“It would’ve been pretty cool if you’d forfeited.”
I flip her the middle finger, which makes her laugh.
“You know, I’m pretty sure that if we weren’t competing against each other, we’d get along well, you and I.”
I slide my feet into a pair of pointy yellow heels, and stand up. “I guess we’ll never know.”
Lincoln’s looking at my charcoal dress without really looking at it. “Kevin freaks me out,” she says suddenly. “The way he looks at us…like we’re part of the Taliban. Ever since he arrived, the atmosphere’s changed. His tent is right in front of mine, and last night, I swear I could hear him pace around his room. And then outside on the grass, there was definitely noise. I don’t feel safe. That’s what I was telling Chase this afternoon.”
“And what did Chase say?”
“He told me to come and sleep in his room if I needed to.”
“How gallant of him,” I say mockingly.
She cocks her head to the side. “Are you jealous?”
“Jealous? No.”
“You sounded jealous.”
“Well, I’m not. I don’t care about Chase.”
“He cares about you, you know?”
“Yeah right,” I say, heading toward the curtain.
“He was pissed when he saw you in the elevator with Brook.”
A little bit of warmth seeps through the armor I’ve wrapped around my body since the interrogation. But then I remind myself that Chase basically propositioned Lincoln. “If you do sleep in his room, keep the noise down.”
She smiles. “I’ll try my best.”
I walk out, banishing thoughts of Lincoln and Chase together, but some still creep into my mind during the evening segment. I’m so distracted that I almost clap when Dominic announces that Maxine received the lowest score. To prevent any further mishaps, I tuck my hands together until we are released—which doesn’t come soon enough.
“We need a bottle of champagne,” Lincoln announces once we’ve been returned to our tent.
“You’re underage,” one of the waiters tells her.
“No shit, Sherlock. The champagne’s not for me,” Lincoln says.
“Are you staying for dinner or are you leaving right away?” Herrick asks.
Maxine sniffles. “I…I…”
Lincoln, who has her arm draped over Maxine’s shoulder, squeezes her tightly. I strongly believe that her amiability and exuberance come from the fact that she hasn’t been kicked off the show. “She’ll stay for dinner.”
“I don’t…don’t want to…to eat,” Maxine sobs.
I’m not cruel. I feel bad for her. Maxine is genuinely nice…annoyingly nice. But I’m not that surprised she’s leaving. To be honest, I’m more surprised she’s made it this far.
“You don’t look too shook up to see her go,” Chase says quietly, sidling up next to me against the back of the couch.
The scent of pine needles is everywhere. “I thought I was the one who would get voted off the show, so call me selfish, but I’m relieved.” With my heels on, I’m not far off from his height.
“Hey, Jackson, considering your birthday’s in two days, here,” Herrick says, holding out a glass of champagne.
“Considering there’s a camera right there”—Chase tips his head toward the ceiling—“I’ll pass.”
“Give it here,” Lincoln says, sticking it in Maxine’s free hand.
“Bottoms up, Daisy,” she says with a wink.
Maxine quits sniffling long enough to smile. Then she tips the glass up and finishes it off in four long swallows. Lincoln seizes it from her fingers and holds it out for a refill. The waiter obliges. She hands it back to Maxine, who guzzles it down. This time, swiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Maxine asks for a refill herself. Herrick and Lincoln begin chanting her name. She shoots back the glass.
“Dinner’s ready,” another waiter announces.
I press off the back of the couch and take a seat along with everyone else. Maxine’s eyes are all shiny and her nose is tinged red. At the table, she drinks another two glasses.
“Better slow down, there, G.I. Jane,” Herrick says, “or you’re going to pass out before the main course.”
Maxine breaks out into an uncontrollable fit of giggles.
“That’s the plan,” Lincoln says. “Isn’t it, Maxine?”
She bobs her head and lifts her glass. “Screw you, Dominic!” She tips her head back and drinks. “Screw you, Josephine!” She takes another sip. “Screw you, Brook!” She’s about to take another sip when she starts laughing hysterically. “Sorry, Chase.”
“Oh. I don’t mind. I’ll even drink to that.” He raises his glass of water. The ice cubes clink inside.
I don’t cheer, because I don’t want to get in trouble. The cameras might not pick up sound, but the waiters might relate our dinner chat.
At some point, the conversation switches to actual screwing. We get way too many details on Herrick and Maxine’s personal lives. Kevin squirms in his chair, which looks odd for someone of his size.
“What about you, Kev?” Herrick suddenly asks.
He goes stiff as a log. “Been with one woman only.”
“You never strayed while you were in Afghanistan?” Herrick continues.
“No. Never.”
Herrick combs his fingers through his pompadour. “That’s pretty impressive. I don’t think I’ve ever met a monogamous person. Unless I’m in the presence of two more…Chase? Ivy?”
“Hey! You forgot me,” Lincoln says, sticking out her bottom lip.
“Oh, come on, honey, you’re so not monogamous.”
Her pout turns into a smile. “Fine. You got me. Monogamy’s boring.” She suddenly whips her gaze toward Kevin. “To me,” she adds. “Monogamy’s boring to me. But maybe it’s because I haven’t met the right person like you have.”
He stares at her, but doesn’t react, which makes her feline eyes grow wide in apprehension. A stiff awkwardness ensues. Even Maxine seems sobered up by it.
“I think there’s no right or wrong relationship,” Chase says, which loosens the tension.
Herrick, who’s had about half a bottle of champagne, asks, “What’s your style, Jackson? Faithful or unfaithful?”
“Faithful,” he says without hesitation.
For some reason, the rope of muscles in Kevin’s shoulders loosens, as though being in the presence of a fellow monogamist is comforting.
“And you, Ivy?” Herrick asks.
“Faithful.”
Chase studies me as he usually does, while Kevin snorts.
“What?” I ask him.
“You don’t look the type. I know women and—”
“You know women?” I ask. “I think you stand to be corrected. You know a woman, Kevin. One. Your wife. I don’t know what she’s like and I don’t really care. But don’t go assuming you know what I’m like.”
Kevin leans his beefy forearms on the white glass tabletop. “I know more about you than you think. My lawyer’s connected. Did you know he’s originally from Kokomo?”
“A lot of people are from Kokomo,” I say, leaning my own forearms across the table. “So if you have something to say to me, say it.” My voice is strong, but the rest of me isn’t. Each one of my nerves feels like it’s toppling over the next one, like a long line of dominoes.
“My lawyer told me not to engage with you.”
“Did he tell you I bite?”
His eyes turn a forbidding shade of brown. “You’ll know soon what he told me.”
“It’s my last night with all of you. Can we talk about something else?” Maxine asks, staring at me, pupils throbbing.
“Yes, let’s,” Herrick says. “I say we talk about me again.”
“I say we don’t,” Lincoln answers.
I stand up. “I’m sorry, Maxine, but I’ve had a really long day. I think I’m going to try to get some sleep.”
“Oh. Okay.”
She looks
so disappointed that for a second, I reconsider, but then I see Kevin and my resolve strengthens.
“Will you give me your phone number?” she asks.
“You want my number?”
“Yes. I want your number,” she says. She stands up on wobbly legs and stumbles toward me like a newly birthed foal. “I want to throw a party for the winner after the show’s over.” She grabs a pen and notecard off the living room table, and gives them to me.
I write down my number, and then, before I can get away, she locks me in a big hug. I go stiff, but it doesn’t bother Maxine.
“Good luck, Ivy,” she says, patting my back, and then she adds in a low voice—I’m surprised she can exert that much control over her vocal cords—“You’re going to win. I can feel it.”
I can’t, but I hope she’s right.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Aster
“Inmate Redd, out of your bunk. It’s breakfast time,” Giraffe-neck yells from my doorway.
At 7 a.m. sharp, all the cell gates open and all the lights snap on.
“I don’t want breakfast,” I say, head buried in a new book I borrowed from the prison library.
“No breakfast, no show.”
“I don’t want to see the show.” My sister told the cops I was crazy, so I’m snubbing her stupid show.
The guard stays quiet for a long second. “I still get my money, Redd, whether you watch it or not. Understood?”
I nod. God, will she ever stop talking about her money?
“And don’t think you get to lounge around your cell, reading all day. If you don’t go watch the show, I’ll line up some chores for you.”
“Sure.”
She just stands there, with this idiotic look on her face. “I’ll pick you up in an hour, then,” she says, finally leaving.
I’m grateful to have another hour to mope around and dive back into my book. It’s about a mother who loses her child. It’s nice to know that I’m not alone. Especially these days, when I feel more alone than ever. Part of me wishes I could call Ivy, ask her why she told the cops I was crazy. I’ve never gone this long without hearing her voice, and I don’t mean her voice on TV, I mean her voice in my ear. They’re not the same voices.
After several minutes, I close the book and toss it at my feet. I can’t concentrate on anything. My brain is filled with my sister, as is my heart. They say twins are two halves of a person, but that’s not true. We are not two halves. She’s a whole person and I am her shadow, and a shadow disappears when there’s no body left to silhouette.
“There you are.” Gill treads into my cell.
I sigh. “Here I am.”
She frowns at my sigh, but then she gets sidetracked by the book at my feet. She picks it up and studies the cover. Before she can read the summary on the back, I roll myself up and yank it out of her hands.
“You want kids?” she asks.
Too late. “Maybe.”
“You’ll make a good mother.”
“Doubt it. Anyway I’m stuck here indefinitely. Haven’t you heard that they upgraded my charge to first-degree murder?”
“I didn’t hear.”
“Well, they did.” Those gates I entered eight days ago feel like they’re on another continent. I stick the book underneath my mattress instead of underneath my pillow so that Cheyenne doesn’t find it. “What’s Cheyenne up to these days?”
“I don’t know. You want me to find out?”
“Can you?”
“I can do anything, Aster. Especially for you.” She steps closer to me. My gaze darts around looking for something to do…anything. She takes another step and wraps her small hands around my neck and then leans in. I just manage to swing my face away. Her mouth pecks my cheek.
“I-I can’t, Gill.” I shrug her hands off. “I’m not stable, emotionally.”
Her freckled cheeks glow red.
If I don’t find a solid excuse, I’m going to have to watch my back around both her and Cheyenne. “I just lost a baby,” I blurt out.
The flush recedes from her cheeks. “Oh. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” She sits down on my bed and looks up at me. “I like children. I’d like to have one someday. Well, not me, but I’d like for my partner to carry them. But I got thirty years, Aster. I served two, and I’m thirty-seven. When I’m out, I’ll be sixty-five.”
“Sixty-five-year-olds can still be mothers. Especially if you don’t carry the baby.”
“Out there”—she points at the brick wall—“normal women…they’ll be scared of me. They won’t understand me like the people in here do. I’ll probably end up homeless with no job. Who wants to hire a woman in her sixties who did time behind bars?”
Tears snake down her pale cheeks, so many of them that I sit on the bed next to her and drape my arm around her shoulders. She cries for a long time. When she stops, my collar is soaked.
“You’re so good. You’re an angel,” she whispers. “That’s what I thought that first day you walked in. That you had to be an angel because I’d never seen a person with such a kind, beautiful face.”
“It must have been my hair. I was told the frizz makes it look like a halo.”
She laughs, but then she gets up, grabs my hand, and tugs me off the bed. “I have an idea.”
“I feel I’m not going to like it.”
“You will! Trust me.” She pulls me into the cell she shares with two other bunkmates. Underneath her bed, she has a cardboard box filled with an assortment of knickknacks, mostly hair products and creams and makeup.
“You could open a beauty parlor.”
“How do you think I make a couple bucks around here?” she asks. “Here, sit on the floor.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“Your money’s no good with me.”
“Gill—”
“Just sit.”
Biting my lip, I lower myself to the floor and cross my legs. She takes a fine-tooth comb out of the box.
“You’ll never get that through,” I warn her.
“Will you please let me do my job?”
I shut up and let her work on me because after refusing her kiss, I can’t refuse her offer.
An hour or so later, Giraffe-neck returns. “What do we have here? Cloning yourself, Firehead?”
Gill doesn’t answer, much too preoccupied with finishing off the sections of hair she hasn’t twisted and teased into dreads yet.
“Redd, get your ass up. Chacha needs you in the kitchen.”
“I’ll finish later,” Gill says. “Don’t take the rubber bands out okay? You need to keep them in until the dreads mature.”
“Redd?” Giraffe-neck taps her foot. “Now.”
I walk out past her.
“Firehead, yard time. It’s supposed to rain again, so we’re taking you out early.”
It sounds like she’s talking to a dog. That must not be too far from what she thinks of us.
Chapter Thirty
Ivy
A day on the beach. That’s today’s competition or at least that’s where it will take place.
“On Fire Island, our five remaining contestants will have to gather anything and everything they can find to create a work of art. This will test their creativity and their resourcefulness.” He grins so widely that his teeth look blinding in the bright camera lights. “Although we encourage them to take their time, it would be nice if they were finished with their pieces before the evening celebrations.” Dominic rubs his palms together. “We’ve got a wonderful, wonderful evening in store for you.”
My head feels like a geyser, filled with vapor and about to blow because I had a shit night. Barely slept. And when I did manage to fall asleep, I heard the zipper of my tent lift, but when I clicked my bedside lamp on, it was shut, so I must have dreamt it.
“Without further ado, we will head out. Don’t forget your hats and sunscreen. The weatherman said it will be hot. Low nineties. This ought to be good,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “See
all of you on the beach in two hours.”
As we walk out of the lobby toward the black minivan that’s parked in front of the museum, Lincoln leans in, “Sit next to me on the bus? I have something to tell you.”
I nod and put on the sunglasses the show has lent me. They’re big and black, with gold branches and large rims, exactly what I need to cover up the red tinge of my eyes and the dark circles Leila did a sloppy job concealing. When she showed up this morning, I was surprised, but then again, she’d be out of a job if she hadn’t.
“Let’s go to the back,” Lincoln says, sticking her sunglasses on top of her head.
Kevin’s sitting all the way in the front, right behind the driver. Chase and Herrick are on either side of the middle aisle, which leaves the backseat vacant.
As we settle down, she says, “Maxine would’ve loved this test. I wish she were still here.” She drops her voice, “Instead of him.”
“So what did you have to tell me?”
Her green-gold eyes, that look more green than gold in the sunlight, glisten. “Last night…I went to sleep in Chase’s room.”
I stiffen, which makes a small smile cock her lips up.
“Anyway, I went to sleep there with Maxine who was drunk as shit. We were going to sleep together in her room, but she was freaking out about you-know-who”—she tips her head toward Kevin—“so we asked Chase if we could squeeze in next to him.” She toys with the fringes of her see-through beach dress. “He gave us his bed and slept on the rug.”
“How nice of him.”
She releases the fringes. With her voice barely above a whisper, she says, “Guess who was out on a midnight stroll?”
Goose bumps scurry over my bare arms.
“He was right outside your tent,” she whispers. “Chase went out and asked what he was doing. He pretended he was sleepwalking.” She doesn’t yell this, but it feels like she does. I can hear her words echo inside my skull, adding to the throbbing ache.
“Chase is going to talk to Brook about getting a camera installed in the hallway. One that picks up sound,” she adds in a low whisper.
“Is he going to tell him why?”
She nods.
After a beat, I ask, “Do you think he was coming for me?”
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