“No, no . . . I know you’re smart,” I muttered, thinking of how my dad used to tell me I was the smartest girl he knew, yet he didn’t prepare me for the consequences of our secret life. A line of sweat crept down my back as I said, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should have told you.”
“Damn right you should’ve told me!” she hissed. “Having no choice about my own life? It’s not annoying! It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“Bullshit! A complete bullshit betrayal!” I screamed as the cold blue flame leaped in my gut and a crackle of electricity danced over my shoulders. I threw Heather’s hands aside and looked quickly away, panting, knees weak, feeling the fury subside, and then feeling her arms close around me in a hug.
“That was awesome!” she said over my shoulder. “Letting me express myself, seeing my point. Thank you so much, SJ.” She stood back then, pointing at me, and said, “Also? Remind me never to piss you off. You are one intense chick.” I couldn’t help it, I started laughing because I was empty, all of my anger was gone too, at least for the moment, and then Heather was giggling, and we sat slowly on the roof. “I know you don’t smoke,” she said, taking out a pack, “but you’ve earned one.”
“Why not?” I shrugged. “First time, and probably last, for everything.”
She lit both. I gagged like a beached trout and she exhaled like a sultry dragon, saying, “Here’s a weird thing about growing up on TV,” she said. “It took TV itself to make me realize how effed up my home life was. There was one commercial in particular that I starred in. I’ve never forgotten it. Still can’t get it out of my head.” She smiled shyly, inspecting a cuticle. “It was for this chain of amusement parks. Family Fun Town.”
“I think I remember those,” I said, vaguely recalling a mom, dad, and smiling little blond girl. “You were the daughter?”
She nodded, cigarette between her lips. “Before the shoot, the director told us to act like a normal family, where the kid is the center of attention, the complete object of affection, and the parents are taking her to this amusement park just to make her happy! I was like, whoa . . . that’s normal?”
“There was a jingle . . .”
Heather straightened, eyes bright, and sang, “Break away to where the sun shines all day! At Family Fun Town, we wanna be your host! Have fun, fun, fun . . .”
“With the people who love you most!” I joined in, blushing at my croaky voice.
“And then the daughter smiles into the camera while mommy kisses one cheek and daddy kisses the other.” She sighed. “So damn cheesy, I know, but when my dad was being his usual dick self or he and my mom were fighting, I used to repeat it like a mantra. I would be, like, I want to live and die in Family Fun Town!”
“Did you ever go?”
“No,” she said, stubbing out the smoke, “but that’s the commercial that got me Two Cool for School. Speaking of, I’m registering tomorrow . . . tomorrow’s Monday, right? . . . so yeah maybe we can go together on Tuesday. You can show me around.” Her grin, tone of voice, and the fact that she seemed to shimmer made me think she was going to say “you can show me off.” Before I could answer, she smiled and said, “You’re so pretty, SJ. You know that?”
“I am?” I said, blushing again.
“Are you dating anyone? You have to be. Name, please?”
Somehow through my third blush I told her about Max. It was such a nice but odd sensation to talk about him with someone who really seemed to care. I thought of what she said when we were holding hands—we’re connected—and it was beginning to feel like we were. I took a breath and asked her the same question.
“Me, dating? Oh, hell no,” she said quickly and firmly. “At present, there are few things I trust less, and am less emotionally equipped to handle, than someone telling me he likes or even—ugh—loves me. I’m not kidding, it’s something I was working on in therapy. When I was Heather Richards as Becky, I was an attention junkie, couldn’t get enough. But as myself, attention feels fake and temporary, and it makes me so nervous I become this sort of mumbling, wisecracking deer in the headlights,” she said. “So look, if that happens, you have to tell me that I’m acting like an asshole, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Seriously, after a lifetime filled with what you said . . . bullshit? What I need more than anything else is the truth, even if it hurts. You promise? Always?”
“I promise.”
Heather’s mouth curled at the edges like a show cat. “Anyway, if I have to go to school, I’m glad it’s with you. It’s cool to have a cousin who’s smart and good looking.”
“Let’s don’t get into the smart thing again. I can’t take it,” I said, absently touching my face. “Good looking is another matter. My nose is a real problem.”
“Every problem has a plastic solution,” she said brightly, making scissor motions with her fingers. “My dad had mine solved when I was thirteen. Custom noses are very L.A. No, what I meant was, you look like someone . . . an actress, from old movies. Your eyes are amazing too. They’re almost the exact same color as mine.”
“Um . . . yours are green.”
She blinked once, dramatically. “Colored contacts. I change hues like I change boyfriends. Also very L.A.”
“You . . . have blue eyes?” I said, feeling the words stick in my throat.
“Yeah, with the same little gold thingies as you. Another family trait, I guess.”
“Yeah. I guess,” I said, and saying so little already felt like lying to her.
“I better get inside before my mom sends out a therapeutically licensed search party,” she said. “Are you coming in?”
“Uh . . . no. I have to go.”
“Okay, so I’ll see you Tuesday?”
“Tuesday,” I said, moving toward the ladder. When we were on the ground, she smiled with sparkling teeth and hugged me again.
“Thanks for talking. I feel like I’ve known you forever.”
“Me too . . . you,” I mumbled stupidly as my brain tried to jump out of my skull. Heather possessed Rispoli blood, which carried Rispoli DNA, which created Rispoli eyes (blue with gold thingies!) and I didn’t know if that was bad, good, or meant nothing at all. She showed no signs at all of ghiaccio furioso—of experiencing the impossible-to-ignore phenomenon of cold fury—or even an awareness that it existed. Watching her enter the bakery brought to mind one of my cardinal rules. I’d learned it when I first began boxing and, not paying full attention, turned my face into an oncoming fist.
It was a lesson I knew well, considering the upcoming sit-down with Lucky that came out of left field, as well as the sneaky nature of the creatures.
The things you never see coming are the ones you’d better be most prepared for.
14
THAT NIGHT AS I SLEPT, MY SUBCONSCIOUS worked on the day’s events like a curator in a museum of oddities, sifting through black ice cream trucks in green subterranean tunnels, red-eyed kidnappers with silvery hypodermic needles, hundreds of furry gray martyrs, a blue-eyed beauty (which seemed the oddest item of all), and finally, a white face made even whiter by death. Carefully, with a delicate touch, each curiosity was sorted according to the fear it had caused, threat it posed, or guilt it created.
In the morning, I awoke with a need to confess.
I’d almost had my brain invaded, so I’d had no choice but to kill the creature with my own hands. It was done in self-defense, for survival, but the problem was, well—it had been undeniably pleasurable. A wave of fear (was I becoming Nicky “Daggers” Fratelli?) and self-loathing (had I been perverted by murder?) washed over me. The idea of telling someone what I’d done seemed like a lifeline back to the world of non-killers and I rushed into the main room of the Bird Cage Club looking for Doug, but seeing only Harry lift his drowsy head from the couch. It was Monday, a school day, and I glanced at the control center’s bank of clocks, realizing that I’d be late even if I left at that moment.
Doug wasn’t at the Bird Cage Club when I’d returned
the previous day, either. I’d been in no shape to write down everything that had happened, including Heather’s blue-eyed revelation, so I scribbled only a short note, left it and the laptop from the ice cream truck on the control center, and dove into unconsciousness. It had read simply:
Beware: creatures in the neighborhood. Took this from them. Tell you everything tomorrow.
Now I saw another note, this one from him, propped against a bust of Alfred Hitchcock, scrawled in red capital letters so I’d spot it among the avalanche of books and papers. Next to it sat the laptop, wired to a small black box with a row of tiny green lights flashing intermittently. So many notes between us, back and forth—normally Doug was always at the Bird Cage Club, and if he wasn’t, he was with me. Being separated for only three days felt like a lifetime. I knew that he had attended one of the weekly MKK fan meetings the night before and I was anxious to hear about it, thinking that perhaps he’d mentioned it in his note. I glanced at the first line:
Sara Jane! DO NOT TOUCH computer until you’ve read this note!
I backed away and sat in his desk chair on wheels, reading.
Sorry I didn’t wake you for school but you were talking . . . actually, screaming (who the hell is Juan?) all night, and you only got quiet an hour or so ago. Whatever happened yesterday must have been bad—hope you’re okay. Creatures in the neighborhood? Shit! I’ll look over both shoulders. MKK get-together produced nothing useful re: factory. But it was fun! And I had some yummy Sec-C ice cream! And I was urged again by my new friends (yippee-skippee!) to attend the Cubs thing!
As for the laptop, it is definitely super freaky.
What you’re about to watch . . . I think it was created as a guide to properly getting inside your head, literally. Besides that, there’s nothing else on the hard drive—no other files, no data of any kind. I scoured it using all of my computer-nerd genius, but no luck, it’s useless. Anyway, when you’re ready, press the Return key. And then take a mental health day. You’ve earned it.
Smooches—
Doug “Mr. Popularity” Stuffins
P.S. What’s on the computer is a little disturbing but . . . remember the chauffeur!
I wheeled back and touched the Return button as streams of numbers filled the screen. Slowly, from the top down, a 3-D image began to form in lines of color, as if created by a hyperfast Etch A Sketch. It started with a fleshy yellow hue, spherical at the top, cut by ravines and highways of deep lines, anchored in the middle by what looked like the large, curved tail of a whip. While I stared, it began glowing in a cold blue tone, while tiny letters like digital ants skittered next to it. Seconds later the image began rotating, and I saw that it actually contained two parts, a left and right lobe.
Doug had been disturbingly correct.
It was a brain—my brain.
The note quivered slightly in my hand as more letters appeared.
Positive Identification of enzyme GF in subject Sara Jane Rispoli, significant source in production site: limbic system.
Months ago, during our reunion at the Ferris wheel, Lou said he’d seen financial information on a laptop attached to my dad’s head, but it was plain now that he’d been mistaken. Staring at the screen, I saw precisely what the blood sucked from my head had yielded—three-dimensional proof that someone was trying to harvest the brains of my family. Knowing it for certain felt like an icy finger drawn along my throat as I reread the blunt sentence. I had no idea what the “limbic system” was—it sounded like a painful exercise program—but “enzyme GF” obviously referred to ghiaccio furioso. As counselor-at-large, holding the gaze of some quivering Outfit thug, I marveled at the otherworldly power of cold fury. Now, considering the word enzyme, I was relieved that whatever caused the phenomenon was biological—that I was strictly of this world. It made me feel rooted and even guiltier about the death of the creature. No matter what the thing had become, it started life as someone’s baby, possibly as loved as I’d been by my parents. It was dead now, having died in a very bad way, and I was responsible. I dialed the phone, knowing what I was doing but unable or unwilling to stop.
“Hello? Sara Jane?” Max answered.
I said yes, weakly, trying to find words.
“Doug said you’re not feeling well.”
The air in my ear crackled impatiently. “I . . . did something.”
He was quiet, then said, “This weekend?”
“Yes.”
“When I was supposed to meet your family, but you blew me off by voice mail?”
Emotion clouded his voice—wounded suspicion, sniffing like a dog on the trail of what it already knew was there. I winced, realizing what an idiotic mistake I’d made by calling him, and heard the panic in my throat as I said, “Let’s talk later, after . . .”
“Why do you sound so guilty?”
“I want to tell you, but . . . I just can’t.”
“Was it a guy . . . that guy? Can you at least tell me that?”
I sighed and said, “I’m not sure what it was, to be honest.”
And then Max made a sound I’d never heard from him before, a snort of derision, before he said, “You don’t know how to be honest.”
It was like a punch in the gut, not only because it had come from him, but also because he was right. I had told him the truth about so little of my life that I had no defense—I couldn’t even make one up—and took a deep breath before saying, “Max, maybe we should talk about this in person when—”
He cut me off, saying, “I don’t get you, Sara Jane. You say one thing and do another or, like you just said, you want to tell me something but can’t. Why can’t you? Better yet, why won’t you meet my mom, and why haven’t you introduced me to your family? It’s not that I’m dying to meet them, but it’s strange that you just won’t do it.”
No matter how I’d tried to ignore or hide from it, the interim since Max returned from California had been a slow build to that very fact. I loved him, and love meant trust, which meant telling the other person everything. But in my twisted life, everything could get him killed, and I had to protect him. I sighed, saying, “I . . .”
“Let me guess. You want to, but you can’t.”
“Max. Please . . .”
“You know, something happened last year, right before Fep Prep let out for summer. I didn’t think much about it at the time, but now it keeps coming back to me,” he said, his voice colder and more vacant. “I’d ridden my Triumph to school. After class, when I was starting it up, that guy who dates my cousin Mandi, Walter J. Thurber, came over and started talking about motorcycles. He has an old BMW and . . . anyway, he asked if it was true that you and I were dating. We weren’t yet, not really, but . . .”
“But people saw us together,” I said, my hands trembling at the thought of being discussed. “And people like to gossip.”
“I didn’t say anything, just shrugged, which he must’ve taken as a no. Walter grinned then and said something like, ‘I kissed her once, when we were kids.’”
“So?”
“‘But that was before she turned into the invisible girl. Besides school, she was nowhere . . . no more parties, no sports, no friends. And you never see her family. It’s very weird,’” Max said, finishing Walter’s quote. “The thing is, he’s right.”
“That’s . . . a terrible thing to say . . .”
“But I didn’t mind at first because you were my kind of weird, and I was your weird, and it was cool. Now it’s not.” He was silent, and in that place in my mind where I can see what he’s doing even when I’m not with him, Max was gnawing a thumb so he didn’t utter something he’d regret. A moment later, he said, “Your problem is that you think I’m too good to be true. But you’re wrong. I get sick of bullshit just like everyone else.”
I pled with him but he cut me off.
“It’s not right,” he said, “that you ignore me, kick me aside, and don’t feel bad about it at all.”
“I do . . . ,” I said, holding back tears.<
br />
“Then tell me what you did this weekend. That’s all I’m asking.”
I paused with the truth—the whole truth—on my tongue, knowing that right now was the time to tell him everything. “The night you and I went to the dance last spring?” I said slowly. “Something . . . happened.”
The line was quiet. “What?” he asked.
“I got home and . . . well . . . ,” I said, wanting so badly to finish, to describe the horror of my trashed house and missing family, but it felt suddenly as if danger were a disease, and telling the truth would spread it to Max. “Look, I want to tell you, but . . .”
“You can’t, right?” He snorted.
“Max, please, all that matters is that . . .” And the phone went dead when he hung up on me. “I love you,” I said to no one. A long moment passed while I stared at the blank display. It went to voice mail when I called back, and I knew he’d turned off his phone; he didn’t want to hear any more.
Frankly, it pissed me off.
Max had no idea of the frantic life I endured, while the biggest tragedy in his was a girlfriend who didn’t pay him enough attention. I tried to recall what it felt like when the melodrama of being dateless sent me into a tailspin of self-pity—but it seemed surreal and embarrassing, and Max seemed like a pouty high school boy. I threw my phone aside, thinking, Screw it . . . I was stupid to try and tell him the truth. I don’t care if I ever talk to him again, and I was startled by the feeling. Some internal mechanism had tried to smother my feelings for Max. Maybe it was the cold blue part of my brain or a simple need for survival, but I was shedding traits that tied me to my old life, moving closer to a true Outfit existence. I desperately did not want that to happen—I didn’t want to lose the former me—but even my boyfriend was beginning to seem irrelevant, or too much of an extravagance, for the newly evolving Sara Jane.
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