear their solemn cries.

  Ever since she was a girl, she had been afraid of those woods. K.A. and his friends had haunted them almost every day, building forts from scraps of board they’d steal from neighbors’ backyards, catching frogs, playing Indian. The few times Morgan accompanied them, she stayed close to her brother. He allowed it, but boys were boys, and once they had played a prank on her by disappearing. Though she had been alone in the forest, the green light clogging her vision like a flood, she had felt distinctly not alone. The forest was alive, swirling with a presence — many presences. She heard the owls and knew they were owls. She heard the creaking of trees in the wind. She could even hear the stifled giggles of her brother and his friends somewhere in the undergrowth. But what scared her — what made her never want to be in the woods alone again — were the whispers. Lisping swirls, a strange static she somehow knew only she could hear. The whispers seemed to be calling her. Sweet, she heard. My pet, in a horrid singsong. Her own name in the lightest of voices, lighter than the smallest child could utter, but in a tone that children would never use.

  Morgana.

  She began to cry: a hysterical, sobbing wail that never, somehow, ended in tears. She was eight or nine then, and though K.A. was a full year and a half younger, it was he who comforted her that day, led her out of the woods, and told her he was sorry for playing a dirty trick on her. From that day on, Morgan never played in the woods again. If their mother told her to get K.A. for dinner, she’d stand at the edge of the trees and call him in. She never went beyond the first branches for fear of hearing the voices.

  “Sweetheart, why don’t you take this coat —”

  Morgan was interrupted by her mother bringing one of her old blazers from her married days out onto the porch. Yvonne held a lit cigarette in her hand and her voice was husky. Morgan knew she’d already had a beer or two in bed, watching television.

  “Because it smells like an ashtray.”

  Yvonne stood above her daughter, the coat limp in her hands.

  “Jesus. Do you think you could be nice to me for a few minutes? I’m just trying to help.”

  “No, you’re trying to stand outside with me until Ondine comes.” She turned her head to her mother and a passing car illuminated a thin-lipped smile. “That’s all right. My friends are your friends, Mother.”

  Morgan looked at the woman standing. Yvonne had changed into a pair of hip-hugger jeans and a fashionable, though tight, pink sweater. In the half dark they looked almost the same age — Yvonne eighteen years older than her daughter.

  “Looks like you’ve even dressed for a party. Except your fupa is showing.”

  Draping the coat over the porch railing, Yvonne took a drag off her cigarette, and eyed the girl sitting on the steps.

  “I’m going to Carla’s, smartass. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re talking about. Fupa.” She tugged at the jeans that bulged below her belly. “Sometimes you’re a real bitch, Morgan.”

  The girl ignored her. “Oh, you’re not going to try to crash this party like you did the last one? Well, maybe I’ll run into you later at the Laurelthirst. That’s where your personal bartender works, isn’t it? What is he — nineteen?”

  “He’s twenty-seven. And he has a name. Todd, remember?”

  “Right. Todd.” Morgan sniffed and turned to face the road. “It’s disgusting.” She looked her mother up and down. “You’re hardly Demi Moore.”

  Yvonne stared. “You are so cruel. How did you get to be so cruel?”

  Morgan ignored her, but it was hard. Somewhere inside she asked herself: How did I get to be so cruel? And she heard the voices in the forest. Morgana.

  She dug into her purse for her mirror, a habit she had of looking at herself, as if to make sure she was still there, still the same person. A car had appeared down the road and was now pulling up the gravel driveway leading to the D’Amici house. Yvonne watched her daughter’s expression melt into sweetness. She had seen her do it before when friends came to the house. The girls would be passionate friends for a few weeks, a month, maybe, then the girl would disappear. Yvonne would ask about it and Morgan would say they’d had a fight and she didn’t like the bitch anymore. It never seemed to affect the girl’s popularity, though. There was something so charming, so weightless about Morgan. Nothing stuck. Accusations slid off the dark-haired beauty and there was always yet another fawning girl to bring around. The latest, Neve, the pale, pretty daughter of Jacob Clowes, who owned Jacob’s Pizza, had lasted the longest.

  Shame he was married, Yvonne thought.

  This wasn’t Neve, though. It was Ondine, Morgan’s other friend. Two at the same time — some kind of record. Morgan’s interest in Ondine Mason seemed different, though. Less bored, more intrigued. Cropped ink-jet photos of Ondine lined her walls. Every time the girl called, Morgan took the call alone, in her room, careful to shut the door. It was as if she wanted to soak Ondine in, get as much out of her as she could.

  Ondine was good for her, Yvonne thought. She was a good girl, a sweet girl, and Morgan’s … difficult attitude … that was a phase. Her daughter’s vulnerability touched Yvonne and she reached out and stroked her back as she rose to meet the oncoming car.

  Morgan smiled and turned to her mother to hug her. The headlights of the car lit them up. Though Yvonne knew Morgan was being affectionate for the spotlight now, she still couldn’t resist hugging her daughter back. She tried not to think about how cold Morgan’s arms felt around her torso, how rigid and unfeeling.

  “Bye, Mom,” Morgan said and kissed her on the cheek, then grinned at Ondine and waved. She skipped down the steps to the car. Yvonne saw a slim brown arm and the top of a head peek out the driver’s window.

  “Hey, Mrs. D’Amici!”

  Yvonne waved.

  “Hi, Ondine. Be good tonight.”

  She nodded. “Don’t worry, we will.”

  “Love you, Mom,” Morgan called back, opening the car door. “K.A. and I wil
l call you later.”

  Yvonne smiled. “Love you, too.”

  She did love Morgan, she thought, rubbing her arms to get the chill of the evening air out of them. She loved her daughter. It was crazy, Yvonne knew — but she was afraid of her, too.

  IN THE PARKING LOT OF O’BRIAN’S, Ondine looked in the rearview mirror, pulling a stray braid from her smooth brown forehead. She had put a little eyeliner on for the booze-buying excursion, but she didn’t like makeup and anyway, nothing could make her soft, big-eyed face look older than the seventeen years it was. Clear cinnamon skin; those violet, almond-shaped eyes, fine eyebrows, and a mouth she thought was too pouty gave her the look of a perpetual child, though she was almost an adult. She looked at Morgan next to her, rummaging through her purse for the dark red lipstick she favored.

  Equally delicate, Morgan arranged her face so as to telegraph its seriousness. Ondine was fascinated by the way that Morgan could shift, with the fluidity of wind across water, into a woman twice her age. Nothing about her face changed; its components only combined differently to make a different impression.

  Right now she was becoming the kind of woman who bought alcohol for a party on a Saturday night.

  “I am so twenty-one years old.” Morgan smirked, raising an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

  “I’m impressed,” Ondine replied, opening the car door. Morgan followed and they walked across the glass-strewn pavement of O’Brian’s — a run-down liquor store on a block surrounded by a garage and a few empty lots.

  In the cashier’s cage a middle-aged man in a maroon Windbreaker and soiled khakis sat on a stool reading the sports pages. He smiled and looked Morgan up and down, then waved at the girls as they walked in. Morgan headed straight for the liquor aisle.

  “See.” She smirked, jerking a thumb back at him. “This’ll be a breeze.”

  Ondine stayed quiet. She had never tried to buy alcohol before, never given a party. Trish and Ralph let her have sips of wine and beer when she wanted it, but Ondine didn’t care that much for booze. It made her sleepy at parties and she always ended up the quiet girl on the couch, dozing, waiting to drive her friends home.

  “I’ll go get the wine,” Morgan announced, heading off toward the back of the store.

  “Yeah, okay,” Ondine called after her. She didn’t know much about wine so she was glad Morgan had taken the initiative, although the meagerness of O’Brian’s selection suggested that she didn’t have to know too much to make her choice. Screw top or carton? That about summed it up.

  Something about Morgan’s focused attention unnerved her though. She had turned back to Ondine and was staring at her. Ondine smiled.

  “Um, Ondine?” Morgan asked, her voice hushed.

  “Yeah?”

  “Were you going to stand there all night like a high schooler” — Morgan’s voice fell to a whisper — “or were you maybe going to pick up a few bottles of the hard stuff?”

  “The hard stuff?” Ondine was a little shocked. Had the girl just ordered her around? “What? Oh, right. Of course.”

  She grabbed a cart and walked down a bottle-lined aisle, trying to concentrate. The party had been Morgan’s idea, but it seemed a good-enough plan. Ondine always wanted to be older than she was, vested with more responsibility than she was given. Inside she felt older, always had. A sophisticated party with a few of the rising seniors seemed like just the thing to improve her mood.

  But earnest as it seemed, Ondine knew that neither Morgan’s friendship nor their proposed party would make up for the hole that had opened up inside her when her parents had left that morning. Why didn’t she go to Chicago? Why was she so determined never to get close to anyone — even her family, even her father, who’d brought her into the world? She knew she couldn’t trust people to share things she herself had a hard time accepting. She would never tell Morgan, for instance, the way she felt about her paintings or how lately she felt she’d been losing her fix on reality. But if not Morgan, her supposed friend, then whom?

  Enough. Enough with your creative temperament, Ondine.

  Browsing the aisles, staring at the rows of clear and dark liquor, she could almost hear her mother’s voice, chiding her for indulging herself that one step too much. Fuck it. I’m having a party. She was determined to have fun and hummed a Flame song she liked, trying to get her spirits up.

  Hurry — hurry — hurry! — ring of fire —

  Ring of fire! Spin round, ring of fire —

  Quick — quick! Wooden doll,

  Hurry, lovely wooden doll, spin round —

  She reached for bottles with her right hand, balancing them in the crook of her left arm. She made her choices by color as much as anything else. Vodka with its icy clarity. Warm brown whiskey. And what was it, Pernod — green, and French. She was examining a ridiculous bottle of liqueur claiming to taste like chocolate milk when a rustle of black and gray caught her eye. Startled, Ondine turned.

  “Hello, Ondine.”

  The lithe older boy with wild dark-brown hair and green sparkling eyes — eyes that matched the bottle of Pernod nestled in her arm — laughed. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.” He was scratching a trimmed soul patch with his top teeth. He grinned and arched an eyebrow.

  Didn’t soul patches go out like ten years ago? That was about when James Motherwell was in high school. Since then he’d been a fixture around Portland’s skate parks, bookstores, coffee shops, and parties. Never seeming to go anywhere.

  “Hey, Moth.” She smiled tightly and turned back to the liquor, which she took up with doubled interest. James Motherwell, or “Moth,” as he called himself, had long tried to hit on Ondine and every other teenaged girl in Portland. Though she’d had a few conversations with the twenty-something boy, he seemed rather interested in checking out other girls’ butts in between speaking to her breasts. An unfortunate tic, and she found him tiresome.

  “You’re looking enticing as ever,” Moth continued, stepping closer. “What are you deciding between, my love?” He took the bottle of chocolate liqueur out of her hands. “I suggest something less sweet.”

  “Moth, don’t you have some fifteen-year-olds to hit on?”

  He laughed and raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m matooring, Ondine. Everyone’s got to grow up sometime.” He stepped back and checked the black band around his wrist. Ondine could just make out the blue tip of a tattoo underneath the strap. She wondered what it was. Something “deep,” like an om? Other than the watch, Moth was dressed simply: black jeans and a black long-sleeved T-shirt with a narrow collar, which flattered his slim face and high cheekbones. He wore a single heavy braided silver ring on his right middle finger. Even she had to admit there was something skeevily sexy about the boy.

  Ew! What are you thinking, Ondine? She turned back to the shelves.

  Moth continued unfazed. “So what time is our party starting?”

  “What?” She whipped her head around.

  He bent down and tied one of his shoelaces, still staring. “I said, what time is the party starting? I don’t want to be late.”

  The girl narrowed her eyes and stepped closer. Moth didn’t flinch. She was surprised. People normally flinched.

  “There is no party.”

  “Sure there is, pet.” He straightened up and smiled. “At your place. Your parents left today and you’re having —”

  Before Ondine had the chance to ask the older boy how the hell he knew about her parents leaving, Morgan rounded the corner. As soon as she saw their new companion she slowed, slinking catlike toward Ondine but looking at Moth, the bottles in her hands clinking.

  Moth stared back. “Vision number two? Well, isn’t this my lucky night!”

  “Fly away, Moth,” Ondine whispered.

  “I’m Morgan,” the black-haired girl intoned, tilting her head. “And you?”

  He grinned. “James Motherwell.”

  “Like the painter?”

  “Very good.” He nodded. “
A muse. But you can call me Moth.” He extended a few fingertips, which Morgan grazed, her lips parting into a knowing smile.

  “I was just asking our friend Ondine here what time your party starts this evening.”

  “The party starts at ten,” Morgan replied, ignoring Ondine’s shaking head. “We’re just stocking up now.” She held up four bottles of wine gripped in both hands.

  “What lovely jugs.”

  Morgan threw back her head and laughed. “Why, thank you.”

  Ondine stared. “Oh. My. God. You’re such an asshole.” She turned to the boy then glared at her friend. “You’re not invited, Moth. Moth tends to attract a difficult crowd. He can’t come.”

  Ignoring her, Morgan eyed Moth up and down, a smile lingering.

  “Oh. Too bad.”

  “Hm.” He considered the loot. “There’s no way you’re going to be able to buy that yourself, though.”

  “Au contraire, my friend.” Ondine pointed down the aisle at the cashier reading his newspaper behind the counter. “Morgan buys here all the time. That guy is in love with her.”

  Morgan shrugged, still smiling.

  “Of course he is.” Moth winked but shook his head. “Not tonight, though. Not without Moth’s help.” His face became serious. “And we might as well have fun tonight, before everything starts.”

  Before everything starts? What the hell was he talking about? Ondine ignored the mysterious comment. Moth was known for the kind of deep guy blather she hated. Hey, are you going to Burning Man this year? Cool tats, man — blah blah blah. Lines like these may have worked in Portland, but they were just ways of getting into crunchy girls’ pants.

  She waved her hand. “Dippin’ into the dust a little too much these days, Motherwell? Let me rephrase. You. Are. Not. Invited.”

  He only smiled. “Whatever.”

  “Come on, Morgan.” Ondine started for the counter. “We don’t need your help, Moth. We’re just having a little gathering — a small, select group of people. From high school. But I suppose you can’t be expected to remember back that far.”