Lovely Vicious (10 page)

I still have Jack.

I still have a lovely, satisfying challenge waiting for me.

***

Someday, the world has to acknowledge my raw sex appeal.

Today is that day.

On Wednesday, I wear the skimpiest, most jaw-dropping outfit I can manage while still being inside dress code – a short denim skirt and a bright red shirt with slits cut in the side and a wide neck to show off my collarbone and shoulders. I wear red flats, put my hair up in a high ponytail, and wear five times more makeup than usual. I look, for all intents and purposes, hot as hell. Well, I always look hot. Now my hot just can’t be ignored.

Jack was trying to insult my looks with those pictures. And he did. He insulted them so well; people will have no choice but to notice the difference. The before picture was plastered all over the school, and after picture is breathing and walking around and in a bright red shirt. If he expected me to cower, to wear dull colors and shrink away from the attention, he was very, very wrong. I might not be Kayla or Avery pretty, but I’m better than the girl in the picture, and that’s all the school needs to see. I park towards the front, and make a big show of getting out – piling my books slowly into my backpack and locking my car with exaggerated key pressing. I wave at some people I recognize – Avery, who all but sneers at me as I pass. Kayla runs over to me, but Avery grabs her arm and yanks her back. I flash Kayla a ‘see you later’ smile. It’s better she doesn’t come over and ask what’s up, anyway. I’ve got places to go and people to shock. They’re staring, whispering, but there’s no laughing, and there’s sure as hell no smirks. Boys whistle and a girl asks where I got my skirt. Half of me is terrified with all the attention – my hands shaking and my throat dry. But the other half of me knows this is what I have to do. Not just for the war, not just to prove Jack wrong. I have to do this for myself. For the girl in the picture.

I make my way to first period when the bell rings.

 
“Hi Mrs. Grayson!” I smile. She does a double-take, like most people are doing.

“I-Isis? Oh my god, you look so - ”

“Different? Awesome?”

“Trampy!”

“Not all of us have the luxury of a college English degree, Mrs. Grayson. Some of us have to hustle on the streets.”

She goes white down to her toes. If only she knew her favorite Jack Hunter was really a high-paid gigolo. She’d flip. And probably hire him for a night two seconds later.

I walk into Trig. Mr. Bernard eyes me like I’m a rabid dog, but I smile really hard and try to look innocent. It works for all of two seconds before Mr. Bernard glances at the door behind me.

“You dented it, Isis.”

“Sorry, Mr. Bernard. It was an unfortunate casualty of war. I’m just here for a second.”

“Well, alright then. But only make it a second.”

I have to stall time until Jack walks in. I see the knife-kid. He’s in Trig with Jack? That’s impressive. I sit at the desk beside him. He nods at me, but his frown remains.

“You look different.” He says, voice croaking. It’s the first time I’ve heard him talk.

“Thanks! You too! New haircut? I bet you did it yourself.”

“A butterfly A-9 buck knife would cut hair pretty good, now that you mention it. Or I could use the classic rib eye backhand.”

“Sounds about right.” I nod, even if I have no clue what the hell he’s talking about.

“Who are you waiting for?” Knife-kid asks.

“That obvious, huh?”

“Jack, then. Screaming at him wasn’t enough?”

“He was the one who put the pictures of me all over school! Hell no screaming isn’t enough!”

Knife-kid nods. “I saw the pictures. I had fun slashing them with my protractor. Nobody should be made fun of like that, I think.”

I don’t know whether to smile at how sweet he sounds or become extremely concerned at how creepy he sounds. I settle for a little of both just as Jack walks in. He walks right by me, and settles in his desk behind me. I turn and watch him take his backpack off.

“Hi.” I wave.

It takes him a moment to recognize me. Or a million. He focuses his gaze on me, then looks boredly to the window. He puts his chin in his hand, studies a pigeon in a tree with utmost intensity, and then all at once his eyes go wide. He swivels his head slowly back to me.

“You,” He murmurs.
 

“Me!” I chirp.
 
 
 
 

“What the hell are you doing in that?” He asks, eyes sweeping down to my chest, my legs, and up again.

“Damage control.” I smile. “Do you like it?”

“I’ve seen pigs dressed better.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that, considering you see one in the mirror every morning.”

“I wasn’t the one who put the pictures up, if that’s what this idiocy is about.”

“I know you didn’t do it. Evans did.”

Jack goes stock-still for all of three seconds before he snarls.

“I asked him to give me a photo of you when you were younger, not plaster them all over the school.”

“But he did it anyway. He knows we’ve been fighting – the whole school does. He probably wanted to impress you so you’d think about applying to more of those Ivy’s, huh? Pity. He really wants you to go to one so he can brag about you to all his little educator friends. No offense, Mr. Bernard.”

Mr. Bernard shrugs, eyes riveted to my butt.

“Really.” I turn back to Jack. “You should’ve known better than to go to Evans. I don’t care if it’s not what you told him to do – those pictures all over still happened. And you made it happen. So I can’t forgive you. Ever.”

Wren walks in just then, a stack of papers in his hands. He plops them on the desk and starts talking to Mr. Bernard about robotics club funding. And then he sees me. Wren’s face is five times more expressive than Jack’s. His mouth pops open and hangs there like an ajar door, and he clears his throat and adjusts his glasses quickly.

“I-Isis. Good morning.”

“Hey, prez!” I get out of the desk and hug him. He makes a strangled-cat noise and adjusts his glasses so hard they fly off his face. I pick them off the floor.

“You okay?”

“I-I’m fine. Um. You look – you look, uh, you look - ”

“Nice?” I offer.

“Really…really nice,” Wren exhales. “Nice doesn’t actually cover it.”

For some reason, the compliment coming from Wren means a lot more to me than the dozens of stares and wolf whistles.

“Are you just going to stand there and gawk, Wren?” Jack sneers. “Or are you going to get on with your presidential business? I’m sure more club advisors have papers that need delivering.”

Wren turns red, and glances sheepishly at Jack.

“Right. I should go. Bye, Isis.”

“See ya!” I wave.

“And you, Mr. Bernard,” Jack continues savagely. “Last time I checked they don’t pay you to ogle teenage girls. They pay you to teach. So start teaching.”

Mr. Bernard jumps in his chair, clears his throat, and hurriedly goes to the whiteboard and starts writing equations. Knife-kid laughs. I salute Jack as I bow out the door.

“Have a great day, Jackoff.”

“Try not to get molested, cow,” He snaps.

“Oh my stars!” I fan my face. “Could it be? Could East Summit High’s Ice Prince be expressing concern for me?”

“Get out,” Jack says.

“That’s the only command of yours I’ll obey.” I wink, and flounce through the door. It’s obvious I’ve won this battle. By lunchtime everyone is talking about how slutty I look instead of how fat my butt crack used to be. It’s not much of an improvement, but it’s the best I’ll get. The whispers are the sound of me winning the war again Jack Hunter.

Boom, bitch.

3 Years

16 Weeks

1 Day

I pick Mom up after her shrink sessions downtown. I wait in the car outside the brick building and watch the late-afternoon sun dance its golden fingers across the sidewalk and through the trees. Northplains might be quiet, and chock full of a whole lot of nothing, but it’s incredibly pretty in the fall. Orange and red leaves litter the ground, dreamy clouds of steam and smoke pour out of the chimneys, and the sky is a cold, bright blue, like a chilled porcelain dish. I pull my scarf up over my nose. It’s way chillier than Florida, but if I freeze to death, at least I’ll die far, far away from where Nameless can see. I bump my head against the headrest thoughtfully. Nameless. He hasn’t crossed my mind in a while. He’s always been there, like a massive poopstain in my brain, but with the war against Jack and Mom’s problems, I hadn’t thought about him for weeks.

That’s a lie, of course. I always think about him when I see a mirror, or the thing on my wrist. There’s no escaping him. He’s the reason I look the way I do, now. Maybe someday I’ll get rid of him. I hope so, at least. But hope is hard to hold without cutting yourself on it, so I try not to hold on too tight.

Mom’s taking longer than normal, so I grab my coffee and head inside the building. Neat offices line the hall, and a lobby with fake plants and faker girls on the magazine covers greets me. The receptionist is a woman with gray hair and eyes and a sad sort of smile. She’s helping someone at the counter with flaming red hair.

Hair that can’t be mistaken for anyone else but Avery.

“Hey, Avery!” I wave.

The girl freezes, shoulders seizing up as she slowly, so slowly, turns around. It’s Avery alright, bright green eyes glaring at me and her freckled nose twitching. She says something to the receptionist, and walks over to me.

“What the hell are you doing here?” She asks. Non-threateningly.

“Uh, my Mom goes here. For things. What about you? Why are you here? Oh, uh, shit, is that insensitive to ask?”

“Slightly,” Avery drawls.

“You’re here for someone else too, huh? Duh. Avery Brighton doesn’t go to a shrink.”

“Of course,” Avery says quickly. “I’m here to pick up my…cousin.”

“Ms. Brighton?” The receptionist calls. “Here’s your prescription. Would you like to schedule another appointment for next week?”

Avery winces, composes herself, and turns to the receptionist and takes the prescription. She marches back to me with a super angry face.

“Don’t you dare say anything.”

“Uh, I won’t. It’s cool.”

“It’s not cool,” Avery’s voice pitches up. “Don’t you get it? It’s the fucking opposite of cool, what I’m doing here, so just keep your mouth shut.”

“Look, it’s fine, I’m not gonna tattle. It’s Jack I’m after, not you.”

“So you don’t know about Kayla and Wren then?”

I frown. “What? What about them?”

Avery’s face relaxes visibly. “Never mind.”

“Wait a second, I might not be after you, but I care about Kayla. What the hell did you mean by ‘Kayla and Wren’?”

Avery flips her fiery hair. “Remember how I said I’m never inviting you to a thing of mine ever again?”

“Vividly.”

“Well I’m inviting you now. And I hope you’ll return the favor and not talk about what you saw here.”

“Suuuree,” I say slowly. Avery narrows her eyes.

“The Grand 9 bowling alley, in downtown Columbus. Saturday at noon. Be there.”

“But what about Kayla and Wren?”

Avery scoffs. “It’ll be clear when you come to the alley. So just come.”

“Yes? Okay? I guess?”

She pushes past me and is gone before I can ask more questions.

“Isis!” Mom comes up behind me, hugging me and turning me to face her. “I’m sorry I’m late, honey, the session went long.”

Her eyes are a little red, and she’s clutching a wad of tissues. It must’ve been a hard session. Hard, and sad.
 

“It’s fine.” I smile. “Let’s go. I’ve got some pizza dough rising in the oven.”

“Homemade pizza!” She laughs and looks to the receptionist, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me into a hug. “I’ve got the best daughter in the world, I swear.”

When we get home, I roll the dough out and put sauce on it and decorate with mushrooms, olives, and a few onion slices. I sprinkle it with garlic salt and mozzarella, and put it in the oven. The smell soon permeates the house in a cloud of cheesy, saucy scent. Mom is upstairs taking a nap when the phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Isis! How’re you doing, sweetie?”

“Hi Dad. Wow, I’m sorry I haven’t called? It’s been crazy over here.”

“Your mother told me! Apparently you’ve made friends and have been going to parties! I’d be proud if I wasn’t so insanely worried.”

“I’m fine, Dad,” I laugh. “It’s really okay. I’m smart and careful.”

“No boys yet?”

“Never boys.”

“Good. Keep that off your plate for a while, you don’t need the distraction when you’re so close to graduating and going to college.”

Jack’s dangerously handsome face instantly pops into my mind, and I smirk.

“Don’t worry. No distractions here.”

***

There are only two things people will ask you in your Senior year of high school; What colleges you’re applying to, and whether or not you have a boyfriend. Everything else seems completely irrelevant – no one will ask after your mental state (deteriorating rapidly with all my homework and essays), what you do to have fun (stare at my bedroom ceiling and pick the nail polish off my nails), or whether or not you actually want to go to college (no, I don’t, I’m tired of school, but I’ll go because everyone is making me and flipping burgers at McDonald’s for seven bucks an hour sounds revolting). So far I’ve applied to a couple, and the only one I really want is Ohio State. It’s close to Mom, so I can take care of her if she has another breakdown, or if she just needs me, period. I can’t go too far, obviously, not with her nightmares and flashbacks. She’d forget to eat without me here to cook for her, I’m sure. And I’m not gonna let her waste away.

What I really wanna do is take what I earned from my summers of part-time jobbing and go to Europe, eat the food, see the people, bike around the countryside. It’d be incredible. And incredibly terrifying to be on my own like that. But I’d manage. Struggling through young adulthood is half the fun, or so I’ve been told.

Except we all know that’s bullshit. It wasn’t fun at all.

It was painful, and now I just wanna go somewhere no one knows me, start the next chapter of my life fresh. But I can’t. I have Mom. And I love her more than I love my freedom. I have to protect her, and help her get better.

So I’ll do the college thing Dad and Mom expect of me. I’ll get a degree in Poopology or something. I’ll be the daughter they want me to be until I figure out the person I want to be.

The Grand 9 bowling alley in downtown Columbus is awesome – a massive neon sign greeting me with the number 9 and a dancing electronic bear of some kind draped over it. It’s cheap and looks like it’ll be greasy as hell, and I’m already loving it. I park and go in, and I’m instantly greeted by that particular bowling-alley smell – wax and sweaty shoes and soggy French fries. An overweight man jerks his thumb to the last lane and hands me a pair of size 7 shoes.

“Oh. Thank you? How did you know my size?”

“Pretty boy told me.” The man grunts. Pretty boy? I walk over to the last lane, the counter riddled with soda cups, a pitcher of root beer, and empty nacho wrappers. Wren is bowling at the lane, arcing a perfect split. Kayla smiles and high-fives him as he comes off the lane. Avery is grumpily sipping her root beer, and to my surprise and general disgust, Jack Hunter is sitting at the lane, looking even more insufferably cool, if that’s at all humanly possible.
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
  

 
“I see everyone’s here!” I cheerily bounce into a seat next to him and unlace my shoes. I glance over, as if seeing him for the first time. “Alright, which one of you’s been dabbling in demon summoning and hasn’t told me about it?”

Avery rolls her eyes and takes out a flask of, presumably, alcohol, and dumps it into her soda.

“Nice to see you in something other than prostitute clothes,” Jack says.

“You’d know all about prostitute clothes, wouldn’t you?” I smile, and choose a bright pink ball before sitting down again. “Who –”

“I’m here because Kayla asked me,” He interrupts. “And I guessed your shoe size.”

“Accurate guess.”

“Your measurements are 38-28-36, and you’re 5’5. It’s not hard to guess a shoe size based on that.”

“And you know my measurements!” I clap my hands excitedly. “However did you guess those? Wait, let me think – you were staring at me!”

“I have a gift,” He says dryly. “For observation.”

“And for being extremely creepy.”

“Your prostitute outfit the other day was the first time you wore tight enough clothes for me to estimate correctly.”

“I would love to slap you right now, but I’m currently wielding a nine pound ball and I’m afraid that would be called murder.”

He half-laughs, half-scoffs, and gets up to pour himself a soda. I turn to Avery.

“So? Who’s winning?”

“Can’t you read numbers?” Avery sighs, and motions to the board. Jack is ahead of everyone by a good fifty points and they’re only in the fifth round, his card decorated with straight strikes.

“Look at all those X’s! It’s like a strip club sign! You’d almost think they had some kind of hidden meaning,” I muse aloud. Very loudly.

“The meaning that I’m winning?” Jack raises a brow.

“Or that you’re a stripper at a gay bar,” I announce.

“I’ve only stripped once, and it was for a woman, thank you very much,” Jack hisses.

“Yeah? Do tell.” Avery suddenly looks very interested. Jack makes a disgusted noise and stands to bowl his turn. Kayla bounces over to me.

“Aw, Kayla, look at you! Eager as a puppy and pretty as a picture. Not of a puppy. Because pictures of puppies sometimes look kind of slimy and you are not slimy and oh my god Wren are you wearing contacts?”

Wren coughs, and adjusts his shirt collar, eyes busy boring a nervous hole into the back of Jack’s head.

“Y-Yes? I just came from volunteering at the Salvation Army, so I didn’t have time to take them out. It’s good to see you. We thought you weren’t coming.”

“Oh I always come. Especially where I’m not wanted!”

Kayla frowns. “That’s not true. Um. Avery, um, you wanted her here, right?”

Behind Kayla’s back, I make a crazy cuckoo spiral around my head with my finger. Avery narrows her eyes, then smiles like a fox with its tail caught in a chicken coop door.

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Did you get the French club proposal, Wren?”

“Yes, I did. I’ve already looked over it. It’s nice you took me out to bowling and all, but I’m afraid I just can’t pass it. That much money for only the French club is pretty ludicrous.”

“Ludicrous? C’mon, sweetie,” Avery coos, running her finger up his chest. “You know I’ll put it to good use.”

Wren gulps. “Ah, still. No. I’m sorry, but I can’t sign off on it. You could start four new clubs with that much funding.”

“But they aren’t being started!” Avery snarls. “The money’s just sitting there! Why not give it to me?”

Jack bowls a spare. And has perfect form. He strides off the lane looking immensely smug and I slip a leftover cheesy nacho onto his chair the second before he sits down. He smirks at me, and I smirk back.

“Good work,” I say.

“You don’t need to tell me that. I always do well.”

I make a gagging motion to Kayla, who giggles and sits beside him.

“So, Jack! Are you good at other sports? Like, baseball? Or basketball?” She asks, doe-eyes wide.

“I played basketball in middle school.”

“Oh! That’s really cool!”

“I hated it.”

“Oh,” Kayla whispers.

I bowl my turn – a strike. To catch up, Avery bypasses everyone else’s turn on the computer and I bowl a few more times. Strike. Strike. Strike. Strike. Wren cheers, and with every strike I hear Jack getting more and more irritated as he answers Kayla’s innocent questions. Finally, when I turn around and sit for good, I notice Kayla’s gone, the sound of wailing coming from inside the nearby girl’s restroom. Avery looks impressed, as much as a china doll can form emotions like impressed, and Jack’s white-knuckled fists are on his knees. Wren high-fives me.

“You were awesome!”

“Thanks!”

“I’ve never…seriously, I’ve never seen anything like that! You have to teach me your secret.”

First of all, don’t be such a huge dork.