I frown. The one thing that sucks about Arena matches is listening to everyone complain about my ‘special treatment’ afterwards. In all of Purgatory, there are only a few dozen Quasis across who fight in the Arena, and we’re all descended from Furor demons. The Furor are known for not one, but two deadly sins: lust and wrath. Clearly, I only inherited the wrath part, which is why I’m an especially good Arena fighter. And yeah, I do think I deserve special treatment. Hey, I kept an evil soul out of Heaven this morning. Where’s the love?
Opening my mouth, I’m about to say something to that effect when I glance into the Old Timer’s oily black eyes. No love for me there, that’s for sure. I bite my lower lip. “Whatever you say, sir.” Suck it, loser.
The Old Timer lets out an indignant puff of air. “What does the rest of the class think? Should Myla have special treatment because she wrestles a few ghosts?”
Thirty sets of eyes turn in my direction, everyone looking at me with a gaze that says ‘hey, I forgot about that freaky fighting girl.’ This attitude is an improvement, actually. Time was, they all teased me mercilessly. That ended when I put Billy Summers in hospital back in first grade. That’s when Cissy took pity on me too, wrapping me up in her little shoebox of friendship. I’ve cherished her ever since.
The Old Timer taps his foot. “Well, class?”
No one wants to get their ass kicked like Billy Summers, so they all keep their yaps shut.
“I see.” The Old Timer eyes the bowl of worms. “Myla, since you seem to deserve special treatment, perhaps you’ll demonstrate how to make worm soufflé.”
Oh my sweet evil. Not worm soufflé.
I take a deep breath. “Yes, sir.” Stepping up to the table, I eye the massive bowl of nasty, writhing, and greasy worms. Even for a quasi-demon, this is gross stuff.
The Old Timer grins, showing a mouthful of cracked and yellow teeth. “First, you must mush the worms into a pulp.”
I cringe. Okay, that’s totally repulsive. Scanning the room, I see every set of eyes still locked on me. I try twisting my disgusted sneer into a cool and casual grin, but I just end up looking constipated.
“Got it.” My stomach somersaults. “Is there a spoon or something?”
“Absolutely not,” says the Old Timer. “This must be done with your bare hands.”
“Oooooookay.” Bit by bit, my trembling fingers inch toward the wriggling mass of gray and brown nasties.
At that moment, Cissy lets out as yelp. “Angels! Angels!” She points to the window; the class runs to look. I follow, thrilled for the diversion.
Sure enough, a pair of angels walk the school grounds below, accompanied by the school’s Headmaster and Superintendent. The Old Timer stares through the glass, his black eyes wide as saucers. His voice comes out in a nervous whisper. “Ghouls and angels?”
Angels rarely visit Purgatory outside of Arena matches, let alone go for strolls with ghouls. My mind spins with the possibilities, returning again and again to the same thought: this little distraction puts worm soufflé time on hold! I can’t help but grin.
“What in blazes are angels doing here?” The Old Timer twirls his handlebar moustache with bony fingers, his ebony eyes lost in thought.
Cissy half-raises her arm. “Sir, class is almost over.” We’ve got fifteen minutes, but Cissy uses new math.
With his eyes still locked on the window, the Old Timer dreamily waves his hand. “You’re all dismissed.”
Cissy grips my wrist. “We’re going to your house after school.” She drags me toward the door. “This is an official emergency. We’ve got to talk.”
My upper lip curls. One guess what she wants to chat about.
Chapter Three
The entire ride home, Cissy fiddles with Betsy’s radio and grills me about every millisecond of my interaction with Zeke. It’s amazing how many details she thinks are important. ‘Did he look directly into your eyes when he asked that question?’ ‘Were his arms crossed over his chest like this?’ And, of course, there’s the ever-popular ‘Did he ask you about me?’ When I run out of answers, I start making stuff up. It’s easier that way.
Cissy’s eyes flare with a bit of red. “Did he give you his smoldering look?” She’s created an elaborate filing system for Zeke’s goo-goo eyes. Blech. This boy-crazy crap makes me a little nuts. Not only because it’s dumb, repetitive, and a total waste of time, but also because part of me wishes I’d felt that way. Maybe once.
“Smoldering look.” I smack my lips. “What do you mean?”
Her eyes blaze red. “You know exactly what I mean. He gives you that look all the time. Zeke so likes you and you could care less. It’s not fair.”
I grip the steering wheel tighter and brainstorm ways to change the subject. There are two Cissys. One is my sweet friend with a big heart who can’t help but take care of oddballs like me. The other’s an obsessive nut job who goes demon-eyed with envy over whatever’s the object of her desire. Like Zeke. “Put the brakes on your inner demon, Cissy girl. Do you want to miss this chance?”
“What chance?” Cissy slumps into the seat, kicking her foot onto the dashboard. “You’ll be at the party too. Let’s be honest. He won’t notice I exist.”
“Hey, now.” I can’t stand to see Cissy so down on herself. “This is like…like…”