Vicious Little Darlings (11 page)

I glance at Agnes's placid face. When it comes to Maddy, she's an expert at hiding her impatience.

Once she's finished reading, Maddy places her poem over the flame and lets it burn. “Okay,” she says, blowing out the candle and winking at me, “now let's go inside and get wasted.”

14

I
wake up to the smell of cinnamon sticks and wet fur. My head is throbbing. In the corner sits Hope's beige, faux-fur dog bed—large enough for a Saint Bernard—eerily empty. Why am I lying on the floor with a chenille blanket over me? I close my eyes and try to fall back to sleep, but then I remember: Hope's pale skull, the gloomy sky, the digging, the ugly brown mound.

We were drinking last night, Jack and Cokes followed by straight Jack. But we weren't drinking in here, even though Maddy wanted to. She wanted us to have a kind of wake for Hope, but I told her the idea was ridiculous—not to mention morbid—so we got drunk in the red room instead. Or maybe only I got drunk. I can't remember. I do remember single-handedly finishing the whiskey.

The alcohol made me feel good—so good that I let Maddy give me a makeover, something I never would've agreed to while sober. She plucked my eyebrows, applied pink shimmer to my lids, and covered my lips with a coat of dark red lipstick. We laughed and laughed and laughed. Then I must have passed out.

I get up, stumble toward the staircase, and stop to peek in the library: empty. Everything looks normal. I go upstairs.

Maddy's bed is made, with her forty stuffed animals on top of the pink comforter, all smiling at me. Her books on astrology, numerology, and palm reading sit in a neat stack on top of her nightstand.

I go next door and peek inside Agnes's spartan, colorless room. It's like a nun's chamber. The bed always looks untouched. The alarm clock on the nightstand reads 1:32
PM
. Shit. I missed all of my morning classes. I walk toward the window and look outside. Agnes's car is still in the driveway. Since Agnes usually drives to class (even though we're just three blocks from campus), I'm guessing that she and Maddy walked today. Why didn't they wake me?

I go back to the nightstand and, on impulse, open the top drawer, half-expecting to find a Bible. Instead, I find Agnes's handgun resting on top of a pair of black leather gloves. It's small, understated, compact, just like Agnes. While running my fingers over the pebbly grip, scenes from the night we hit Hope come back into focus. Quickly, I shut the drawer.

I go back into Maddy's room and sit down on her comforter. I stare at her stuffed animals—her “children,” as she calls them. Most were given to her by Sebastian, so naturally that would make him the father. That's how things work in Maddy's world, like a fairy tale. Every night, Maddy gives each of the stuffed animals a good-night kiss. One time I caught her whispering something in the purple elephant's ear, but I pretended not to notice. She's so immature. Even her room smells like cotton candy. And she's obsessed with all things Disney. Figurines of the Disney princesses sit atop her dresser. A Cinderella clock hangs from the wall. Sometimes I think she and Sebastian were made for each other. Both are like giant children, vacillating from selfish to sweet, from naive to wise, all in the blink of an eye.

I pick up one of the stuffed animals: a tiny, gray cashmere bear that fits easily in my palm. Its little face looks melancholic. Suddenly I'm overcome by a crazy impulse to take the bear. I don't know why, but I just have to have it. I know it's wrong and weird and compulsive, but I can't seem to stop myself. Besides, Maddy's got so many stuffed animals, I doubt she'll miss this one. I slip the bear into my pocket.

As I walk out of the room, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in Maddy's full-length mirror, and it stops me cold. I'm a
freak
. I've got red lipstick smeared all over my face and mascara rings around my eyes. I go closer to the mirror and shriek when I see what Maddy did to my eyebrows: they're gone! All that's left are two anorexic lines, shaped like semicircles, giving me that perpetually surprised look. Not only that, but one of my brows is a lot shorter than the other, the tail completely lopped off. I want to cry. How could Maddy do this to me? Why? On impulse I decide to burn all of her stuffed animals.

But first I have to get rid of this hangover.

I go down to the kitchen and make myself a large pot of coffee. I take four Advils and try to calm down.
They'll grow back
, I tell myself.
They're just eyebrows.
In the meantime, I'll pencil them in. People do that. Some people even like that skinny eyebrow look. Strippers, especially.

I dial Maddy's cell, but her mailbox is full. I hang up and dial Agnes's cell. It keeps ringing and ringing. I want to scream. How can you disappear after obliterating someone's eyebrows?

I look out the kitchen window. The grave. It's still there. Of course it is, and the small brown heap appears even more gruesome today. I take a deep breath and open the back door. I walk toward the grave, dragging my feet across the grass. This is it. This is what you get when you die.

I imagine myself buried next to Hope, trapped forever in the dank, cold mud, smothered by infinite darkness.
You shouldn't have left me. It's your fault I'm dead.
I feel like vomiting, but instead I fall on my knees and cry.

It's four o'clock and they're still not back. I'm sitting on my bed, waiting, waiting, waiting. I took a shower, tidied up Hope's room, drank my coffee, stole an eyebrow pencil from Maddy's makeup box (she owes me big-time for what she did), drew in some eyebrows (they don't look half-bad), and hid Maddy's little gray bear inside one of my boots, one of the few places where Agnes doesn't clean. And I feel better. The cry did me good. I didn't burn Maddy's stuffed animals, but I'm still pissed at her.

The phone rings sharply. It's them. I run downstairs and grab the kitchen receiver.

“Hello?”

“Sarah?”

Oh God, it's Sebastian.
“Maddy's not here,” I say. “What do you want?”

“Hey, is that the way to talk to someone who's just had his heart broken?”

“You're the one who wanted to see other people.”

“Is that what she told you? Listen, s
he
broke up with
me
.”

Is he lying? Or is Maddy? I don't have time for this.

“Why are you calling?” I ask him.

“I want to get back together with Maddy. I'm dying without her. I left her a ton of messages, but she hasn't called me back,” he whines.

I think of my eyebrows and say, “Consider yourself lucky.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I'll tell Maddy you called. I have to go.”

“Wait—”

I hang up, relieved that Sebastian is not the last guy I slept with. Of course, it'd be even better if I never slept with him in the first place, but it's too late now.

I tap my fingers on the kitchen counter, noticing Agnes's gardening shears sitting on top of the phone book. Suddenly I think,
Scissorhands.
Is this a sign from the universe? Am I supposed to call him or something? But I don't have his number. I don't even know his name.

But I do know where he lives.

I find Agnes's car key on the dining table, but hesitate to take it because I know how fussy she is about her things.
Oh, fuck it
. The universe wants me to see Scissorhands. So I leave a note:
Had to borrow car. Back soon.
I stick the note on the fridge under Maddy's Tinker Bell magnet and grab my jacket.

Only when I'm in the car do I realize that I don't exactly know how to get to Scissorhands's apartment. I remember that his place was close to the Hampshire campus, and I remember the willow trees and his yellow Victorian with green trim. Elm Street, I think. Or was it Pine Street? It was definitely some type of tree. I decide to start with Elm Street. I plug it into the GPS and back out of the driveway.

“In two hundred feet, turn right,” barks the GPS lady.

When I get to Elm Street, I realize that the neighborhood doesn't look at all like how I remembered it. There are several yellow Victorians with green trim; any of them could be his. I circle the block, feeling more and more deflated each time. Why did I come here? It was a dumb idea.

Finally, I decide to pull over. He
does
exist. I know he does. I look across the street, and there—like magic—is Scissorhands's Victorian. Fate has intervened! I park the car and walk toward the house, not sure what I'm going to say. After all, he might not be so happy to see me.

Hi, remember me? We had sex a while ago. I know I freaked out afterward, but that's only because you were so sweet to me, which made me feel like I was falling for you, which scared the hell out of me because my parents had a totally fucked-up relationship and I promised myself I would never fall in love. But then my pet fawn died and I was home alone and there were these garden shears sitting on top of a phone book and I started thinking about you and I was wondering … Do you want to go out sometime?

I stop walking. I can't do this. Why am I here? It's insane.
I'm
insane.

And yet I'm still here. There's obviously something I want, even if I don't know what it is. I roll my shoulders and continue walking toward the door. I knock gently and hold my breath. No answer. I press my ear against the door. Silence.

A second later, I hear bare feet against the wood floor and then the click of the lock. I panic; my heart's jammed up in my throat; I want to run.

But I don't.

The door opens. He's wearing a black T-shirt and black shorts, and he has a big smile on his face. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I almost didn't recognize you with your short hair.”

Butterflies. He's cute, cuter than I remembered. “Yeah,” I say, “I just had it cut.”

“It looks good on you.”

“Thanks. I'm still getting used to it.” I nervously touch the nape of my neck. “Is this a bad time?”

“No, not at all. I was just making pizza. You came at the right time. In five minutes, the dough will be ready.”

“You're making it from scratch?”

“Uh-huh, it's easy. Come in.” He grabs my sleeve and pulls me inside.

We go into the living room and sit down on the couch.

“I'm sorry for barging in on you,” I say.

“No. I'm glad you came.”

I look at him. “You are?”

He nods. “I went to your dorm, but they said you moved out. They wouldn't give me your address, so I started asking random people at the library about you, but apparently you're a mystery girl. Of course, I didn't have much to go on—beautiful girl, dark hair, calls herself Sarah, no last name.” He tilts his head toward me slightly. “Sarah's a popular name. If your name were Henrietta, I'm pretty sure I would've found you.”

“I should've given you my number. Or taken yours. I don't know why I didn't. I'm crazy.”

“Well, you're here now. That's all that matters.” He glances at his watch, then says, “Can I ask you something?”

I hold my breath. “Yeah.”

“Do you like pizza?”

I exhale, trying to hide my relief. “Who doesn't?”

“Great.” He jumps up. “Come with me.”

We go into the kitchen. He washes his hands and I wash mine.

“This is the fun part,” he says, sprinkling flour over the cutting board.

He places the dough on the board and, standing behind me, takes my hands in his and together we knead the dough. Doing this should feel cheesy, but for some reason it doesn't. It feels really nice. The squishy dough, his strong hands, the way he smells—like soap and peppermint. I think this is the most intimate thing I've ever done with a guy, and I actually like it. Maybe I'm not as damaged as I thought. Maybe all it took was the right guy.

“Have you ever done this before?” he asks.

“No.”

“I knew it. A virgin.”

“Very funny,” I say. “Hey. I'm really sorry I left in such a hurry last time.”

“It was my fault. I ruined things by moving too fast. We should've spent the night talking and getting to know each other. I scared you off.”

“I scared myself off.”

“Sounds like we're a couple of scaredy-cats.”

He kisses the back of my neck.

“But you're not a scaredy-cat,” I say. “You actually went to my dorm.”

“That's true. So … can I get a kiss for that?”

“Maybe.” I smile. “You have to tell me something first.”

“Anything.”

“What's your name?”

“Reed,” he says, laughing. “Reed Harrison.”

I turn around and we kiss. And he caresses my face with his floury hands and I think,
Thank you, universe.

A little after midnight, I pull into our driveway. The house is ablaze with light.

While I'm rummaging for my keys, Agnes opens the front door. “Where have you been?” she demands, hand on hip.

“Sorry. I lost track of time,” I say, sliding past her. With her sensitivity, though, she can probably sense that I was with a guy.

I hurry up the stairs and try to ignore Agnes's rapid footsteps behind me. I dash into the bathroom, noticing that Maddy's door is closed. I shut the bathroom door behind me and lock it.

A second later, I hear a knock.

“Yeah?” I say.

“I want to talk to you,” says Agnes.

“Not now.” I squirt a huge glob of toothpaste on my toothbrush.

“It's important.”

“Later.”

“Please?” Agnes almost never begs. I'm intrigued. “I got you a present,” she adds.

Now
this
is weird. I unlock the door.

She opens it and charges inside.

“Where were you today?” she asks.

“Where were
you
?”

“I took Maddy for a walk.”

“For three hours?”

“You can believe what you want, but it's the truth. Maddy was upset after last night, so I suggested a walk.”