by E. Lockhart
The clock went around the dial. It hit midnight and became, officially, Christmas Eve. Jule bought a hot chocolate from a machine.
She drank it and felt warmer. She talked herself up from despair. After all, she was brave, smart, and strong. She had done the deed with credible efficiency. With style, even. She had committed murder with an effing kitty-cat statue in a beautiful state park over a massive and scenic ravine. There had not been a single witness. She had left no blood anywhere.
Killing Brooke had been self-protection.
People needed to protect themselves. It was human nature, and Jule had spent years training to make herself especially good at it. The events of today were proof that she was even more capable than she’d hoped. She was phenomenal, in fact—a fighting mutant, a supercreature. Fucking Wolverine didn’t stop to mourn the people his claws went through. He killed people all the time in self-defense, or for a worthy cause. Same with Bourne, Bond, and the rest of them. Heroes didn’t wish for gingerbread, presents, and peppermint. Jule would not, either. It wasn’t like she’d ever had them anyway. There was nothing to mope about.
“God rest ye merry, gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay…”
The drunk started up again.
“Shut up before I come over there and make you!” Jule yelled at him.
The singing stopped.
She tipped the last of the chocolate into her mouth. She wouldn’t think about going astray. She wouldn’t feel guilty. She would follow this action-hero path and power on.
—
Jule West Williams spent December 24 on a nineteen-hour bus ride and fell asleep early Christmas morning in a Portland, Oregon, airport hotel. At eleven a.m., she shuttled to the airport and checked her bags for the night flight to London, business class. She ate a burger in the food court. She bought books and sprayed herself with unfamiliar perfume in duty-free.
MID-DECEMBER, 2016
SAN FRANCISCO
The day before the hike, Jule had a call from Brooke. “Where are you?” Brooke barked, without saying hello. “Have you seen Immie?”
“No.” Jule had just finished a workout. She sat down on a bench outside Haight-Ashbury Fitness.
“I’ve sent her like a gazillion texts, but she doesn’t answer,” said Brooke. “She’s off Snapchat and Insta. I’m verging on hostile, so I thought I’d call and see what you know.”
“Immie doesn’t answer anyone,” said Jule.
“Where are you?”
Jule saw no reason to lie. “San Francisco.”
“You’re here?”
“Wait, you’re here?” La Jolla, where Brooke was supposed to be, was a good eight-hour drive away.
“I have high school friends who go to college in San Francisco, so I got a hotel and came up. But it turns out they all have jobs or exams up through today. I was supposed to meet Chip Lupton this morning, but he effing blew me off. He didn’t even text me till I was already waiting for him in, like, a hallway of dead snakes.”
“Dead snakes?”
“Ugh,” Brooke moaned. “I’m at the Academy of Sciences. Effing Lupton said he wanted to go see the herpetology exhibit. I want to get in his pants or I’d never have said yes. Is Immie in San Francisco with you?”
“No.”
“When the eff is Hanukkah? Is she going home for that?”
“It’s now. She wouldn’t go home for it. She went to Mumbai, maybe. I don’t know for sure.”
“Okay. So come down, since you’re in town.”
“To the snakes?”
“Yeah. God, I’m bored. Are you far away?”
“I have—”
“Don’t say you have stuff to do. We’ll keep texting Immie and force her to get back to us. Does she have phone service in Mumbai? We can email her if she doesn’t. Come find me in the herp exhibit,” said Brooke. “You have to make an appointment. I’ll text you the number.”
Jule wanted to see all the things. She hadn’t been to the Academy of Sciences yet. Plus she wanted to know what Brooke knew about Imogen’s life after the Vineyard. So she jumped in a cab.
The Academy was a natural history museum full of dinosaur bones and taxidermy. “I have a two o’clock appointment,” Jule told the man at the herp desk.
“ID, please.”
Jule showed him the Vassar ID and he let her pass.
“We have more than three hundred thousand specimens from one hundred and sixty-six countries,” he said. “Enjoy your day.”
The collection was housed in a series of rooms. The vibe was half library, half storage facility. On the shelves stood glass bottles filled with preserved animals: snakes, lizards, toads, and many creatures Jule could not identify. They were all carefully labeled.
Jule knew Brooke was waiting for her, but she didn’t text to say she’d arrived. Instead, she walked slowly along the aisles, keeping her feet silent.
She retained the names of most of the things she looked at. Xenopus laevis, African clawed frog. Crotalus cerastes, sidewinder. Crotalus ruber, red diamond rattlesnake. She logged the names of vipers, salamanders, rare frogs, tiny snakes native only to faraway islands.
The vipers were coiled upon themselves, suspended in dingy liquid. Jule touched her hand to their venomous mouths, feeling fear skim through her.
She turned a corner and found Brooke sitting on the floor in one aisle, staring at a robust yellow frog on a low shelf.
“Took you forever,” Brooke said.
“I got into the snakes,” said Jule. “They’re so powerful.”
“They’re not powerful. They’re dead,” said Brooke. “They’re, like, coiled up in bottles and nobody loves them. God, wouldn’t it be depressing if after you died your relatives, like, preserved you in formaldehyde and kept you in a giant jar?”
“They have poison inside them,” said Jule, still talking about the vipers. “Some of them can kill an animal thirty times their size. Don’t you think that would be an amazing feeling, to have a weapon like that inside you?”
“They’re so damn ugly,” said Brooke. “It wouldn’t be worth it. Whatever. I’m sick of herps. Let’s get espresso.”
The snack bar served tiny mugs of deeply bitter coffee and Italian gelato. Brooke told Jule to order vanilla and they poured the espresso over their dishes of ice cream.
“It has a name,” said Brooke, “but I didn’t pay attention when we went to Italy. We had it at this little restaurant on some square. My mother kept trying to tell me the history of the square, and my father was all, ‘Let’s practice your Italiano!’ But my sister and I were bored. We were like that for the whole trip, our eyes rolling up, but then—and this happened nearly every time—the food would come and we would just be all, nom nom nom. Have you been to Italy? It’s a level of pasta you don’t even understand, I promise you. It shouldn’t be legal.” She lifted her bowl and drank the last of the espresso from it. “I’m coming home with you for dinner,” she announced.
They hadn’t talked about Imogen yet, so Jule said all right.
They bought sausage, pasta, and red sauce. Brooke had a bottle of wine in the trunk of her car. At the apartment, Jule shoved the stack of mail upside down in a drawer and hid her wallet while Brooke wandered around.
“Cool place.” Brooke fingered the hedgehog pillows and the jars of pretty marbles and rhinestones. She took in the patterned tablecloth, red kitchen cabinets, decorative statues, and books that had belonged to the apartment’s previous inhabitant. Then she opened cupboards and filled a pot with water for the pasta. “You need a Christmas tree,” she said. “Wait, are you Jewish? No, you’re not Jewish.”
“I’m not anything.”
“Everyone is something.”
“No.”
“Don’t be weird, Jule. Like, I’m Pennsylvania Dutch on my mom’s side and Irish Catholic and Cuban on my dad’s side. That doesn’t mean I’m a Christian, but it means I have to drive back home Christmas Eve and pretend to pay attention at midnight Mass.
What are you?”
“I don’t celebrate.” Jule wished Brooke wouldn’t push. She didn’t have an answer. She had no mythology that resonated beyond the hero origin story.
“Well, that’s effing sad,” said Brooke, opening the bottle of wine. “Tell me where Immie’s been.”
“She and I came here,” said Jule. “But just for a week. Then she told me she was going to Paris, said goodbye, and later texted that Paris was just a city like New York and she was going to Mumbai instead. Or else Cairo.”
“I know she didn’t go home because her mom emailed me again,” said Brooke. “Oh, and I know she left Forrest. She texted that he was moping like a stripy sad cat and she was relieved to be rid of him, but she didn’t give me the whole picture. Did she talk to you about the cleaner?”
This was the conversation Jule wanted to have, but she knew she had to tread carefully. “A little. What did she tell you?”
“She called me the day after I left the Vineyard and said everything was her fault and she was running off to Puerto Rico with you for some R and R,” said Brooke.
“We didn’t go to Puerto Rico,” said Jule. “We came here.”
“I effing hate how secretive she is,” said Brooke. “I love her, but she’s all about being, like, untethered and mysterious. It’s so annoying.”
Jule felt defensive of Imogen then. “She’s trying to be true to herself instead of pleasing other people all the time,” she said.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind if she tried a little harder to please people, actually,” said Brooke. “In fact, she could try a fuckload harder.”
Brooke walked over to the television as if now she had said the definitive words on the subject of Imogen Sokoloff. She navigated for a little until she found an old Bette Davis movie that had just started. “Let’s watch this,” she said. She poured herself a second glass of wine and served the pasta.
They watched the film. It was black-and-white. Everyone wore wonderful clothes and behaved horribly to one another. After an hour, there was a knock on the door.
It was Maddie, the owner of the apartment. “I need to turn the water in your bathroom sink on and then off again,” she said. “The plumber is downstairs. He wants me to help him figure out why it’s been acting up.”
“Can you come back later?” said Jule.
“The guy is in my place right now,” said Maddie. “I’ll just be a minute. You’ll barely know I’m here.”
Jule glanced at Brooke. She had her feet on the coffee table. “Come in.”
“Thanks, you’re the best.” Jule followed Maddie into the bathroom, where the owner messed with the faucets. “That should be enough,” Maddie said, heading back out. “Now I’ll go see if my sink is backed up. Hopefully I won’t return.”
“Thanks,” said Jule.
“No, thank you, Imogen. Sorry to disturb your evening.”
Damn.
Damn.
The door shut behind Maddie.
Brooke turned the TV off. She was holding her phone in her hand. “What did she say?”
“It’s time for you to go home,” said Jule. “You’ve had a lot to drink. I’m calling you a cab.”
Jule kept up a steady stream of chatter until Brooke was in the car, but as soon as the cab pulled away, Immie’s phone pinged in her pocket.
Brooke Lannon: Immie! where R you?
BL: Jule says Mumbai? Or Cairo.
BL: Zat true?
BL: Also, Vivian was a huge witch to me and I can’t believe the thing about her and Isaac. I mean, I can believe it, but fuck.
BL: Chip Lupton felt my boob last night and then today he blew me off. So WHATEVER. Wish you were actually here, except it sucks so bad you’d hate it.
BL: Also, Jule told the landlady her name is Imogen. ????!!!!
Jule finally texted back.
IS: Hey. I’m here.
BL: Hi!!!!!
IS: Chip felt your boob?
BL: It takes boobs to make you text me back heh heh.
BL: Well, boobs are v. important.
Jule waited a minute and then texted:
IS: Relax about Jule. She is my oldest friend.
IS: I got her an apartment till she gets herself set up. Signed the lease, so the owner thinks she’s me. She’s broke.
BL: Not convinced. She is off, somehow. For real, Jule let this lady CALL HER “IMOGEN.”
IS: It’s fine.
BL: IDK. Could mess up your credit rating and I know you care about that shit. Plus is creepy. Hello? Identity theft? Is actually a thing and not just an urban myth.
BL: Also, where are you? Mumbai?
Jule didn’t answer. Nothing she could say mattered if Brooke was determined to make trouble.
LAST WEEK OF SEPTEMBER, 2016
SAN FRANCISCO
Twelve weeks before Brooke came to dinner, Jule flew from Puerto Rico to San Francisco and checked into the Sir Francis Drake Hotel in Nob Hill. The place was all red velvet, chandeliers, and rococo flourishes. The ceilings were carved. Jule used Imogen’s credit card and photo ID. The clerk questioned nothing and called her Ms. Sokoloff.
Jule had a suite on the top floor. The room had leather-studded chairs and a gold-tipped dresser. She began to feel better as soon as she saw it.
She took a long shower and washed the sweat of travel and the memories of Puerto Rico off her skin. She scrubbed hard with the washcloth and shampooed twice. She put on pajamas she’d never worn before and slept until the pain that ran up her neck finally disappeared.
Jule spent a week in that hotel. She felt like she was in an egg. The sparkling, hard shell of the hotel protected her when she needed it.
—
At the end of the week, she saw a listing, sent some emails, and went to see the San Francisco apartment. Maddie Chung toured her around. The place came furnished, but it didn’t have the kind of plain furnishings you might expect from a rental apartment. It was filled with unusual pieces of sculpture and pretty collections in glass jars: buttons, marbles, and rhinestones displayed on shelves so they caught the light. The kitchen had red cabinets and wood floors. There were glass dishes and heavy cast-iron pans.
Handing over the key, Maddie explained that she had had a renter there for more than ten years, a single gentleman who had died without any relatives. “There was no one to tell when he died. No one to come and take his things,” she said. “And he had such pretty taste, and had taken care of everything so well. I thought—I’ll rent it furnished, like a vacation rental. Then people can appreciate it.” She touched a jar of marbles. “No charity shop wants these.”
“Why didn’t he have anyone?” asked Jule.
“I don’t know. He was only about my age when he died. Throat cancer. There were no next of kin I could discover. No money. Maybe he changed his name or fell out with his people. It happens.” She shrugged. They were at the door now. “Do you have movers coming?” asked Maddie. “I ask because I like to be home if the door to the building is going to be propped open all day, but it shouldn’t be a problem to arrange.”
Jule shook her head. “I just have the suitcase.”
Maddie looked at her kindly and then smiled. “Make yourself at home, Imogen. I hope you’ll be happy here.”
Hey, Mom & Dad,
I left Martha’s Vineyard a little more than a week ago and now I’m traveling. Not sure where I’ll go! Maybe to Mumbai or Paris or Cairo.
Island life was peaceful and kind of isolated from the rest of the world. Everything moved at a slow pace. I’m really sorry I haven’t been in touch. I just need to figure out who I am without school, or family, or anything else defining me. Does that make sense?
I had this boyfriend on Martha’s Vineyard. His name was Forrest. But we’ve broken up now, and I want to see more of the world.
Please don’t worry about me. I will travel safely and take good care of myself.
You’ve always been wonderful parents. I think about you every day.
Much lov
e,
Imogen
Once she set up her Wi-Fi in the San Francisco apartment, Jule emailed this note from Imogen’s account.
She also wrote to Forrest. She used Immie’s favorite words, her slang, her sign-off, her “kind ofs” and “maybes.”
Hey Forrest.
This email is hard to write, but I have to tell you: I’m not coming back. The rent is paid up through the end of September, so as long as you’re out before October 1, all’s fine.
I don’t want to see you again. I’m leaving. Well, ha. I’m already gone.
I deserve someone who doesn’t look down on me. Admit it, you do. Because you’re a man and I’m a woman. Because I’m smaller than you. Because I’m adopted, and you don’t like to say it, but you value bloodlines. You think you’re superior because I left college and you didn’t. And you think writing a novel is more important than anything I like to do, or want to do with my life.
The truth is, Forrest, I’m the one with the power. I had the house. And the car. I paid the bills. I’m an adult, Forrest. You’re nothing but an entitled, dependent little boy.
Anyway, I’m gone. I thought you should know why.
Imogen
Forrest wrote back. He was sad and sorry. Angry. Pleading.
Jule didn’t answer. Instead, she texted Brooke two kitty-cat vines with a short note.
IS: Broke up with Forrest. This stripy sad cat is maybe how he feels.
IS: The fluffy orange cat is how I feel. (So relieved.)
Brooke wrote back.
BL: Have you heard from Vivian?
BL: or anyone else from Vassar?
BL: Immie?
BL: Because I heard from Caitlin (Caitlin Moon not Caitlin Clark) that
BL: Vivian is going out with Isaac now.
BL: But I don’t believe any news I ever get from Caitlin Moon.
BL: So maybe it isn’t true.
BL: I just threw up a little in my mouth.