Thank you, segue gods. "I wanted to talk to you about him, actually," I say as I take a seat on the edge of her daybed. "I overheard something that made me uncomfortable."
"Like what? Sometimes he can get a little nosy with the questions," she says, alternating between a series of little flouncing hops and rocking onto the balls of her feet like she's wearing invisible heels. "I just ignore him."
"I heard him talking to Marisabel in the hallway, talking about you. I think he's hiding something, and I think he's dangerous." Out loud it sounds melodramatic, like I'm starring in a Lifetime movie. I would call this one He's Crazy and Has a Fake Sister.
She waves a hand in my general direction. "Don't be ridiculous. Do my calves look fat to you?"
I should have spent more time breathing outside the door. "Caroline, I'm serious. There's something weird about this whole situation."
Caroline stops twisting in front of the mirror to catch my gaze in the reflection. "You know, I'm surprised," she says. "I don't think I've ever seen you jealous before."
"You can't be serious."
"You never go for the guys at school, but Vlad's sophisticated enough that I should have known you'd be interested. I'm sorry he ignores you, but it's not my fault that he likes me. I told you that this was the year to embrace lip gloss." She whips around to face me, and I can practically see the lightbulb dinging over her head. "Amanda's brother, Jason, needs a date to homecoming. I could set you up. He likes writing and stuff."
"You mean the Jason who tells everyone that he's an elf from Middle Earth? I'll pass." I need to stop her before she tries more matchmaking. "And that's not even the point. The point is that you should ditch Vlad."
"Let's see," Caroline says, holding up her fingers and starting to count. "He's smart, sexy, a good dresser, doesn't spend half of his time on the computer playing Warcraft like Tommy, and is genuinely interested in my life. So . . . no. Find your own boyfriend." She swipes a tube of lipstick off her vanity and turns back to the mirror. "I'll talk to Jason about you."
"Caroline-"
"We're done here. Go away."
When I don't make any move to leave, she picks a stuffed bear off an armchair and throws it at me.
"You know what? Fine. Date him. Have rude little babies," I say and walk out the door, slamming it for good measure and stomping up to my room. When I reach the top of the stairs I'm still holding the bear, whose embroidered smirk mocks me. I send it on a header down the stairs. That will show her. Or something.
That did not go well, I think as I collapse on my bed. Why couldn't I have started with an easier intervention, like credit cards or caffeine pills? Obviously, I need to be armed with proof in order to shake Caroline away from Vlad. I grab my MacBook off the floor and haul it onto my lap. On a whim I type "Eight-pointed black star tattoo arm thing" into Google Image and get an assortment of people showing off their new tattoos as well as a handful of academic explanations about how eight-pointed stars normally represent chaos. Appropriate, but certainly not helpful. There's nothing with a "D" in the center and nothing that looks remotely like what Neville has on his arm.
Well, crap. I'm wondering why fiction gives you unrealistic expectations about the powers of the internet when something pops at my window. It's followed by three lesser pops and a loud crack. Rocks.
The window sticks, showering paint chips when I finally manage to wrestle it up. When the coast proves clear of further pebbly messages, I lift the screen and stick my head out to find James staring up at me with an expression that asks what took me so long.
"I don't think rock throwing is considered acceptable until after midnight," I say. "Next time try the doorbell."
"Yeah. I'm not positive, but that might be a good clue that I'm here."
"And why is that a problem exactly?"
He ignores my question. "You know, I'm surprised that you haven't come to see me yet. You used to always show up at my door to bug me. Remember when I wouldn't try out your ‘Death Drop' magic trick?"
I do remember. Honestly, I can't fault him for not wanting to jump off the roof into a kiddie pool, and now that I think about it, that trick wasn't even very magical. But all of this is beside the point.
"I think your memories are skewed," I tell him. "You were the pesterer."
"It's sad that you live such a delusional life," he says and then nods toward the fence before I can deliver what I am sure would be a devastating retort. "Come outside. We can discuss how wrong you are."
"Tempting."
"Very tempting," James says with a smile so angelic that it's not anymore. He's wearing a long-sleeved gray T-shirt and jeans that could use a tango with a washing machine, but the rumpled look is definitely working in his favor. Still, I'm a little wary of how I'll react with my guard torn down by exhaustion, frustration, and the fact that my sister now hates me. Not to mention that I think I've had my fill of veils and secrecy for the day, and James's strange new hermit act will only add more questions.
"Tell you what," I propose, leaning as far over the sill as possible without taking a header into the bushes. "Come to school tomorrow and we'll talk."
Whatever James was expecting, it wasn't a refusal. "But-"
"Night," I singsong, shutting the window before any more rumble-voiced persuasion can float through. Without the night air, my room suddenly feels stuffy and claustrophobic. Worse, my heart's fluttering around in a disconcerting manner. I decide to chalk it up to the thrill of leaning out the window. Besides, I think, as I slip under the covers and flip off my lamp, his new antischool bit should keep me safe from ever having to cash in that promise.
Chapter Five
The next morning I wait for Violet at her locker. When she bustles around the corner, I attack her with another round of questions, including one asking whether or not she has any body art. If they are all in a group of some sort, it stands to reason that they would all have the same tattoo, or at least a variation. I think I am very clever.
"Body art?" she says, pulling a thread off the hem of her dress, a floral cotton baby doll accessorized by blue tights and her multibuttoned boots. Her outfits are getting more and more avant-garde.
"A tattoo," I say. "Or a piercing. Or a tattoo."
She continues to look confused, and I feel my cleverness deflating. Nevertheless, I point at the wobbly-looking butterfly on the exposed ankle of someone who is digging a book out of her locker. "Like that."
"Oh no," she says. "I would never paint insects on myself."
"It doesn't have to be insects, it can be anything. Like a star, for example."
She brightens. "Neville has something like that!"
My heart starts beating faster. "Anyone else you know?"
"Yes!" she says, and then turns to furiously open her locker and pull out a magazine. She flips to a picture of Rihanna. "Right there," she says, pointing to a spot below her ear. "I think it is very tasteful."
"I was talking about anyone else you know personally. Marisabel, maybe?"
She shakes her head. "No, no one. But that was a very informative article; I feel as though I know Rihanna," she insists before wandering off in the direction of her next class. She's left her locker door wide open. Thinking that there may be a clue, I peek inside, only to find that it's full of magazines and nothing else. At least I have quadruple confirmation that they're not here for academic reasons, I think as I shut it in frustration. So they aren't all in a Tattoo-of-the-Month club, but Neville definitely acted weird when I asked him about it. What's the connection?
I spend the next two periods trying to come up with at least one theory that's not stupid, but come lunchtime I have other things to focus on. It's Friday, which means that Mr. Amado wants the rough drafts of our articles, and I still don't have anything to show for Marisabel or Vlad. I decide to go over my questions for the umpteenth time in an effort to build up enough courage to approach him again. Once I've found a clean seat in a back corner of the cafeteria, I pull out my notebook and flip it open to the questions I've compiled, like "What book would you take to a desert island?" and "What are the top five songs in your playlist?" I debate adding the ones that are really running through my mind, like "Are you or are you not the leader of a cult?" and "If you were to rate your level of psychosis on a scale from one to ten, what would you be? Ten?"
Chewing on my pen cap, I stare at the lined paper, trying to think of euphemisms for "psychosis." A person-shaped shadow eclipses the table. My usual plan of action in these situations is to feign ignorance until the intruder goes away, but this proves impossible when they sit down and start drumming their fingers on the fake wood.
"Do you mind?" I ask without looking up.
"Considering you said I had to come here to talk to you, yeah, I do," the voice says, and then punctuates his sentence with one last tap. "Why are you sitting back here, anyway? It smells like Windex and ketchup."