Envy (Fury) (20 page)

“You did?” Photo Boy, a.k.a. Jeff, looked surprised.

You’d be surprised what I can do, buddy,
Skylar thought with a small flicker of triumph. But instead, she adopted a shy, closed-lipped smile, and went on. “I think the theme of the dance should be . . .”—she added a dramatic pause before continuing—“Smoke and Mirrors! I thought of it the other night when Gabby and I were hanging out. I was thinking that we could get a fog machine and hang giant veils from the ceiling so everything’s all hidden and dreamy? We’d set up a bunch of mirrors, of course. We could even hire a magician—”

A girl named Mara laughed. “A magician? This isn’t my sixth birthday party.”

Skylar started feeling warm, but she held her ground. “Well, the term ‘smoke and mirrors’”—she put air quotes around the words—“comes from magic tricks, when magicians used to make things look like they were appearing or disappearing by using mirrors, or smoke.”

“Thanks for the history lesson,” Mara said dryly.

“And there are, like, cool magicians,” Skylar added with a note of defensiveness.

“I actually think it’s a great idea,” said Sara.

“I agree,” Jeff said. “Smoke and Mirrors is an awesome idea, Skylar.”

Just then Gabby ran into the room, clutching a blue T-shirt in one hand. She looked confused. “Um, hi? Sorry I was late, I was just—”

“That’s okay, Gabs,” Skylar said, tapping the desk next to her, indicating that Gabby should sit down. “We
just
started.”

“Skylar was just telling us about her awesome idea,” Tim said. “This year’s Spring Fling—Smoke and Mirrors.” He shook his head. “It’ll be great for visuals,” he added as an aside to Skylar.

“Wait, what?” Gabby’s eyebrows shot up. “Smoke and Mirrors was
my
idea.” She turned to Skylar, confused. “Why didn’t you guys . . . ?” She trailed off, rubbing her temple with one hand. She looked to Skylar, still holding the shirt she’d retrieved from her gym locker. “I thought . . .”

The others were talking over her now, and although Skylar felt a little guilty, she tried to bury the emotion. This little lie wouldn’t hurt Gabby that much, but it
would
help Skylar get the kind of attention and respect she needed to make people forget about the party, and to win over Pierce. Really, what was the harm?

Gabby barreled over to Skylar. “Smoke and Mirrors was
my
idea,” Gabby said quietly, trying to be subtle while the rest of the group was debating how to get fog machines.

Skylar spoke calmly. “The whole point was that we both blurted it out at the
same time
—don’t you remember?” She smiled at Gabby like she was a child. Like Lucy used to smile at her.

“But I thought of it,” Gabby said, insistent, louder now. The others fell silent, listening. It was rare for Gabby to lose her cool.

Skylar kept the same condescending smile on her face. “Oh
god, Gabs. I didn’t realize you were
that
drunk,” she said with a laugh. “Don’t you remember? How we were waiting for the bathroom to steam up for our nature facials and we both said ‘Smoke and Mirrors’ at
the exact same time
? It was a total great-minds-think-alike moment!”

Her voice stayed level as she spoke, lending the lie—she hoped—credibility. She knew how this stuff worked. Gabby would only embarrass herself if she continued to claim it was her own idea.

Gabby must have realized the same thing. She stared at Skylar for one more second. “Totally,” she said haltingly, mechanically. “I remember now. I love the idea. I can’t wait to start planning.”

People started buzzing again.

Mara asked, “So, Skylar, do you think I should go to the Party Shop and see if I can get a fog machine?” Skylar could feel Gabby actually flinch next to her.

“Sure,” Skylar said with a toothy smile. “And I was thinking, for tickets? Why don’t we sell these ‘invisible tattoos’—I saw them at Spencer Gifts at the mall. You put yours on your hand on the night of the dance, and then whoever’s at the door flashes a black light on your hand, and the fake tattoo becomes visible, and that’s your ticket in!”

“Whoa, that would be so cool,” Tim said. The other girls squealed their approval as well. “Why don’t you be in charge of ticket sales, Sky?”

Another girl, this one wearing her hair in low pigtails, jumped in. “I’ll help, Skylar. Just tell me what to do. People are going to be so excited about this.”

As the meeting continued everyone directed their questions about decor and details to both Gabby
and
Skylar. Hey, she was the new cochair, right? Plus, she reasoned, the tattoo idea legitimately
was
hers. And this turn of events might be exactly the teeny little advantage she needed—and really, she was barely evening out the playing field, as Meg had put it.

Despite her bewilderment, Gabby was still as adorable and perfect as ever, fielding questions and delegating tasks.

No. Looking at Gabby, Skylar definitely didn’t feel
that
bad.

•  •  •

At home that evening, perched in front of her mirror, trying to squeeze a tiny zit on her forehead before it grew into a monster, Skylar finally got a text from Meg.
Sorry was out of touch. Family stuff. Let’s catch up tomorrow. xo.

She wondered what kind of family stuff had kept Meg out of touch for days. She pictured Meg’s birdlike features, Ty’s expressive eyes and mouth, and Ali’s 1950s pinup body.
They must have, like, perfect genes or something.

As she leaned in closer, trying to catch a glimpse of even one stray hair below her eyebrows, she knocked her eyeshadow onto the tile floor. It landed with a clatter, breaking the fine cake of powder into a silvery dust. Skylar sighed.
What a waste.

Grabbing a tissue, she bent down, scooped it up, and threw it away. There was nothing in her little trash can but a leftover glob of the oatmeal–olive oil scrub.

Weird . . . Ty had dyed her hair in here just the other day when she and Meg and Ali were getting ready for the party. Skylar hadn’t taken out the trash, not during her weekend of immobile moping. But there was no evidence of Ty’s transformation . . . no used hair dye, no applicators. No wet towels, no errant dye stains on the sink or tub. She’d certainly never dyed her own hair so . . . neatly.

There was probably a simple explanation. Maybe Ty hadn’t used all the dye. Maybe she’d taken the rest home with her. Maybe Ty had dyed her hair the same way she did everything else—flawlessly.

Which brought Skylar’s thoughts back around to her mission: to get what she wanted and deserved. All the embarrassing stuff was going to be water under the bridge by tomorrow, when Skylar started selling dance tickets and leveraging her social prowess into social status.

A rush of adrenaline and power ran through her veins as she shut off the bathroom light.
It’s working.

Em had swallowed her pride and called Drea several times over the weekend; no answer. She’d even texted Crow:
Did Drea get her phone back?

When Crow responded
Yes
, Em felt even worse. So Drea was deliberately avoiding her. It proved that Drea was still pissed. . . . Or could Drea be in trouble? Maybe there was another reason? Something to do with JD? Or the Furies? Em was getting anxious. Of course she wanted to apologize for freaking out at JD’s, but she also wanted to tell Drea about the creepy house and how Skylar was wearing an orchid and probably knew the Furies. . . .

Despite the fact that their friendship was so new, Drea’s absence gnawed at Em. It reminded her how much they didn’t talk about. It was like there was something big that Drea wasn’t
spilling. A secret. Em was becoming increasingly curious about Drea’s connection to the Furies. Why would she be so obsessed with them but not tortured by them in the same way Em was?

Em waited like a stalker outside all of Drea’s afternoon classes, but there was no sign of Drea at school on Monday. On Tuesday, when Drea was still absent, Em ran around to each of her teachers, making up an excuse about Drea’s “mystery illness” and collecting her homework assignments for her. It was the least she could do to prove that she cared.

It also provided an opportunity to spy on JD, who she spotted coming out of his and Drea’s American history class, stuffing papers into his backpack as he walked. She looked at his back as he went down the hallway away from her. Working on his dad’s car was bulking him up—he seemed more muscular than usual. She ached for him. And while she considered asking him if he knew where Drea was, she didn’t want to know if he did.

Em’s anxiety began to skyrocket. Had the Furies gone after
Drea
? There hadn’t been any sign that Drea had been marked—the opposite, in fact. Drea had always seemed like the hunter, not the hunted. But still . . . people going MIA made Em extremely nervous these days.

At lunch Em sat down at the table intent on continuing her conversation with Skylar, who had become a fixture at their traditional table in the Gazebo—which was almost unheard of for a sophomore.

But Em couldn’t get a word in edgewise. The whole vibe at the table was bizarre. Gabby seemed somewhat dazed and out of sorts, while Skylar was talking a mile a minute to an apparently rapt audience of Fiona, Lauren, Jenna, and the rest of their crew. Skylar barely glanced at Em when she sat down.

“So I’m trying to arrange a predance dinner with the Dusters—VIP only,” Skylar was saying. “Isn’t that the best idea?” The girls squealed.

Em had heard through this morning’s grapevine that Skylar had been the one to come up with the Spring Fling theme. She knew that this turn of events must have stung Gabby’s pride, given that Gabby had talked about struggling to find a theme just a few days ago, as they’d gotten ready for the party in the Haunted Woods. Em kicked herself for not having helped brainstorm. Not that she would have been much help. She could picture it now:
How about an insane supernatural witch-beast theme, Gabs?

Gabby turned away from the other girls at the table, who were all babbling excitedly about the dance. “Bt-dubs, I wanted to ask you, were you at the old mall yesterday? I could have sworn I saw you.” Gabby picked at her wrap. Em looked her over, taking in the drooping curl over Gabby’s left ear, the frayed thread over the top button of her cardigan.

“Nope. Wasn’t me,” Em said. “Were you doing some retail therapy or something?”

“I went after the dance committee meeting, to return a
dress.” Gabby leaned in and whispered, “It was so much like the dress that Skylar had on the other night. I wouldn’t want her to see me wearing it and think I was copying her or something, you know? Or that I thought she was copying me.”

That was so like Gabby—to be concerned for Skylar’s feelings, and not realize that Skylar
was
blatantly copying her.

“I called out to you,” Gabby continued. “I figured that since you skipped the committee meeting, maybe you didn’t want me to see you, or something.”

Em winced. Had she really been that bad of a friend recently, that her bff thought she’d blatantly ignore her in public? “I haven’t set foot in any mall—old or new—in months,” Em said, relieved to be speaking a truth for once.

“Too busy doing other stuff, huh?” The words breezed out of Gabby’s mouth, but they bordered on bitter. She was studying her salad carefully. “I could have sworn it was you.”

“I’d never ignore you, Gabs. And I’d love to look for sweaters,” Em said, trying to steer the conversation back around to a normal zone. “Maybe we could go to that new vintage shop in Portland some weekend soon?”

“Yeah, for sure. Sometime soon,” Gabby echoed.

But Em saw, with a pang, that Gabby didn’t believe her.

•  •  •

Em struggled through her sixth- and seventh-period classes and was about to skip her last one to drive over to Drea’s house. As
everyone else scurried to eighth period, Em made for her locker; the skies were spewing an angry winter rain, and she needed her raincoat.

It was when she passed the library that she thought of it: the book. Crow had told her that Sasha Bowlder might have been the one to have stolen
Conjuring the Furies
. It was a long shot, but . . .

About a month ago Drea had pointed out Sasha’s locker to Em. The administration had cleaned off the slurs (
WITCH
and
PSYCHO
), but Drea wasn’t sure if anyone had ever opened up the locker and taken out what was
inside
.

“Maybe someday I’ll have Fount help me break in,” she’d said at the time, and Em had nodded, immediately distracted by thinking about JD’s capable mind and hands.

Eighth period would be over in thirty-five minutes. She had just enough time.

Em speed-walked to the language arts wing and found the locker that looked scrubbed clean, with whitish patches where the words had been. She dug in her purse for her wallet and found her library card. What better use for it than jail-breaking a missing book?

Em shoved the card in where the lock was and started fussing with it, turning it this way and that. Nothing. Why did they make this look so easy on cop shows? She took a step back to reevaluate. Maybe if she used it to pry off the dial? About to give up, she
gave the card another jiggle in the slot . . . and heard it click. She caught her breath.

The door swung open with a loud creaking sound, and Em peered around quickly to make sure no one else was in the hall to witness her break-in. Then she turned back to the locker and gasped. It was Sasha’s stuff—strewn everywhere, just the way most kids’ lockers look. Something about the haphazardness of all her things filled Em with a sudden sadness.
She was just like the rest of us.
And then, one day, she was gone.

Em tried to swallow the lump forming in her throat as she shakily bent down to pick up some of the old textbooks and an old crumpled black sweater she recalled seeing Sasha wear. And then there it was: a hardcover book, bound in leather with raised lettering on the cover.
Conjuring the Furies.