An Evil Mind

Mom’s grip tightens. “You’ve been so strong for me, for so long. Thank you.”

I feel a familiar prickle in my eye and promptly deny it exit. Mom holds me at arm’s length, looking me up and down as she strokes my cheek.

“And now, it’s time for you to be strong for yourself. Not me. Not anyone. No one else but you.”

I laugh, but it’s watery. “I’m not – I’m not so good at that.”

She smiles, eyes like gray mirrors full of love. “Then it’s time to learn.”

In the very back of my closet, I find the pink blouse Kelly sent me. But it's more than that, now. It's the pink blouse Jack said I was - I was - I can't even bring myself to say it, and how lame is that, that I can't even say a word? Mouths are meant for saying words and I have one, and I know words, but this one is hard. This one means something so it's hard.

In this pink blouse, someone called me beautiful for the first time. Someone I respected. Respect. Someone I loved.

Love.

Love?

I shake my head and jam the blouse into the farthest reaches of my suitcase. You never know when you'll need a new curtain. Or a toilet rag.

Mom helps me load stuff in the car. I’ve got my trusty blue suitcase and my beat-up backpack from high school. High school. Hi, school. Bye, school. I shiver a little as I realize I'm not in it anymore. I'm officially out. Half of me wants to drink nineteen redbulls and dance the motherf*cking hokey pokey nonstop for twenty four hours, and the other part of me wants to crawl back into school, wrap it around me like a security blanket and never come back out. I settle for rolling on the lawn and moaning with dread like a grubby caterpillar refusing to get out of his cocoon.

Kayla pulls into our driveway just as Mom loads the last bag. I jump up from the lawn and rush over. She’s right on time for our dinner date. Our last, and final, farewell dinner date. She gets out of the car in a blindingly beautiful white dress and sandals, her dark hair combed out to chocolate sheet-like perfection. She greets my mom with the graciousness of seven French queens, and drags me into her car with the strength of seven Viking warriors. When we’re on the road, she huffs.

“Is the stuff in the trunk really all you’re bringing? Romani gypsies travel with more stuff than you!”

“Ah,” I raise a sage finger. “But Romani gypsies don’t have an entire suitcase pocket devoted to Haribo gummy bears.”

Kayla rolls her eyes. "You're so nuts."

"I prefer gummies to nuts."

"Oh do you?" Kayla arches her brow in that terribly cheesy double entendre way and I suppress the urge to pluck it off her face. Her face is a work of art, cheesy eyebrow or no. I don't ruin art. Except when I do. And then I get yelled at.

"Anyway," I say. "This is the last time we'll see each other until Christmas Break, so we better go to a gay bar or something equally entertaining yet memorable."

Kayla grins, and merges onto the highway. "I know just the place."

I recognize the street before I do the restaurant. The Red Fern looms before us. The same place I arranged Jack and Kayla's first date. The one I stalked them at. But Kayla doesn't know that, of course. She picks a booth by the window and we settle in, her ordering ice tea and me a root beer.

"If we were in Europe, we'd be able to order wine," Kayla sighs dreamily. "God, they have it so good there."

I frown, remembering the ticket Jack left me. It leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

"Oh yeah. Everybody loves the black plague."

"That was centuries ago, Isis. No one has the black plague anymore."

"The emos of the world beg to differ."

Kayla rolls her eyes and orders spring rolls for us to split. I look around nervously at the decor. The same colorful birds of paradise linger in the vases, and the crystal light fixtures look like seaweed suspended in ice.

"I've never been here," I say. "It's nice."

"Oh, dont lie."

A cold jolt runs down my spine and into my butt. It is mildly unpleasent. "What?"

Kayla sips tea. "Jack told me you stalked us on our date."

"That was only because he was, objectively, a nasty-faced pus-butt bug-eater, and I had to -"

"I know you paid him to take me out." She interrupts. I gape like a particularily mute fish. "It's fine. I'm over it. That seems like so long ago."

"You -" I swallow. "You aren't super pissed?"

"Why would I be? It was one of the best nights of my life."

"When did he -"

"The night we broke up. The morning after Avery's party, when she -"

When she locked Wren and a drugged Kayla in a room. I don't say that, though, and it really doesn't need to be said. Kayla shakes her hair out.

"It was when you and Wren went to kick Avery's ass. Jack and I talked about a lot of things. That was one of them. He came clean."

"I never did. Shit, I never did," I say instantly. "And I'm really sorry -"

"Don't be, idiot." She kicks me under the table. "It's over and it was a long time ago, and anyway I'd forgive you for anything. Short of killing my brother. And maybe I'd even forgive you for that, depending on how much he'd spit up on me that week."

Our spring rolls arrive, and I drown my gratitude in sprouts and poser meat made out of innocent bean curds. Kayla talks about Massachusetts, and all the places she's going to visit with Wren. The East Coast will suit her - she's gorgeous and tan and tall and a big city is all but required, so that the maximum amount of peons will be able to bask in her splendor as she blooms into the most beautiful woman in the world, and eventually, the Queen of Westeros.

"I don't even like Game of Thrones," she offers. "Everyone is too white."

The books have less white people, and she would know this if she read more often.

"I've been reading War and Peace."

Correction: she'd know this if she read better, not-dumb books more often.

"Oh my god you're a snob. I'm best friends with a book snob."

I flip my hair and order stir-fried rice. Kayla orders coconut curry. Somewhere outside a man yells "F*ck" and another man yells "STOP" but we never see them. It is all very dramatic. Kayla picks at her nails, a somber look replacing her faint exasperated joy.

"I'm going to miss you, snob."

I reach across the table and put my hand over hers.

"I'll always be with you," I say. She smiles, and I continue. "As a pair of disembodied eyes. Watching your buttocks with great admiration slash envy slash protective maternal instinct."

"Ew."

"Wren won't know what hit him when I materialize out of thin air on your first get-it-on night and sock him in the mouth."

Kayla glares.

"Softly. Sock him in the mouth softly," I correct. "With my pinky."

Our food arrives and we eat like starved hyenas, which is an improvement, because on the ladder of voracious eaters teenage girls are just below great white sharks and above starved hyenas, which means we are actually behaving ourselves. The waitress doesn't seem to think so, and wrinkles her nose when she takes away our dishes, the rings of food left behind like halos of glory. And indigestion. I duck into the bathroom for a second to wash my face free of peanut sauce. And it's then the memories come flooding back with a particularly heinous venegeance. Jack leaned against that counter. Jack touched that sink. Jack touched my face for the first time while he stood where the counter and the wall met. Jack's in every tile of this bathroom, and I can't escape it.