Chapter Twelve
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.
Leo drank too much, threatened to kill Mom jokingly in front of me once or twice. But I always knew he wasn’t joking. I could feel it in my bones. I remember they used to shout at each other until Mom was hoarse and Leo took off to the bar. He was awful when I was around, but on a sort of fake best behavior. I can’t imagine how bad he was when I was gone, and how bad he was toward the end of their relationship.
Mom’s trying her best, despite all of it. So I have to try, too.
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 shirt. The beautiful pink top 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 shirt. I don’t want it to go to waste.
I know this beautiful shirt 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 I plan to keep it on. No one else but me needs to know what I look like in the shirt. I 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 are leftovers in the fridge. If you need me, I’ll have my cell phone.”
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, all right? 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 gasoline 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 them 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 point at a distant table, half hidden by birds of paradise. “And I’m going to watch your every move to make sure things go 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 complements her bronzed shoulders, and her black heels accentuate her long legs. Her eyes are bright and smudged with beautiful smoky makeup, her lips a dewy, pearly pink. She spots Jack and flushes 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—
“Miss?” 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 are 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 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 were 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 with Kayla gone. It’s back to cold Jack Frost.
“I called you in here in case you wanted me to change what I’m doing,” he says.
“No, it’s fine. 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. “You had something on your lip. Forget what I just did. Just—just forget it.”
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 run 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 naive, 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.
Sure, Jackass has insulted her a few times with his extreme, tell-it-like-it-is rationality. Maybe Avery told her he’s got a sick girlfriend in the hospital, and that hurt her. But she hasn’t been torn apart from the inside out. She hasn’t been laughed at, pulled at, pushed into.
She’s still pure.
I let the napkin drop from my neck and slap my hand over my mouth to stop the sudden rise of vomit in my throat. It hurts. The wound is open and it’s hurting again, and I have to get home. I have to find a dark room and curl up there and try to forget. I stagger out of the door, the bell over it tinkling behind me. I only hear it faintly. Everything is blurry and I can’t breathe. I try to inhale but fire bursts in my lungs, rips through my body. I’m shivering. Maybe I’m dying. That’d kinda suck to die over nothing at all. To die over something as stupid and idiotic as love. Here Lies a Stupid Little Girl, Who Collapsed Into a Casual Ball of Panic and Pitiful Sobs at the Idea of Love. P.S. Cupid Won This Round, Sucka. That would be my gravestone, and pigeons would poop on it and teenagers would have sex on it, and when the world floods from global warming it’ll flood and my pathetic fetal-position bones will float up and I’ll wander as a ghost and wail in couples’ ears—
“You.” A voice cuts through my nausea. “Are you all right?”
I look up. A blurry Jack hovers over me.
I gracefully vomit on his shoes.
...
It takes me a cool ten minutes of puking in front of my mortal enemy to realize he’s helped me into his car and actually what I’m puking off of isn’t a curb but the passenger side of his black sedan. He sits in the driver’s seat and taps on his phone the entire time. When there’s a brief pause in my retching, he looks up.
“Are you done?” he asks.
I immediately try to bolt out of the car and run to my own so I can shove my head into the exhaust pipe and mercifully die, but he pulls my shirt and yanks me back in.
“Just let me die!” I wail.
“Not quite yet. I have uses for you.”
“You’re so creepy! You’re so creepy and I’m so vomity and I mildly hate everything in this conceivable universe!”
“Kayla included?”
I stop wailing to glower at him. “Since I just paid you two hundred moolah to make her happy, obviously no, she is the one thing I do not hate. Her and like, pastries. And small kittens. But everything else can roast in Satan’s left armpit!” I whip my head around wildly. “Speaking of, where is she?”
“Went home.”
“You . . . you should go home, too.” I inch my foot slowly out of the car door. “I’ll just—”
I lunge to run away and drown myself in the nearby puddle of homeless person piss, but Jack yanks me back again, reaches over me, and slams the door shut. I pull on the handle.
“You child-locked it!” I gasp.
“Stay here until you feel better,” he grunts.
“I feel fine! I’m at least sixteen fines,” I assure him. “Look! I can breathe! I can use my legs!” I do bicycle motions in the seat. “I can head-bang!”
I bang my head twice and Jack has the fortunate intuition to roll down the window seconds before I vomit out of it. When I empty my stomach of the last remnants of my noodles, I gasp and pull my head back inside.
“What? Do you get off on watching my fantastic gastrointestinal fireworks? Is that why you’re keeping me against my will?”
“You aren’t well,” he insists stonily. “Sit and relax until you are.”
“Relax! Please, tell me, how the hell I can relax when the world’s biggest snowman is sitting next to me, talking like he has a heart? It’s out of character! It’s . . . it’s disgusting! You aren’t Jack. You’re some fucked-up alien from Zabadoo here to take his body back for your beautiful specimen collection, aren’t you?”
Jack starts the car. I yank at the door handle twice as hard.
“C’mon, you piece of baby-proof shit! I’m sure babies have actually shit themselves trying to open you, but I won’t! I just puked the next twenty-four hours worth of shit out! I’ll get you open, I swear I will, or I won’t and then I’ll be captured by extraterrestrials and, well, it was nice knowing you but really I think whoever invented you made a huge error in judgment when they didn’t take the Zabadoobians trapping a fabulous teenage girl in their car into consideration.”
Jack takes a sharp left turn and the momentum squashes my face against the window. I quickly put my seat belt on.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“I’m taking you on a date.”
I immediately regret ever hiring him for tonight. And also living. Jack must see my panic, because he sighs.
“It’s your first date, right?”
“Uh, yes? But, you don’t really have to do that? Considering it’s not something you want to do? And I don’t really need one, or like, even really want one? Dates are for people in love and that’s never going to happen for me again so I really don’t think it’s necessary.”
“It’s an apology. For how I acted yesterday. Nothing personal, and nothing romantic.”
“Oh.” I brighten, but some buried part of me sinks. I punt the feeling out of this universe along with the last of the Zabadoobians. “Right. An apology. Okay.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I don’t want you to be alarmed, but I think you might be crazy. I am the opposite of disappointed. I am oppopointed. Disaposite. There is nothing I would like more than to go on a not-date with my worst enemy who just went on a date with my friend, which, by the way, I paid him to do.”
“You’re also babbling.”
“And I’m babbling! How cool is that! Just drive so we can get this over with, you alien!”
He smirks and steps on the gas.