by Beth Bloom
“Hey, so you remember at Libby’s party the other night?” He sounded composed, but I still pretended to stare at a copy of Terminator 2 like it was a Dead Sea Scroll.
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah, well, after you left,” he said, and I tensed up, digging my fingernails into the small cardboard box, “this freshman girl kind of hit on me. I thought you’d think that was…funny, or something.”
I peered over at him, and his face was normal.
“Nice,” I said, and high-fived him. “Fresh meat.”
Morgan laughed, and I felt my whole body relax. He wasn’t trying to make me jealous or pivot the conversation into some lecture about how he was lovable and better than my repeated rejection. That’s of course how I would’ve played it, but Morgan was better than that.
“Just a stupid turn of events. You lose some, you win some. Kind of.” He laughed to himself again, but maybe this time there was a little edge.
“What kind of hat did she have on?”
“Bride’s veil.”
“She came looking for love. Did you get her number?”
“Yeah, I did, and she seemed really into it. But when I left, I saw her standing outside, talking to Sanders. Fresh meat? He was probably thinking the same thing.”
Somebody had to take those dudes down, stat.
“Speak of the devil…,” Morgan said, and his voice trailed off as the store’s doorbell rang.
Please be Sanders. Please be Sanders, I prayed.
But Morgan had mistaken Stiles for his twin. Damn it.
Stiles was devilish—no doubt about that—but not in a predictable way. He’d literally fallen into the Gap and come out a netherworld poster boy. He was wearing a tucked-in, plain white button-down shirt with the top three buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His khaki chinos were formfitting but casually wrinkled in the total “Who, me?” kind of way that usually worked on teenage, crush-having suckers like myself. Loafers with no socks. A silver Seiko watch. A fifties straw fedora pushed back on his head. He was a pale, preppy nightmare, and he was coming right at me.
“Quinlan,” he said, wrapping one hand around my wrist and flashing a nasty sweet smile, “come over here and help me choose something.”
I stared at Morgan, who was clearly freaked, and tried to curve my lips into something resembling a smile. Then I turned back to Stiles and pointed over to the side wall, and my smile was gone.
“Those are the Employee Picks. You don’t need any help.”
“Oh, but I do,” he said, leading me to the corner of the store where Morgan and I had displayed our personal faves.
“Fine. How about Sleeping with the Enemy? Or have you seen that too many times?”
He ignored me and eyed me up and down. “You look delicious tonight.”
“You look like a psychotic yachtsman. Where’s Libby?”
“Oh no, did I forget to give her your message? I know I wrote it down but…I don’t remember where I put the paper.” He reached out and felt my dress’s rayon fabric between two long, bony fingers.
“You can’t keep her from me forever. And whatever it is you’re doing to make her act like a bad acid casualty, you better stop.”
“I can’t tell Libby what to do.” He spoke slowly and methodically, never blinking. If someone could be totally empty, he was totally empty.
I imagined James’s voice telling me to run.
“Well, I can, and I will. And you’ll be old news. Rent a movie and leave.”
I started to turn away, but he grabbed my arm, harder.
“Libby wants to be with me. Just ask her.” Then he leaned in and breathed the words in my ear: “She likes it.”
“I don’t care if she likes it, she’s not a person anymore. She’s just some cult chick.” I was petrified, shaking.
Stiles was thrilled. “Don’t be such a drama queen. She’s still a person,” he said, then added, “With banging legs.” Then he traced along my jawbone, devouring me with his eyes. “Not that I wouldn’t mind breaking off a little piece of you…”
I wrenched my arm free and stepped back and glared at him.
“Besides,” he said, lightening his tone and surveying his manicured nails, “Libby’s not your ‘bestie’ anymore. Things change. If you love someone, set them free.” Stiles didn’t sing it like Sting, he said it like Satan, and he laughed.
“Listen, you Dahmer,” I seethed, balling my fists, “I will set you on fire.”
“How adorable, the feisty thing really works for you.” Then he cocked his head and shot me an icy look. I could handle the look, but I couldn’t handle the question: “Do you put up this much of a fight with James?” Stiles raised his dark eyebrows, hoping he’d hit a nerve.
He’d hit one, ripped it open, and left it thrashing around like a live wire.
“You…do…not…know James.”
“Not personally, no.” His lips curled up around his straight white teeth. “But Libby mentioned him. Said he was a lot like me, actually.” His smile grew meaner, and there was nothing left to do but hate him with all my strength—and that was draining my strength.
I was out of things to say, so I said, “You’re a terrible person.”
It must’ve sounded hilarious, because Stiles just laughed. I stared at him, dumbfounded. So dumbfounded I didn’t even move when he stepped closer and placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Oh, this is good, priceless,” he said. “You’re a little pet now, I see the fun in it, I really do. But if you don’t like what Libby’s become, then you’d better find yourself another boyfriend, pumpkin.” His lips popped on the Ps.
It was either the word “boyfriend,” the word “pumpkin,” or Stiles’s long fingers twisting a strand of my hair that suddenly summoned Morgan to my side before I could even respond.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Body Snatcher,” Morgan said, shoving his hand against Stiles’s chest to back him up. “What are you, freebasing? Take a walk and a chill. We’re out of videos.”
Morgan pointed to the front door, tapped his foot on the carpet, and waited. Thank God my head was buried in my hands so I didn’t have to see Stiles’s last horrifying leer in my direction. The bell rang with his exit. Morgan had rescued me again. For now.
“Quinn,” he said, putting his arms around my shoulders.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Quinlan,” Morgan said, more serious this time.
I dropped my hands and faced him. His eyes were sad; he looked sorry for me. I couldn’t take it. I panicked and pointed a shaky finger in his face.
“I said…don’t…worry about it! Just, just…go watch a movie!”
I stomped away to Jerry’s office and slammed the door. Behind me I heard Morgan mutter “Fine” like I’d punched him in the stomach and poured Diet Coke in his gas tank.
I sat in the office and stared into space until the motivational posters on the walls were just rectangular splotches of hazy color. If I hadn’t been wearing my nicest dress when Stiles touched me, I would’ve burned it.
It was nine. I had two hours until James came to pick me up—hopefully—so I just had to pull my tweaked-out mess together, go beg Morgan to forgive me again, and finish this shift like a lady, not a bag of rattled-up bones.
“Okay,” I said, sighing, walking up to Morgan, “was I being more of a brat or a psycho just then?”
“Fifty-fifty, Lacey.” He smiled. It was okay.
Appreciation filled my body; it could be so easy with Morgan.
“Sorry. Just an average reaction to a run-in with a serial killer, I guess.” I shrugged, breathed slowly, but couldn’t really get back to normal.
“Serial killer? More like an Abercrombie zombie with a charge card and a Mazda RX-7.”
“You noticed that too, huh?”
“Yeah, does he have to be so suave?”
“Told you. Total Spader.”
“Nailed it,” Morgan said, raising his hand for a high five. When our palms sl
apped, he locked his fingers with mine and gave them a gentle squeeze. “Won’t always be around to deliver you from evil.”
“I know. You’re a good friend.” I rested my head lightly on his shoulder and closed my eyes. “I’m going to work on being a good friend back.”
Morgan said, “What should we watch next?” and he gestured widely to the empty store filled with hundreds of picture boxes.
“Nothing scary, please.”
James, if you can hear me, get your beautiful body over here.
“Fantasia?”
Because you’ve got some serious explaining to do.
“Sounds awesome.”
The sinking, suspicious feeling started around ten to eleven. I was beginning to chew the inside of my lip raw, pacing in front of the huge front window, scanning outside for James’s arrival and Stiles’s departure, but I sensed a definite absence and presence—in that order. My stomach was so jumpy I could hardly get the licorice and Diet Coke down, and I was doing a poor job of hiding my anxiety from Morgan. When he offered to close down ten minutes early, I almost bit his head off. I needed those last ten minutes. The problem with psychic powers is that they come with a vicious case of the hunches. James wasn’t on his way and Stiles was out there in the shadows, lurking, waiting. I was certain of both.
How fast could I run? Not that I could in a million years imagine Stiles daring to scuff his polished loafers just to scare some video store girl. Of course, knowing him, he’d probably be like one of those horror movie villains that moved painfully slow, barely breaking a sweat. Unless Stiles brought his posse to pitch in—or Libby, dear God, as bait—I doubted he could catch me.
On the other, other hand, there was Morgan. And his Dodge Shadow. And that shame spiral.
I pressed my forehead to the glass and mumbled, “You suck, you suck, you suck.”
Then the ten minutes were up and we were bolting the front door and dropping the outside gates. Count-out commenced. We shut the main lights off, left the neon overnight ones on. We double-checked the safe’s lock, gathered our bag of junk-food trash, set the alarm, and headed out the back door. I wasn’t farther than two inches from Morgan the entire time.
“You’re going to give me a panic attack,” he said as I followed him to the Dumpster.
“Sorry, too many Diet Cokes. Got me edgy.”
“It’s cool. You’ll walk it off.” He knew better than to offer a ride.
So it was time to beg.
I started to say, “Morgan, would you mind…” and leaned my body against his car, hoping he’d catch my drift.
“Is that a good idea?” He looked genuinely concerned. For both of us.
There was a breeze coming down the canyons, and it shook the trees with a whispery sound. I looked into the dark and felt someone out there watching. I was outside my body, seeing the color in my face run out, but I was inside my body too, feeling my stomach tense with dread.
“Quinn, hey, you look…green. You’re, like, not a color in nature.”
“Green’s a color in nature.”
Morgan petted my hair and I tried to smile.
“C’mon, get in,” he said.
We drove to my house in silence. I leaned my head against the window and looked away into the trees, the alleys, the front yards, all passing by in a dark blur. But there was nothing, no one, no dirty-blond wanderers, no black-haired pursuers, pale angels, or paler devils. The hills were hot and empty and quiet.
I considered asking him to escort me to the door, but Morgan misread the hesitation on my face.
He said, “You don’t have to thank me or get weird. You can always have a ride. It’s not a big deal.”
“Morgan, what can I say?”
“Don’t try to kiss me, I’m not in the mood.”
We laughed very small laughs together at a joke neither of us should’ve found particularly funny.
“Did you ever call your bride? After Libby’s party?”
“Yeah. She didn’t answer, and never called back. Whatever.”
But Morgan wasn’t crushed enough. I wanted him to care, to keep calling, to keep trying.
“You’re some cool, older senior guy. She’ll call.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
I got out of the car and shut the door and pressed my hand against the window. It was a serious high five for a serious bail-out.
I thought I heard twigs snapping in the woods across the street, so I made a straight line for the front door, almost running. When I got to the porch, I turned around and waved to Morgan, who was watching, waiting for me to get inside, and then he drove away.
Once inside I locked the door and stared out the small window into the yard, looking for movement. The canyon winds ruffled the grass, some leaves fell, but otherwise it was still and dark. The house was silent. I turned on the porch light, then the chandelier light, and then, because the switch was next to those, the garage light too. I said “Hello” to no one, just to hear my own voice. Then I slid down my back to the ground.
It was 11:13. I would wait exactly forty-seven minutes for James. And if he hadn’t magically arrived here by midnight, I’d confirm myself as the lamest, most desperate girl ever by going to his house to look for him.
At 11:42 I stripped to my underwear, snuck into the backyard, and sank to the bottom of my pool. No one was waiting for me in the darkness of the deep end. The water felt good, bracing; it woke me up, got me focused back on my current tasks: find Libby, save Libby, find James, kiss James, maul James, press James for details on Stiles, find Stiles, fight Stiles, find Morgan, find his bride, make them fall in love, make Naomi understand, make Libby normal again, kiss James again, eat a few pieces of fruit. Total order.
At 11:50 I walked through the side door to our downstairs bathroom, dripping wet. I flicked the switch for the red heat lamp and soaked in the warmth, toweling off, feeling new. The chlorine made my hair extra wild and wavy. My makeup hadn’t bled too badly, just blurred, giving me those exaggerated black eyes I usually got from heavy summertime naps. I stared in the mirror, frowning. I looked fine but not awesome, which would only matter if Naomi wasn’t alone at the Sheets’s house.
At midnight I wrote the smallest note in the scratchiest legible handwriting.
Mom and Dad, took the Lexus to Libby’s. Be back before you know it’s gone. Sorry, Quinn
Could’ve been true. I had every reason to go pound down the Blocks’ door looking for Libby. And I might’ve even been back before my parents woke to discover the note and the Lexus missing. But I was on a hunt for James, and striking out was not an option. I wanted to be out all night, all morning, until tomorrow, tomorrow night. So actually none of the note was true. Except maybe the sorry part. And I was getting sorrier every second.
8.
REVEAL
The moment she opened the door, I could tell Naomi wasn’t surprised to see me. I could also tell she wasn’t exactly happy to see me.
“Hey,” she muttered, then led me into the African sitting room and lay back on the settee and stared at me. We sat in silence while Naomi twisted small strands of her hair, tapped her feet together, and drummed her fingers on the mudcloth cushions. She was clearly waiting for someone, and she just as clearly had no intention of telling me who that might be. Watching her ignore me, I started to wonder, more and more, if maybe Naomi simply didn’t like me.
And if she didn’t like me, then bummer for me, but bummer for her too, because I was feeling defiant. I wasn’t going anywhere; I could play the waiting game.
Naomi broke the silence first. She said, “Look, I know I said you could come over, but I think maybe you should go. I’m exhausted, and you look…exhausted too.”
“I don’t have to sleep over or anything, but couldn’t we just hang out a little longer? I had a bad night.”
“So now I’m the one you call after a bad night?” She paused and peered sideways at me. “I thought that was Morgan’s job.”
It sucke
d. And it kind of hurt, too. But she didn’t say it like she was trying to be mean, just like she wanted to get the point across.
“Well, I don’t want it to be Morgan’s job.”
“Well, you should. Because he’s a hell of a lot better for you than some people.”
“‘Better’ doesn’t mean anything,” I said. “Some people are the ones I want, some aren’t.” I folded my arms across my chest.
“Doesn’t matter what you want, you don’t know everything.” Naomi reconsidered her words. “You don’t know anything.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This conversation is over. Would you mind going home?”
“What don’t I know?” I said, standing up, arms still folded.
“I’m not going to talk about this, and you should thank me for that.” Naomi stood up too. “You should thank me for this, and you should thank me for sending you home before he gets back.” Then she turned away and started walking toward the kitchen.
“Yeah, mondo thanks.”
She turned back to me, more pissed. “I’m saving your life.”
“I like my life fine the way it is.”
“I did too, so get out of it.”
This had gone from numb to cold to hostile too fast. But then something broke in Naomi, and when she said, “Please, Quinn,” the sadness was scarier than the anger.
I couldn’t think of what to say. I reached a hand for her shoulder, warmly, and when I touched her skin, it was nice to feel we were both warm.
“I’m not trying to marry him, Naomi. God. I just want him to…be my boyfriend, you know?”