Ephemeral (The Countenance) (39 page)

I busy myself by stripping the comforter, the covers, and the sheets from my bed while Jen decides to take out her aggression on our bathroom in a fit of insolence. The pipes squeal on and off as they rattle the room with her fury. The toilet flushes at regular intervals as if she’s trying to mask the sound of her sobs by way of a violent whirlpool. A loud series of bangs and pops, followed promptly by a lusty scream so shrill that only unbridled pleasure or stinging grief could trigger.

Reality had eaten Jen and spit her back out into the cold, cruel world, left her staggering, lost and broken. I feel horrible for her. There is no worse feeling than that of a broken heart.

I lie back on my bare mattress, stare up at the ceiling, and try to divert my thoughts. I try to digest the fact that Flynn found Casper’s shoe, that this was
my
new reality—that in contrast to what Wes believed, I was right.  

Part of me wants to find Wes right now, shake him by the shoulders, swat him over the head with Casper’s black wedge, and shove it down his throat once he starts espousing his unorthodox beliefs. The hotbed of lies he unwittingly dispenses are enough to drive me insane. Unfortunately, everything about Wesley Paxton is a lie at the moment. And, if I ever want to be with him, touch his beautiful body, wake him up from the delusions that hold him hostage, I’ll have to pretend I believe his ludicrous version of reality. That’s the sharpest blade this new world has cut me with, the fact I can’t trust Wes. That, in some way, Wesley Parker really is dead.

Jen bursts back into the room slamming drawers and rattling the windows with her incessant thumping.

“What happened?” I lean over on my elbow. I mean I know she and Blaine are taking a break, but this seems to be a fresh fracture of her ego, her heart—both.

Her hair whips around like wet spaghetti. She pauses, long enough to close her eyes and sag in defeat.

“Kresley and Grayson happened.” She loses steam as she says it.

Suddenly I feel a teensy bit responsible for what I’m about to hear.

“They came in.” She sits down on her bed. “They started talking about, I don’t know what, I wasn’t listening, then they backtracked and began practically screaming that Blaine left his sweater in their car, from when he was there with Jax.”

There it is. If everyone on campus knew about his indiscretions then, according to the rules of trickle down social economics, the gossip had to eventually leak its way to Jen. But did it have to be delivered in such a cruel manner by way of Kresley and the white witch, Grayson? It’s finally come to pass that I simultaneously feel like shit and the world’s lousiest fake sister.

“So? They’re probably just trying to piss you off. It’s probably not even true.” What am I saying? Obviously not only am I’m vying for the lamest sister award—I’m jockeying for all-around asshole, too. Maybe that was the silver lining, the real reason I was removed from Lacey’s life, so I couldn’t cause any psychological trauma by way of a wayward boyfriend I was too inept to report. Although, I’m sure Lacey would fiercely protest the fact I could ever be a lousy sister. She loved me with an undying affection. I could fail to report bigger traumas, and she’d still love me.  

“I called him on it.” She throws her hands in the air. “And he said ‘maybe.’”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe.” She nods. “It’s his way of admitting it without really copping to the fact he’s been driving around with another girl.”

God, I hope Jen isn’t under the delusion that all Blaine was doing was sitting in a moving vehicle with Jax. Judging by the all-out trauma she’s inflicted on our poor room, I think if she knew the truth, there’s no telling where that kind of violence might lead—prison, the morgue—
both
.

“Driving around, huh?” I stoke the fire.

“I guess they’ve been together.”

Still somehow I doubt she means physically.

“If he wants to see her, then who am I to stand in his way?” A fresh surge of tears stream down her cheeks. “You know, I really thought he was going to propose Christmas Eve.” She shakes her head. “If Blaine and I don’t work out”—she pauses to engage in some serious tissue honking—“you’re going to have to break up with Wesley.” She says it as fact.

“What? Why?”

“Collateral damage.” She takes in a lungful of air. “That will teach the Paxtons to mess with us Anderson girls.”

I roll off the mattress and gently kick the contents of my bedding into a ball.

“That’s highly unlikely,” I inform her. What I really want to say is I didn’t suffer through Wes’s death, then inadvertently indulge in a death of my own, and somehow miraculously find my way back to him again, only to dump him over some relational malfeasance that isn’t even our own.

So? The fraud that parades around as his brother is prone to wander. I don’t see why I should fashion a noose and hang our love from the first tree I see.

“Besides, Wes isn’t like that.” I hitch a strand of hair behind my ear. “He would never do anything like that to me.” An image of my lips pressed up against Cooper’s throat sears my mind. That was different—it was necessary. If I can somehow prove to Wes that I, heck, that
we
once existed as different people, that the Counts are the bastards who are running this three-ring necrotic circus, then maybe I could get old Wes back. Every unorthodox thing I’m doing—I’m doing it for us.

“Jen, where do they keep the clean sheets?” I hate to be rude and change the subject, but despite the tattered state of her love life, I will eventually need to sleep.

“You’re not supposed to do that. They change linens on Friday’s while you’re in class.”

“I had an accident.” Great. She’s going to think on top of everything else I’ve taken to bedwetting.

“Basement.” She flicks a finger in the air. “Just so you know, I’m not going to the blood bonding tomorrow night.”

“Why?” The prospect of not having Jen there is frightening. Suddenly I need more security than just Wes could offer, especially since it seems like Wes is driving the bandwagon to the Celestra slaughterhouse himself.

“Because,” she says, fluffing her pillow with a strangulating motion, “I don’t plan on going anywhere ever again.”

“There’s one place you should go. And if you want, I’ll go with you.”

“Where’s that?” She looks up, bored by the offer before the idea has a chance to fully form.

“You need to confront Jax.” That’s exactly what I did just before I decided to rip Tucker a new orifice. I would have buried his head in it if fate hadn’t jumped in the way. I’m a big believer in confirmation before confrontation.

“Okay,” she whispers, “just not tonight.”

“And Jen? When you do…” A sense of familial duty surges through me. “I’ll be right there with you.”

The commons room downstairs is almost void of life. I see Fallon and her dark hair swooped over a book in the corner. Fallon always manages to look pissed off at the world in general, to be more specific, me. Maybe because she’s picked up on the fact I’m trying to steal her best friend. Well, not really, but the female species as a rule, is prone to exclusivity and cliques. I’ll make an effort to get to know her better sometime. We’re both in cheer, so it’s inevitable we’ll be friends sooner or later. I’m betting on later.

I turn the corner to the kitchen and bump square into Grayson and her flesh-covered hubcaps.

“Going somewhere?” She blinks her thick lashes like the long wings of a butterfly. “Or maybe you have a bad case of the I-just-did-two-guys-up-in-my-bedroom munchies?”

“Excuse me?”

“I saw Coop and Flynn take off.” The words drip off her tongue like acid.

“So? What’s the matter?” I’m not sure enticing her to anger is the right decision, but I’m willing to dip my toe in that septic pool to find out. “Jealous much?”

She tips her face up and lets out a breathy grunt of disapproval. I can’t help but note how alarmingly sexual it looks, how everything about her oozes the exact recipe of what most guys clamor for. She’s the living version of every boy’s fantasy. I don’t know what makes me think Coop wouldn’t want to take her on, especially compared to someone who spells out average, like me.

“Looks like you’re trying to reenact your role from Rycroft.” Her lips curve into the perfect pout. “I’ve got news for you, Cooper doesn’t waste time with little girls.” She cinches her white silk robe against her body. Her pale skin rivals the fabric in hue and texture. “He prefers women who would respect him enough to give him one hundred percent of their attention. And, according to your history, that wouldn’t be you.” She takes off toward the staircase and leaves me stuck on her words like an engine grinding, unable to start.

Grayson is right. Cooper does deserve to have someone one hundred percent devoted to him, and it breaks my heart that it can’t be me.

I follow a service door in through the kitchen and down the stairwell to the basement. A long, barren corridor is walled in with bricks that are laid sloppily over one another with cement gushing through the seams. I have a feeling walking around the bowels of Austen House isn’t exactly going to help with that mountain of homework waiting upstairs.

The dank walls bleed out endlessly with frail rows of exposed pipes streaming overhead. They tunnel on forever with their corroded joints, their long stretched necks in vivid shades of green. A thick film of calcium is crystallized beneath each one, white as snow, and the scent of mold lights up my senses. A utility cart sits at the end of the hall filled with spray bottles and discarded towels, clueing me in on the fact I’m headed in the right direction.

The buzzing sound of hushed voices drifts from somewhere in the distance. I take careful, quiet steps, in the event I’ve accidentally stumbled upon Jax and Blaine’s love nest. Thank God I’ve got my phone. I’ll gladly snap digital evidence of Blaine rounding out the bases. Morons like him are best left to their own devices, and the hell away from my fake sister.

God—I didn’t have Jen tested. What if she really
is
my sister?

The voices magnify.  

Sounds more like two girls. The calm soothing rhythm alludes to a practical conversation, nothing melodic like you would get with gossip, nothing pressured with panic or passion.

A small doorway crops into view just around the corner. The temperature spikes. It’s markedly warmer in this part of the basement, downright tropical with the undeniable humidity you would find in the shower or the gym.

The buzzing increases, thick as a swarm of bees.

I hear words out of sequence—the names, Hattie and Amelia echo in rotation like some nefarious chant.

I peer inside a tiny dirty room. Walls drip with black oil. A tangle of large, fat pipes, snake throughout the room, obscuring my vision.

“Hello?” My voice echoes unnaturally. “I’m looking for the laundry room,” I call.

The voices break out into a full-blown cackle—the conversation goes on without ceasing.

I take measured steps down aisle after aisle of rusted out pipes, in this, the pit of the boiler room.

The voices escalate in both pitch and volume. One last aisle of metal cylinders obstructs my view.

My heart rate picks up, my pulse quickens. A sharp spike of fear rattles through me. My legs keep moving—my body won’t turn. It’s as if they’re calling me, drawing me in with their never-ending chatter, their haunted voices that hold a reverberation that exceeds anything human.

I wish I never came. I would sleep on a bare mattress for the rest of my life if I could motivate my feet to sprint in the other direction.  

Echoing laughter, another explosion of pressured conversation. It goes on like this only louder—more intense with each step I take.

“Excuse me?” I say, leaning around the corner.

Silence fills the air, leaving nothing but my heartbeat pulsating through my ears.

I look past the pipes and see them.

I let out a scream that rattles on for miles. 

40

Taking up Space