Chapter Ten
3 years, 17 weeks, 4 days
I know two things for certain:
1. I’m not going to escape this house alive. I have good reason to believe this. Predominantly, the way Jack Hunter has been handling a butcher knife for more than fifteen minutes.
2. I smell like dog poop. Possibly because as Jack marched me into the kitchen and sat me down, Darth Vader pooped on me. But not before I tied a ribbon to his tail. The savage Sith lord is currently chasing himself in endless circles in the hall. I snicker.
Jack hasn’t said a word since he caught me in his room. He instantly plucked the letter from my hands, grabbed my wrist, and marched me down here and told me not to move or speak. Feeling all kinds of hells guilty, I do neither, and simply watch him mess about in the kitchen with cold, precise movements.
Jack cuts mushrooms and asparagus with practiced ease. He’s already chopped some beef and seared it with a delicious-smelling sweet soy sauce. He throws the vegetables in, and begins chopping bean sprouts and red bell pepper. When Jack’s back is turned, I grab a pepper piece and munch, then make a face and put it back. Jack absently grabs the same piece, not knowing I’ve bitten it, and bites the same end, chewing thoughtfully as if to gauge the taste.
“Ew, gross!” I say. “Now your germs and my germs are fraternizing and making germy little babies!”
He glares at me. I weigh the pros and cons of an early death and shut my mouth.
“Did you want jasmine rice or white rice, Jack?” Mrs. Hunter’s voice stabs through the tension in the kitchen as she walks in with two bags of rice, one in each arm. She sees me and smiles.
“Oh! Hi, Isis. Are you joining us for dinner?”
I shoot a look at Jack, who coolly ignores me and chooses the jasmine rice bag.
“Uh, yes? Provided I won’t be taken out back and shot afterward?”
Mrs. Hunter laughs and settles beside me, and Jack just dumps the rice into the rice cooker on the counter.
“How was Sophia?” she asks her son.
“Fine,” he says tersely. “They’ve decorated for Halloween.”
“You should make her that pumpkin pudding you made last year. She’d love it.”
Jack’s hand goes still as he flips the stir-fry. It’s a quick stutter-stop motion, but he continues when the meat starts to burn.
“She can’t eat.”
“Oh no, is she not feeling well again?” Mrs. Hunter sighs. “I’m sorry, honey.”
“It’s fine. She’ll get better,” Jack says with hard conviction.
Mrs. Hunter looks to me. “Jack and Sophia were friends from a very young age. She’s such a sweet thing, but she’s bedridden in the hospital. Some degenerative neurologic disorder. It’s so sad.”
“She’s fine,” Jack insists coldly. “And you don’t need to tell that girl. She already knows.”
Mrs. Hunter looks to me with surprise. “You do, Isis? Jack’s kept it under such tight wraps I didn’t know about it until a few years ago. I’m surprised he’d tell you.”
“I didn’t. She snooped.”
Shame washes over me, hot and red, but I push it out. “Excuse me if I go around looking for your weaknesses when you posted mine all over the school,” I hiss.
“Being fat is not your weakness,” he snaps. “We both know it. You disproved that with your trashy outfit the next day. And I never asked Evans to do it. He went overboard. I never expected he would do something of that magnitude, and I never expected you to sneak into my house to try to get leverage.”
“You used to be larger?” Mrs. Hunter gasps. “I bet you were just as pretty then, too.”
Her compliment tears me out of my anger, but not for long.
“I’m sorry if I try to defend myself when you back me into a corner, jackass!”
Mrs. Hunter watches us snarl at each other, her head going back and forth like she’s watching a Ping-Pong match. With swords. And a flaming meteor as the ball. Darth Vader, hearing our rising voices, runs in and starts barking.
“I never backed you anywhere. Evans did,” Jack snaps.
“This is our war. Take some responsibility for your fucking actions!”
“So you decided it was all right to come into my house,” Jack’s voice rises minutely. “Go through my things, and read my personal letters? You were looking for ways to hurt me. But it’s not just me you’ll hurt, is it? You’ll go to Sophia and hurt her, too, just to get back at me.”
I flinch. “I wouldn’t—”
“You would. You’re ruthless and maniacal and stubborn. I was wrong. You really do hate me. You’ll do anything to hurt me because you hate me. You hate me so much you declared a petty little war on me.”
“You declared first!”
“You’ve hated me from the second you saw me, and I can only assume it’s because I remind you of someone who hurt you.”
“Jack!” Mrs. Hunter looks shocked. “That’s a horrible thing to say!”
“Did he say you were fat?” Jack asks coolly. I go still, but he presses on. “Did Will say you were fat?”
“Shut up,” I growl, a roiling nausea creeping into my stomach.
“No,” Jack says lightly, as if to himself. “It must’ve been more than that. Did he call you stupid? Prudish? Ugly?”
Ugly.
“I said shut the hell up!”
“Jack, I don’t think—” Mrs. Hunter is cut off as Jack takes the stir-fry off the stove and turns, leaning against the oven and looking at me with sharp, chilly anger in his eyes. But something behind those fragments of ice suddenly goes soft. Sad warmth is in them, buried deep and buried well.
“Did he hit you?”
“Jack, that’s hardly—” Mrs. Hunter starts. I stand so fast the barstool screeches and tips over.
“I’ll kill you,” I grit.
“Is that why you hate me? Because you think I’m like him?”
“Shut the hell up!”
Jack’s voice becomes even softer. “Did he force you?”
Nameless rings in my head. Maybe I’ll love you, if you just hold still.
“Jack!” Mrs. Hunter snaps. Darth Vader’s barks turn shrill.
“I swear,” I spit through my teeth, digging into my lips so hard there’s blood. “I’ll fucking kill you if you keep talking.”
“Is that why you hate everyone? Because he hurt you, badly? Because you trusted him, and he took that and set it on fire?”
“Jack Adam Hunter, I want you to stop speaking right now.”
Jack smiles, brittle. “That’s what happens when you trust someone. You get hurt.”
I lunge for him, but I’m too slow. A slap resounds, and Jack’s head whips to the side. The silence in the kitchen puts on pounds, tons. Darth Vader chokes off a whine and goes quiet. The hissing of the rice cooker is the only thing that dares to make noise. Mrs. Hunter puts her hand down, face contorted with equal parts fury and regret.
“You will not”—her voice is slow and deliberate—“speak to Isis again while she is here today. Is that understood?”
Jacks eyes glint with shock and confusion. But he steels himself quickly and strides out of the kitchen without another word, without a glance at me. When he’s gone, Mrs. Hunter turns to me.
“I’m sorry, Isis. He’s . . . I won’t make excuses for him, but he’s not the best at recognizing when he’s hurting people beyond repair.”
“I’m fine,” I manage.
“Sweetie,” Mrs. Hunter says softly. “You’re not fine. You’re crying.”
I raise my hand to touch my face. It’s wet and cold.
Mrs. Hunter comforts me when I falter, hugging me. Every inch of my body shakes, and I break into choking sobs in her arms.
...
Mrs. Hunter holds me until I calm down, and then she insists I drink a cup of mint tea. It’s sweet and warm and opens my sad-clogged lungs. I thank her. She doesn’t bring up what just happened, and she doesn’t ask questions. She just busies herself with the tea and drinking her own cup of it. Avery’s texts asking me where I am and what’s going on vibrate on my phone, but I can’t bring myself to answer them. Not when the awful word is ringing in my head.
Ugly. I finger the thing under my sleeve. I can feel the outline of it on my arm. It hurts, burns, and smolders, just like when I first got it.
Ugly ugly ugly.
Jack doesn’t come down.
I leave after thanking Mrs. Hunter, making some excuse about my own mom needing me at home. Avery is in the car, still waiting, tapping away on her phone. She looks to me, irritated.
“Why didn’t you answer my texts? What took you so long? Did you get it?”
“He caught me.”
“He what?” Avery snarls. “But— But I didn’t even see his car pull up!”
I jerk my thumb behind me. Avery turns around and her eyes widen at the black sedan parked almost a block behind her.
“He saw my car,” I say.
“Why is his windshield streaky and brown?”
A single peal of watery laughter escapes my throat, but it cuts off quickly. Avery looks confused, and then shakes her head.
“What happened in there? You look sick.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say in a low tone, and start the car. Avery must see my red eyes or snotty nose or the way I move like I’m drained of all energy, because she doesn’t push me to stay or go back and get it. Even ruthless popular girls have a heart, I guess. The highway flashes by as I take her back to her house.
“I read the most recent letter,” I say dully. Avery’s eyes flash.
“Anything . . . Did Sophia say anything about a surgery?”
“No.”
Avery exhales, a deep and worried thing that leaves her in one breath.
“Neurological, right?” I ask.
“Yeah. She didn’t show any symptoms until after that night in middle school—” Avery squeezes her eyes shut. “It doesn’t matter. Just forget about it.”
“What did he do, Avery? For Christ’s sake, what the hell did Jack do that makes you and Wren so scared of him? He’s just a guy. A teenage boy.”
Avery turns her eyes to me, something hard and unknowable in them.
“No, weirdo. He’s not just a teenage boy. I know teenage boys. He’s not one of them. He might look like one, and his birth certificate might make him one, but he’s older. You feel it, right? Even you can’t be that thick.”
“Feel what?”
“The difference in him.”
She looks out the window, and I pull off the highway. The trees flash by, green reflections in her eyes as she speaks.
“He’s not like the rest of us. And he never will be.”
Of course he’s not like the rest of us; he looks like he belongs in an American Eagle ad in a magazine. He’s got no heart—or at least, no heart for anyone whose name doesn’t start with Soph and end in ia. Of course he’s not like us; he’s the Ice Prince.
Avery throws her phone in her purse in frustration. “Damn.”
“What?”
“I can’t get hold of Kayla.”
“She’s probably busy slathering mud on her face and putting cucumber slices on her eyes or whatever it is you pretty girls do to primp. She has a date tomorrow night.”
“What? With who? It better fucking be Wren.”
“Wren? Why?”
Avery tries to play it off. “N-No reason. It is Wren, right?”
“No. It’s Jack.”
“I told her—Wren!” Avery snarls. “Wren, Wren, Wren, and then after Wren she could uselessly go after Jack all she wanted.”
“What are you talking about?”
Avery shoots me a look. “You saw how they got along at the bowling alley. Even Jack noticed. Outside of school, where she isn’t popular and he isn’t a dork, they’re great together. Wren’s had a crush on her forever.”
It dawns on me then.
“You’re using Kayla!” I snarl. “Oh my God, you’re using her to get the funding for your French club trip to France or whatever! You’re using your friend!”
“It’s not just for me.” Avery glowers a hole into my windshield. “Kayla will go. And so will Sophia. It’s the last chance I have, all right? The last chance I have to . . . to make it up to her. The surgery might not be now, but it’ll be soon. Jack told me. And she might not make it. I might not get to see her ever again.”
“That doesn’t excuse the fact you’re forcing Kayla to flirt with a guy she doesn’t like to get what you want—”
“Did he tell you?” Avery interrupts me. “Did Jack tell you how long Sophia has, even if she makes it through the surgery?”
I swallow, hard, and for once my famed motor mouth comes to a standstill. Out of gas. Out of things to say.
Avery looks out the window at the passing forest. “We pretended when we were kids that we lived in France. Princesses. That’s what we’d play in her backyard. Princesses of France. And she’s got a book—I’m sure she still has it. We put it together. Maybe she burned it. A scrapbook of the things we wanted to do when we grew up. It’s full of French stuff. She was taking French, right before—”
She cuts off as I pull into her driveway. Her voice shakes when she continues.
“The school funding is the only shot I have at bringing her to France before—before she can’t go anywhere anymore.”
“Avery, can’t you please, please tell me what happened to you and Sophia and Jack and Wren in middle school? Please?”
Avery’s green eyes flicker over me, as if she’s judging my worth. “You’re like him, you know.”
“Say what?”
“You’re like him,” she repeats. “Jack. You’re different. People can feel it. That’s why you two are at odds, probably. You’re so similar. Like two magnets repelling each other.”
“Avery, what happened?”
“Back then I still liked Jack. I was like Kayla—obsessed. Sophia and Jack were . . . It was obvious to everyone they were in love. Meant to be together. I couldn’t stand it. So I arranged it. I bribed some of the guys who moved crates in my mom’s shipping warehouse. Dock workers. Huge idiot guys who’d just go out and get drunk all the time. I bribed them. Money talks loud. I did it. I was a stupid kid and I did it, and now I pay the price for it every day.”
I go still. Avery smiles at me, all bitter self-hatred and shadow.
“I told you, weirdo. I’m not good. And I never will be again.”
My stomach curdles. But before it can shrivel in on itself, Avery opens the car door and walks out. Into her house. Away from me. Away from the truth.
When I get home, I throw together something easy—ham sandwiches. I take one to Mom, who’s reading in the living room, and she smiles and hugs me.
“You look so sad today, honey. Are you all right?”
I force a smile, but today it feels brittle. The conviction isn’t behind it. Nothing is behind it, just empty lies and too-full pain.
“I’m fine.”
“New school, all that new homework, new friends. And then me on top of it all! It was definitely not as stressful at your aunt’s. You must be exhausted.”
I shake my head fervently. “I’m happy to be here. Honestly. I’m just happy I can be here to help you.”
She gets up and kisses my head, murmuring into my hair, “I’m so lucky to have you.”
As I’m leaving to head upstairs, Mom calls me back.
“I saw that girl again today. The one with red hair. I finally remembered where I saw her—she goes to my clinic. I’ve stood behind her in line at the receptionist’s. She’s prescribed the same medicine I’m getting.”
“For . . . ?”
“Depression.”
She says it delicately, softly, but it’s so much better than what she used to do—pretend nothing was wrong with her at all, that she didn’t need meds.
“She goes to my school,” I say.
“I know. She’s so young to be on medication. It’s tragic.”
“I’m gonna go upstairs and finish my applications.”
“All right, honey. Good luck! Knock ’em dead.”
I escape to my room and shut the door behind me. The most popular girl in school takes antidepressants instead of molly or coke or the usual party drug suspects. The most popular girl in school set in motion a chain of events years ago that echoes still today.
I’m getting closer to finding out what happened, and winning the war once and for all.
But do I still want to know? Do I still want to war? Jack defeated me totally today. He pulled out my every secret and laid them bare, chiseling them with a hammer of cruelty. I came to Ohio to escape, to get a fresh start, not to have everything brought up for people to see. He knows. And he could use it against me at any time. How could I have ever thought I liked him? There’s nothing there in my heart for him but cold grief now. Grief and anger. I should’ve been expecting his savagery when I dabbled with Sophia’s letters. Avery warned me. She warned me he gets touchy when people reach into the past, and I ignored it. I should’ve told her to get the letter herself. I should’ve never started this war.
That’s what happens when you trust someone.
I should’ve never trusted Nameless.
I was an idiot for trusting Jack with my feelings that night at the party.
I clutch at Ms. Muffin and curl up on the bed.
Ugly.
Ugly, ugly.
Is that what you thought this was? Love?
Dark hair. Dark eyes. The smell of a cigarette. A crooked smile that used to make my knees quake and my head go fuzzy, becoming something sinister and evil.
I don’t fall in love with fat, ugly girls. No one does.
Ugly.
Ugly.
Ugly girl.
Ms. Muffin’s black beady eyes watch me with no pity.
Maybe I’ll love you. Maybe, if you hold still.