by Tracy Deebs
Instead of the long blond hair and big blue eyes of most Desdemona actresses—which Tara possesses, incidentally—I’ve got short, spiky red hair with violet streaks in the front. Plus, I’ve got muddy brown eyes and I’m also close to six feet tall, a height that doesn’t exactly scream cute, cuddly, and in need of protection. Thank God.
But I can’t argue, especially when everyone else seems okay with their parts.
“So you’re good with playing Iago then?” I finally ask Eli, hoping he’ll disagree so I can, too.
He grins cockily. “I’d rather play Othello.” I’m not sure if his enthusiasm is good or bad, seeing as how Othello’s main role in this scene is to kill me. But I’ll take it, at least until he says, “Then again, that does seem like a role for Theo. Since Othello is completely nuts by the time this scene rolls around.”
Theo looks up, and the air around us crackles with hostility. An awkward silence descends, one that no one—especially not Theo or Eli—seems inclined to break. Which is a problem, since Mr. March is already making the rounds and we’re directly in his sights.
“Are we going to spend the whole class talking, or are we going to do this thing?” Theo finally demands. His book hits the desk with an annoyed thump, and when I look at him, his scowl is blacker than ever.
Talk about typecasting.
No one else says anything—either not brave or not stupid enough to push Theo—so the next few minutes pass in silence as we read the scene to ourselves. And after I read for a while, I realize I’m not nearly as icked out by the story—or the thought of playing Desdemona—as I expected I’d be. After all, I might not have finished the play, but I already know how it ends: with my murder, my friend’s untimely demise, a bunch of innocent people’s deaths, Othello’s suicide, and Iago’s torture. Shakespeare definitely knew how to make a statement.
But when I get to the part where Othello accuses Desdemona of infidelity—because he believes his lying-sack-of-shit best friend—it’s my turn to slam my book down on the desk. “What’s wrong with Desdemona, anyway? Why doesn’t she run away from Othello toward the end? She can’t miss the fact that he’s losing it.”
“She loves him, Pandora,” Mr. March says as he walks by. “She doesn’t want to leave him.”
“Even though it’s obvious the man is completely out of his mind? I mean, seriously, I don’t care how hot the guy is. He’s got ‘crazy stalker husband with a gun’ written all over him.” In my mind, sociopathic behavior trumps love and attraction any day. Or at least it should.
“It’s a sword, actually, and he doesn’t use it on her,” Theo tells me as Mr. March heads on to the next group, who are already standing up, rehearsing.
“So what does he do? How does he kill her?” I turn to Theo impatiently, though the truth is, I’m a little embarrassed that he now knows I haven’t finished the play. But since the test on Othello isn’t until next week, finishing it hasn’t been high on my priority list.
Theo shifts a little, until he’s so close to me that I can smell the mintiness of his mouthwash and a warm, fresh scent that is curiously inviting. It’s a combination of the forest near my old house—all piney and delicious—and the lemon tree in my backyard.
His midnight-blue eyes are laser focused as he watches me, and I squirm despite myself. But I still take his hand, let him pull me to my feet. He’s even taller than I thought, and now that I’m standing next to him I feel completely overshadowed. Completely overwhelmed.
“He’s tormented, Pandora. Nearly insane with his love for her and the idea that she’s betrayed him. That he isn’t enough for her. That she wants another man.”
His hands come up to cup my face, and my heart starts beating so fast that I can barely hear Eli over the thunder of it when he says, “Knock it off, Theo.”
We both ignore him.
“Why does …” My voice breaks. “Why does Othello ask her if he won’t believe what she says?”
“He has to ask. He wants to believe her. But then he can’t, when his most trusted friend’s words are in his head, telling him that she’s been with Cassio.” He slides his palms down until they’re ringing my throat. They’re a little rough as they scrape against my collarbone. Shivers slide up my spine. “She’s crying and pleading with him, and she looks so beautiful, sounds so innocent, that it makes him even crazier. Because in the back of his head is Iago, convincing him that she betrayed him. Providing proof that she gave his gift to another man as a token of her affection.”
I can’t breathe, fear and panic and fascination welling up inside me as I stare at this guy who suddenly looks as intense as I imagine the real Othello would. The thought flashes through my head that Eli might be right, that Theo might be a few cards short of a full deck. But even as every instinct I have tells me to get away, I don’t move. It’s insane, but I’m trapped by the promise in his eyes as much as by his hands around my throat.
Maybe I was too hard on poor Desdemona.
And then he begins to squeeze and my too-fast heart nearly explodes.
“Stop it.” I shove him away from me, stumble backward, and though his fingers had barely tightened on my neck—just enough to be felt but certainly nowhere near hard enough to hurt—I can feel the imprint of each one.
“What’s wrong with you?” I demand.
“No, that’s perfect!” Mr. March exclaims from his spot across the room. “That’s exactly the right vibe for the scene. Othello is desperate. He’s crazed, furious, a wounded animal, and Desdemona knows it, but she loves him so much that she can’t believe he’d ever hurt her. Even as he strangles her, she can’t believe it. She thinks he’ll stop.”
The bell rings, thank God, and I shove my stuff into my backpack and head for the door, not even bothering to turn my desk around. I can’t remember the last time I felt this idiotic and have no idea how I’m going to face Theo later today in AP Government.
Behind me I hear Eli call my name, but I don’t turn around. I can’t. I’m afraid Theo will be standing there, watching me, and I can’t get the sensation of his hands around my neck out of my head, off my skin. I swear I can still feel them there, warm and slightly calloused.
It’s only ten o’clock, but already nothing about this birthday is turning out like I thought it would. Perhaps I should take that as a warning …
3
The rest of the day passes in kind of a blur … and with no more close-to-homicidal incidents, thank God. Class, friends, Amnesty International meeting at lunch, more class, an Eco Club meeting after school, and then sweet, sweet freedom. Jules gets a ride home from her boyfriend, so Emily and I hit the parking lot five minutes after the meeting ends.
“I can’t believe you want to stay home on your birthday,” she complains as we climb into the gas-guzzling behemoth that is my car. My mother bought it for me after I crashed my first car and nearly died. It completely wasn’t my fault—some idiot ran a red light and plowed straight into me—but I think the fact that she had to come home from DC early to take care of me stressed her out enough that she bought me a car that puts about a thousand tons of steel all around me. Either that or she gets a bonus at work for actually owning a car with the worst gas mileage on the planet.
“So, what do you want to do for your birthday tonight?” Emily asks as we head out of the parking lot.
“Sit on the couch and gorge on ice cream?”
“Well, obviously.” I can almost hear the eye-roll. “I mean, besides that.”
“Not much.” I start to tell her about the e-mail from my dad, and the blog he’s set up for me, but I stop at the last second. It’s still too new, too personal, to share with anyone, even my best friend. Especially since I’m not even sure how I feel about the whole thing yet. “Maybe go out to dinner, if you want.”
“Of course I want. But I’m talking about more than pizza at Little Nicky’s. You only turn seventeen once. We should go out, party!”
“I like Little Nicky’s.”
�
��So not the point.”
I bite back a grin—even after all these years, she’s just too easy. “I thought we were planning on doing plenty of partying with Jules, Chase, and Steven tomorrow.”
That distracts her, as I knew it would. You don’t spend most of your life being someone’s best friend without knowing what buttons to push, or not push, as the case might be.
“The Black Keys concert is going to be awesome. I can’t wait.” She pauses. “Did you ask Theo and Eli if they want the extra tickets, like we talked about yesterday?”
“What? No!” I can feel heat crawling up my cheeks at just the mention of their names. “You talked about that, not me. Why would I do that, anyway?”
“Because I don’t have any classes with them, so I can’t ask? I’ve been trying to figure out a way to meet them for two weeks. I mean, they’re gorgeous and smart and way taller than you—which, you have to admit, is rare. Add in the fact that you guys are doing a scene together, inviting them to go out in a group of friends seems pretty normal to me.”
I glance at her incredulously. “Yeah, well, obviously you missed the part of our lunch conversation where I told you Theo tried to kill me in English today. That’s not the kind of friend I want or need.”
“Give me a break. You don’t even have a mark.” She pulls on my necklace to make the point.
“Are you listening to yourself? You act like it’s normal for a guy I barely know to wrap his hands around my throat. And squeeze.”
“It is normal if he was acting.”
I crumple up a napkin from the front console and throw it at her. “Your definition of normal is highly suspect. Besides, I’m not so crazy that I’d ask out possibly the hottest and most homicidal guy in school. Besides, have you seen the way he dresses? So not my type.”
“Hey, he’s rocking the Harvard vibe. Nothing wrong with that.”
“Yeah, well, my mom rocked that same Harvard vibe, and see how well she turned out.”
“Hmm, good point. So maybe you should go for Eli and I’ll go for Theo.”
“Do you seriously have nothing better to do than sit around plotting out my love life?” I demand.
“Someone has to.” Emily reaches over to hug me as we stop in front of her house. “Someday you’re going to regret all the things you didn’t do,” she says as she pulls something out of her bag and thrusts it at me.
I glance down at it. It’s wrapped in newspaper and has a kick-ass black-and-red bow across the top that’s nearly as big as the gift itself. “Open it later,” she says as she climbs out of the car.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Because presents go better with cake? I’ll see you tonight at seven, okay?”
“I’ll be there.” I wave as she turns to walk away.
And then I’m pulling into traffic, cruising down the winding, hilly road that surrounds Austin’s Lake Travis and leads to Walgreens and my house. Every minute or so, I glance at the package Emily gave me, and I decide that it’s later, even if there’s not a chocolate crumb in sight.
I can’t help it. From the time I was a toddler, I’ve never been able to stand not knowing the answer to something. Whether it’s a question at school or how something works or what was in the presents my dad used to hide for me—it doesn’t matter. My curiosity drives me crazy until I feel like I’ll die if I don’t find the answer.
For a second it flits through my mind that that’s the reason my dad sent me the e-mail. Because he remembers my Christmas-present scavenger hunts as a kid and knew I wouldn’t be able to resist opening the link. Not that it matters, I guess. But still, I wonder if he knows me that well. If he still cares enough to remember. He was the one who insisted on naming me Pandora, after all.
The second I pull into the parking lot at Walgreens, I’m ripping into Emily’s present. I grin when I see what she got me, and I can’t stop the little bubble of excitement that works its way through me. A first-issue copy of Stone Temple Pilots CD Core, autographed by the entire band. Could she have picked a more perfect gift? I’ve been collecting first-issue CDs for years, and the fact that it’s signed makes it even better.
I grab my phone, text her a thank-you. It takes a minute or so to go through, which is odd, but when she texts me right back, I forget all about it. I smile when I see her message:
I knew u couldn’t wt. It’s a sickness, Pandora. Srsly. Get help now. LOL.
I run into Walgreens and pay for the photos I ordered this morning, then take them out and look at them right there in the store. There are only twelve, but in that moment they feel more precious to me than anything else I own—even my new CD.
I drive home slowly, thinking about them. Thinking about my dad and the website he set up for me. Anxious to check it again, I head up to my room as soon as I get home. I didn’t have a chance to read all of my dad’s messages this morning, and I want to see what the others say. Except when I type in the address of the blog, nothing comes up. I try again—still nothing—and then finally go searching for the e-mail my dad sent me. I must be remembering the address wrong.
But the e-mail is gone, too. Which isn’t possible. I mean, I was in a hurry this morning, but I would know if I’d deleted it, wouldn’t I? Still, I check the trash folder, just in case. Nothing’s there. Then I check the spam folder, but the only things there are ads for cheap prescription medicine and cheaper mortgages.
I’m totally bummed now, and if I didn’t have the twelve pictures I might have thought I imagined the whole thing. But I do have them, so I know I’m not crazy. It happened.
I just don’t know what occurred afterward. Was I really in such a big hurry that I trashed the only e-mail I’ve ever gotten from my dad? What a moron.
Frustrated and pissed off at myself, I insert the Core CD into my laptop and lie across the bed. My stomach growls and I think about going back down to the kitchen and grabbing something to eat, but I’m too annoyed. Instead, I stare at the ceiling, studying the hundreds of CD covers I have tacked up there and contemplating my father’s letters to me while “Wicked Garden” plays in the background.
If I hadn’t been stupid enough to erase the e-mail, and if the website hadn’t disappeared off the face of the earth, would I have written back to him? And if I did, what would I say?
The thing is, I don’t know the answer to either of those questions. His letters were nice and so are the pictures. But they’re not much to hang a relationship on, especially since I haven’t seen him in ten years.
Eventually my hunger gets the best of me, so I grab my laptop and cruise down to the kitchen. On the way, I flick on the television and start streaming the first season of Supernatural, right where I left off, at episode 4, “Phantom Traveler.” Then I head to the pantry and pour myself a bowl of cereal. Crunch Berries, of course. Between mouthfuls, I open my laptop and boot it up.
I play around for a while—Facebook stuff, checking out the Cliffs Notes for Othello, looking for a new pair of boots because my old ones are pretty much trashed. By then it’s after five thirty and my mom still hasn’t called. I check my phone to see if I missed a text from her—sometimes reception can be spotty in the house—but there’s nothing.
I start my calculus homework, but it’s not due until Friday, so eventually I give up on it. Being productive is highly overrated. Besides, I so shouldn’t have to do advanced math on my birthday.
Finally, I do what I’ve wanted to do for the last forty-five minutes. I log on to Pandora’s Box. Usually I play it on my iPad, but I’m too lazy to go up to my room and get it right now. Besides, it works fine on my laptop, even if the colors aren’t quite as cool.
I’m kind of excited about playing again—when I left off yesterday, I had just hit level twenty-seven. I want to get through it quickly and find the alternate-reality, or AR, gate that will transport me to the next level, because Jules says twenty-eight is the best so far.
Except instead of dropping me off in the middle of the barren w
asteland that was once New York City, the game flashes a new message across the screen:
Happy Seventeenth Birthday, Pandora!
What the … ?
I stare at the screen, confused. How is it possible that the game knows my birthday—and my name? My user name is totally unconnected to my real name. And yet, there it is, staring at me in a very distinct yellow font. My name.
I think back to when I first jumped on the Pandora’s Box bandwagon, months ago. I’d resisted for a long time—because of the name thing—but when I finally gave in I remember having to register, just like with any MMO. Had they asked for my birthdate? I vaguely remember that they had, and it calms me down a little. Still, I make a mental note to ask Jules if she got the same greeting four weeks ago on her birthday. The last thing I need is some weird pervert guy hacking my account …
I click to get to the new screen and the birthday message slowly fades, only to be replaced by the words:
You’ve reached the point of no return.
Welcome to the real Pandora’s Box.
Underneath is a giant, flashing number 10 in bright red, just to make sure you don’t miss it. I try to click on it but nothing happens. Try to click on the message, but no luck there, either. Then the letters dissolve only to re-form with a new message:
Total annihilation in 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 days.
The 1 is huge, takes over the entire screen for a brief second before morphing into a graphic of the earth. Seconds later, the world blows up, little pieces streaming across the screen like fireworks. Then everything fades to black. Nothing.
I click on the screen, hit Return, Escape, all those things they teach you to do when your computer does something weird. But nothing happens, and I have to admit I’m a little freaked out. It’s stupid, I know. Pandora’s Box is just a game. And yet … and yet, I can’t help viewing this new bizarre message as some kind of threat.