Furious

by Jill Wolfson

  “Exactly!” Ms. Pallas says. There’s triumph in her voice.

  “And I, too, agree.” Ambrosia directs this next statement to our teacher. “The past is definitely not old, dead business.”

  This gives me an idea. I know it’s a good one, but my throat goes dry like it always does when I have to give my opinion in a group. “I have an…”

  “Go on,” Ambrosia encourages.

  “I have an idea. How about this as our topic: ‘Bad Blood in Great Theater.’”

  Alix is chewing on her lower lip. “Topic after my own heart.”

  Ambrosia rises. She passes in front of Ms. Pallas, a little too closely, close enough to bump her a little with her shoulder, close enough for me to know that it wasn’t an accident, even though she does offer the teacher a smile. Only it’s not a smile that’s an apology, but more of a sneer with challenge etched into it. I see that clearly. There is something going on between them. Does everyone else notice?

  I try to catch Raymond’s eye, but Ambrosia positions herself in front of me, blocking the view, offering her full radiance. She takes both of my hands in hers and I feel myself sinking into the texture of her skin. It’s soft, but not like a baby’s, more soft and strong like well-worn leather. Her eyes lock onto mine and hold them there. No one has ever looked at me so deeply. I feel her presence in my knees, up my legs, my chest, my throat, at the point between my eyes. Her perfume isn’t a brand I recognize. I pick up hints of roses, mint, and damp, rich soil. It makes my head spin.

  “You, Meg,” she says, “are a treasure. You are exactly what we need.”

  6

  After school it’s raining again, a sudden storm that wasn’t in the forecast. I tell Raymond that I want to skip the bus despite the weather and walk home. That’s one of the ways we definitely aren’t alike. He doesn’t get why I like the rain and fog so much, how bad weather makes me feel in tune with the world as I know it. Raymond’s more of a sunshine and clear skies person, but he’s willing to humor me. We zip our jackets. His face peers out of his hood. He’s stuck on the same subject that’s obsessed him from third period on. Can’t blame him. I’m right there with him.

  “You have to go there,” he says again.

  “As if I wouldn’t.”

  “I don’t know anyone who’s been inside. Sneak photos with your cell phone, okay? Take notes with your elegant handwriting. Promise? You can’t say no. Tell me exactly how Ambrosia invited you.”

  “Again?”

  “Every detail. Let me relive the thrilling moment with you.”

  “Like I said before, she was holding my hands. You saw that. Weird, night? Then she leaned in and whispered, ‘You’ll come to my house. Tomorrow after school.’”

  “That’s so Ambrosia. She didn’t ask. She ordered. Nobody ever says no to her. I wonder what she wants from you.”

  “Why do you think she wants something?”

  “Of course, she wants something! Meg, under Ambrosia’s flawless patina of impeccable mystery beats a core of pure emotional manipulation. Surely you’ve noticed that.”

  “Maybe she…” I pause a second, remind myself of the pull of her perfume, the tickle of her breath whispering in my ear. I take a leap over Raymond’s logic. “I don’t know, maybe she wants to hang out with me. Maybe we”—I struggle to find the right word for what happened between us—“clicked.”

  I immediately catch myself. Saying this might hurt his feelings because of the special Meg-Raymond bond that we’re both so protective and proud of. “Not click like you and I click. You know I don’t mean that.”

  He extends his pinkie and I hook it to mine, and at the same time we say “Pinkie Pull of Trust.”

  I go on. “But maybe she, you know, likes me.”

  He lifts an eyebrow suggestively.

  “Not that way! Maybe she thinks I’m cool.”

  “Ambrosia? Don’t be ridiculous!”

  Ouch. That hurts. The word ridiculous seems to echo in the damp air. At the corner we wait for a car to turn and then cross the street. At the curb there’s a big puddle that Raymond leaps over and easily clears with his long legs. I jump, too, and wind up soaking the cuffs of my jeans. Ridiculous. He talks on, either ignoring or not noticing the impact of that word on me.

  “Earth to Meg. You spy with your sharp little eye the type Ambrosia surrounds herself with. Those girls date college guys. Not community college, four-year college. Sophomores. I’ve taken the time to look beneath your surface to discover and appreciate your core of pure wondrousness. But Ambrosia? Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not in her league.”

  A knot in my throat tightens, twists. Things get quiet after that, and it’s not the comfortable silence between two close friends who agree on everything. With each step down the street, I flip between two feelings that shouldn’t even exist at the same time in the same mind together: I’m pathetic. (Of course he’s right about me not being in Ambrosia’s league. Nobody is really in her league. How stupid can I be?) I’m pissed off! (But Raymond didn’t feel what I felt. It happened! Ambrosia felt it, too. Raymond must be jealous of her. I bet that’s it! She didn’t call him a treasure.)

  The next block is where we split off in different directions, and I’m more than ready to go. But Raymond holds me back by wrapping his arm around my shoulder. I start to push it off, but instead stand rigid to show him that I am not returning the hug.

  “Meg-o-mania, don’t be mad at me. You know how my mouth works. I can’t help myself sometimes. When I said that you’re not in Ambrosia’s league, I meant it as a compliment. Take it that way. There’s something so cold and calculating about her, and you’re … you’re so warm and not calculating.”

  I shrug, won’t meet his eye.

  “Come on! Don’t be stubborn.”

  I shrug again. I’m sure I’ll get over the sting of his insult eventually. That’s me. I always get over anything. Forgive and forget. Turn the other cheek. But right now, I don’t want to. I don’t feel like it. I’m glad that we live on opposite sides of town. He gives me his pleading puppy-dog look, and in return I lift my hand in a quick half-wave, show him my back, and walk away. I hope that motion says to him: I get to be mad sometimes, too.

  I’m definitely in no rush to get back to the Land of the Leech, so I take the long way. I have a lot to think about besides Raymond. Something is going on. Ambrosia. Ms. Pallas. How do they fit together? Alix is part of this something, too. I feel it. And what is Stephanie’s place? Is she part of it? I weave west through some neighborhoods and eventually wind up on the single-lane walkway that borders the cliff along the coast. Being here clears my head a little. I can never get enough of the kelpy, salty smell and the cold fog on my face and in my hair.

  I head north, my left hand tingling cold from the wind off the ocean. Ahead of me, I spot the town’s famous surfer statue that stands on a pedestal on a spit of land that protrudes above the water. The statue’s a little corny—a thick-haired stereotypical surfer dude, his chest broad and expansive as he grips his board behind his back, his chiseled profile contemplating the ocean for the next wave to catch. I get a kick out of how people decorate it according to the season: in December there’s usually a Santa hat on that head of metallic hair, and in the summer a baseball cap.

  As I get closer, I make out a carved jack-o’-lantern with a broad, leering grin sitting at the statue’s bare feet, near the plaque: Prince of the Waves. The statue was dedicated to the community a long time ago, and there’s something familiar about the shape of the surfer’s head and the set of his mouth. Up close, you see a tension in the surfer’s jaw, and this makes me certain that he’s more than a fantasy archetype. He’s human with human feelings. My guess is that the sculptor based him on a real person.

  I wrap my hands around the metal railing that separates me from the steep twenty-foot cliff and the ocean below. I bend back my head to follow a V-shaped flock of pelicans that are struggling against strong headwinds.

  Who was this P
rince of the Waves?

  I bet that just like me, in weather just like this, he stood on this spot, the edge of an entire continent, the point where land ends and there’s nothing left, nowhere to go that’s solid. I wonder if he, too, imagined how these waves started far away. Something big and dangerous—an earthquake or hurricane—set them in motion, and they traveled through space and time, gathering strength and eventually meeting their end here.

  A crash on the rocks below my feet.

  I’m sure a science teacher like Mr. H could explain exactly how the shape of the cliff, the direction and pull of the current, and the force of the wind all come together to make this one of the most famous surfing spots in California. On most days, the waves roll in steadily and evenly shaped, musical like a poem. But right now they remind me of an argument, yelling and screaming, starting in one direction and suddenly veering into another, breaking apart, colliding and unpredictable.

  I squint through the fog and light rain, and I can’t believe what I’m seeing. There’s actually someone, a surfer, in the water. A wave slams hard, burying the figure and tossing around the board like it’s nothing but a toothpick. There’s so much churned-up water, it looks like angry milk. Not even the Plagues would be out there today. You have to be crazy. Or you have to be someone who doesn’t care about getting hurt. Or you have to be obsessed. Or part fish. Or someone who’s a match for these waves, as fierce as the ocean itself.

  I loosen the string of my jacket hood, let it drop back, then remove the clip from my hair. I shake my head. Each strand swells with moisture, turning my hair even wilder than it usually is, as coarse and tangled as a steel-wool pad.

  What would it be like to be that surfer? To kick my legs and pound my arms, to punch my whole body through thick walls of water. To yell and scream and charge. To have nothing to lose. To have that much anger and not be afraid of using it.

  All along the cliff, there are signs—DANGEROUS. UNPREDICTABLE SURF. STAY BACK—but right now instead of warning me, they tempt me. I lean forward on the rail and bend way over, far enough to see the cliff from a whole different angle, the way the surfer sees it.

  Smash. The waves crash again on the rocks below. I breathe in, feel the power of each wave unleashing its force on the ground beneath me.

  My eyes follow the surfer, who is now paddling toward the cliff, following some invisible diagonal line to where I’m standing. I begin making out individual features that confirm what I already know. I don’t know how I know, but I do.

  Alix hoists herself out of the surf at the base of the cliff, like she’s been coughed up by the sea. Her hands tear away at the brown mass of kelp, skinny strands like mermaid’s hair, or witch’s hair, that’s wrapped itself around her ankles and the board. She shakes water from each ear. She turns to squint at me.

  I want her to wave. I want her to recognize me as the girl who hates everyone, too.

  But no, she glares at me and spits on the ground. With her board under her arm, she walks in the opposite direction.

  * * *

  “You’re late!” the Leech yells.

  What I don’t say: I hate you!

  “You forgot the cat food! What’s He-Cat supposed to eat?”

  What I don’t say: Poison!

  “Look at the mud you tracked onto the floor! Scrub that now!”

  What I don’t say: You scrub it!

  On my hands and knees, I wipe the floor clean of scuff marks.

  What I do say: “Clean enough?”

  “Enough of your sass.”

  I see her arm swing back and then forward. If I have the time to see it, why don’t I move away? Why don’t I block it? Why don’t I defend myself? I feel her palm hard across my face. What she just did, hitting me, that’s against the law. She’s not allowed to do that. But it doesn’t matter. The law is meaningless. Who will enforce it for me? Who will take my side against hers?

  In my room I cry, but it’s the kind of crying that is silent and only a little wet.

  I cry because I’m so alone. Because of the way Raymond hurt my feelings today. Because of the way Alix ignored me. Because a boy like Brendon will never notice me. Because I’ll never have a real family. Because of all the times I held my tongue and this is what it got me. I cry because of so many hurts and insults that I can’t begin to name them all. I still feel the Leech’s slap across my face.

  Enough. Enough!

  I don’t want any more of this. I want things to be different. My whole life to be different. Especially for me to be different.

  It can happen. It has to happen.

  I feel something brewing.

  I’m ready.

  But ready for what?

  What?

  The rest of the night I spend on research for our Western Civ project. I dive into it. Here’s one of the things I learn:

  The ancient world didn’t have much in the way of official laws and punishments. It was eye for an eye. If you hurt me, I hurt you. In ancient Greece the practice of personal vengeance against wrongdoers was considered natural and necessary.

  7

  I don’t need a map to get to Ambrosia’s. You can’t miss the place, a three-story, red Victorian on a hill overlooking the ocean. It sits all alone up there. Before Ambrosia’s family moved in a few years ago and fixed up the peeling paint and broken window frames, everyone knew it as the old Hamilton place, and it was haunted. Kids dared each other to creep into the overgrown gardens and through the creaking front door. I personally never set foot inside, but I know somebody who knew someone who did, and she ran out screaming about how the invisible hand of eccentric, long-dead Edith Hamilton had tapped her on the shoulder.

  I get off the bus and start walking up the road, which quickly narrows and twists. In only a few blocks, our usual crowded surf-town atmosphere turns more isolated and rural. Trees thicken into a canopy over the road, and then there’s a sign with the address. The metal gate creaks and swings open with a light push. Despite all the money that Ambrosia’s family supposedly poured into fixing things up, I’m still getting the creeps. I try to shake off the feeling that eyes are watching me from deep in the trees. I follow a wide gravel driveway as it leads through a stand of redwoods, and beyond that the path curves for a while before opening into a clearing.

  I gasp. It’s the landscaping, the intensity of it. It reminds me of the old movie Raymond made me watch four times, Dorothy from the world of black and white landing smack in color-saturated Oz. There’s a rumor that Ambrosia’s family imports flowers and plants from all over the world and somehow manages to get them to grow like crazy in our foggy climate. I can report for a fact that the rumor is absolutely true.

  Pinks and blues and chartreuse. Plants climbing up and hanging down. Thousands of flowers in the shape of tiny silvery fairy bells and others like huge upside-down mixing bowls. There’s a line of cactuses as big as men that are draped in shrouds of white cobwebby stuff. There’s one section of the garden in particular that draws me closer. I didn’t know so many different kinds of pure-white flowers existed. White tulips and white roses and heads of what look like albino cabbage and a semicircle of silvery plants with huge fluffy, fringy petal wings. But it’s the plant in the middle of the garden that makes me walk right up to it.

  It’s like from another world, a world where plants mimic human body parts, and these are the lips, parted, cracked, and red. From the center shoots a stalk, a sharp, silvery spear of a tongue—it must be twenty feet high—composed of all-white flowers, hundreds of them, thousands of them, and I know that I’m seeing a bloom that doesn’t happen very often. Maybe once every ten years, maybe every hundred.

  The wind shifts and I’m overcome suddenly with the smell of rotting meat oozing from that plant. No bird or butterfly would have anything to do with it. This is a lure for maggots and beetles. Who planted it? Why put something so amazing and yet so disgusting at the center of so much sweet-smelling beauty?

  I hold my nose and back away. I start t
o jog, glad to leave behind that stink. A few more twists on the driveway and the sprawling red house comes into view. I also see that I’m not the only guest. Alix is standing beside her battered brown Volvo with the surf racks on the roof. It’s parked next to Ambrosia’s gleaming convertible, and I doubt that any car with a cardboard back window and bungee cords holding down the trunk has ever parked in this driveway before. Stephanie is kicking at some gravel. Her bike is propped against a fence, and she’s red-faced with sweat from the trek up the hill.

  None of us is thrilled to see the others. That’s obvious. Alix glares as I approach, her upper lip curled. Well, I’m disappointed, too. Not that I have anything personal against them. But—I know what Raymond said and I can’t help it—I thought Ambrosia invited only me. The way she whispered the invitation and didn’t let go of my hands, I figured it would be just us. Her and me. What are these other two doing here?

  At the front door, Ambrosia, dressed in her usual black—pants, silky blouse with a sweater, cashmere of course, that drapes like a cape—observes the scene. She’s standing in the redbrick doorway, which must be fifteen feet high. Her dark, almost purple, hair hangs loose. With both hands she lifts the huge mass and twists it into a pile on the top of her head, which shows off her long, slender neck. The hair drops, settling instantly into glamorous waves. She beckons us over. “Come on in. This is home.”

  We enter. We stop. We stand. We gawk.

  “My family, we’re collectors.” Ambrosia clearly expects our stunned reaction. “My people despise anything modern or contemporary. Loathe it.”

  As she gives us a quick house tour, her voice strikes a tone that somehow manages to combine bored and bragging. “Drapes, red velvet with silk lining imported from Turkey. Carpet, eighteenth-century Afghanistan.”

  There’s so much red in the living room, it’s like walking through a sore throat. My brain spins with the dates and origins of rugs, fabrics, and vases. I’m not the only one who’s awed. From what I’ve seen of Stephanie, she’s not normally a person who cares about things like wealth, power, and precious heirlooms, but her head snaps from side to side, trying to take it all in. In intimidated silence, we follow Ambrosia upstairs. Alix walks practically on tiptoe since our path is lined with about two million dollars’ worth of breakable stuff. At the landing, I catch a glimpse of myself in a huge hallway mirror. Framed by gold leaf and filigree, even I look like someone important and powerful. I like it. I give myself an approving last look and follow the others down the hallway.