Miles shakes his head and looks at me. "I didn't say hi. Did you say hi?"
I shrug and mix my beans into my rice.
"Trouble," he says, gazing after her and shaking his head. And even though I sense that it's true, I'm wondering what exactly he means. Because the energy in this place is bubbling and swirling like a big cosmic soup, too lumpy to slog through or try to tune in. "What do you mean?" I ask, squinting against the glare.
"Isn't it obvious?"
I shrug, my head pounding so badly I can't get inside his. "There's something just so-creepy about their friendship. I mean, a harmless girl crush is one thing. But this-this just doesn't make any sense. Major creep factor."
"Creepy how?" I tear a piece off my taco shell and look at him.
He ignores his rice and favors the beans. "I know this is going to sound horrible, and trust me, I don't mean it to be, but it's almost like she's turning Haven into an acolyte."
I raise my brows.
"A follower, a worshipper, a clone, a Mini-Me." He shrugs. 'And, it's just so-"
"Creepy," I provide.
He sips his drink and glances between Haven and me. "Look at how she's started dressing like her; the contacts, the hair color, the makeup, the clothing, she acts like her too-or at least she tries to."
"Is it just that, or is there something else?" I ask, wondering if he knows anything specific, or if it's just a general sense of doom.
"You need more?" He gapes.
I shrug, dropping my taco onto my plate, no longer hungry. "But between you and me, that whole tattoo thing takes it to a whole new level. I mean, what the hell?" he whispers, glancing at Haven, making sure she can't hear. "What's it even supposed to mean?" He shakes his head. "I mean, okay, I know what it means, but what does it mean to them? Is it the latest in vampire chic? Because Drina's not exactly goth. I'm not sure what she's trying to be with her fitted silk lady dresses and purses that match her shoes. Is it a cult? Some kind of secret society? And don't get me started on that infection. Na-sty. And, by the way, so not normal like she thinks. It's probably what made her so sick."
I press my lips and stare at him, not sure how to respond, how much to share. And yet, wondering why I'm (so determined to keep Damen's secrets-secrets that bring creepy to a whole new level. Secrets that, when I think about it, have nothing to do with me. But I hesitate for too long, and Miles continues, ensuring the vault stays locked, at least for today.
"The whole thing is just so-unhealthy." He cringes.
"What's unhealthy?" Haven asks, plopping down beside me and tossing her phone back into her purse.
"Not washing your hands after you go to the bathroom," Miles quips.
"And that's what you guys were talking about?" She eyes us suspiciously. "Like I'm supposed to believe that?"
'Tm telling you, Ever refuses to suds up, 'and I was just trying to warn her of the dangers she's exposing herself to. Exposing all of us to." He shakes his head and looks at me.
I roll my eyes, my face turning crimson even thought it's not true. Watching as Haven digs through her bag, pushing past stray tubes of lipstick, a cordless curling iron, stray breath mintstheir wrappers long gone-before coming across a small silver flask, unscrewing the top, and dumping a fair amount of clear, odorless liquid into each of our drinks.
"Well, that's all very amusing, but it's obvious you were talking about me. But you know what? I'm so freaking happy I don't even care." She smiles.
I reach for her hand, determined to stop her from pouring.
Ever since the night I puked my guts out at cheerleading camp, after drinking more than my share of the contraband bottle Rachel smuggled into our cabin, I've sworn off the vodka. But the moment I touch her I'm overcome with dread, seeing a calendar flash before me with December 2I circled in red.
'Jeez, relax, already. Stop being so clenched. Live a little, will ya?" She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. 'Aren't you going to askme why I'm so happy?"
"No, because I know you'll tell us anyway," Miles says, discarding his plate, having eaten all of the protein and saving the rest for the pigeons.
"You're right, Miles, you're absolutely right. Though it's always nice to be asked. Anyway, that was Drina. She's still in New York, enjoying a major shopping spree. She even bought a bunch of stuff for me, if you can believe it." She looks at us, her eyes wide, but when we don't respond, she makes a face and continues. 'Anyway, she said hi even though you couldn't be bothered to say hi back. And don't think she didn't know it," she says, scowling at us. "But, she's heading back soon, and she just invited me to this really cool party and I totally cannot wait!"
"When?" I ask, trying not to sound as panicked as I feel. Wondering if it could possibly be on the twenty-first of December.
But she just smiles and shakes her head. "Sorry, no say. promised not to tell."
"Why?" Miles and I both say.
"Because it's super exclusive, invitation only, and they don't need a bunch of crashers showing up."
'And that's how you see us? As party crashers?" Haven shrugs and takes a hearty sip of her drink.
"Now that's just wrong." Miles shakes his head. "We're your best friends, so by law, you have to tell us."
"Not this," Haven says. 'Tm sworn to secrecy. Just know that I'm so excited I could burst!"
I gaze at her, sitting before me, face flushed with a happiness that sets me on edge, but my head hurts so badly, and my eyes are really tearing, and her aura's so merged/with everyone else's, I can't get a read.
I take a sip of my drink, forgetting about the vodka until a trail of hot liquid slips down my throat, courses into my bloodstream, and makes my head sway.
"You still sick?" Haven asks, shooting me a worried look.
"You should take it easy. Maybe you're not completely over it."
"Over what?" I squint, taking another sip, and then another, my senses blunted a little more with each taste.
"The fever-dream flu! Remember how you fainted that day at school? I told you the whole dizzy nausea thing is just the beginning. Just promise to tell me if you have the dreams, because they're amazing."
"What dreams?" "Didn't I tell you?"
"Not in detaiI." I take another sip, noting how my head feels woozy yet clear, all the visions, random thoughts, colors, and sounds suddenly shrinking and fading away.
"They were wild! And don't get mad, but Damen was in some of them, though it's not like anything happened. It wasn't that kind of dream. It was more like he was saving me, like he was fighting these evil forces to save my life. So bizarre." She laughs. "Oh, speaking of, Drina saw Damen in New York."
I stare at Haven, my body growing cold, despite the alcohol blanketing my insides. But when I take another sip, the chill slips away, taking my pain and anxiety with it.
So I take another. And then another.
Then I squint at her and say, "Why did you just tell me that?" But Haven just shrugs. "Drina just wanted you to know:"
Twenty-Eight
After the festival, we pile into Haven's car, make a quick stop at her house to refill her flask, then head into town where we park on the street, stuff the meter full of quarters, and storm the sidewalks, three across, arms linked, making all the other pedestrians move out of our way, as we sing "(You Never) Call Me When You're Sober," at the top of our lungs and wildly off-key.
Staggering in fits of laughter every time someone snickers and shakes their head at us.
And when we pass one of those New Age bookstores advertising psychic readings, I just roll my eyes and avert my gaze, thrilled thatI'm no longer part of that world, now that the alcohol's released me, now that I'm free.
We cross the street to Main Beach, and stumble past Hotel Laguna, until we fall onto the sand, legs overlapping, arms entwined, passing the flask back and forth, and mourning its loss the moment it's empv "Crap!" I mumble~\~lting my head all the way back and tapping hard on the bottom and sides, straining for every last drop. 'Jeez, take it easy." Miles looks at me. 'Just sit back and enjoy the buzz."
But I don't want to sit back. And I am enjoying the buzz. I just want to make sure it continues.
Now that my psychic bonds have been broken, I want to ensure they stay broken. "Wanna go to my house?" I slur, hoping Sabine's not at home so we can get to the leftover Halloween vodka and keep the buzz rolling.
But Haven shakes her head. "Forget it," she says. 'Tm wrecked. I'm thinking of ditching the car and crawling back home."
"Miles?" I gaze at him, my eyes pleading, not wanting the party to end. This is the first time I've felt so light, so free, so unencumbered, so normal, since-well, since Damen went away.
"Can't." He· shakes his head. "Family dinner. Seven-thirty sharp. Tie optional. Straightjacket required." He laughs, falling onto the sand, as Haven topples over and joins him.
"Well, what about me? What am I supposed to do?" I cross my arms and glare at my friends, not wanting to be left on my own, watching as they laugh and roll around together, oblivious tome.
The next morning, even though I oversleep, the first thing I think when I open my eyes is: My head's not pounding!
At least not in the usual way.
Then I roll over, reach under my bed, and retrieve the bottle of vodka I stashed there last night, taking!a long deep swig and I closing my eyes as its warm wonderful numbness blankets mytongue and sinks down my throat.
And when Sabine peeks her head in my room to see if I'm up, I'm thrilled to. see her aura has vanished from sight.
'Tm awake!" I say; shoving the bottle under a pillow and rushing over to hug her. Anxious to see what kind of energy ex change there will be, and elated when there is none. "Isn't it a beautiful day?" I smile, my lips feeling clumsy and loose as they unveil my teeth.
She gazes out the window and back at me. "If you say so." She shrugs.
I look past my french doors and into a day that's gray; overcast, and rainy. But then again, I wasn't referring to the weather. I was referring to me. The new me.
The ne-w, improved, non psychic me!
",Reminds me of home." I shrug, slipping out of my nightgown and into the shower.
The second Miles gets in my car he takes one look at me, and goes, "What the-?"
I gaze down at my sweater, denim mini, and ballet flats, relics Sabine saved from myoId life, and smile.
'Tm sorry, but I don't accept rides from strangers," he says, opening the door and pretending to climb back out.
"It's me, really. Cross my heart and hope to-well, just trust that it's me." I laugh. 'And close your door already, I don't need you falling out and making us late." ,.
"I don't get it," he says, gaping at me. "I mean, when did this happen? How did this happen? Just yesterday you were practically wearing a burka, and now it looks like you've raided Paris Hilton's closet!"
I look at him.
"Only classier, way classier."
I smile, pushing down on the gas, my wheels sliding and lifting off the soggy wet street and easing up only when I remember how my internal cop radar is gone and Miles starts screaming.
"Seriously, Ever, what the hell? Omigod, are you still drunk?"
"No!" I say, a little too quickly. "I'm just, you know; coming out of my shell, that's all. I can be kind of - shy, for the firstseveral-months." I laugh. "But trust me, this is the real me." I, nod, hoping he buys it.
"Do you realize you've picked the wettest, most miserable day of the year to come out of your shell?"
I shake my head and pull into the parking lot as I say, "You have no idea how beautiful it is.
Reminds me of home."
I park in the closest available space, then we race for the gate, backpacks held over our heads like makeshift umbrellas, as the soles of our shoes splash water onto our legs. And when I see
Haven shivering under the eaves, I feel like jumping with,
\, glee when I see she's aura-free.
"What the-?" she says, eyes bugging as she looks me up and down.
"You guys really need to learn how to finish a sentence." I laugh.
"Seriously, who are you?" she says, still gawking at me.
Miles laughs, wraps his arms around both of us, and leads us past the gate, saying, "Don't mind Miss Oregon, she happens to think it's a beautiful day."
When I walk into English, I'm relieved that I can no longer see or hear anything I'm not meant to. And even though Stacia and Honor are whispering back and forth, scowling at my clothes, my shoes, my hair, even the makeup I wear on my face, I just shrug it off and mind my own business.
Because while I'm sure they're not saying anything remotely kind, the fact that I no longer have access to the actual words makes a whole world of difference. And when I catch them both looking at me again, I just smile and wave until they're so freaked out they turn away.
But by third-period chemistry, the buzz is nearly gone. Giving way to a barrage of sights, colors, and sounds that threaten to overwhelm me.
And when I raise my hand and ask for the hall pass, I'm barely out the door before I'm taken over completely.
I stagger toward my locker, spinning the dial around and around, trying to remember the correct number sequence. . Is it 24-I8-I2-3? Or I2-I8-3-24?
I glance around the hall, my head pounding, my eyes tearing, and then I hit it-I8-3-24-I2. And I dig through a pile of books and papers, knocking them all to the ground but paying no attention as they splay around my feet, just wanting to get to the water bottle I've hidden inside, longing for its sweet liquid release.
I unscrew the cap and tilt my head back, taking a long deep pull, soon followed by another, and then another, and another. And hoping to make it through lunch, I'm taking one last swig when I hear:
"Hold it-smile-no? That's okay, I still got it."
And I watch in horror as Stacia approaches, camera held high, an image of me, guzzling vodka, clearly displayed.
"Who would've thought you'd be so photogenic? But then again, it's so rare we getthe chance to see you without your hood." She smiles, her eyes grazing over me, from my feet to my bangs.
I stare at her, and even though my senses are blunted from drink, her intentions are clear.
"Who would you prefer I send this to first? Your mom?" She lifts her brows and covers her mouth in mock horror, as she says, "Oh, so sorry, my apologies. What I meant to say was your aunt? Or perhaps one of your teachers? Or maybe all of your teachers? No? No, you're right, this should go straight to the principal, one bird, one stone, a quick and easy kill, as they say."
"It's a water bottle," I tell her, leaning down to pick up my books and shoving them back in my locker, striving for nonchalance, acting as though I don't even care, knowing she can sniff out fear better than any police-trained bloodhound. "All you have is a photo of me, drinking from a water bottle. Big efIin' deal."
"A water bottle." She laughs. "Yes, and so it is. And so very original I might add. I'm sure you're the absolute very first person to ever think of pouring vodka into a water bottle." She rolls her eyes. "Please. You are so going down, Ever. One quick sobriety test, and it's good-bye Bay View, hello Academy for Losers and Abusers."
I gaze at her standing before me, so sure, so smug, so completely overconfident, and I know she has every right to be, she. caught me red-handed. And even though the evidence may appear circumstantial, we both know that it isn't. We both know that she's right.
"What do you want?" I finally whisper, figuring everybody has a price, I just need to find hers. I've heard enough thoughts over the past year, seen enough visions, to confirm this is true.
"Well, for starters, I want you to quit bothering me," she says, folding her arms across her chest, anchoring the evidence snugly under her armpit.
"But I don't bother you," I say; the words slightly slurred.
"You bother me."
'iIu contraire." She smiles? looking me over, eyes scathing. 'Just having to look at you day after day is a bother. A huge horrible bother."
"You want me to transfer out of English?" I ask, still holding that stupid bottle, unsure what to do with it. If I leave it in my locker, she'll nark and have it confiscated-and if I stow it iri my backpack, same thing.
"You know you still owe me for that dress you destroyed in your spastic rampage."
So that's it, blackmail. Good thing I won all that money at the track.
I dig through my backpack and locate my wallet, more than willing to reimburse her if it'll put an end to all this. "How much?" I say.
She looks me over, trying to calculate my immediate net worth. "Well, like I said, it was designer-and not so easily replaced-so-"
"A hundred?" I pick off a Ben Franklin and offer it to her.
She rolls her eyes. "While I totally get how you're completely clueless about fashion and all things worth having, you really need to up the offer. Aim a little higher, a tad bit steeper," she says, eyeballing my wad.
But since blackmailers have a way of returning and constantly upping the ante, I know it's better just to deal with it now, before it can go any further. So I look at her and say; "Since we both know you bo.ught that dress at the outlet mall, on your way home from Palm Springs" -I smile, remembering what I saw that day in the hall-Tll reimburse you for the cost of the dress, which, if memory serves, was eighty-five dollars. In which case, a hundred seems!ike a pretty generous deal, wouldn't you say?"
She looks me over, her face twisting into a grin, as she takes the bill and shoves it deep into her pocket. Then she glances between the water bottle and me, and smiles when she says, "So, aren't you going to offer me a drink?"
If someone had told me just yesterday that I'd be hanging in the bathroom, getting whacked with Stacia Miller, I never would've believed it. But sure enough, that's exactly what I did. Trailed her right inside so we could huddle in the corner and suck down a water bottle full of vodka.
Nothing like shared addictions and hidden secrets to bring people together.
And when Haven walked in and found us like that, her eyes bugged out when she said,
"What the jug?"
And I fell over in fits of howling laughter, as Stacia squinted at her and slurred, "Welthome gosh girthl."
'Am I missing something?" Haven asked, gazing between us, eyes narrowed, suspicious. "Is this supposed to be funny?"
And the way she looked, the way she stood there so authoritative, so derisive, so serious, so not amused, made us laugh even more. Then as soon as the door slammed behind her, we got back to drinking.
But getting tanked in the bathroom with Stacia does not ensure access to the VIP table. And knowing better than to even try, I head for my usual spot, my head so polluted, my brain so fuzzy, it takes a moment before I realize I'm not welcome there either.
I plop myself down, squint at Haven and Miles, then start laughing for no apparent reason.
Or at least not one that's apparent to them. But if they could only see the looks on their faces, I know they'd laugh too.
"What's up with her?" Miles asks, glancing up from his script. Haven scowls. "She's bent, totally and completely bent. I caught her in the bathroom, getting twisted with, of all people, Stacia Miller."
Miles gapes, his forehead all scrunched in a way that makes me start laughing all overagain.
And when I won't quiet down, he leans toward me, pinches my arm, and says, "Shh!" He glances all around and then back at me. "Seriously, Ever. Are you crazy?]eez, ever since Damen left you've been-"
"Ever since Damen left-what?" I pull away so fast I lose my balance and nearly fall off the bench, righting myself just in time to see Haven shake her head and smirk. "Come on, Miles, spit it out already." I glare at him. "You too, Haven, spit it out." Only it comes out more like, schthpititowt, and don't think they don't notice.
"You want us to schthpititowt?" Miles shakes his head as Haven rolls her eyes. "Well, I'm sure we'd be happy to if we only knew what it meant. Do you know what it means?" He looks at Haven.
"Sounds German," she says, glaring at me.
I roll my eyes, and get up to leave, only I don't coordinate it so well, and I end up banging my knee. "Owwwl" I cry, slumping back onto the bench, gripping my leg as my eyes squinch in pain.
"Here, drink this," Miles urges, pushing his Vitamin Water toward me. 'And hand over your keys, because you are so not driving me home."
Miles was right. I so did not drive him home. That's because he drove himself home.
I got a ride from Sabine.
She gets me settled in the passenger seat, then goes around to her side, and when she starts the engine and pulls out of the lot, she shakes her head, clenches her jaw; glances at me, and says, "Expelled? How do you go from honor roll to expelled? Can you please explain that to me?"
I close my eyes and press my forehead against the side window; the smooth, clean glass cooling my skin. "Suspended," I mumble.
"Remember? You pleaded it down. And quite impressively, I might add. Now I know why you earn the big bucks." I peer at her from the corner of my eye just as the shock of my words transform her face from concern to outrage, rearranging her features in a way I've never seen.
And even though I know I should feel bad, ashamed, guilty, and worse-the fact is, it's not like I asked her to litigate. It's not like I asked her to plead extenuating circumstances. Claiming that my drinking on school grounds was: clearly mitigated by the gravity of my situation, the huge toll of losing my entire family.
And even though she said it in good faith, even though she truly believes it to be true, that doesn't mean that it is true.
Because the truth is, I wish she hadn't said anything. I wish she'd just letthem expel me.
The moment they caught me in front of my locker, the buzz faded and the day's evenrs came rushing right back like a preview for a movie I'd rather not see. Pausing on the frame where I forgot to make Stacia delete that photo, and playing it over and over again. Then later, in the office, when I learned that it was actually Honor's phone that was used, that Stacia had gone home sick with an unfortunate bout of "food poisoning" (though not before arranging for Honor to share the photo, along with her "concerns" to Principal Buckley), well, I have to admit, that even though I was in big trouble, I mean, big, huge, you can be sure this will go on your permanent record kind of trouble, there was Btill this small part of me that admired her. This part that shook its tiny head and thought:
Bravo! Well done!
Because despite the trouble I'm facing, not only with the school, but Sabine too, Stacia not only made good on her promise to destroy me, but she managed to bag one hundred dollars and the afternoon off for her troubles. And that is seriously admirable.
At least in a calculating, sadistic, sinister kind of way.
And yet, thanks to Stacia, Honor, and Principal Buckley's coordinated efforts, I don't have to go to school tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that. Which means I'll get the whole house to myself, all day, every day, allowing me plenty of privacy to continue my drinking and build up my tolerance, while Sabine's busy at work.
Because now that I've found my path to peace, nobody's gonna stand in my way.
"How long has this been going on?" Sabine asks, unsure how to approach me, how to handle me. "Do I have to hide all the alcohol? Do I need to ground you?" She shakes her head.
"Ever, I'm speaking to you! What happened back there? What is going on with you? Would you like for me to arrange for you to speak with someone? Because I know this great counselor who specializes in grief therapy "
I can feel her looking at me, can actually feel the concern emanating off her face, but I just close my eyes and pretend to sleep. There's no way I can explain, no way I can unload the whole sordid truth about auras and visions and spirits and immortal exboyfriends. B;cause even though she hired a psychic for the party, she did it as a joke, a lark, a spooky bit of good clean fun.. Sabine is left-brained, organized, compartmentalized, operating on pure black-and-white logic and avoiding all gray. And if I was ever dumb enough to confide in her, to reveal the real secrets of my life, she'd do more than just arrange for me to speak with someone. She'd have me committed.
Just like she promised, Sabine hides all the alcohol before she heads back to work, but I just wait till she's gone, then slink downstairs and head for the pantry, retrieving all the bottles of vodka left over from the Halloween party, the ones she shoved in the back and forgot all about. And after I haul 'em up to my room, I plop down on my bed, thrilled by the prospect of three full weeks without any school. Twenty-one long glorious days all sprawled out before me like food before an overfed cat. One week for my pleaded-down suspension, and two for the conveniently scheduled winter break. And I plan to make the most of every single moment, spending each long lazy day in a vodkafueled haze.
I lean back against the pillows and unscrew the cap, determined to pace myself by limiting each sip, allowing tlle alcohol to trail all the way down my throat and into my bloodstream before taking another. No guzzling, no gulping, no chugging allowed. Just a slow and steady stream until my head starts to clear and the whole world grows brighter. Sinking down into a much happier place. A world without memories. A home without loss.
A life where I only see what r m supposed to.
Twenty-Nine
On the morning of December 2I, I make my way downstairs. And despite being dizzy, bleary eyed, and completely hungover, I put on a pretty good show of brewing coffee and making breakfast, wanting Sabine to leave for work convinced all is well, so I can return to my room and sink back into my liquid haze.
And the second I hear her car leave the drive, I pour the Cheerios down the drain and head upstairs to my room, retrieving a bottle from under the bed and unscrewing the cap, anticipating the rush of that warm sweet liquid that will soothe my insides, erase all my pain, gnaw away my anxieties and fears until nothing remains.
Though for some reason, I can't stop staring at the calendar hanging Qver my desk, the date jumping out at me, shouting and waving and nudging like an annoying poke in the ribs. So I get up and move toward it, peering at its blank empty square, no obligations, no appointments, not a birthday reminder in sight, just the words WINTER SOLSTICE in tiny black type, a date the publisher deems important, though it means nothing to me.
I plop back down on my bed, my head propped on a mound of pillows as I take another long pull from the bottle. Closing my eyes as that warm wonderful heat courses right through me, flushing my veins and soothing my mind-like Damen used to do with merely a gaze.
I take another sip, and then another, too fast, too reckless, not at all like I've practiced. But now that I've resurrected his memory, I only want to erase it. So I continue like that, drinking, sipping, guzzling, gulping-until I can finally rest, until he's finally faded away.
When I wake, I'm filled with the warmest, most peaceful feeling of all-consuming love. Like I'm bundled in a ray of golden sunlight, so safe, so happy, so secure, I want to stay in that place and live there forever. I clench my eyes shut, grasping the moment, determined to hang on, until a tickle on my nose, an almost imperceptible flutter, makes me open them again and bolt from my bed.
I clutch at my chest, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it, as I gaze at the single black feather that was left on my pillow.
The same black feather I wore the night I dressed as Marie Antoinette.
The same black feather Damen took as a souvenir. And I know he was here.
I glance at the clock, wondering how I could've possibly slept for so long. And when I gaze across the room, I see the painting I'd left in the trunk of my car is now propped against the far wall, left for me to see. But instead of Damen's version of Woman with Yellow Hair I expected, I'm confronted with an image of a pale blond girl running through a dark, foggy canyon.