I slowly peeled back the folds, checking that there were no more insignias. Paranoia or eyes on me needled my scalp. The note was a single line in Viv’s cursive, a heart dotting the I.
We should perform Saturday’s ritual naked.
My cheeks were hot as I crumpled the paper into a ball. Four kids between Viv and me. Four who might have seen the IV or lifted a flap and spied “ritual” or “naked.” The Order of IV was a secret society; its members staying secret was the whole damn point.
It grew soggy in my hand as I waited for class to end.
Viv spun the dial of her locker; if she noticed that I wasn’t opening mine or that I was frowning at her profile, she didn’t let on. She peered into the pink-framed mirror on the interior door and dashed away the mascara in the corners of her eyes. Auditions for the fall performance were scheduled for lunch. Viv wore a white dress that looked like it had been magically enlarged from a doll’s wardrobe, violet Mary Janes, and white thigh-high stockings. Dressed to be memorable. Silly, she thought she needed the clothes. Amanda had given up on jeering over Viv’s clothing once it became apparent that there were more cutting insults; in her wardrobe choices, Viv couldn’t be made to feel self-conscious.
She was trading the books from her bag for those in her locker by the time I whispered, “Why did you put a IV on the outside of your note?”
Her gold eyeshadow caught the light as she shot me a conspirator’s smile. “Official Order business.”
Conner was ten or so lockers down. He was standing with Rachel Fogarty, one of Amanda’s best friends. Her lips were moving in a constant stream, but he was swiping at his cell, not even pretending to listen.
I controlled my volume. “People could have seen the IV on the note. Someone could put it together.”
“Calm down already,” Viv said loudly. “No one pays attention to us, remember?” Her arms flung open. “No one knows what we’ve done.”
A girl walked smack into Viv’s arm and muttered “Excuse you” as she continued by.
Viv smiled bitterly. “We are invisible.”
“We won’t be if you clue people in to you-know-what.”
“Why do all of you think it would suck so bad actually getting credit?”
I winced and her eyes went round. “I’m not serious, okay? C’mon, Izzie.” She stomped her foot playfully. “Resist making a little thing into a major thing.” She went back to switching out her textbooks.
I was tongue-tied for a time. “I read your note” is what I finally coughed up.
No response as she grabbed a tissue and soundlessly blew her nose.
“I don’t think doing our ritual naked is a good idea.”
She gave me a brief sideways look away from her reflection applying lip gloss. “Why? Are you worried the boys won’t be able to control themselves once they see your C-cups?”
I took an instinctive step back. “I just don’t want to be naked in front of them. I don’t want to see Graham or Harry naked either.”
Moodiness flashed across her face. “You’re sure about that? Not even Harry?”
Over Viv’s shoulder Conner glanced in our direction. Rachel was still prattling on. “What? No,” I said, motioning for her to keep it down.
Her hands went up in surrender; I saw the IV black and bold on the inside of her wrist. It had been faded and light the day before, hadn’t it? She touched my arm and said, “I’m not saying you’re lying. Just . . . remember when you swore you thought Luke McHale was a D-bag, but you stared at him more than I did?”
“Harry and Luke McHale aren’t anything alike,” I said.
“Sometimes you’re in denial about who you think is hot. Seeing Harry naked wouldn’t make you puke. You can admit it to me.” Her nails rapped against the metal face of her locker. “I’m only trying to make our ritual memory-worthy.”
“It will be, because we’re doing it together.”
She tossed her hair off her shoulder and winked at me. “Then we’ll do it in our underwear.”
“Do what in our underwear?” I asked, but Viv was already weaving through our classmates as the warning bell sounded. Conner was gone from Rachel’s locker. I couldn’t say how much he overheard or when he’d left or even if either point mattered.
Viv auditioned for Antigone at lunch. Harry, Graham, and I were on our patch of lawn. I was reclined, arms crossed over my face. I’d been cold since Viv and my fight—was it a fight? The sun was warming away its effects. I had overreacted to the note. Viv was nervous for her audition and snappy because she was disappointed she hadn’t left Slumber Fest with a boyfriend. I should have wished her luck for the audition.
“Why are you giving us the silent treatment?” Graham asked, knocking my foot with his. I propped up on my elbows and blinked into a blizzard of afternoon light. Gradually the sky became a blue bowl and Harry’s and Graham’s features materialized. My eyes lingered on Harry for longer. I mean, objectively speaking, he was attractive.
Graham gave an exasperated flourish of his hands for my attention. “The ritual, the rebellions, the secrets—it isn’t enough. There needs to be a history.”
“We have history,” Harry said, hardly looking up from his laptop—probably busy drafting an article for the news blog. “On the night Slumber Fest was canceled, Izzie leaped up and said ‘Let’s start a secret society.’ ”
“That’s weak and unimaginative,” Graham complained. “You’re supposed to be the best writer among us.”
“That’s how it happened,” I responded.
“Oh,” Harry said, popping a grape into his mouth and storing it in his cheek like a hamster, “he wants a revisionist’s history.”
“All history is revisionist,” Graham said contemptuously, “but what I have in mind is more of a fact-and-fiction sandwich. The pieces are here”—his hands circled the air—“right in front of us. We just need to put them together as the story of our history.”
“Stories are meant to be told. We aren’t telling anyone about the Order,” I said, mouthing the last, sensitive word.
“Do you know the difference between a meteor, a meteorite, and a meteoroid?” Graham asked. I swiveled my head, not committing to a nod or a shake—I wasn’t sure what I knew.
“Communism,” I said, flapping my hand for Harry to give me a cluster of grapes. It had been our language for share that or give me some since we’d all gone through a Russia phase sophomore year. The month had involved faux fur hats and Russian plays for Viv, long Russian novels for me, vodka and rants for Graham, and ruminating over revolutions for Harry.
Harry closed the lid of his laptop and answered Graham. “A meteoroid is a small particle from an asteroid orbiting the sun. It becomes a meteor if you can spot its flash from Earth. A meteor that enters Earth’s atmosphere and hits Earth’s surface is a meteorite.”
“Our rock is a meteorite,” Graham said, nodding. “It made contact. It’s here. Permanent. A meteor’s light is beautiful but doesn’t last. That’s what our Order is now: a flash of light, a pretty miracle, sure, but one that ends unless we let it hit Earth. Just slam right into us.” He pounded a fist on the grass. “We have to give it a story so it has legs, so it can stomp. It needs a story and we need to believe in it.”
Harry flicked a potato chip crumb from his sleeve, offered me the bag, and looked dubiously at Graham. “I didn’t know USB had a major in poetic bullshit.”
Graham tented his hands and touched them to his lips. “I want to fool us into believing. It was a rush pulling off Bedford, but it felt crazier up on the rock afterward. It felt like we were tapping into something cosmic but fundamental. I want more of that.”
“Okay,” I said. “Go ahead, then.”
“Fool away,” Harry chorused, but Graham’s attention had diverted to a couple of passing figures.
“Did you guys see that?” His eyes popped from his head. “Jess Clarkson just walked by and—”
“I know, you want to be balls deep in her,” I mimicked
Graham’s deep tone.
Harry laughed with his head back and his mouth open.
Graham cracked a smile. “No, you little pervert. We shared this look.”
“Okay, now back to ritual altars and the kind of pretend we buy,” Harry said.
“I’m serious. Jess and I shared a moment.” He yanked a book out of his bag and hunched over it, muttering, “You skeptics are going to owe me an extra-large pizza once she asks me out.”
I craned past Harry and Graham. Jess and Rachel were taking a detour through the land of misfits. They usually ate by the flagpole with Amanda and the boy band.
Jess hung back as Rachel’s messy bun disappeared into the central corridor. Our eyes met. I didn’t smile, nor did I stick my tongue out like I would have at Amanda. Amanda’s campaign against Viv was usually a one-woman show; Jess was too wrapped up in appearing blasé about the world to participate; Rachel was too eager to be considered popular to go after Viv with much gusto. But Jess was paying attention now, looking curious. I wasn’t used to people appearing curious about us. I collapsed back to the grass and pretended to be asleep for the rest of lunch.
The uneasiness didn’t vanish until we were in the barn that evening and Viv performed her monologue for us. Graham pretended to be reading a book through her recitation. His eyes kept skipping up from the pages of Ritual Ecstasy as Viv squirmed on the ground, clawed at her wrists, and yanked on the pink wig she was wearing. Harry was on his feet giving her a standing ovation at her last line, “Good night, sweet ladies, good night!”
“Bravo,” Graham called, clapping a hand against the hardcover of his book.
I snapped a Polaroid and watched a shadow become Viv, frozen in curtsey, pink hair gleaming. I smiled from the likeness to the real thing still curtseying side to side.
The cushions gave as she nuzzled beside me with a dreamy sigh, her wig tickling my cheek. She twined her pinkie finger with mine. “I shouldn’t have sent the note in class.”
My finger tightened on hers. “I forgot to tell you good luck before your audition.”
Then she was up on her feet commanding our attention again. She pulled the Mistress of Rebellion and Secrets down from her pedestal atop the cupboard where we kept a mishmash of board games.
Viv tossed her pink wig away. It landed at the foot of a side table we’d found at a flea market in Los Angeles last summer. I’d loved it instantly. Its four legs were carved to look like those of a griffon. I didn’t have the hundred bucks it cost, though, so Viv snuck back that afternoon and traded the earrings she was wearing, which her grandmother had given her. She showed up with the table at the car. Viv was like that, full of surprises and sacrifices.
She said, “I’ve choreographed the ultimate ceremony for the blood moon. It’s going to be otherworldly.”
“Actually, the phenomenon is entirely terrestrial,” Graham said.
“He means that the full moon is going to be eclipsed by Earth’s shadow and that’s why the moon will appear to have a reddish hint,” I translated.
She play-pouted. “Har, promise you’re not going to get all science-y on me tomorrow night too.”
Harry paused texting on his cell to say, “Never.”
“What’s up with the ceremony?” Graham asked Viv.
But her attention was lingering on Harry. “I won’t say until Harry tells us who he’s texting. Do you have another secret girlfriend?”
Harry’s head snapped up, a lock of his hair doing a slow-motion lift from his forehead. My stomach did a flip. He has another secret girlfriend. “I’m texting with Simon,” he answered. “My mom’s having a ladies’ night.”
“Where’s your dad?” Viv asked.
“He’s home. But he can’t walk or stand much. Simon ordered pizza and they’re watching a show about robots.” Harry’s voice gave away nothing but his expression was weary.
“Oh,” Viv said, dismayed. “I thought your dad was better. Physical therapy and all.”
“It helps. It just takes time because the leg was—” Harry’s voice cracked.
“It was broken in more than one place, many fractures,” Graham continued for him. “There was nerve damage, too, and nerves don’t heal as easily as bones. The pain went away and then got worse a few weeks ago, which could be because the nerves healed with scar tissue.”
Harry’s features had gone runny. I felt a rush of affection for Graham. For all his bullshit and storytelling, he was capable of being kind in ways so subtle you might not notice him saving you.
“He needs another surgery,” Harry said.
A divot formed between Graham’s brows. “More physical therapy after that, probably. The nerves will heal. He’ll get better.” He gave a decided nod, which Harry mirrored and looked a little less lost for it.
I wasn’t like Graham. When I was overwhelmed, emotions swarming me, I didn’t know what to say to make things better. I wanted to cry, and since that wouldn’t help, I changed the subject. “Tell us about tomorrow night, Viv.”
She whisked our attention away, expert at being a diversion. She waved the Mistress and said, “She’s who we’re celebrating tomorrow night. She inspired Izzie.”
My heart beat gradually faster as I listened to Viv describe our blood moon ritual. There would be ceremonial costume, a fire, a chant, a dagger, a blood offering, and we’d end telling secrets. It had all the elements of a grand performance, and Viv the perfect director.
The more I considered it, the more I was certain that Graham was right. Rebellions alone weren’t going to keep us close forever. We needed to let the meteorite enter our atmosphere, to hit us. I’m not saying that the four of us would forget that our idol came from Graham’s mom or that our Order was made up. We just needed to suspend disbelief.
Did I think about it in precisely those terms at the time? Can’t say.
I wanted to keep being more than Izzie. I wanted to extinguish the helplessness returning inside of me the more I thought of Goldilocks. I wanted my voice to count. I wanted to believe in what was bigger than me, which is not such a terrible thing, except when others are hurt by what you invent. We were together, tripping with words and laughter, giddy to play mad scientists to our monster.
This is how I didn’t notice the beginning of the end.
11
We formed a circle on the rock, the four of us and the Mistress of Rebellion and Secrets. At the center, in the spot Goldilocks had rested, we built up a pyre of sticks. The full moon was a single white eye peering down, unblinking.
It was past eleven, a few minutes before the eclipse. We were mostly trading uncertain glances. Everyone showed too much eye white and apple-red cheeks. We knew the way to begin; we’d outlined the steps, but none of us, especially paralyzed with awkwardness over what was to come, was exactly certain how to set the thing in motion.
Viv had detailed the Order’s ceremonial rites after she had performed her monologue the previous night. Maybe Ophelia’s madness hadn’t released Viv, because her descriptions had come in swollen gushes. She wound her fingers in the hem of her white dress, her brown irises overtaken by coal-black pupils. The boys nodded their heads, mesmerized. Of course they were; boys are always for, as Viv put it, a ritual disrobing.
We came dressed in white, including the underthings we planned to strip to. Graham clutched an emerald bottle of absinthe, a green fairy with hair like Medusa’s snakes on the label.
“It’s the real stuff, straight out of Amsterdam from when my mom smoked pot and complained about capitalism while she pretended she wasn’t a bougie undergrad from Boston,” Graham informed us. “It’ll alter our states of consciousness.” A dangerous grin revealed his eagerness. “It’ll fuck us up.”
At the present moment he was knocking the bottle against his side, looking furtively at Harry, who held an actual dagger—a bronze-handled antique from Graham’s trip to Jordan. Harry’s bottom lip was between his teeth and the dagger looked about to clatter to the rock. Even Viv was a statue.
I shook my hands out at my sides and picked up the lighter fluid and the box of matches. I squirted the liquid over the sticks. The harsh odor stung my eyes. I discarded the bottle. I met Viv, Graham, and Harry’s stares, and with a solemn nod struck the match and tossed it into the sticks. The fire caught and spread, flames unspooling at the sky with the look of bolts of glittery fabric.
The four of us made an involuntary “Whoa.”
Everything moved. The flames and their shadows ran over the surface of the rock, giving the illusion that we were wading in running water. The tops of the apple trees feathered to one side, the wind playing with the orchard and Viv’s hair, which looked like a lion’s mane. “And now we shed our secrets and lies with our clothes,” Viv said in a velvety voice.
From afar we were four white smudges as we undressed. My hands shook as I pulled my sweater above my head and my ankles from my shorts. The night air smacked my skin.
Graham took the first sip of absinthe and passed it to Viv. Her laugh was cut off by a hiccup. Harry coughed, his eyes pinkening as they blinked at the burn. I was folded in a thick fur coat after the bottle’s third round. The rock was buzzing under my feet, tapping out a message.
“The stars are on fire,” Viv said, gaping at the sky.
The shadow slid over the last sliver of moon. The black apple turned strawberry. I stared. I opened my mouth to swallow it. Instead I howled. Silly and shrill, then wolfish. The others joined in. I stopped to catch my breath as the howling gave way to the chant we’d memorized the night before.
Blood runs north, east, south, west.
Rebellions burn summer, winter, fall, spring.
Secrets bind north, east, south, west.
Each repetition came faster until the words were lobbed from our mouths, breaking apart as they hit the rock. The shine of the red moon gave Viv a halo. Fire danced on Graham’s lenses. My eyes slid to Harry, from crescent mouth to chest, to flat stomach to wrinkled white boxers. He watched me watch him. I smiled. He smiled.
First We Were IV Page 9