Furious

chapter 27



Alone in my bedroom, looking into the mirror, I practice what I’m going to say to Raymond when he confronts me. I know he will. I make sure to keep my expression flat and certain, a shield against his arguments.

He’ll say: “You almost killed him!”

I’ll say: “I bet he doesn’t even have a broken bone.”

Raymond: “You went too far!”

Me: “We haven’t gone far enough.”

Only Raymond doesn’t phone that night, not even a text. I’m puzzled but relieved. Why should I have to convince him of anything? Ambrosia got it right. This is my business. Brendon didn’t humiliate Raymond. Raymond wasn’t half-naked with half the school laughing in his face. I’m the one who gets to decide when justice has been served. I’m the one who deserves to pay him back.

Who cares what Raymond thinks?

It’s 2:00 a.m. by the time I get into bed. Lying in the dark with He-Cat at my head, I burrow into the sheets, imagining Brendon in the hospital and how he must be moaning fitfully in his sleep—if he can sleep—and I get a sense of satisfaction. If I can’t sleep, neither should he.

And then it’s 2:30 a.m. and all I can think about now is how Brendon will eventually get over it. The doctors will stitch up his lip and he’ll be released from the hospital. His family will rally around him. His friends will offer sympathy and support. He’ll surf again and sleep well and have girlfriends, and gradually the memory of that fall through the window will fade. He’s a prince. Life is like that for the princes of this world. All the shame and guilt we put into him will disappear. This Halloween night will too quickly become a small, vague memory in his long, happy, entitled life.

He will forget about what he did. He will forget me.

Unless …

I do something to keep the memory and the guilt alive.

I check the clock. It’s 2:45 a.m., and now all I can think about is the refrigerator. I head into the kitchen and begin my raid. There’s a big slab of leftover lasagna that I don’t even bother to pop into the microwave. I down it cold right out of the casserole dish. I fill a bowl with ice cream and top it with a large dollop of Cool Whip. I eat a half jar of garlic pickles. I would eat more, but that’s all that’s left.

He-Cat, excited by all this middle-of-night action, rubs against my legs, but I’m in no mood to give him or anyone any affection. I nudge him out of my way.

I must be fed.

I think of the Leech asleep in the next room. Why does she get to sleep so soundly when I can’t? Why did I settle for just a new bedroom when she owes me so much more? She should be racked with shame and guilt for the way she treated me. I want both of them, Brendon and her, to beg me for forgiveness. I want their sleep to be plagued by nightmares until they pay for what they did to me.

This hunger gnaws, like I’m feeding some creature that’s all appetite. I grab a pen and a piece of paper and draw: a hungry ghost with a huge maw of a mouth, a neck so long and thin that everything eaten burns and hurts as it travels down to a bloated, bottomless pit of a stomach.

That hungry ghost is inside of me. It is me.

A word, coming from that hunger, springs into my thoughts. I text to Alix and Stephanie—Hunt—and right when I hit Send, two messages come in simultaneously.

Hunt, says Alix.

Hunt, says Stephanie.

We can’t stop. We must be fed.

* * *



Over the next few days the police talk to a lot of kids who were at the party, and my name comes up in every interview. In an empty classroom a policewoman gently guides me through every detail of the night. Was Brendon depressed? Did he ever talk about hurting himself? Did anyone ever threaten him? When did I last see him?

I stick to my rehearsed story. He was drunk. I was drunk. There was the ugly, ugly scene in the bedroom, and I was mad and hurt. Who wouldn’t be? But when I left the bedroom, he was still standing. The window was shut. Yes, he did seem upset and remorseful about what he did to me. Alix and Stephanie back me up on that point.

Brendon doesn’t remember much, so the police come to the conclusion that I lead them to: A distraught, drunken kid lucked out by not killing himself. The real victim is the poor, sensitive girl whose heart he broke.

At the end of my interview, the soft-spoken policewoman asks if she can give me a hug. I let myself be folded into her arms. “Honey, he treated you wrong. None of this is your fault,” she says. “But don’t be surprised if the episode continues to haunt you for a while.”

I know it will.

* * *



The hospital keeps Brendon under observation until mid-week. The doctors can’t get over how all his vital signs disappeared and yet he came out of it with no serious injuries. They draw blood and do an MRI, but they don’t see anything abnormal.

At school, of course, everyone’s talking about Brendon’s miraculous escape from death. I overhear Mr. and Mrs. H in the cafeteria arguing about what happened.

“Pure luck,” Mr. H says. “He must have hit at the exact angle to dissipate the impact. It’s all a matter of vectors.”

“You and your vectors!” Mrs. H says. “Why can’t you admit that there are some things we’ll never understand?”

I smirk, knowing how wrong they both are. I pulled him back. I am not done with him.

That’s why I don’t care about the rude comments and snickering that follow me as I walk through the halls. That’s why it doesn’t matter to me that the photos of naked me have been e-mailed around. The Plagues spread a rumor that I did something terrible to Brendon. They don’t know what and they don’t know how, but they blame me.

Let the rumors fly. Let everyone shun me. Let them laugh.

Let them think that this is over and they have won.

* * *



Later that week, Brendon walks into Western Civ and is welcomed with applause and a gush of admiration that usually greets war heroes or someone who scored a fake ID. I notice how he doesn’t look in my direction, but lets himself be smothered in boobs by all the girls who insist on hugging him.

“Dude!” Pox offers up a fist to bump. “Lookin’ good.”

Rat Boy, always the master of the obvious, says, “You’re alive.”

The Brendon lovefest ends only because Ms. Pallas, not looking her usual cool and calm self, enters the room and flicks the lights a couple of times. A few minutes after the late bell sounds, Raymond, equally frazzled, slides into his seat next to me. We haven’t talked since Halloween night. He hasn’t been in school. I didn’t call to find out why, and he didn’t call to tell me why.

I do know one thing, though. He and Ms. Pallas didn’t both just happen to come in late. They don’t fool me. Nobody will ever fool me again. They were obviously having a private summit meeting, and it wasn’t about his grades. Ms. Pallas was no doubt filling his head with her so-called civilized ideas about justice. And Raymond was taking it all in with complete devotion. I catch him checking me out with a set of disapproving wrinkles etched on his forehead. I give him a mocking, tight-lipped smile that dares: What are you going to do about it?

Today it’s our group’s turn to give an updated report on our final project, but when Raymond takes out the papers he prepared, I lean over and slap a wide-open palm on them. My first words in days to him are: “We don’t need your contribution anymore.”

I motion for Alix, Stephanie, and Ambrosia to follow me to the front of the room. “Our report.” I drop the papers on Ms. Pallas’s desk. “It’s a script. You said we could be creative, so we wrote and memorized a scene, based on the works of Aeschylus.”

One of the Double Ds takes out her cell phone, holds it in my direction, and snaps a picture, a reminder that it will be a long time before Halloween night is forgotten. Half the class laughs; the other half looks away embarrassed.

“Dawn, put that away now,” Ms. Pallas orders.

I don’t care. I strike a pose, hand on hip, chest thrust forward. Take all the pictures you want. I’m about to show them whom they are dealing with. Let’s see how much they laugh then. I face the class.

“The princess,” I announce.

Ambrosia takes three steps forward and holds her arms out to the sides, palms up and head back in prayer to the gods. She recites, “I have been wronged and I have called up the Furies to punish the ones who harmed me.”

Ambrosia then gestures—“My Furies”—and I link arms with Alix and Stephanie and the three of us say, “Hunt,” so that the H emerges in a rasp from the back of our throats and the T is hard and final, like a trapdoor slamming closed.

Ambrosia: “My contempt will stab your liver, a spurt of bile to prick the conscience. Give him a blast of your reeking, bloody breath, send it into his waking hours, ignite the fuel of his endless nightmares.”

“Hunt,” we say. “Hunt.”

“Burn him in your stomach’s acid fire. Track him down!”

“Hunt, hunt, hunt.”

“He will not escape.”

Speeding up. “Hunt, hunt, hunt.”

“He can run to the ends of the earth.”

Speeding up more, a race. “Hunt, hunt, hunt.”

“But he’ll never be free.”

“Enough,” Ms. Pallas tries to break in.

I feel the powerful tug of her but draw on my own power, our combined power of three. We don’t need to listen to her. We have no one to obey but ourselves. “Hunt, hunt, hunt, hunt, hunt, hunt, hunt.”

Let them try to escape me. Let them—

This time there are two voices—Ms. Pallas and Raymond shouting in unison “Enough!”—and I stop. But not because of them, only because I decide to. I want to savor all the expressions of shock, fear, and confusion. I stare at Brendon. His lips part and he mouths a string of words in my direction—Meg, please stop! We need to talk! I can—but I shut him down with a cold glare. Hope slides off his face. Good! He feels the rush of the misery that’s coming his way.

On the outside, only a small scrape on Brendon’s mouth and a purple bruise on his elbow are visible. But inside, my enemy is now hemorrhaging. It’s not blood and not anything that would register on an X-ray or that a doctor could stitch up. It’s his sanity, and we will make it bleed right out of him.

* * *



The next day Brendon’s eyes look sunken into his skull. He seems to have shrunk an inch overnight. By the next week his lips are cracked and he wanders the school hallways like he’s lost in a nightmare.

The rumors grow thicker and darker. I am doing this to him and I won’t ever stop. Me and Alix and Stephanie. No one dares accuse me out loud. No one laughs, either, or points a cell phone camera in my face anymore. Even the Plagues step aside as we pass.

Brendon soon stops coming to school. I hear things. The Double Ds say that he stopped eating, not a bite. One of his cousins reports that he’s not sleeping at all; no amount of medication can knock him out. His skin is breaking out in pustules. He complains of migraines and arthritis in his toes. His medical doctor recommends a psychiatrist and the psychiatrist recommends a neurologist, but nobody can bring him any relief.

For days he flails at invisible enemies, and then for a solid night he cries deep, animal sobs. His pleas for forgiveness turn into loud, wordless moans, which dissolve into near-silent whines of pain.

Then, not a sound from him. I hear that he huddles in a corner of his room.

“Like some dude trapped under glass,” Pox tells a group of surfers.

“No!” Gnat disagrees. “Like he’s being held underwater.”

Exactly, I think. Under glass, underwater, like the figures in Ambrosia’s snow globe. It is not a piece of art. It is a prison. Brendon’s essence is there, with all the other princes. Trapped with sharp, black shards of guilt falling all over them.





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