Part 7 (2/2)
She whipped around, her face swollen and red. Mascara was smeared across her cheeks. ”You,” she barked, wiping her face with her sleeve.
The dial tone beeped in the background.
”Come here.”
She looked so crazed, it took me a moment to realize that she was addressing me. Without responding, I turned and started to walk back to my room.
”Why are you always here, lurking at my door?” she said, sticking her head into the hall. ”Do you think I want to talk to you?”
I kept walking.
”You think you're interesting or something because you didn't die?”
I took a breath, trying to convince myself it wasn't worth it to turn around.
”Because you had a fit in the middle of cla.s.s? What's your problem, anyway? Are you some kind of freak?”
I looked down at my hands, and realized they were clenched.
”Why aren't you answering me? Did your parents never teach you English?”
At that I spun around. ”I never said I was interesting,” I yelled, louder than I meant to. ”And of course I can hear you. Everyone can hear you.” It felt surprisingly good to shout at someone. Maybe this was what I had needed to do all along. ”I don't lurk in front of your room. I get lost. And I really don't think you're in a position to be calling anyone a freak.”
She glared at me. ”What is that supposed to mean?”
I took in her bad dye job, her asymmetrical clothes, and her acrylic fingernails. ”You look ridiculous.”
”So do you!” she said, waving her hands wildly. ”And you're possessed!”
Catching our breaths, we stood there in silence, unsure of what to do next. Behind me, I could hear a group of girls gathering in the hall.
”A witch arguing with a liar,” Clementine said, as she put a hand on her hip. She was wearing slippers, her short hair held back with a series of bobby pins. The girls behind her started to whisper.
Before I could formulate a response, Anya's voice cut through the hallway. ”July thirtieth. Have you forgotten?” she said, her eyes dark and steady. ”Because I haven't.”
Confused, I glanced at Anya and then at Clementine, who was glaring back at her. Her friends seemed just as baffled as I was.
Clementine let out a nervous laugh. ”Is that a threat?”
”Yes,” Anya said plainly.
”What's she talking about?” Josie, one of Clementine's friends, asked, her lips thin and pursed in a pout. I recognized her from cla.s.s.
Clementine began to look uncomfortable. Prying her eyes away from Anya, she turned to her friends. ”I have no idea,” she said, though I could tell it wasn't true. ”Come on, let's go.”
After everyone had left, I turned to Anya. ”What was that? July thirtieth?”
”Oh, nothing,” she said, her face bearing the hint of a smile. ”Just a little secret of Clementine's that I happened to stumble across this summer.”
”You're blackmailing her?”
”No,” Anya said, a tiny wrinkle forming on her forehead. ”I'm not asking for anything in return. Only that she leave me alone.”
”But isn't that still-”
Anya cut me off. ”Do you really think I look ridiculous?” Curling a lock of red hair around her finger, she studied me.
I considered how to answer. ”No,” I said, lying.
She gave me a skeptical look. ”Why did you say it, then?”
”I was angry.”
She wiped her cheek, smearing the mascara even more. ”So you're apologizing?”
Her words caught me off guard. ”No,” I said. ”Not until you apologize to me.”
”But you insulted me first,” she insisted, as if it were the truth.
I shook my head in disbelief. ”That's not how I remember it.”
”Fine. I'm sorry,” she said, so quickly I could barely catch it. ”Now you have to come inside.”
”What? Why?”
”Because I apologized first, so now you have to make it up to me.”
”I don't have to make anything up to you,” I said, confused.
”You don't have to be rude about it,” Anya said. ”I'm not going to hurt you. I just need some help.”
I hesitated, listening to Clementine's melodic voice down the hall. ”Help doing what?”
She waved her hand. ”Oh, just something really small.”
Anya's room was dingy and cluttered with charms and feathers and an odd collection of talismans. A few posters dotted the walls, but they all seemed a little off, either too small or poorly placed. One of the overhead lightbulbs had gone out. To make up for it, Anya had lit a tall red candle encased in gla.s.s with a stencil of the Virgin Mary. A single cross hung over her bed. It was draped in neon beads.
I sat on the edge of the bed. ”What exactly do you want me to do?” I said, fingering a string of charms hanging from her bedpost.
”Hold on,” Anya said, sifting through her desk drawer until she found a pocket sewing kit. ”Why did you collapse this morning?” she asked as she removed a needle from the kit and held it in the flame of the candle.
”I don't know,” I said, not wanting to divulge that I had hallucinated.
”Come on. I'm not stupid, she said, handing me the needle. ”Hold this for a minute.”
”I don't want to talk about it,” I said, taking the needle from her.
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