5
HELL CALLS HELL
Kyle’s apartment turned out to be a pleasant surprise. Simonexpected a filthywalk-up inanAvenue D tenement, with roaches crawling on the walls and a bed made out of mattress foam and milk crates. In reality it was a clean two-bedroom with a small living area, a ton of bookshelves, and lots of photos on the walls of famous surfing spots.
Admittedly, Kyle seemed to be growing marijuana plants on the fire escape, but you couldn’t have everything.
Simon’s room was basically an empty box. Whoever had lived there before had left nothing behind but a futon mattress. It had bare walls, bare floors, and a single window, through which Simon could see the neon sign of the Chinese restaurant across the street.
“You like it?” Kyle inquired, hovering in the doorway, his hazel eyes open and friendly.
“It’s great,” Simon replied honestly. “Exactly what I needed.”
The most expensive item in the apartment was the flat-screen TV in the living room.
They threw themselves down on the futon couch and watched bad TV as the sunlight dimmed outside. Kyle was cool, Simon decided. He didn’t poke, didn’t pry, didn’t ask questions. He didn’t seem to want anything in exchange for the room except for Simon to pitch in grocery money. He was just a friendly guy. Simon wondered if he’d forgotten what ordinary human beings were like.
After Kyle headed out to work an evening shift, Simon went into his room, collapsed on the mattress, and listened to the traffic going byonAvenue B.
He’d been haunted by thoughts of his mother’s face since he’d left: the way she’d looked at him with loathing and fear, as if he were an intruder in her house. Even if he didn’t need to breathe, the thought of it had still constricted his chest. But now . . .
When he was a kid, he’d always liked traveling, because being in a new place had meant being away from all his problems. Even here, just a river away from Brooklyn, the memories that had been eating at him like acid—the mugger’s death, his mother’s reaction to the truth of what he was—seemed blurred and distant.
Maybe that was the secret, he thought. Keep moving. Like a shark. Go to where no one can find you. A fugitive and a wanderer shalt thou be in the earth.
But that only worked if there was no one you cared about leaving behind.
He slept fitfully all night. His natural urge was to sleep during the day, despite his Daylighter powers, and he fought off restlessness and dreams before waking up late with the sun streaming in through the window. After throwing on clean clothes from his knapsack, he left the bedroom to find Kyle in the kitchen, frying bacon and eggs in a Teflon pan.
“Hey, roommate,” Kyle greeted him cheerfully. “Want some breakfast?”
The sight of the food made Simon feel vaguely sick to his stomach. “No, thanks. I’ll take some coffee, though.” He perched himself on one of the slightly lopsided bar stools.
Kyle pushed a chipped mug across the counter toward him. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, bro.
Even if it’s already noon.”
Simon put his hands around the mug, feeling the heat seep into his cold skin. He cast about for a topic of conversation—one thatwasn’t how little he ate.“So, Inever asked youyesterday—what do youdo fora living?”
Kyle picked a piece of bacon out of the pan and bit into it. Simon noticed that the gold medal at his throat had a pattern of leaves on it, and the words “Beati Bellicosi.” “Beati,”
Simon knew, was a word that had something to do with saints; Kyle must be Catholic.
“Bike messenger,” he said, chewing. “It’s awesome. I get to ride around the city, seeing everything, talking to everyone. Way better than high school.”
“You dropped out?”
“Got my GED senior year. I prefer the school of life.” Simon would have thought Kyle sounded ridiculous if it weren’t for the fact that he said “school of life” the way he said everything else—with total sincerity. “What about you? Any plans?”
Oh, you know. Wander the earth, causing death and destruction to innocent people.
Maybe drink some blood.
Live forever but never have any fun. The usual. “I’m kind of winging it at the moment.”
“You mean you don’t want to be a musician?” Kyle asked.
To Simon’s relief his phone rang before he had to answer that. He fished it out of his pocket and looked at the screen. It was Maia. “Hey,” he greeted her. “What’s up?”
“Are you going to be at that dress fitting with Clary this afternoon?” she asked, her voice crackling down the line.
She was probably calling from pack headquarters in Chinatown, where the reception wasn’t great. “She told me she was making you go to keep her company.”
“What? Oh, right. Yes. I’ll be there.” Clary had demanded that Simon accompany her to her bridesmaid’s dress fitting so afterward they could shop for comics and she could feel, in her words, like “less of a frilled-up girly-girl.”
“Well, I’m going to come too, then. I have to give Luke a message from the pack, and besides, I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“I know. I’m really sorry—”
“It’s fine,” she said lightly. “But you’re going to have to let me know what you’re wearing to the wedding eventually, because otherwise we’ll clash.”
She hung up, leaving Simon staring at the phone. Clary had been right. The wedding was D-day, and he was woefully unprepared for the battle.
“One of your girlfriends?” Kyle asked curiously. “Was that redheaded chick at the garage one of them? Because she was cute.”
“No. That’s Clary; she’s my best friend.” Simon pocketed his phone. “And she has a boyfriend. Like, really, really, really has a boyfriend. The nuclear bomb of boyfriends.
Trust me on this one.”
Kyle grinned. “I was just asking.” He dumped the bacon pan, now empty, into the sink.
“So, your two girls. What are they like?”
“They’re very, very . . . different.” In some ways, Simon thought, they were opposites.
Maia was calm and grounded; Isabelle lived at a high pitch of excitement. Maia was a steady light in the darkness; Isabelle a burning star, spinning through the void. “I mean, they’re both great. Beautiful, and smart . . .”
“And they don’t know about each other?” Kyle leaned against the counter. “Like, at all?”
Simon found himself explaining—how when he’d come back from Idris (though he didn’t mention the place by name), they’d both started calling him, wanting to hang out.
And because he liked them both, he went. And somehow things started to turn casually romantic with each of them, but there never seemed to be a chance to explain to either of them that he was seeing someone else, too. And somehow it had snowballed, and here he was, not wanting to hurt either of them, and not knowing how to go on, either.
“Well, if you ask me,” Kyle said, turning to dump his remaining coffee out in the sink,
“you ought to pick one of them and quit dogging around. I’m just saying.”