“Of course.”
I actually have no idea what CEOs read, but there’s something sophisticated about the bold red font on the cover, and besides, all the people I want to emulate are in here: inventors talking about research and patents, or investors with their bulging portfolios, making predictions and hedging their bets. It’s exciting. TIME is the only magazine that doesn’t pretend we’re normal creatures; it picks people apart, revels in their differences. I’m sure other magazines are great if you want to read skewed think pieces that turn the human mind into a decoder ring. I’d just rather read about people who embrace their strange natures, exploiting them for real change. Cosmo has its uses, but nobody ever changed the world with a lipstick.
“Look.” I give Mum’s sleeve a tug, and jab at the image on page seventeen. “This guy—Aeron Lore. He’s like, twenty-six, and he’s a CEO.”
She stiffens. Prods at her left canine with the tip of her tongue. “How lovely for him.”
“I bet he works bloody hard. People don’t give a crap, they don’t get it.” I trace across the headline, then the sad, broad figure hunched in a suit. His eyes are narrow, little valleys amid a landscape of grief and cold determination. “Somebody tried to frame him for the murder of his own mother, see? That’s messed up. That’s what happens when you’re young and successful—everyone just wants to rip shreds off you.”
It’s also what happens when you’re a girl who cares more about grades than prom dates, and more about how a camera works than how to curl your hair. Apparently, if you’re pretty, you should make the most of it, and apparently, this involves trussing yourself up like a Z-list celebrity just to go to school.
Mum fiddles with a broken cuticle. Her nails are usually so neat. Not blotted with…wet red.
“Mum?” I startle at the sudden drip of crimson from her nose, and immediately bend to find the pack of tissues in my tote. “You’re bleeding.”
She blinks. Appears not to hear me. A scarlet branch takes root at her wrist and oozes into her palm, like she’s wearing fear on the outside.
“Mum!”
“Oh? What?” She comes back into herself, turning to me. “Leo?”
I pass her a tissue. “You’ve got blood on your hands.”
All the colour drains from her face. She is white as the tissue.
“Your nose,” I say quickly. “It’s bleeding all over the place. Look.” I jab at her palm with my index finger.
“Oh,” she murmurs, fussing about as she cleans herself up. “From my nose. Of course.”
Cool prickles stalk along my spine, tugging fine hairs rigid against the fabric of my t-shirt. My stomach lurches. Last term—I mean, last semester—we studied Macbeth. You remember that scene with Lady Macbeth? Out, damned spot.
It’s all I can think about.
Blood. Money. Scrunched in our palms, sticky in our brains, leaving nothing to catch us if we fall.
***
Two Weeks Later
A low breeze pulls across the back yard, tugging at the white blossom petals littered across the stones. I have to smack my hands down over the video camera parts just to stop them from flying over the fence—the green VCR board nearly skitters off the sun lounger. I’d take it apart in the house, but then Mum would see and she gets all agitated, thinks it’s weird.
She’s agitated all the time, these days. Like her clothes are made of sandpaper and it hurts to move too fast.