Vicious Little Darlings (3 page)

Agnes lowers the volume and rolls her shoulders.

Maddy says, “Let's just go back to the house.”

“But you haven't had dinner and you have to eat, Maddy,” says Agnes, in a soft, nurturing voice, different from the one she was using earlier. This new voice sounds fake and it makes me dislike Agnes even more. You just can't trust people with multiple voices. Multiple voices are like multiple personalities: scary.

3

T
here it is,” Agnes says, as we approach a huge, silver, bullet-shaped structure, flickering in the distance like a UFO.

We're in the middle of nowhere and Agnes is whipping down the dark highway with the ease of a madwoman.

“What is it?” Maddy asks.

“A diner,” says Agnes. “I doubt the food will be any good, but seeing as how nothing else is open at this hour …”

It's a truck stop. Agnes squeezes the car in between two semis and we step out. My stomach is queasy from her insane driving, but Agnes looks invigorated: cheeks pink, pupils slightly dilated.

“Do you always drive that fast?” I ask her.

“Only when I'm in a hurry,” she says, slamming the door. So she's a bad driver
and
a smart-ass. Wonderful.

“Do you think we could go a little slower on the way back?” I say, clutching my stomach for effect. “I wouldn't want to get sick all over your nice leather seats.”

“Don't worry. No one's allowed to get sick in
my
car.” She lets out a deranged cackle. Freak.

It's eleven o'clock and the diner is bustling with ranchers, truckers, and rugged-looking people in denim and corduroy, with faces warped by boredom and a few too many Massachusetts winters. With her Chanel bag and matching ballet flats, Agnes looks completely out of place here, but she doesn't seem to care or notice. Country music twangs from the overhead speakers and all the waitresses wear the same sassy expression—like they don't give a shit. The place is so bright it kind of reminds me of California, where the oppressive sun could melt your face off.

After a few minutes of just standing around waiting, Agnes begins to tap her foot against the tile floor. She stops a middle-aged waitress passing by with two coffeepots and says, “Is someone going to seat us … today?”

The waitress snaps, “Excuse me, Your Highness, but can't you see my hands are full? I'll be with you in a minute.” And with that, she disappears into the kitchen, never to return.

“A minute here is like a New York
day,
” Agnes mutters.

We seem to be getting a lot of stares from oily, middle-aged men, many of whom have perked up ever since Maddy walked through the door. Maddy doesn't seem to care, demurely looking away anytime someone tries to make eye contact with her. I'm sure she's used to getting attention from men, though these aren't the kind of guys I'd imagine
any
girl being interested in, much less a beautiful girl like her. Agnes, on the other hand, seems to be annoyed that Maddy is being ogled. I can tell because she's got a scowl on her face and she's nervously picking lint off Maddy's back, like it's her way of claiming Maddy or something.

“Stop,” Maddy finally says, pushing Agnes away.

I scan the diner. There's no one interesting except for a guy who's sitting alone in a corner booth, making paper-doll chains. He's bone pale, dark haired, in his early twenties, and dressed entirely in black. He looks a lot like Edward Scissorhands. I try not to stare at him.

By the time we're seated, I'm ravenous. Maddy and Agnes sit down on one side of the booth and I sit on the opposite side. Maddy and I order cheeseburgers, fries, and strawberry shakes from a tired waitress with frizzy, coppery-gray hair. Agnes orders a cup of hot water. Who is she kidding? Like she doesn't eat? When the waitress walks away, Agnes's eyes bore into me. She's studying me, looking for flaws. Someone should tell her it's rude to stare.

I look at Maddy, who's been quiet ever since we left the bar. I ask, “So how did you two become friends?”

Maddy smiles. “Our moms were best friends. They met at Wetherly, and Agnes and I practically grew up together. We're more like sisters than friends.”

“
Best
friends,” Agnes adds haughtily.

So they're legacy students. I nod and try to look interested, but of course the real question I want to ask—and the thing that's been on my mind for the past half hour—is what Agnes whispered to Bobby to make him go away. But I get the feeling that Agnes won't tell me anyway, so I don't ask.

Maddy goes on to tell me her life story. She's an only child from New York whose parents died in a car accident three years ago. Apparently, her parents were divorced and having an affair with each other after her mother had already married Maddy's stepdad, a well-known Manhattan shrink. Her stepdad didn't learn of the affair until the day Maddy's parents died, and apparently he's still angry about it. He feels especially betrayed by Maddy because she kept her parents' affair a secret, and to this day he still calls her, whimpering into the phone. Now she lives with her aunt and uncle—both of whom are high school teachers—in Queens. The quiver in Maddy's lip tells me her life is not a happy one, and shortly after mentioning her aunt and uncle, she tenses up and stops talking altogether. Poor girl. Her life has more drama than
As the World Turns
.

The waitress returns with our food. “Here's your hot water,” she says icily to Agnes. “You sure you don't want a tea bag to go with that?”

“I'm sure,” Agnes says with a smirk.

The waitress stalks off.

Agnes takes a sip of her water and makes a face. “Lukewarm.” She pushes the mug toward the edge of the table.

“You're not hungry?” I ask.

“No,” she says curtly while stealing a fry from Maddy's plate. “I'm a vegetarian.”

O-kay.

Maddy then starts telling me Agnes's life story as though Agnes weren't here. I learn that Agnes comes from a prominent New York family who can trace their roots back to the Mayflower. She had a precious upbringing: maids, butlers, trips around the world, homes in New York, Massachusetts, and Connecticut. Apparently, her father owns half of Massachusetts and most of Connecticut, blah, blah, blah. Although I do find some of the story interesting, it's impossible to concentrate, what with Agnes mad-dogging me.

When Maddy finishes talking, Agnes leers at me and says, “So what do
your
parents do?”

I pause, trying to think of how I should answer this. The truth is, my parents, when I knew them, were alcoholics who struggled to hold down jobs. My mother left when I was five, never to be heard from again, and my father currently lives in Vegas with his stripper girlfriend. Sometimes he sends postcards, but never money. Even Nana thinks he's a loser, and he's her only child. I'm so tempted to tell Agnes my parents are big Hollywood producers or famous plastic surgeons, but I can't decide which way to go, and then I start worrying that I won't be able to pull it off anyway, so I just say the next thing that comes to mind: “My parents are dead.” I glance at Agnes to gauge her reaction. She looks completely unaffected, stoic as a monk.

“I'm sorry,” Maddy says, looking down at the table and then at Agnes. “I definitely know how you feel.”

“It's no big deal,” I say, hoping she'll drop the subject before I start feeling guilty. The last thing I want is for Maddy to feel sorry for me when she's the real orphan. Plus, she's got a dumb ass for a boyfriend. She deserves my sympathy.

“Are you a scholarship student?” Agnes asks, squinting at me as if I'm some kind of alien.

My ears grow hot. “No.”

I look down, not wanting her to see the lack of privilege and breeding in my eyes. But, like a bloodhound, she keeps sniffing, keeps searching my face for clues. I want to ask her why she's such a bitch—does it come naturally to her or did it take years to cultivate?

“Who's paying for your education?”

My God, she just won't quit.

“Agnes,” Maddy scolds, “you're being nosy.”

“It's okay,” I say. “I don't mind.” But I
do
mind. I contemplate telling them the truth: about Nana, about our life in California and how Nana used up a large chunk of her savings to pay for my education, not because she cares about me, but because she wanted to get rid of me. But I can't make myself say the words. I won't be bullied by this spoiled brat no matter who her dad is, so I say, “My parents left me some money.”

“Oh.” Agnes looks bored as hell. “So, what made you decide to come to Wetherly?”

Brad's naked body pops into my mind. But instead of telling her about the stupid incident that led me here, I just shrug.

Agnes smirks. Whether she's impressed by my apathy or simply annoyed, I can't tell. She glances at Maddy. Something passes between them, but I'm not sure what it is. It seems like all night they've been mostly communicating nonverbally. It's like one can give the other a look and the other will know exactly what she's thinking, the way twins do. Or lovers. I envy their closeness. What would it be like to have a best friend who knows everything about me and still likes me? I chew on a fry while contemplating this.

“You're from California,” Agnes says.

“How'd you know?” It was naive of me to think the interrogation was over.

“Your accent gave you away.”

“She doesn't have an accent,” says Maddy.

“Yes, she does. It's part Valley Girl, part surfer.” Agnes snickers. We make eye contact. “Are you from Los Angeles?”

I nod, not sure where she's going with this.

“I knew it,” she says, beaming.

I roll my eyes, but Agnes is too busy giving Maddy another nonverbal cue to notice. Then she touches Maddy's hair and leans in to whisper something in her ear. To me, it sounds like, “See? I'm psychic too.”

Is she mocking me?

Maddy responds by giving Agnes a shove, and then the two of them burst into giggles like children.

“So what did you say to Bobby to make him leave?” I finally ask.

Agnes stops laughing. “Who?”

“Bobby. The guy at the bar.”

“Oh,
him
. I'd rather not say.”

“Tell her,” Maddy says, sending Agnes another telepathic signal.

Agnes glances back at Maddy and then at me, and leans forward. She motions for me to do the same. She covers her mouth like she's going to whisper the answer and then … nothing.

I wait, craning my neck further.

Finally, Agnes whispers, “Boo.” She laughs hysterically.

I shrug and act like I don't care, but all I can think is:
bitch.

“That was mean, Agnes,” says Maddy. “Stop joking around. Tell Sarah what you said, what you always say when you're in trouble.”

Agnes shrugs. “Fine.” She looks me in the eye. “I told him I had a gun in my purse and that I wasn't afraid to use it.”

“And he believed you?” I ask.

“Why wouldn't he?” Agnes says. “It's true. Of course, I did have my purse slightly open so he could see it poking out. But I think he would've believed me regardless.”

I glance at Maddy, who's busy stirring her shake. She doesn't look up, so I turn back to Agnes. “You have a gun? Why?”

Agnes chuckles. “Don't you watch the news? It's a crazy world out there, and security is
very
important to me.”

Still stirring her shake, Maddy deadpans, “Better not get on Agnes's bad side.”

“Very funny,” Agnes says. “It's not like I carry it around with me all the time. But I'm sure glad I had it tonight.”

Agnes looks at me and then does something really scary: she smiles. It's a sinister smile, crooked and laced with malice. Her lips are pressed together so tightly that they're starting to turn white, and her eyes are smug, arrogant, not at all inviting. It's probably the best she can do; I doubt she's had much practice. The thing that surprises me is that she seems to be warming up to me. Did I pass her test? I didn't think it would be this easy, and—as much as I hate to admit it—I'm kind of flattered. That's how it is with mean people: they have all the power because they simply do not care. The minute they're nice to you, you feel all honored—like you did something right, like you won them over with your charm or wit or intelligence—when all you did was fall into their trap.

I don't trust Agnes one bit.

I look over at the Scissorhands guy, who is stretching a doll chain across the table. With a magnifying glass, he examines each doll. When he glances back at me, I turn and look out the window.

The ride home is speedy, as expected. Agnes is in a great mood, humming along to another opera. Even with our headlights on, the highway is incredibly dark. We might as well be wearing blindfolds.

Suddenly Maddy yells, “Stop!”

There's a loud bang, followed by a horrible crunching sound. We've hit a boulder or something.

“What was that?” Agnes says calmly.

She pulls over and slips her gun into her pocket before getting out of the car. Maddy and I follow her out to the middle of the highway, where a fawn is lying on the ground, trembling, blood oozing from one of its legs. Maddy shrieks and kneels down beside the animal as it yelps and bleats in an excruciatingly high pitch. The sight of blood alone is enough to make me sick, but coupled with the animal's screeching, it is just too much.

I turn toward the forest. A pair of eyes stares back at me. An owl, I think. I wish someone would put this young deer out of its misery. Then maybe it could be reincarnated as a bear or a mountain lion. What was it doing crossing the highway anyway? Especially at night. Didn't its mother teach it not to do that? Well, at least the fawn won't have to suffer when it's dead. Death is the ultimate escape from all that sucks in the world.

The squeals continue. I try to block them out. I've learned that it's best to ignore the sad things in life, because if you let yourself feel every single sad thing out there, you'll lose your mind. It's true. Besides, successful people are guided by logic and reason, not feelings. And maybe they aren't the nicest people in the world, but at least they're not going around having nervous breakdowns. I don't really care about being successful, but I do care about my sanity.