The one exception was at the party. Maybe it was the booze, maybe it was just the night air. Maybe she felt it was simply the right moment. But that was the first and only time she’s let the shield down. She showed me a glimpse of who she really is; the flippant devil-may-care new girl with a penchant for practical mischief has a heart-rendingly tender center, still untouched by the world and its cruelties. With such a strong shield, I expected her to be empty on the inside, hardened all the way through. But when she thanked me for kissing her, when she confessed to having given up on ever being kissed, I was almost afraid to look, as if my gaze alone would be pressing too hard on the gentle petal of a girl that was peeking out. A girl who expected nothing. A girl completely different from the seemingly confident one who strode the halls with snark to spare. A girl who thought so little of herself, she truly, honestly, purely believed she didn’t even deserve to be kissed. It wasn’t even an option for her.
Will Cavanaugh has destroyed her.
She was probably a trusting, naïve girl before him, like a daisy. And then he came, and pulled her petals off one by one, forcing her to surround herself with thorns to survive.
But he missed one petal. And she guards it with a tiger’s ferocity.
I’d stolen a glance at something she works hard to pretend doesn’t exist.
And in my anger at her interference with my life, I threatened the petal.
Part of me feels guilty. Part of me feels proud. I protected Sophia, who has no one left in the world but me. I’m her only protection against the same evils that’ve scarred Isis so deeply. Sophia came so close to becoming like Isis – angry and bitter and sad – that it gives me chills. Isis is what Sophia could’ve become, if I hadn’t acted on that sweltering August night.
Isis justifies me.
She justifies what I did – she’s the embodiment of the pain that twists girls into tortured things. Seeing her every day is proof I did the right thing. It silences the doubting voices in my head, if only for a few seconds. Wren’s avoiding gaze and Avery’s fearful one don’t sting as much when Isis is around. I know what I did was right, and that conviction is stronger in me when she’s near.
I wonder how Isis would’ve turned out, if I had been there like I was for Sophia. If I, or someone else, had done what I did for Sophia for Isis, what would Isis be like now? Would she smile more? Not that contrived, kitten-smile she makes when she’s being sly or feeling satisfied, but a true, happy smile. She’d be just as batshit insane, of course, but she’d do her practical jokes and pranks out of joy, not because she’s running from her demons. Not because they’re the only thing that distracts her from the pain.
“Jack?” Mom’s voice wafts through the door. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah.”
She opens it carefully, and steps in with equally careful movements. Blue paint is smeared on her cheek, her hair in a messy bun.
“I think –” She takes a deep breath. She’s never been good at discipline. I’ve always had Grandpa for that. But when she’s worked up about something, she never backs down from saying it. She’s much like Isis in that regard.
“I think she was a really sweet girl. I really liked her. What you said to her wasn’t fair. And it was cruel.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you say it?”
“Because I was panicking. She and I – Mom, she and I have this thing –”
“You aren’t going out, are you?”
“No, Jesus no. I have Sophia.”
“I know, but, Jack, she doesn’t really –” She cuts off, eyes darting around the room. “I love Sophia, I really do. And I know she loves you. But I don’t think she loves you the same way you –”
“I’ll apologize to Isis.”
Mom drops the train of thought I hate to talk about, and smiles.
“Thank you, sweetie.” She comes over and pats my shoulder. “I’d hate to see you lose a potential friend. You have so few of them.”
“That’s because none of them were interesting,” I say, and peer out the window one last time, to where Isis is pulling away from the curb. “Until now.”
***
3 Years
17 Weeks
5 Days
I sleep for an entire day.
And when I wake up I’m a new person.
I’m empty. I’ve cried out everything I had in me. I’m an empty shell waiting to be filled with what comes next.
Or I’m just being a total drama queen.
I’m not empty. I’m still a person. I cried over a bad thing that happened in my life, but I probably shouldn’t have. Compared to Mom’s crisis, mine was small. Compared to a thousand other girls’ around the world, mine is insignificant. It wasn’t bad. Not compared to everyone else.
It was just a couple seconds.
It wasn’t years. It wasn’t months, like Mom. It wasn’t a family member. Wasn’t someone I see anymore. It didn’t even hurt. There was no blood.
It wasn’t bad.
Not compared to others’.
So I should stop crying.
I get dressed slowly, carefully. It’s a fancy place, but not too fancy, so I choose a shirt and jeans. My hand hovers in my closet, right over the Chanel box with the beautiful pink blouse. The beautiful pink blouse that doesn’t suit me at all. I could still wear it. I could wear it, with a jacket over it so no one could see. Mom wouldn’t see. No one would see how dumb it looks on me, but it would get some use, at least. It’s an expensive blouse. I don’t want it to go to waste.
I know this beautiful blouse doesn’t suit me. But for once, for one night, I want to be pretty. Not hot, not fabulous, not loud or pushy or annoying. Just…pretty. Pretty and sweet and nice, like Kayla. Like so many other girls who are better than me at being a girl.
I pull it on, the chiffon like smooth flowers against my skin. I put my jacket on, and check my makeup in the mirror. I look pale and exhausted. A bit of lip gloss and eyeliner can’t hide that. I can’t even meet my own eyes in the reflection. Everything is too fresh, too open and bleeding.
But Kayla’s waiting for the date she’s wanted her entire life. Mom’s waiting for me to smile at her and tell her everything is fine. I have to be fine. I have to be the one person she can always count on, the one person who’s always fine – the huge sturdy stable as hell rock in the confusing ocean of her recovery.
Mom looks up from her newspaper. “Going out?”
“Yeah, with some friends to the mall.” I’m sure it’d go over fantastically if I told her I’m paying an escort to take my friend on a date and subsequently snooping on said date to make sure I get my money’s worth.
“Have fun! And drive safe.”
“There’s leftovers in the fridge. If you need me, I’ll have my cellphone on –”
She waves me off. “Just go!”
“Are you sure? Like, concrete-around-diamond sure you’ll be okay?”
“I’ll be fine! You’re not the mother here, alright? So please, go have fun.”
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
It almost comes out. Right there, with her face shining with a smile, I almost tell her what happened. But I immediately do a one-eighty. If she knew, she’d be disappointed. She’d be devastated it happened to me. She’d coddle me and try to be strong for me, instead. But that’s not what she needs right now. She can barely comfort herself, let alone me. She’s broken. Trying to fix me would be stupid when she isn’t fixed, either. It’s better if she doesn’t know.
I’ve kept it inside this long.
I can do it for a lot longer.
Because I’m strong. Because I’m Isis Blake, and she might not be pretty, or sweet, or well-mannered, but she’s very, very strong.
***
The sun is just barely kissing the horizon as it sets for the night when I park at the Red Fern. The dimming blue sky is marbled with peach-cream clouds and streaks of blood orange. It’s like someone took a bunch of ga
soline and poured it all over the sky, then lit a match. But in a beautiful way, not a generally-deadly arson way. The Red Fern is clean and quiet, with sleek polished tables and comfy chairs and potted palms and tropical flowers everywhere. The hostess flashes me a smile. I crane my neck over her and look to the tables. There he is, on his phone. I point, and she waves me past. I sit opposite Jack, who’s in a dark shirt and jeans, his hair combed and slightly gelled to one side. He looks bored, slouching in his chair and eyeing everything with the air of someone who’s seen it all before. He makes the place look like a photo shoot for Prada or something. Seeing him makes me queasy – how he ripped into me yesterday still fresh in my mind. But this is for Kayla. It’s everything she’s dreamed of. For her, it’s better than an apology, so technically it’s also what I’ve been fighting the war for.
Is this the end of it, then? The end of our battle of wits?
Has he won?
“Here,” I slip him the envelope of money. “Two hundred, as agreed.”
He looks up at me. His icy eyes betray nothing of what he’s thinking, or feeling. I can’t tell if he regrets what he said yesterday at all. He’s an infuriating block of ice. He reaches over and counts the bills. Satisfied, he slips it in his pocket.
“If she kisses me, it’s an extra twenty-five. If she tries to sleep with me, I’m leaving.”
“Are we even talking about the same Kayla? Kayla’s timid and virginal as hell. She won’t even look at your crotch, let alone go near it. Which, in my opinion, is an obscenely good call, considering the only things that come from that anatomical area are more or less disgusting monsters.”
“You seem better.”
I scoff. “You don’t know what better looks like.”
“You’re chipper enough to crack jokes. But then again, jokes are like armor for you, aren’t they? Easy to hide behind. Easy to distract people with so they don’t see how you’re really feeling.”
“I’m going to be over there –” I ignore him and point at a distant table, half-hidden by birds-of-paradise. “And I’m going to watch your every move to make sure everything goes well tonight.”
“Technically I’m working,” He says. “Your vigilance is unnecessary. I’m very serious about my work, and I perform well.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do.”
I get up and go to the table and order a Sprite. Kayla arrives ten minutes later, and I feel my jaw do a little drop. Her dark hair is combed to perfection, shining in the light and curled over one shoulder. She wears a strapless, bright green dress that compliments her bronzed shoulders, and her black heels accentuate her long legs. Her eye are bright and smudged with beautiful smoky makeup, her lips a dewy, pearly pink. She spots Jack and flushes, shoulders tingeing pink as she glides over. She’s a picture-perfect doll, an incredible work of art, the kind of girl poets and writers flip their shit over and write fever-dream books about. Even Jack – Jack, the king of the stone-faced and icy-hearted – looks stunned.
No wonder Wren’s got a crush! Look at her! She’s a perfect goddess! But Wren’s a good guy so I’m sure it’s not all tits and ass with him. He sees how smart she is. Um. Smart at things that aren’t school! Like, lipstick! I’ve seen her identify a lipstick just by smelling it! And she can touch her tongue to her elbow, and she makes incredible brownies, but honestly the only thing you need to know how to make when you look like that is pee and carbon monoxide –
“Ma’am,” I feel a light tap on my shoulder. My waitress smiles at me, pained. “You’re, uh, disturbing the other customers.”
An old couple and a family is glaring at me. Kayla and Jack are on the other side of the room, and they aren’t looking back, so I’m okay, but I quickly whisper.
“Wow sorry, I was fabulously thinking aloud again, I do that a lot, look, could you get me the noodles? This noodle thingy right here?” I point at the menu. “Thanks, wow. Sorry. But it was probably fabulous so I’m not really sorry though, but still, sorry.”
The waitress scuttles away, and I make a shooing motion at the old couple who’re still glaring.
“Don’t you have something to better to work on?” I hiss. “Like golfing or eating prunes or dying?”
The old lady looks shocked.
“Okay, sorry, not dying. But seriously, prunes are good for you.”
I peer at Kayla through the leaves. I can see the side of her face, and it’s practically glowing. They’ve ordered, and while they wait they stir their drinks and Jack asks her questions. Kayla talks excitedly, using her hands, and Jack watches with an intense concentration so unlike his usual boredom. He smiles gently when she says something funny and when she falls silent or talks slower, his expression is kind and caring. Sometimes he interjects slyly and Kayla laughs. It’s like a totally different soul has taken over his grotesquely good-looking body. He’s all business, and business means making women happy. He’s totally capable of it, as long as the money’s there.
Does Sophia know, I wonder? Her letter said she knows he works, but has he told her he escorts? He obviously gives the money he makes to the hospital for Sophia’s bills, which makes me think her parents aren’t in the picture at all, and I know for a fact government funding for sick minors is tight. He’s so good at being…well…good. He’s done this escorting thing for a long time. If Sophia knew where the money was coming from, I’m sure she’d make him stop. But he can’t afford to stop, can he? Her sickness is bad, and according to Avery, only getting worse. Jack wants to provide her with the best care. He really likes her. Loves her.
The food arrives, and they eat and talk. My own food comes shortly after and I shovel noodles into my mouth while watching them. Kayla’s happier than I’ve ever seen her. Jack is being patient and humorous and gentle, everything Kayla wants him to be. He’s mirroring her. It’s not the real him, but she’s so in love with it she can’t see that.
It’s sad.
Maybe that’s why Jack’s eyes look a little sad.
Or maybe he’s thinking of Sophia, how much he wishes it was her across the table instead.
After dinner, they order dessert. Jack gets up to use the bathroom, and shoots a meaningful glance at me. He wants me to follow. I wait a few minutes, then get up and slink behind the mottled glass so Kayla can’t see me. I push the door to the men’s room open, praying no one sees. Jack leans on the sink, arms folded over his chest and all wisps of the gentleness he had been with Kayla gone. It’s back to cold Jackass.
“So?” He asks.
“It’s good.” I nod. “You’re doing good. It’s a little disturbing how good you’re doing, actually.”
“I told you not to doubt me.”
“Never did. I just know you don’t respect people.”
“I do. If they pay me.”
I laugh. “Jesus, you’re a piece of work.”
“And you’re not? I’ve never met a more stubborn, jaded, cynical girl in my life.”
“It’s true. I’m very special.”
He scoffs, but something in his eyes eases. For a split second, he’s the gentle, patient Jack as he says;
“You are.”
And then he’s leaning in, mint and shaving cream and coconut milk from whatever he ate, and he brushes his thumb over my stunned lips. He looks up into my eyes, and freezes, like he realizes what he’s doing. He pulls away.
“What the – ” He murmurs, looking at his hands like they don’t belong to him. “Forget what I just did. Just – just forget it. You had something on your lip.”
I watch in miraculous horror as Jack Hunter, Ice Prince of East Summit High, turns a soft shade of red, his cheeks blossoming with it.
“Are you…are you blushing?” I whisper.
“No! Can’t you feel the air temperature? It’s ridiculously hot!” He snaps. “I’m leaving and finishing the job. Stay and watch if you want, I don’t care.”
He’s angry. And it’s not cold anger – it’s hot and instant and boils up and over his icy eyes and marble-perfect
lips. He shoves out the door and stalks back to the table. I wait a few minutes, and then go back to mine. He’s smiling again, but his face is still a little red, and his laughter is louder and more savage than it was. Kayla doesn’t seem to mind, though. They go through almond ice cream with some kind of cookie in it. Kayla tries to feed him, but he refuses and shoots a look at my table that says ‘if you make me eat that from her fingers it will cost more’. I shake my head and he goes back to politely rejecting it.
Save for the little tantrum he threw in the bathroom, (Jack Hunter! Tantrum! The words are opposites!) everything’s been going great. Kayla hasn’t cried or ran away once. And as Jack pays the bill and offers Kayla his arm and she laces hers in his, I get the distinct feeling it’s been the best night of her life. I pay my bill and wait, watching them out the window. They stand on the sidewalk, immersed in the golden glow of a lamppost above. Kayla is leaning into his arm, and she looks up and asks him something. He goes still, pauses, and then leans down to kiss her. It’s slow and soft, and she melts into him. They look perfect – two beautiful people on a date, kissing beautifully. Usually people look like pigs half-mashed into each other, all slobber and tongue, but Jack and Kayla are too pretty for that. It looks like a movie. It looks like they’ll walk off into the sunset to live happily ever after.
And I feel…jealous?
I put my napkin around my throat and experimentally pull. It would be a great noose. Feeling jealous of love? Since when did that happen? When did I even care about it at all? I don’t. It’s a false promise, a fool’s gold tale, something that doesn’t happen to people like me. And yet here I am, jealous. Not of Jack, no. Of Kayla. I’m jealous of the sweet love that shines in her eyes. She can still feel love. She still thinks it’s some wonderful, ascendant, pure thing. Even if it’s naïve, it’s still a better way to look at it than the poisonous, to-be-avoided-at-all-costs bog I see love as.
I’m not fourteen anymore. I can’t go back to that pure love vision. It’s gone. Forever.
I’m jealous of Kayla, and how she’s never been hurt.