The Girl Who Would Be King(123)

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I go out and take four more therapists’ ears in a desperate attempt to find a less judgey replacement. I only stop because they’re all stupid and won’t talk back to me. I leave them with Dr. Stern’s ear in the old pizza box and go back to fighting it out with Liz’s ear.

Every fight ends with broken bottles and suicide attempts.

I waver between trying to drink myself to death and bathing in hallucinations, or dreams, I can’t tell which. Sometimes it’s Delia, sometimes it’s Bonnie. Once it was even Adrian. Adrian driving in a red car, fast across a blank desert highway, singing along to the radio and smiling his lopsided smile. I try to talk to him and then I’m even sitting in the car next to him, trying to see if he’ll say words back to me, but he can’t hear me, or doesn’t want to. I finally give up and content myself with sitting next to him, my hand close to his thigh, the wind blowing my hair back. It feels like so long ago that I could have enjoyed something so simple. When I turn to ask him another question he’s pointing a gun at me and shoots me in the stomach without saying a word.

I wake up on the floor with a bit of glass jammed in my neck.

I’m a little surprised actually, that I’m able to heal with the glass still in my neck. I had jammed it in there and left it there on purpose, half-hoping I wouldn’t wake up.

But, here I am.

I pull the glass out of my neck and blood blooms across my skin. I grab the closest thing, which turns out to be my cat suit, and press it on the wound to slow the bleeding. The cheap material does a crap job but it’s better than nothing. My body is saturated with alcohol and that, combined with the loss of blood, has the room swimming. I lie down on the floor, still holding the cat suit to my neck and reach for another bottle. They’re all empty though. I hear the henchmen chattering through the floor; they’re all freaked out. They wonder, if I killed Liz who might be next. It unnerves them. They’re also getting restless; I don’t send them out on enough missions, and though they’re all about as rich as any normal person could ever want to be, they’ve begun to doubt that I have a master plan. I’d take offense – because I totally do, like, have a plan – but even I know I’m stalling. I close my eyes for a moment and when I open them Bonnie is standing over me. Crows fill the room behind her, throwing their shadows onto the walls like magicians. I blink hard twice and she doesn’t go away.

“Hello Lola,” she says, smiling. “Nice to see you again.” I open my mouth to speak but she crouches down and puts a finger on my lips. “Don’t worry. I’m going to take care of everything,” she says. “Just let go and I’ll take care of everything.” I close my eyes and push the black material closer to my throat. Some part of me inside is incredibly relieved. When I open them again she’s bringing a sledgehammer straight down toward my head.



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I stand outside Jasper’s door for fifteen minutes before I can will myself to knock. I’m in such a hurry, yet I feel like a little kid, rooted to the ground, unable to move. When I finally knock it sounds hollow and sad. I try to smooth out my lame t-shirt and jeans combo. I shouldn’t be worried about making a good impression considering what’s going on right now but I almost step back off the porch and onto the dirt and grass, and seriously consider running for it. The door opens and seeing Jasper standing in the doorway is like seeing my father as he was the day he died. He looks glorious and I’m afraid touching him will cause him to vanish. I forget all about my stupid clothing. He steps out onto the porch, and then onto the grass a few feet in front of me. He breaks into a smile and I see we have the same smile. I’d forgotten about that. I mirror him, unable to contain my joy at just seeing him, even though we both know the situation is as awkward as it can get. I’m about to speak, but he goes first.

“I was expecting you much sooner,” he says.

“I came once before,” I say. He’s surprised. “I watched you teach some kids for a little while, but I-” I don’t know what to say. “I’m sorry,” is all I can come up with.

“If anyone has things to say sorry for, I’m pretty sure it’s me,” he says.

“We both know that isn’t true,” I say, staring at the concrete steps. There’s an awkward silence between us, the kind of silence that had we been a different brother and sister, might be warm. But we’re not that brother and sister; we’ve been robbed of that relationship, and we look at our shoes and kick at the dirt as if to prove it. I break first, which is still a pretty new development for me. “Did mom leave anything for me?”