Vicious Little Darlings (23 page)

33

I
t's days before finals and Maddy and I are alone in the library basement, fortifying ourselves with coffee, Cheetos, and Snickers bars. I've learned that junk food doesn't taste very good when you're eating it as a meal. I'd take Agnes's cooking over this crap any day, but that's no longer an option. Agnes spends all of her time in the basement now, purposely avoiding me. Whenever she sees me—on the way to the kitchen or bathroom—she turns and goes the other way without saying a word. I'm like a ghost in her house. I feel like I shouldn't be living there anymore. Why does she hate me so much? Is it my fault that Maddy likes me better?

The stress of the situation is making studying impossible. Who can think about finals when your life is falling apart? I'm so tired all the time that I have to keep eating just to stay awake. The weird thing is, despite all the junk I've been consuming, I haven't gained a single pound. And now I have insomnia because I'm so afraid Agnes will strangle me in the middle of the night.
Freeloader, loser, liar, whore.
Her hatred for me is palpable. The only thing keeping me going is the thought of spending winter break in California, far away from Agnes.

I have three finals to take, a paper on van Gogh to write, and a whole semester's worth of information to cram into my head. The only class I can count on passing is drawing, and that's only because Professor Connelly happens to like the way I draw.

“Yoo-hoo, earth to Sarah.” Maddy waves her hand in front of my face. “Where are you?” She sets her bag of chips on the table and methodically licks the salt off her fingers. “We need to start brainstorming.”

“I know. I just can't seem to concentrate.”

Maddy looks puzzled. “I don't mean finals.” Her eyes grow large and round as she whispers, “I mean Agnes.” The excitement in her voice is unsettling. “You know. Our
plan
.”

“You're not serious,” I tell her, shrinking away.

“I am,” she says calmly. Too calmly.

“I thought things between you and Agnes were okay now. You guys have dinner together every night.”

“That's so she won't get suspicious. It hasn't changed anything. I still hate her.”

Flustered, I say, “I can't talk about this right now. We have finals.”

“Fine. I don't want to talk about it here, anyway. We'll talk later. I just didn't want you to think that I forgot, or that I changed my mind. Because I
am
serious. We can't let her get away with what she did to me, Sarah.”

I stare at her for a moment and we don't say another word.

Later, we head back up to our carrels, but I can't concentrate. Once someone brings up murder, it's virtually impossible to think about anything else. Memorizing a bunch of econ graphs suddenly feels obscene.

Maddy reaches into my carrel for a pen. I'm dizzy, feverish. I feel her hot, caffeinated breath on my arm and I shudder. I have the impulse to run. I just want to be far, far away from her.

Calmly, I close my econ book. “I think I'm going to head home and take a nap,” I say casually. “I'll come back afterward.”

“I'll go with you.”

“No. Stay. Study.”

“I was starting to feel claustrophobic anyway. I could use a nap too.”

Wonderful.

Maddy packs up her books and we exit the library. The sky is the color of rot, the moon a smirking crescent. The cold air gnaws on my face until my cheeks turn numb, and then my hands begin to shake. Maddy wraps her Burberry scarf around me. Is she a victim or a monster? Either way, she's terrifying. Her moods, her ideas, her hold over me. Why can't I say no to her? Even the way she likes me—so wholly, so devotedly—is frightening. And addictive. I walk faster.

“Slow down,” Maddy says. “I want to talk. We have to be smart about this so we don't get caught.”

I stop and turn toward her. “We'd definitely get caught, Maddy. And you wouldn't like prison.”

“We just have to be careful. We have to make it look like an accident. Or a suicide.”

“A suicide?” I say, meeting her eyes.

She nods. “I just haven't figured out how to do it yet. We have to be quick and we can't leave a mess. Maybe we could hang her?”

She's serious. She's actually serious. I feel sick to my stomach, but all I manage to say is, “That's morbid.”

“Well, we're all gonna die someday,” Maddy says, missing the point.

“I don't want to be a murderer.
We're
not murderers. Agnes isn't worth a life in prison. There has to be another way. We could move out, get an apartment together, stop being friends with her …”

“You maybe. But not me. She'll stalk me till the day I die. She told me she'd kill herself if I ever left her.”

Agnes threatening suicide? I don't believe it. She's too proud. “Well, even better,” I say. “Move out and you won't have to do a thing. Let her commit suicide.”

Maddy turns to me and places her hands on my shoulders. “I shouldn't have dragged you into this, Sarah. It's my problem, not yours.” Maddy removes her hands from my shoulders and lowers her eyes. “What she did to me was horrible, but who knows, maybe I deserved it.”

“You didn't deserve it. How can you say that? What she did was completely wrong.”

“No. Agnes was right. I'm a tease. I led her on.”

I grab Maddy's arm. “It wasn't your fault.”

She looks at me with vulnerable eyes.

“What are you going to do?” I ask her.

“I don't know. There's a part of me that still cares for her—that will always care for her—but I just can't be her friend anymore. She violated me. She's become a different person since we all moved in together. She even told me she was planning to give you a bill for all the money you owe her. The old Agnes never would've done that. I tried to talk her out of it, but she wouldn't listen to me.”

“A bill?”

“Yeah. For your share of the rent, utilities, food, trips, gas …”

“
Gas?
”

“She says you owe her close to ten thousand dollars.”

My heart contracts. “That's outrageous!”

“Plus interest.”

“There's no way—why is she doing this?”

“Because she's jealous. She's going to do whatever it takes to get rid of you. She said that if you didn't pay her back, she'd call your grandmother and ask her for the money. She's heartless. That's why I have to do something.”

I try to imagine Agnes calling Nana and demanding ten thousand dollars. What would Nana do? Refuse to pay? Disown me? Agnes is a beast. She's really trying to destroy me. All because I'm best friends with Maddy. It's psychotic.

“I'll find a way to pay Agnes back,” I say. “I'll get a job over winter break and I'll pay her back in installments. I'll sell my eggs if I have to.”

“You don't owe her ten thousand dollars, Sarah. And even if you paid her back, she'd find some other way to harass you.” Maddy frowns. “Money just happens to be your weak spot. She knows that. And she knows that most of my money's tied up in a trust until my twenty-first birthday, so I can't really help you.”

Hmm … is that why Maddy lets Agnes pay for everything? But what about all of Maddy's designer clothes? Did Agnes buy those too?

“I have to run every expense by my aunt and uncle,” Maddy adds. “They can't stop me from buying clothes, but they would never give me ten thousand dollars in cash. I hate them, and I hate Agnes. She's out to get you, Sarah.”

We don't speak for several moments. It must be nice to be rich, I think. Agnes not only has the means to destroy me, but she also has the daring that comes with privilege. She's pushed me into a corner. She raped Maddy and now she's terrorizing me. I might not have any worldly power, but I do have the right to fight back. Rage warms my blood. I feel my pulse begin to race. And then, a strange sense of calm comes over me. I hear myself say to Maddy, “What if we gave her a Valium and drowned her in the bathtub?”

“
We?
But I thought you—”

“You're my best friend. And if you think getting rid of Agnes is what we have to do, then I'm with you. That's what best friends are for, right?”

Maddy's face brightens.

“So, what do you think?”

“You know Agnes. She won't take anything even when she has a headache. We'd be lucky to get her to take a baby aspirin.”

“We could get her drunk first,” I suggest.

“Except she doesn't really drink. No one can make Agnes do anything she doesn't want to do.”

“
You
can. What if you pressured her? Say we have a little party at home to celebrate the end of finals.”

“Or my birthday.”

“Right.”

“No, we'd have to do it before my birthday. We could do it the night before, right after finals.” She rubs her chin. “But I want a sure thing. Maybe we should just hang her.”

“Hanging someone … Maddy, that's hard-core. And we'd still have to drug her first. I mean, she's not just going to stand there and let us tie a noose around her neck.” A flash of inspiration hits me. “Here's what we'll do. We'll get her drunk on champagne—it'd be easy with her low tolerance—then drown her in the bathtub.”

“You think that would work?”

“Sure. People drown in their bathtubs all the time.”
God, did I really just say that?
Are these really
my
thoughts? How can I be so calm? It's as if I have no control over myself, but I feel fine.

Maddy nods. “And we could leave a suicide note too.”

I think of Agnes's meticulous cursive script. “You know how to forge Agnes's handwriting?”

“No, but I could type something up on her typewriter.”

“I think it'd be better if we made it look like an accident instead of a suicide. Like she got drunk and drowned in the tub.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Maddy. “I like that.”

We stop talking when a gaggle of girls catches up to us. We wait for them to pass. The feeling of calm stays with me, and I feel connected to Maddy in a way I never have before.

When the girls turn the corner, Maddy says, “The night before my birthday is also the night before Paris. Perfect. Campus will be empty by then. And the next day, you and I will leave for Paris. Together.”

“But won't that look suspicious? Leaving the country right after Agnes's ‘accidental' death?”

“No, because we already had these plans. We could say we were so upset that we had to get out of town.”

“I don't know,” I say. “Maybe we should just forget about Paris. Besides, Agnes only booked two tickets—one for you and one for her.”

“I'll book you a ticket tonight. With Agnes's credit card. We can't cancel Paris. I was so looking forward to it,” Maddy says giddily. “I can't wait to go shopping!”

Suddenly I feel the craziness, the stupidity, the impossibility of our plan. I feel my nerve and confidence drain away. What was I thinking, entertaining the idea of murder? This isn't a game. Killing is serious business. And it's evil. I'm not evil. Am I?

We start walking again and I don't say another word until we arrive at our street. The house is dark and ominous in the distance—unusual, since it's typically an inferno of light when Agnes is home.

“Do you think she went out?” I ask.

“I have no idea.” Maddy pulls me aside. “Sarah, listen.” Her face darkens slightly. “I know this isn't going to be easy. There's a lot to think about—a lot of details—but we can do this. We've got each other, and that's all we need.”

Here's my chance to stop her, to kill this crazy plan before it takes on a life of its own.

But instead, I stand silent.

She unlocks the front door, and I flip on the lights. On the dining table is a plate of sugar cookies and a note that reads:

M & S,

Had a toothache, so went to bed early.

Casserole in fridge if you're hungry.

See you in the
AM.

A

Maddy takes a cookie and devours it.

I'm in bed, twisting, turning. The sky shimmers like a cockroach through my window.

I want to believe that Agnes is malevolent. I want to believe this is why we're going to kill her. But I'm still not convinced. Yes, her plan to kick me out of the house and to force me to pay ten thousand dollars is truly low. And the way she smothers Maddy is downright revolting. But did she actually
rape
Maddy? And even if she did, does this mean Agnes deserves to die? Are we really going to do this? Somehow it still feels like make-believe.

Maybe the world would be a better place without Agnes, but maybe it wouldn't. Maybe Agnes doesn't matter enough either way. Perhaps none of us matter—in which case, killing Agnes would be forgivable, like killing an ant or a cow. Besides, if there is no God, who's going to be there to punish us in the afterlife? Am I defective to be thinking this way? Like those serial killers who have damaged frontal lobes and can't feel empathy?

Or am I just vicious?

34

W
hat if she struggles?” Maddy asks me the next morning while I'm still in bed.

I groan. “Jesus, Maddy. It's eight o'clock.”

“Well, we have to talk about it. Time's running out.” She stares up at the ceiling. “Remind me to buy the champagne. I wish I had a fake ID. Agnes does, but I can't pass for her and neither can you. I'll have to get some stranger to buy it for us.” Maddy starts pacing. “But what if she doesn't drown so easily? Do you think she'll struggle while we're holding her down?”

I look at her in disbelief.

“I know she'll be drunk, but still.”

A wave of nausea hits me. The image of the two of us getting Agnes into the tub and then holding her underwater while she kicks and quivers is just too horrific. What was I thinking, agreeing to this?

I block the image out of my mind, and my nausea goes away.

“So we get her drunk,” Maddy persists, “but what if she doesn't want to take a bath? How will we get her in the tub?”

“You could offer to take a bath with her,” I hear myself suggest. “Just the two of you. She wouldn't say no to that, and it would make our job so much easier.”

Maddy frowns. “But it would be like reliving that night.”

“I know, but you have to admit—it's pretty foolproof.”

“I don't know if I could go through with it. I don't want to take a bath with her,” she says, wrinkling her face in disgust.

“You wouldn't have to. You could make her get in first and then take your time, lighting candles and pouring her more champagne.”

“And then you'll come in and hold her head under the water?”

I gasp. “No. You'd want to wait until she got really drunk. Then you could give her a little push.”

“I don't think I could do it alone, Sarah. I'd be too scared. You have to be in there with me. I'll come get you when she falls asleep, and we'll push her together, okay?”

My nausea returns. “We shouldn't be discussing this in the house,” I say.

“She's not here. She went to the dentist.” Maddy studies her cuticles for a moment. “Get dressed. I'll make some coffee.”

The mere mention of coffee makes me think of Agnes sitting in the kitchen with her cup of Italian Roast and
The New York Times
. There won't be many more of those mornings. Overwhelmed, I run to the bathroom, slam the door behind me, and throw up.

“Are you okay?” Maddy asks through the door.

“I'm fine.” I wipe my mouth. “Just give me a minute.”

“Are we still going to the library?”

“Later,” I say. When I hear her move away from the door, I get up off the floor. I splash cold water on my face and then study my reflection in the mirror. I'm unrecognizable! My skin is shadowy and gray, my eyes dead. Agnes was right: I
am
ugly. Inside and out.

There's still time
, I tell myself. I could put an end to this madness.

But then a voice inside me says,
You can't stop now. Maddy needs you.

We talk about our plan in between cram sessions at the library, though it still doesn't feel real to me. Maybe it isn't real. Maybe Maddy is delusional, hanging by a thread, and I'm simply indulging her insanity.

I still feel exhausted all the time, like I'm on the verge of collapse. Yesterday I forced myself to go to the infirmary, where they poked and prodded but couldn't find anything wrong with me. Yet I know something's wrong. I'm just waiting for it to reveal itself.

Two finals down, one more to go. I don't think I did so well on the first two, but the last one is the one I'm really worried about. Microeconomics is a motherfucker. Right now I'm trying to memorize the whole textbook as well as Betsey's cryptic notes, despite the fact that I'm not grasping any of the concepts.

I look over at Maddy, who's asleep in her carrel, head resting on a ball of pink pashmina, oblivious to the stress that surrounds her. She still has to take her sociology final, but she quit studying once she learned about this rule we have at Wetherly: if your roommate dies during the academic year, you automatically get straight As. I told Maddy not to count on it, but she just looked at me and yawned.

Back at the house, Agnes is busy packing for Paris. Edith Piaf trills in the background.

“
Bonsoir
,” Agnes says when we enter the house. She smiles warmly. This is the first time I've seen her in over a week. The moment should be awkward, but it's not because she's in such a good mood. She even seems happy to see me. She probably aced her exams.

I notice the homemade éclairs and chocolate croissants cooling on the counter.

“Help yourself,” Agnes says to me. “You look kind of sickly, Sarah. Have you been eating?”

“Yeah,” I mumble.

“It's just stress,” explains Maddy.

This is the first time Maddy has acknowledged my sickliness. I thought she couldn't tell because she sees me every day, but no. It must be evident to everyone. I look and feel like a zombie.

What is happening to me?