? ? ?
I’m in a car, hurtling in the darkness. The scene shifts and I’m outside of the car and it’s barreling toward me. I’m watching Sasha dance, her shorts encrusted in sequins, a white spangled cowboy hat on her head—but partway through the performance she stops and starts to strip. At first I lean forward to watch, a thrill running through me as her long limbs emerge bare and smooth. But then she’s angry, her face screwing up into a mask of fury, and she’s pulling out her own hair, her eyes swollen, her hands gripping long blond locks and yanking them free. Blood runs down her scalp. She steps toward the edge of the stage, and her eyes meet mine. For a moment we both stare at one another, as if seeing each other for the first time. Then she launches herself like a cat, straight toward me.
I wake sweaty and disoriented. It’s pitch-black. Snatches of anxious half dream, half memory grab at me. I’m in my own room, in my own bed. My clock reads 3:42 A.M.; it’s only been two hours since Caleb dropped me off.
It’s half a second before my eyes adjust and I realize I’m not alone.
Sasha’s sitting backward on my desk chair, her legs splayed out on either side of the frame. Her hair is tangled and loose, and her eye makeup is smeared down her cheeks. She looks like a half-mad ghost, blood-hungry, but the smile she gives is calm and almost beatific.
“What are you doing here?” I sit up straight, adrenaline shooting through my veins. The darkness feels like it’s crowding in on all sides. I pull my blanket up to my chest, even though I’m still fully clothed. “Jesus, how’d you even get in?”
She shrugs. “I have a key.”
“You have a . . .” I shake my head. “What key?”
“I had it made a couple of months ago.”
“What, did you steal mine and get it duplicated?”
She gives a soft snort, rolling her eyes. “Jesus, Gabe, you act like I’m untrustworthy. Plenty of people leave spare keys with their girlfriends.”
I know something is wrong with this line of reasoning, but I’m still so groggy, so confused, I can’t quite figure out what. I reach for the bedside lamp, but her voice cuts through the darkness. “Don’t!”
Then she stands up from the chair, and I see that she’s completely naked.
“I came to make nice,” she purrs.
My breath catches in my throat. She is truly beautiful, her body powerful and delicate at the same time. But she’s also truly terrifying. The angles of her face disappear into shadow. Her mouth is a tight determined line. And there’s something flat and far away in her eyes.
“Sasha, this is nuts,” I whisper. “My parents are asleep down the hall.”
She moves toward me. Her skin glows in the moonlight. “All I want is to make you happy. You mean everything to me. I need you.” She leans down, cups my chin in her hand.
I jerk away from her touch. “Don’t.”
“Oh, Gabe, come on.” She rests a knee on the bed next to me. Her flowery perfume winds its way into my nose, into my throat. The sense of claustrophobia intensifies. I push her to the side, gasping for air.
Now she looks genuinely confused. For the first time a hint of self-consciousness seems to cross her features. She presses her knees together and hunches her shoulders. “What’s wrong?” she asks. “Why don’t you want me?”
I stare at her. I can see that the last question, at least, is dead earnest, and that’s what breaks my heart: the fact that she can fight with me all night long, then break into my house convinced I’ll still want her. That this will make all our problems go away.
I grope around on the ground until I find her T-shirt, then hand it to her. Silently, she pulls it over her head, tugging it down to cover the tops of her thighs.
“We’re done,” I say, simply.
She blinks, gripping the bottom hem of her shirt. “What are you talking about?”
“Sasha, we’re done. I don’t want to do this anymore. The jealousy, the arguments, the head games. It’s exhausting.” I angle toward her, trying to look her in the face, but she’s staring out in space now. “I don’t think you even love me anymore. I think you just like playing with me.”
She shakes her head, still not looking at me. “No.”
“Yes.” I put my hands on her shoulders, trying to force her to look at me, but she wrenches out of my grip.
“Forget about it,” she hisses. “We’re not breaking up.”
Anger rises up again, all my pity and anxiety and sadness swallowed whole by the rush of it. “You don’t get to decide that. It’s not up to you.”
She smirks at me. It’s humorless, hard. “Isn’t it, though?”
I shake my head. “I’m done fighting.” Then I lean across the bed and snap on the lamp.
Light floods the room. She recoils, squinting. Somehow in the light she doesn’t seem so frightening, so unpredictable.
“Find your clothes. I’ll walk you out to the front door.”
For a minute, it looks like she’s going to refuse, and I’m not quite sure what I’ll do if that happens. Physically drag her out, kicking and screaming? I don’t want to have to explain that one to my parents. I cross my arms over my chest and wait, refusing to look away. Finally, she stands up and walks over to the desk chair. Her underwear and shorts are folded neatly on the desk. I turn away as she pulls them on.
Once she’s dressed, I get up off the bed and open the door softly, gesturing for her to go first. Silently, her face as still as a doll’s, she walks past me and into the hall.
I follow. At my sister’s half-open door, her service dog, Rowdy, pushes his head out of the crack, his tags jingling softly. Useless dog, I think. Aren’t you supposed to bark at intruders? But Sasha pats Rowdy’s head as she passes, and he wags up at her. Because Sasha’s not an intruder; she’s one of our pack. And now I have to start the tricky business of extricating myself from her.
In the living room, I open the front door. She stands for another moment and stares at me. Her face is strange and affectless in the dim light.
She puts her arms around my neck and presses her lips to mine. I pull back but her arms are tight, surprisingly strong. She nips at my bottom lip before letting go of me, smiling up at me with a dark glitter in her eye.
“This isn’t over,” she whispers.
Then she slips through the door and is gone.
EIGHT
Elyse
Sunday afternoon I let myself in the unlocked door in the arts wing and make my way to the theater.
My footfalls echo off the linoleum. There’s the sharp smell of the janitor’s chemical cleaners; underneath is the memory of body odor and graphite dust and greasy food. It’s always weird being in the halls when school’s out. There are no windows to let in the late autumn sun; the only illumination is from the emergency lights, dim and almost ambient. The place feels like I’d imagine a tomb does, the silence a rebuke to all the noise and chaos that used to be here.
Mr. Hunter is in the green room beneath the stage, sitting on a steamer trunk and paging through some notes. I linger in the doorway for a few seconds. He’s wearing a plain V-neck T-shirt today, no jacket, and it makes him look younger than usual.
“Hey, you made it,” he says, his dimple flashing.
“Yeah. Thanks for meeting me,” I say.
“Don’t mention it. The play is going up in six weeks. I sprung this part on you. I just want to make sure you’re ready.” I can see the back of his head in the vanity mirrors, his dark hair, his trim shoulders. I can see myself there too, standing awkwardly in front of him. My skin is pasty white in the glaring light. I suddenly hate the outfit I spent the morning picking out—skinny jeans and my favorite blue scarf. So basic.
“Should we head up to the stage?” I shift my weight, not sure if I should sit down or lead the way upstairs. He thinks about it for a moment.