Chapter Four
Val kept her eyes peeled in Art to see if Gavin really was in her class as he'd claimed.
It took her longer than she would have guessed to locate him. For such a tall boy, he camouflaged himself with remarkable ease. A black t-shirt and dark jeans rendered him nearly invisible in a school where 90% of the population wore that color as a fashion statement.
Locate him she did, though, and she took advantage of his distraction with his charcoals to study him raptly. He was sitting in the back, which didn't surprise her at all. He was a total mess, which did. At Petville, he struck her as rather fastidious (despite his obvious indifference to blood), but now his hands were smeared gray with the charcoals he was using to sketch. As she watched he adjusted his glasses, leaving smudges of charcoal on his face, as well.
Val found herself with the wild urge to giggle and looked down at her own work in progress before said laugh could manifest itself. Stupid. If he didn't think she was an idiot already, obnoxious laughter and snorts were a surefire way to swing him in that direction.
He probably thought her an utter child.
Her expression sobered as she studied what little advancement she had made on her drawing. She had decided to sketch the kittens from the pet store — and then, later, paint them — but she was having trouble getting their expressions just right. Their eyes looked too human.
Serious now, she tilted her head this way and that to study the painting from new angles. I suppose I could say it's intentional. That it's — what's the word? — anthropomorphic.
But she would know, and the minor flaw would bother her until she got it right.
A cold, wet sensation tickled her skin as she shifted her position. The paintbrush was still in her bunched fingers, forgotten until now. She'd been resting her cheek against paint for God knew how long. Val stood up, holding her hands gingerly in front of her, and rinsed herself off in the trough-like sink built into the far wall nearest to the door.
The orange color dripped from her palms and spiraled down the drain, reminding her disconcertingly of blood. Specifically, from the iconic shower scene in Psycho. She shook her hands over the basin and tore off a paper towel from the nearby roll. She turned and came close to crashing right into James Lewis.
“Sup?” he said. “You've got paint on your nose.”
“Great.” She mopped at her face with the damp paper towel. “Did I get it off?”
“Yeah, you're fine now. Oh, by the way — I got your Facebook message.”
Val poked a hole through the paper towel. “Did you?”
“Uh-huh. Sorry. I didn't get a chance to respond until this morning and then I had to hightail it to class. I've been busy. Football, you know.”
Where Gavin was dark, James was fair. He had auburn hair, about two shades darker and browner than hers and tinged with wires of gold highlights. His eyes were a charming sea foam green and he had a crooked smile that could break a heart.
He was smiling that smile now. The “aww shucks” edition of it, which had gotten him out of trouble successfully, and on more than one occasion too. It might have even worked on Val if that wasn't such a blatant lie. Val was torn between amusement and annoyance. Lies usually went right over her head, blatant or no. She didn't often get the opportunity to call people out on their BS.
But pointing out James's lie wouldn't do her any good. It would only make her look like a desperate stalker, creeping his profile to see if he was online. Make that an extremely possessive stalker. Lisa had told her many times that boys didn't like possessive girls — which was stupid, considering how possessive boys acted.
Val remembered her own stalker, and her stomach tied up in knots of dread. “It's okay,” she muttered.
But it wasn't, not really.
James's smile brightened. “Good. I'm glad. Because, you know, I felt pretty bad about that.”
I bet you did.
“I'm still down for a movie, though, if you and Lisa are.”
Val said nothing, so he pressed on.
“What movie were you guys thinking about? There's a cool action one — ”
There was that word “cool” again. What had possessed Lisa to think that this was going to work? James didn't even see her. She could tell. Not as a girl, anyway. Boys didn't look at girls they liked like that.
He obviously doesn't care about anyone but himself ….
“ — great rating on Rotten Tomatoes — ”
A clatter in the back gave her a polite excuse to divert her attention from James's rambling monologue. Gavin was missing from his seat, and his tablemate was staring at the floor. Val's brow furrowed. She could see his hair peeking over the desktop. What could he possibly be doing?
“ — not a big fan of chick-flicks, but I'd be willing to see — ”
He must have dropped something, she decided.
“ — good dramatic comedy — ”
Oh, he's coming over here!
“ — and some horror, if you're into that — ” Even James, self-absorbed though he was, noticed his audience's reactions weren't on par with his standards of what constituted raptness. He glanced over to see what had held her attention, and his lip curled. Something Val registered with annoyance.
Ignoring the two of them with a nonchalance that surely had to have been practiced in front of a mirror, Gavin threw away his broken charcoal pencil, now snapped into two distinct pieces. He washed the black from his hands, and his face, and then reached past her to get a paper towel, accidentally brushing her side. She looked up at him and thought she saw him wink.
“So anyway, do any of those sound good to you? Lisa says she doesn't care.”
Val wadded up her own piece of paper towel, which she had been twisting and knotting in her hands this entire time, and lobbed it into the bin. “I'm not sure.”
“Playing hard to get?”
“No. Actually busy. I'm on the track team, you know,” she added, unconsciously mocking his earlier tone. At his blank look, she added, “You do know I'm on the track team, right?”
“Uh, yeah. I think I've seen you in uniform before. You wear it on game days, right?
Wearing a sports bra and spandex shorts to school? Game days? For heaven's sake. “No, I don't wear it to school. And we don't have game days. I'm not a cheerleader.” Val was tired of feeding him hints. “I'm wearing it in my profile picture. On Facebook.”
Which you would know if you had actually looked at my profile, you liar.
James had the grace to flush. “Ah.”
Val eyed him. “You didn't even read my message, did you?”
“I read the email notification on my phone. Same thing.”
No, it isn't. She sighed. “I don't think this is going to work.”
“Hey,” he said, a touch defensively. “There's no need to get all uptight. So track's not my thing.”
“This isn't about track.” A hot spike of annoyance bored through her, that he could be so stupid. It made her bold. Bold enough to say, “I don't think you understand what I meant. Lisa — our Lisa — was trying to set us up.”
The genuine surprise on his face hurt more than if he'd insulted her, point-blank. “What, like on a date?”
“Yes. Like a date.”
“Jesus.”
“It's not important.”
James shook his head. “I didn't think — ”
“Really. Don't even worry about it.” Feeling suddenly as if she might cry, Val started to walk past him and back towards her seat but James grabbed her arm.
“Hey, wait. I'm sorry.”
Val tugged away — but gently. “It doesn't matter.”
I don't care, anyway.
She did, though. That was the problem. She did.
Val raked her now-clean fingers through her hair, staring at the unfinished picture of the kittens. She reached for the thinnest of the paintbrushes to go to work on the detailed markings of their striped fur, and her wrist brushed against a balled-up paper set incongruously before the old tin can which held the brushes. What's this? She picked it up. I didn't leave this here.
She uncrumpled the paper, revealing black, penciled writing done in charcoal.
I think you're exquisite.
Val's heart skipped a beat. Exquisite? Me? She looked up and caught Gavin staring at her, his chin resting on the back of his hand as he regarded her through inscrutable, hooded eyes. She pointed to the note and he inclined his head, a small smile curving his lips.
(Maybe I'd like to — know you, that is.)
Val swallowed.
Oh, wow. She thought, I see.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
It was a strangely giddy mood Val found herself in as she walked through the crowded cafeteria to sit at her and her friends' usual table. Rachel and Lindsay were already there. Their Biology teacher was actually pretty cool and always let his class out a few minutes early if their lab stations were neat, which meant they were always first in line for the hot lunches.
Even though brown-bag lunches were so junior high, Mrs. Kimble still insisted upon packing Val's. As Val unpacked her fifth peanut butter and banana sandwich that week, she eyed her friends' grease-laden pizzas and thought the hot lunches might be worth the indigestion.
“Is that friend of yours joining today?” asked Rachel, mouth full. “Whassername?”
“Lisa?”
“I prefer Whassername.”
“She should be,” said Val. “Lisa doesn't have her phone, so I don't know. I can't text her.”
“Oh, no,” Rachel said, adopting an expression of mock-horror. “Princess lost her phone?”
“Lisa isn't that bad,” Val said automatically, wondering even as she said it whether it was true.
“Maybe.”
“No maybe,” Rachel said. “I'm never going to forget what she said to us.”
“What are you — oh, calling us a 'cute couple'?”
“What?” Val said, looking from one to the other, not quite sure if they were serious. “When did this happen? You never told me that Lisa thought you were — ”
“Lesbians?” Lindsay supplied, at the same time Rachel said, “Dykes?”
Lindsay glared at her. “Rachel, that's offensive!”
“We both know that's what Miss Thing was really thinking.”
“I'm sure Lisa didn't mean anything bad by it,” Val said uncomfortably.
“She asked me if I listened to Indigo Girls.”
“And she asked me if I played lacrosse.”
“You did play lacrosse,” Rachel pointed out.
“Yeah, but she didn't know that. She just assumed.”
Rachel nodded. “And she asked both of us if we had a Tegan and Sara thing going on.”
Oh dear god, thought Val, at the same time that a tray slammed noisily against the fake wood surface of the table. “How do you guys always get here so fast? That line is so gay, no offense.”
Lindsay's eyebrow arched so high it nearly disappeared into her hairline. Rachel looked like whether she couldn't decide whether to laugh her head off, or toss back an insult of her own. To Val's relief she settled for a snort of disdain and took a big bite out of her pizza.
Lisa eyed her for a moment, then turned to Val. “So James told me that you're mad at him?”
“I wouldn't say mad. More like annoyed.”
Val explained the situation that had transpired in the art room, making an effort to meet the eyes of all three girls in turn. “I guess it's all for the best,” she finished. “I mean, he looked surprised.”
“What a jerk,” said Lindsay. “He's so not even worth your time.”
Lisa gave her an evil look. “I'll speak to him, Val. I'm sure he didn't mean it that way.”
“I think he did. 'Do you wear your uniform to school on game days?' Come on. Anyway, I'd rather skip the whole he-said she-said deal. Too much gets lost in translation.”
“Amen,” said Rachel.
“Boys,” Lindsay agreed, nodding. “What doesn't get lost in translation?”
“Things with the letter X in front of them,” Rachel posited. “Like X-Box. And X-rated movies.”
“In that case, I'm sure they'd be thrilled if we did wear our uniforms to meet days.”
“And be ogled at like we're cheerleaders? No, thanks.” Lisa's evil stare got eviller. She was a cheerleader. As if just realizing this, Rachel's eyes widened and she looked at Lisa and said, innocently, “Oh. No offense.”
“What about that other guy, Val? The one you were telling us about earlier? The older one?”
“Yes, the one who called you exquisite.” Rachel batted her eyelashes.
“What older one?” Lisa demanded. “Why didn't I — ” she broke off, now focusing her evil stare on Val. “Oh, no. You didn't.”
“It's not like that,” Val stammered, withering under Lisa's glare.
“Ooh, you know Val's mystery man, Lisa?” Lindsay said, grinning.
“Who is it?” Rachel said. “I want the wheres, whens, and hows — but especially the wheres.”
“Don't tell them,” Val pleaded.
“Why not? If you won't listen to me, then maybe your best friends can tell you why Gavin Mecozzi is bad news.”
“Gavin who?”
“Oh shit,” Rachel said. “I think that's Hit List Guy.”
“No,” Lindsay said. “Him?”
“Who?” Val said.
“Your boyfriend, Val — known pretty much to everyone else in the school as Hit List Guy.”
“What's a hit list?”
“It's the grocery list school shooters write so they can remember who to cut down.”
“Charming,” Rachel said dryly.
Val blanched. “He actually made one?”
It was Lindsay who answered this time. “Not exactly. It's a long story, but basically it comes down to this paper he wrote for English last year. Juniors have to read this book called The Most Dangerous Game by Richard Connell.”
“It's a short story about this shipwrecked guy who ends up getting washed up on this island with a crazy old coot, who also happens to be an ex-hunter. And guess what? He's decided that regular game has lost its appeal — ”
“Game in the hunter sense, not the playing sense,” Lindsay added, for Val's benefit.
“Yeah,” Rachel said. “So he — Count Zoloft — ”
“Zaroff.”
“Zoloft, Zaroff, whatever. Count Zaroff decides that he's going to hunt humans from now on, since they're the only worthwhile challenge left for him.”
“Hit List Guy — I mean, Gavin, sorry — had some interesting things to say about that book.”
“Interesting as in scared-the-shit-out-of-people.”
“The teacher kept his project on display. She said it was because it was awesome and what an A-plus paper is supposed to look like, and blah, blah, blah, but everyone knew it was because the school wanted proof, in case he ever actually did something, that they weren't liable or whatever.”
“Something as in shoot-up-the-school,” Rachel said.
“What was the paper about?” Val asked.
“Basically, it was this really creepy essay about how each major clique of the school would survive, or not, if put in that kind of situation,” Lisa said, seizing the conversation, “band geeks, cheerleaders, scene kids, jocks — ”
“That's not a hit list, then,” Val said. “I mean, it's creepy but it's not like he was actually seriously considering — ”
“The cheerleaders would probably be the first to perish,” Lisa said, “Because, despite their natural athleticism, they have never known what it is like to truly need to run. That's a direct quote. His essay's on the wall of my classroom. I read part of it — and had to stop.”
“I've read parts of it, too,” Lindsay said, nodding. “He said the most likely to survive would be one of the shy, quiet kids that nobody suspects because his or her 'apparent weakness' would cause them to be underestimated, thereby increasing his or her chance to use one of their natural advantages.”
“What on earth renewed your interest in that psychopath?” Lisa wanted to know. “Because I thought we had already gone over this. Did he say something to you?”
“ — exquisite,” Rachel said in an undertone. Lindsay punched her in the arm.
Val wished she had something cold to put on her face. It was burning like a candle.
“Oh my God, Val,” Lisa groaned. “He is going to chew you up and spit you out.”
“Maybe not spit her out,” Rachel said, with a leer. “Not if he likes the taste of her.”
Lindsay punched her again, harder.
“Ow! Not with the lacrosse arm. That freaking hurt!”
Lisa glared at the two of them. “Val, whether you believe me or not, he will hurt you. I do not want to watch that happen.”
“Hey, maybe he's a really nice guy,” Rachel said, taking pity on Val's distraught expression. “I mean, Stephen King is apparently a doll and look at all the messed-up shit he writes.”
But Gavin isn't nice, Val thought in despair. He said so himself.
She felt as if she were right smack in the face of all public scrutiny — that's the girl who likes Hit List Guy — and it was like being trapped in a room without doors.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
When Mrs. Kimble asked, “How was school, Val?” she was a little alarmed when her normally chatty daughter responded with a grunt. “Did you have a bad day?”
“Meh,” said Val.
“Meh?”
“High school is dumb.” Val scrunched up her face. “Everyone is so — so shallow.”
“Oh, Val. You say that like it's such a novel observation. High school hasn't changed much since I was a girl, and I imagine that it's been pretty much the same since public schools first began.”
“It's still dumb.”
“Many things in the world are, and we can't do a thing about ninety-nine-percent of them.”
Val barred her arms over her chest. “I can't wait until college.”
“Well, I'm afraid you're going to have to,” her mother said dryly, “So I'd suggest making the best of the life you have now.”
(I think you're exquisite.)
Val hesitated. “There was one good thing that happened today, though.”
“Oh? What was that?”
“There's this boy at school, and I think — I really think he might like me.” Val frowned again. 'Like' somehow wasn't the right word. It was too simple. Too light.
Too innocent.
Mrs. Kimble shot her a sideways grin. “Oh, that's wonderful, Baby. Is he the one you told me about earlier? The one Lisa is playing matchmaker with?”
'Playing' matchmaker? Like it's a game of pretend? Val's frowned deepened into a scowl. “No. James is a jerk.”
“I see.”
Silence.
“So who is this new mystery man? Did Lisa introduce you to him?”
Val stomped her foot. “Mom! I can find boys without Lisa's help!”
“Don't stomp! And I didn't say you couldn't.” Her mother looked offended.
“You implied it.”
“Goodness, you're sensitive today.”
Val glared ahead at the car stuck in front of them. Traffic was always heinous after school. The car had a “my child is a Derringer Honor Student” bumper sticker. The driver, however, had added another part, rife with irony, which read, “And all I got was this stupid sticker.”
She bet that kid's parents didn't think they had the dating appeal of a slug.
“Oh, come on. Don't huff. Spill. I'm dying of curiosity.”
Val was tempted to torture her some more — she was still quite mad about her mother's assuming that she couldn't find boys on her own, mostly because it was starting to look as if it might be true — but she was too excited to keep quiet much longer, and her mother's enthusiasm was hard to resist in the wake of Lisa's cutting skepticism.
She managed to hold out for another block until blurting, “He's a senior.”
Her mother's expectant smile slipped. “Oh … dear. So he's eighteen. That's quite old.”
So are you. “That's only four years older. We go to the same high school!”
“And next year he will be in college whereas you, little missy, will still be a high school student.” She rolled her eyes at her daughter's expression. “Okay, I get it. We'll discuss that later. So he's a senior. Is that all you know about him?”
“He's in my art class.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“He works at Petville.”
Mrs. Kimble lifted an eyebrow.
“Mom!”
Mrs. Kimble demurred. “I didn't say anything.”
“You looked at me.”
“Oh, Val, for God's sake. I looked at you? How old are you?”
There was a silence.
“Well, Miss Huffy? What's this boy's name?”
Val didn't answer.
“Should we call him M&M, for Mystery Man?”
Oh god, the horror. “His name is Gavin. Gavin Mecozzi.”
“That sounds Italian.”
“Probably because it is.”
“I knew an Italian boy growing up,” her mother said thoughtfully. “He was a distant relation of a mafioso. He used to brag about that. It drove the girls crazy — that, and the fact that he looked like a young Eduardo Versategui. He also drove a Harley, as I recall, and wore a Ferragamo leather jacket.”
“Gavin is not in the mafia.”
“And what does Mr. Mecozzi do, then, in his copious free time?”
This Val could answer, to her relief. “He plays chess. He's a grandmaster.”
“Well! That's certainly impressive. Your uncle plays chess. Did I ever tell you that? He used to call it 'the intellectual sport.'” The minivan pulled into their driveway. Val hopped out, slinging her backpack over one shoulder. “Your father played, too, though Charles was never as good as Earl.”
“I remember. Dad tried to teach me when I was younger.”
“Did he? Oh, yes, I'd quite forgotten. That all seems so long ago.” As she fished in her purse for the keys, she said, casually, “What does Lisa think about this Gavin?”
“Lisa is dumb. Just like James.”
As soon as her mother got the door open, Val made an immediate beeline for her room. The first thing she did was change out of her school clothes and into some flannel pajama pants and a tank top. The second was to wash off her makeup, which was starting to feel stiff and itchy. The third was to go on her computer, where she planned to stay until she was called down for dinner or ended up tired enough to take a nap on her bed.
James had finally decided to send her a message. The header was entitled, simply, “sorry.” How original. Val deleted the message without reading it. She knew if she did read it, she would either feel sorry for him or get even more annoyed than she already was, and either one of those things had a high likelihood of making her act stupidly, herself.
Besides, he's probably only apologizing because Lisa made him.
Val had been Lisa's friend first, before Lisa really knew anyone else in the school, and she resented the fact that Lisa had gotten so tight with James lately. Especially since she was fairly sure that the two of them hung out together far more often than they bothered to include her.
Not that she wanted to hang out with such stupid people, but they could have at least offered.
She had another message, aside from James's. Val sat up a little straighter. It was from that weirdo in the Victorian outfit again.
What do you desire? And how far would you go to get it?
The time stamp was 4:21 AM.
The thought of a man lying awake in the middle of night thinking about her, and what she desired, made her feel sick — sick, and a little thrilled in an odd, frightening way.
Leave me alone, she wrote. Why do you keep bothering me?
The response was instantaneous.
Because you fascinate me.
What a freaky thing to say. I fascinate you?
Among other things.
Val hesitated. What other things?
A gentleman never tells.
Why are you doing this, then, you freak?
He didn't respond. Val heaved a sigh of relief as she began responding to other notifications from people she actually wanted to talk to. People who weren't freaks. She submitted a comment to one of her friends from track about the next meet, and when the screen refreshed there was another message notification waiting for her.
Because of how beautiful you are when you run — and how much it makes me want to chase you. The red flag flashed up again. You never answered my question, by the way.
His question? She scrolled back through the conversation, confused, until she hit upon the very first thing he'd sent her. What did she desire, and how far would she go to get it?
She hit the block button and turned away from her laptop.
Right now, her only desire was that her big, stupid life start making a little more sense.