Kavinsky replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Babe, get me a smoke.”
The last part seemed to be directed to a girl who lolled in the passenger seat of the crunched Mitsubishi, her eyes deeply stoned. She did not dignify his order with a response.
Ronan flicked out one of the fake IDs.
Kavinsky smiled broadly at his own work. With his hollow cheeks, he was a ghoul in this light. “You mad because I didn’t leave you a mint, too?”
“No, I’m angry because you trashed my apartment,” Gansey said. “You should be glad I’m here and not at the police station.”
“Whoa, man,” Kavinsky said. “Whoa, whoa. I can’t tell which of us is high. Whoa. I didn’t trash your place.”
“Please don’t insult my intelligence,” Gansey replied, and there was just a hint of a glacial laugh in his voice. It was a terrifying and wonderful laugh, Ronan thought, because Gansey had measured out only contempt and not a touch of humor.
Their conversation was interrupted by the familiar, destructive sound of cars colliding. There was nothing dramatic about the sound of newer vehicles crashing: all the safety bumpers meant it was mostly the dull thud of plastic puncturing. It wasn’t the volume, though, that sent a shiver up Ronan’s spine — it was the specificity of the sound. There was no other sound in the world like a car crash.
Kavinsky caught the line of their attention. “Ah,” he said, “you want in on this, don’t you?”
“Where are these guys from?” Gansey squinted. “Is that Morris? I thought he was in New Haven.”
Kavinsky shrugged. “It’s a substance party.”
Ronan growled, “They don’t have substances in New Haven?”
“Not like these. It’s Wonderland! Some make you big, some make you small …”
It was the wrong quote. Or rather, the right quote, done wrong. In the Lynch household, Ronan had grown up with two recurring stories, perennial favorites of his parents. Aurora Lynch’s favorite had been an old black-and-white movie version of the myth Pygmalion, about a sculptor who falls in love with one of his statues. And Niall Lynch had had an extraordinary fondness for an ugly old edition of Alice in Wonderland, frequently read aloud to two or three reluctant, half-asleep Lynch brothers. Ronan had seen Pygmalion and heard Alice in Wonderland so often in his youth that he no longer could judge whether or not they were any good, whether or not he actually liked them. The movie and the novel were history now. They were his parents.
So he knew the quote was actually, “one side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter.”
“Depends on which side of the mushroom you use,” Ronan said, more to his dead father than to Kavinsky.
“True point,” Kavinsky agreed. “So, what are you going to do about your rat problem?”
Gansey blinked. “Beg pardon?”
This made Kavinsky laugh uproariously, and when he was through, he said, “If I didn’t trash your place, something else is infesting it.”
Gansey’s eyes flickered over to Ronan. Possibility?
Of course it was a possibility. Someone other than Ronan had smashed up Declan Lynch’s face, so theoretically, something other than Kavinsky could have broken into Monmouth Manufacturing. Possibility? Anything was possible.
“Lynch!” One of the other partygoers drew closer, recognizing him. Ronan, in turn, recognized him: Prokopenko. His voice was milky with drugs, but Ronan would’ve recognized his silhouette anywhere, one shoulder crooked and higher than the other, ears like wing nuts. “And Gansey?”
“Yeah,” Kavinsky said, thumbs hooked in his back pockets, hip bones poking out above his low-slung waistband. “Mommy and Daddy came. Hey, Gansey, you get a babysitter for Parrish? You know what, man, don’t answer that; let’s smoke a peace pipe.”
Immediately, Gansey replied with precise disdain, “I’m not interested in your pills.”
“Oh, Mr. Gansey,” Kavinsky sneered. “Pills! First rule of substance party is, you don’t talk about substance party. Second rule is, you bring a substance if you want another one.”
Prokopenko chortled.
“Lucky for you, Mr. Gansey,” Kavinsky continued, in what was probably supposed to be a posh accent, “I know what your dog wants.”
Prokopenko chortled again. It was the sort of chortle that meant he would be vomiting soon. Gansey seemed to understand this, as he edged a foot back from him.
Ordinarily, Gansey would have done more than edge away. Having achieved all they’d needed to, he would have told Ronan it was time to go. He would have been frostily polite to Kavinsky. And then he would have been gone.
But this was not Gansey as usual.
This was Gansey with a lofty tilt to his chin, a condescending quirk to his mouth. A Gansey that was aware that no matter what went down here tonight, he would still go back to Monmouth Manufacturing and rule his particular corner of the world. This was a Gansey, Ronan realized, that Adam would hate.
Gansey said, “And what is it my dog needs?”
Ronan’s lips curled into a smile.
Fuck the past. This was the present.
Kavinsky said, “Pyrotechnics. Boom!” He pounded the roof of his crumpled car. Amiably, he told the girl in the passenger seat, “Get out, bitch. Unless you wanna die. It’s all the same to me.”
It dawned on Ronan that Kavinsky meant to blow up the Mitsubishi.
In the state of Virginia, fireworks that exploded or emitted flame higher than twelve feet were illegal, unless you had a special permit. It wasn’t a fact most residents of Henrietta had to remember, however, because it was impossible to find fireworks that did anything even slightly remarkable, much less illegal, within state borders. If you wanted something a bit more impressive for the holiday weekend, you headed for the city’s fireworks display. If you were like some of the rowdier Aglionby boys or better-off rednecks of Henrietta, you drove over the state line and filled your trunk with illegal Pennsylvanian fireworks. If you were Kavinsky, you built your own.
“That dent will come out,” Ronan said, equal parts exhilarated and horrified to think of the Mitsubishi perishing. So many times just the first glimpse of its taillights on the road ahead of him had been enough to pump an urgent spasm of adrenaline through him.
“I’ll always know it was there,” Kavinsky replied carelessly. “Cherry, popped. Prokopenko, make me a cocktail, man.”
Prokopenko was happy to oblige.
“Take the edge off,” Kavinsky said. He turned to Gansey, a bottle in hand. It sloshed with liquid; a T-shirt had been wound and stuffed through the mouth of it. It was on fire. It was, in fact, a Molotov cocktail.
To Ronan’s surprise and delight, Gansey accepted it.
He was a striking version of himself, a dangerous version of himself, standing there before Kavinsky’s despoiled Mitsubishi with a homemade bomb in hand. Ronan remembered the dream of Adam and the mask: the more toothful version of Adam.