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My Monster

Page 11

by Einat Segal


  I straighten my hair till it's flat as paper and part it on the side. Then I head into my parents' room and raid my mom's makeup drawer. I don't own lilac eye-shadow, but my mom does.

  * * *

  It takes me forever to get ready. Partly because every cell and particle in my body keeps begging me to lie down and rest. But also, because if I don't get it right, I don't believe my costume would even count as a costume.

  I can't believe I'm going to go around like this in public. I'd rather just be naked.

  But then when I put on the red heels that go with the dress, something happens. It’s like I take on another's soul, slipping into character and becoming something that I'm not.

  I take off the heels, tossing them into a plastic bag—takeaway shoes!—before putting on comfortable black flats that I can actually drive in.

  I pick up my mom's car keys, say goodnight to my parents, though I'm not sure they hear me. My dad's still going strong with the flu, and I can hear him heaving upstairs.

  I let myself out the door.

  * * *

  There's no sign of Esmeralda. It’s 8:37 p.m. I already pulled out of our garage and parked in front of her house. I continue to wait. This is Halloween. Costumes take time, and knowing Esmeralda, she probably made artwork out of her makeup.

  At 8:45, I get out of the car and walk to the front door. I knock. I ring the bell. I wait. I ring the bell again.

  There's no answer.

  The windows of the house are dark. There's no one home.

  Shit.

  I’m cold, and it has nothing to do with the frigid wind that's blowing my hair into my face. I take out my phone and call Esmeralda.

  She picks up after the fourth ring. "Are you okay?" I cry.

  "Yeaaah . . ." Esmeralda says, prolonging the last vowel to demonstrate her confusion at my tone. "Didn't you see my text?"

  Esmeralda sometimes overlooks these things. She lives on her own planet. "Honey, you know I don't read texts,” I say, raising my voice. I notice that she's someplace noisy.

  "I met her, Soph!" Esmeralda whispers excitedly. "She came to pick me up. We just got to Dean Marklin's. You're off the hook, unless you want to wear that costume . . ."

  "Is she as great as you hoped?" I ask.

  "She's even better. Oh my lord, I actually think you'll like Laurie . . ."

  Laurie?

  "Esmeralda, listen to me," I say quickly. I hate those people who scream into their phones, but that's what I'm doing right now. "I'm so sorry. There's something you really have to know. I didn't want to ruin tonight for you, but Ashley Glick is—”

  "Soph? Sophie? I can't hear you. It's really noisy in here. What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying that Ashley is going to try to—”

  “What? Hello? I can't hear you, Soph. I’m gonna hang up. Go rest. Goodnight. Love you!"

  And, she hangs up.

  No! Goddammit! I have to exercise control so as not to throw down my phone against Esmeralda's front door.

  I still need it.

  I try to call her again, but it rings and rings and she doesn't pick up.

  I steady my breathing. I cross my arms over my chest as I think. I don't need to kill Ashley Glick, even though I want to. There's so much damage I can do to her while she's alive.

  I search my incoming call history for the most recent number listed under DON'T ANSWER.

  "Has hell frozen over?" he says when he answers after the second ring. "Or did you forget to lock your phone and I'm speaking with the inside of your bag?"

  "Where are you, Shawn?"

  "I'm at Marklin's party."

  I open my lips to speak, but reality is sometimes hard to voice, and I have to swallow a lump the size of the continent of Asia that’s suddenly lodged in my throat. "I was too late,” I finally say, ripping through the soreness in my heart. “I think Esmeralda's at the party with Laurie Astamkar and Ashley's going to do something to her. I need . . ."

  Your help? It’s all his fault this is happening. But I don't have the luxury of being angry right now. I just have to act.

  "Whatever you need, Fee," he says in an alarmingly gracious voice. Like he’s my soldier man and he’s standing to attention.

  "Send me Ashley's phone number," I order, taking on the role of commander of this operation. "I'm on my way. In the meantime, find Esmeralda. She's dressed like a bee. Don't let them see you, don't get involved. There's always the chance that I'm wrong, and I don't want to end up being the one hurting Esmeralda."

  "Okay, so what should I do?"

  "If we can't stop Ashley, we're going to have to destroy her for good . . ."

  * * *

  I arrive at Dean Marklin’s house well past nine. Still in the car, I kick off my flats and put on the red heels. I make sure the blood-red lipstick on my lips is picture-perfect and then throw off my jacket, slipping on the purple gloves that reach up almost to my shoulders. After arranging a few other odds and ends, I try calling Esmeralda one more time, but her phone goes directly to voicemail. I try calling Ashley and get the same result.

  Then I call Shawn.

  “I can’t find her,” he says. “Where are you?”

  I get out of the car. The freezing October air is like knives against my skin. But this kind of cold is welcome because I’m burning inside. There’s a lot of cloth to this dress, with the sparkling red skirt almost brushing the floor, but it covers nothing. I’m wearing a lot and very little at the same time.

  “I’m walking up to Marklin’s house right now,” I say.

  “I just came outside,” he says. “I can’t see you.”

  I see Shawn dressed like Captain Sparrow emerge onto the sidewalk with his back to me. He looks up and down the street, but his eyes completely miss me. I hang up the phone. “I’m right behind you, doofus,” I say.

  He spins around to face me and takes a step back, his jaw dropping. “Holy . . . fuck.”

  “Shut up.” I toss my hair, but I did a great job styling it. It continues to fall over my eye.

  “I’m speechless anyway.”

  I ignore him, pushing my small stupid phone into the top of my left glove. “We have to find them before Ashley does her thing,” I say as I begin walking toward the house. After a few steps, I notice that Shawn hasn’t moved and is still gawking.

  I glower at him over my shoulder. “Keep it in your pants.”

  “Yeah, well,” he says, walking a few steps toward me, “you don’t know how hard it is to be a man looking at a woman looking the way you do.”

  I groan when I recognize that line. When we were around twelve, Shawn made us watch Who Framed Roger Rabbit every Henderson dinner for months. We’d never get through the whole movie because there wasn’t enough time, and he just wanted to watch the parts with Jessica Rabbit in them.

  I always liked her character, but I forgot that she was his wet dream.

  I continue to walk up to the house. Everyone turns their head when I pass. Either the dress or the heels make my hips sway more than they should.

  “Check out Jessica Rabbit,” someone hoots from a group of boys. Shawn, skulking behind me, stops to glower at them.

  “She’s with me,” he hisses.

  “Dream on, Shawn,” I say.

  “Ooooh, burn,” one of the boys retorts as the rest just laugh. Shawn says nothing and just follows closely as I walk into the house. The living room and kitchen are barred off, making the way to the basement clear. I scan the few people scattered in the entrance and then make my way down the narrow stairs lit by sparkling skull-shaped fairy-lights.

  The basement’s pretty big, but it’s dark and noisy. There are dozens upon dozens of half-naked bodies writhing in dance to the loud tinny-sounding music blaring from cheap computer speakers. The strong smell of alcohol comes from people’s breaths, and the floor is sticky with beer.

  We scan the first room of the basement, but eventually I’m satisfied that there aren’t any bees here, although someone dress
ed as Spongebob gives me pause. From the first room, there are two doorways leading away to two other rooms.

  I turn to Shawn. “Let’s split up,” I say.

  “What?” he yells over the music, leaning toward me.

  “Let’s split up,” I shout into his ear. “Call me if you find them.”

  He nods to show me he understands, and then points at the room on our left. I take the right.

  If possible, the music here is even louder. There are several old, moth-eaten sofas along the walls, upon which are couples in various stages of hooking up. I look over all of them and then have to bump my way through a thick crowd of kids. One guy dressed like Peter Pan grabs my ass. “Dance with me, Jessica,” he screams drunkenly into my ear.

  I push him away, knocking him into the Powerpuff Girls, who giggle as they catch him. I move on into the next room of the basement, ignoring his incredulous stare.

  This is the biggest room, and it’s packed. There are more old battered sofas along the walls, but the place is so crowded and the only light to see by is cast from the occasional pumpkin lantern. I can’t see the far side of the room. Next to me, there’s a small round coffee table littered with plastic cups. I brush them aside and climb onto it. A bunch of people see me, and there are lots of whistling and catcalls and general approval of my elevated situation.

  I ignore all this, scanning the room. I spot Shawn as he makes his way in from the farther entrance. He notices me, shakes his head, and continues searching the crowd. There’s a small area of bean bags near his side of the room. His head snaps up suddenly, and his shoulders stiffen. He turns to me, waves, and then points.

  He found her!

  I see two bees tangled in an embrace. One of them is, without a doubt, Esmeralda, and the other must be Laurie.

  I need to make my way across this room. I begin pushing through. I don’t care whose toes I step on, who I rudely shove aside, who’s standing in my way. All I see is Esmeralda and how I can get her out of this.

  But before I’m even a quarter of the way across, someone turns on the lights and turns off the music.

  In an instant, the room transforms from a wild party of sexy, drunk, hormone-crazed people to a basement filled with awkward, acne-riddled teens in ridiculous costumes. Everyone stands still, not knowing what to do.

  A bunch of people yell for someone to turn the music back on.

  And I see what’s happening. There, over Esmeralda, stands Ashley in her pale-pink Chanel dress, glitter, and fairy wings, with her clique standing behind her like obedient foot-soldiers. They surround Esmeralda, and the crowd standing near them moves away, leaving a circular space for tonight’s performance. I begin pushing through to them with greater fervor. Maybe I send a few people flying in my haste to pass.

  Laurie rises to her feet, wiping her mouth on her yellow-and-black-striped sleeve. “Finally. I thought you’d never show up,” she says to Ashley, who laughs.

  “I don’t know, Laurie, it looked to me like you were enjoying yourself,” Ashley says, causing the other girls to snicker.

  Laurie smirks. “Ew, as if.”

  Esmeralda sits very still. I don’t take my eyes off her. I see nothing but her. I can tell she’s confused, but that a part of her knows exactly what’s going on.

  Laurie hands Ashley her phone.

  “Are you surprised?” Laurie asks Esmeralda.

  But Esmeralda doesn’t say anything. She just stares.

  Ashley doesn’t need her to talk. She’s been in this position too many times. I can tell that she knows that right now, her victim is fighting off tears. “It was a joint effort between all us girls, you know,” she says, “keeping up with two months of texting.”

  “It was such a headache,” says Hannah Blair. They all giggle, fanning out around her just like the hyenas in The Lion King. “Especially those days when you were sick. I got stuck with Laurie’s phone.”

  “We made sure to screenshot the best ones, though,” Ashley continues. “So we can do a little poetry reading. Something especially gross for Halloween.”

  Ashley passes the phone to Amy Devin. “I don’t like when people shorten my name,” she reads out loud as Esmeralda sits there, helpless. “Everyone makes me feel small about everything, but at least my name is long. I don’t do nicknames.”

  Amy passes the phone to Daria Selmore. “My mom’s never home. It gets so bad that I sometimes forget that I have a mom. It would be nice if I could fool around with someone, but no one likes me.”

  Daria passes it to Hannah. “You’re the first person who has ever understood me. It’s like I don’t exist sometimes, and people always secretly judge me. I like Sophie because we can each be self-absorbed in each other’s company and we don’t try to understand. But you’re different.”

  And Hannah hands it over to Laurie. “Laurie, don’t be sad. Everything will be okay,” Laurie begins to read. “I’ve never told anyone about this, but I think I can trust you. When I was little—”

  “Stop it,” Esmeralda cries, jumping to her feet. The tears are here, and she’s glaring at Laurie, who cocks her lips into a crooked, mocking smile, but stops reading regardless. The two girls stare at each other, and for a moment, everything is silent.

  I’m close now. The crowd is so much thicker near Esmeralda and Ashley that I can’t get through. I make my way around to the edge of the semi-circle and bump into a low piece of unrecognizable furniture hidden beneath a dust-sheet. I begin to climb over it.

  Meanwhile, Ashley grabs the phone from Laurie’s trembling fingers. “Laurie,” Ashley’s voice booms loudly, “I’ve never told anyone about this, but I think I can trust you. When I was little, my mom was dating this asshole who used to hit her. She dumped his ass, of course, but like a month after that, he came to our—”

  “Hi, Ashley,” I say as I traverse the cabinet and land on my red heels before her.

  There’s very little room in my mind for conscious thought. All I see is red. From the upper part of my right glove, I pull out a large pair of sharp sewing scissors.

  I knew I was going into battle. I would never come unarmed.

  “I think we’ve heard enough,” I say, holding up the scissors. A few people gasp, one girl screams, but no one interferes. People either don’t believe I’ll do anything or don’t want to be the one to get in my way.

  The lights turn off. It’s Shawn. This is what we discussed.

  Even in the semi-darkness, I see Ashley’s face turn pale. “Wh-what are you doing?”

  I begin walking toward her. “Teaching you a lesson.”

  She backs away, eying the scissors. “Are you fucking crazy? Someone call the police!”

  I snap the scissors in the air. “I just found these scissors lying around,” I say. “It’s not as if I’m going to cut you or anything. Why would I? You haven’t done anything to me.”

  If possible, Ashley’s panic rises even higher. “Fucking get away from me!” she shrieks.

  I continue drawing forward, and she continues moving back until she reaches the wall and has nowhere to go. I hold the scissors up to her face. “You started it.”

  “I’ll tell my parents! I’ll tell the school—” she cries.

  “No, you won’t,” I say. “Your little poetry reading”—I exchange a glance with Shawn, who pockets his phone, giving me a thumbs-up. Good job, cameraman—“it’s going on YouTube and Twitter. White straight girls bullying a gay black girl. Won’t that look nice on your college application?”

  “You can’t post my face on the internet! That’s against the law—”

  “They don’t have to see your face to know it’s you.”

  She makes a sound in her throat, something between a squeak and a squeal. But I’m not finished. I’m not satisfied. Shawn reaches the music and turns it back on. That’s my cue.

  I raise the scissors. Ashley screams, and I smell her fear along with the acrid smell of urine. I grab ahold of the Chanel dress she’s wearing and cut.

&n
bsp; Snip, snip, snip.

  Bye, bye, early eighteenth birthday present. She weeps and cries out, making a weak attempt at fighting me off.

  I grab a big chunk of her hair.

  Snip. Snip.

  It’s off. My work here is done.

  Ashley’s unhurt, but now she’s also very unfashionable.

  “You psychopath,” she spit-bellows, her hands in her cropped hair. “You disgusting bitch.”

  I take a step back and arch my back, throwing out my butt and striking a Jessica Rabbit pose. “I’m not bad,” I drawl, “I’m just drawn that way.”

  I stick the scissors back up my glove, take Esmeralda by the hand, and we’re out of there.

  7

  I Hate Losing

  Finally outside, I can't even feel how cold it is. I'm still filled to the brim with a mad fire. There's a part of me that wants to run back in there and cause physical pain, tearing their skin and ripping out their eyes. I can't deny it; I have a desire to see blood, actual blood.

  I begin leading Esmeralda toward my car, but she stops walking. "Let's go home," I say, turning to her.

  She's got her head bent down, but I can still see the shine of tears as they course down her cheeks. Shaking her head, she pulls her hand out of mine and furiously wipes at her eyes. "I need to be alone," she croaks.

  "Okay," I say. An unfamiliar apprehension overtakes me. I'm not used to seeing Esmeralda look so crushed. Even when the worst things happened to her, she always held her head up. I point at my mom's car down the street. "I'm parked over there. I'll wait for you until you're ready."

  Esmeralda shakes her head and then looks at me. "Naw, you go ahead. I'll ask Elliot Zimmerman to take me home."

  "Who?"

  "He's a junior, hangs out with Jimmy Davis?"

  "Who?"

  "Never mind, Sophie," Esmeralda snaps. "Just more people you couldn't care less about."

  There's a poisonous note to her voice, and when she looks me in the eye, there's something sour there. I know what she's thinking. "You're mad at me for not telling you sooner," I say.

 

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