Sweet Venom (19 page)

A
fter my unwelcome dip in the Bay, I'm ready to forget about recent events, forget about my sisters and mythological monsters, and just focus on the life I've worked so hard to create. That's really hard when monsters keep showing up everywhere I go.

It's as if, when my sisters showed up on my doorstep and resurrected that memory of the centaur in my room, a switch flipped in my brain. All those costly hypnosis sessions—and that final one with a different therapist—unraveled, and now my mind is trying to make up for years of not seeing any monsters.

I see the first one Saturday morning on my jog through Golden Gate Park. On my second loop around Stow Lake, I move aside for someone I sense running up behind me, and as they pass, realize it isn't a person but a gigantic, slobbering boar. And it's wearing running shorts and a headband.

Without finishing my run, I turn off at the Japanese Tea Garden and head inside for some head-clearing ginseng.

Later that afternoon, Kyle invites me to visit the Explor-atorium at the Palace of Fine Arts. I'm not a huge fan of the science museum, but I adore the neoclassical grace of the building and the peaceful pond out front. I agree to go and—after walking through the special exhibit about soap bubbles—convince him to sit on a bench with me and feed the birds. Splashing around among the gulls, ducks, and swans is a bizarre creature with the upper body of a horse and the tail of a fish.

I close my eyes and count to ten. When I open them, the creature is still there, frolicking. Just playing in the water. I close my eyes and count to one hundred, alternating each number with a mantra.

One.
There is no monster
. Two.
There is no monster
.

By the time I reach a hundred and force my eyes back open, the beast is gone.

See, I am still in control of my life and my mind.

Mother wakes me up Sunday morning to remind me that I promised to play hostess for her event at the de Young that afternoon. As much as I want to stay in bed with the covers over my head all day, I know can't back out on that commitment. Besides, it's the
de Young
. There is a special exhibit of Picasso from Paris that I've been dying to see. My primary job is to hand out name tags, making sure I give special attention to Mother's most generous and prestigious donors. I fail to recognize the ex-mayor's ex-wife because, it turns out, she is actually a woman with the body of a lioness.

This cannot be happening!
I mentally scream. Why are there suddenly monsters everywhere? And from what I can tell, none of them are trying to attack or eat anyone, least of all me. The ex-mayor's ex-wife is on numerous committees with mother; I've known her for years. Has she been a sphinx all this time?

I feel a complete mental breakdown coming on.

I'm sure Mother will be furious, but I hand over my name tag duties to the nearest server and leave without ever having the chance to see any of the exhibit.

By the time I get to the end of the school day on Monday, I feel like every nerve in my body is stretched tight and I'm just one monster away from snapping.

“If no one has any other new business,” I announce to the assembled Alumnae Tea Committee, “then I'll declare this meeting over.”

A quick scan of the ten girls—the socioeconomic elite of Immaculate Heart—seated around the antique mahogany conference table reveals not a monster in sight and one predictably raised hand. Veronica. She's been ignoring my order to forget the ice sculpture idea and has been petitioning the other committee members to support the proposal.

I inhale and immerse myself in the leadership role, to the exclusion of all other distractions.

“Very well,” I say, ignoring her. “Let's adjourn and—”

“Excuse me,” Veronica says, obviously annoyed.

She has no talent for disguising her true feelings. While that kind of open-book honesty might be refreshing, it won't serve her well in a society that operates on a smile-to-your-face-and-stab-you-in-the-back principle. Poor thing.

“I would like the committee to consider—”

I cut her off before it goes too far. “We have already discussed the ice sculpture.” Ad nauseam. I can't let her turn this meeting into a circus, with an ice sculpture in the center ring.

She stands, her chair legs squeaking across the hardwood floor. In her ragged graphic tee and worn-and-torn jeans, she looks like a perfect thrift-store match for her starving-artist boyfriend. She does
not
, however, look like Immaculate Heart alumnae material. Nor does she sound like one.

“There should be a vote,” she whines. “It's not official unless there is an accounted vote.”

We have a brief stare-down across the conference table. After the weekend I've had, I'm in no mood for a debate. My patience meter is at zero. Time to end this patronize-the-arts campaign once and for all.

“Fine,” I say, turning my attention to the rest of the committee. “Veronica proposes we have a hideous melting ice sculpture of a dragon—”

“Greer,” she complains.

“—on the buffet table. All in favor.”

If the other committee members know what's good for their social standing, they will read the correct answer in my piercing silver glare.

Only Veronica raises her hand.

“All opposed.”

Every hand in the room—except Veronica's—shoots up.

“The matter is decided.”

“But—”

“This meeting is over.” I gather my paperwork into the Alumnae Tea binder. “We will meet here again next Monday at the same time, for our final planning session before the tea on Saturday.”

Veronica, I'm sure, is ready to explode. I could care. Actually, I couldn't. Let her explode, preferably somewhere brilliantly public and reputation damaging.

Sliding the binder into my grass-green Coach satchel, I turn and walk from the room before she starts begging or crying or some embarrassing combination of the two.

“Hey Greer,” Annalise calls out, jogging to catch up with me. “Rory and I are going to drive down to Santa Cruz for the afternoon. Want to come?”

Normally, I would relish the chance to head down the coast and spend a few hours on the sand. Just me, my friends, a giant towel, and generous amounts of high-SPF sunscreen. But today my mind is racing too much to relax. I would be terrible company. I should really be alone.

“Not today,” I say. “I have a ten-page report for Huffington due tomorrow.”

It's not a fib. Only I left out the part where I've had the paper finished since last weekend. A little lie of omission is a small price to pay for the solo time I need at the moment.

“Okay,” she says with a bright grin. “Next time.”

“Definitely,” I say, as she hurries down the hall.

As I slowly make my way through the empty school to the main entrance, the only person I see is the janitor, quietly mopping scuffs and dirt off the tile floor. Everyone else has vanished.

As I pass by, I turn to nod. Only I don't see Harold, our kindly school janitor. Instead, I see a giant spider, rubbing the mop back and forth across the tile.

It takes the last little bits of my control to not freak out completely and run screaming from the building. What, did the spider eat Harold and take over his job, so no one will know? Harold's been at Immaculate Heart for decades. Everyone loves him. He's an integral part of the school. How dare that . . .
thing
eat Harold.

I will not just stand by and let the spider monster get away with this tragedy. I'm not certain what I can do, but I have to do something.

“Good night, Miss Greer,” the spider says as I start marching in its direction. “You be careful of that wet tile there.”

I jerk back.

Harold? The spider
is
Harold? Harold is the spider? What—? How—? I don't think my brain can handle this information. Insanity overload.

I mumble a quick good-bye and burst out into the open air.

What is happening to my carefully constructed world? A week ago, everything was perfect. Simple. Understandable. I was simply Greer Morgenthal, daughter of Elliot and Helen Morgenthal, most popular girl in the junior class, if not the entire school, and girlfriend of the most popular boy at St. Stephen. Future CEO, Junior Leaguer, and—if my plans work out right—first female president. Now, suddenly, I'm adopted, I have triplet sisters, and I see mythological monsters around
every
single corner!

I think my brain is imploding.

Without thinking about where I'm going, I walk right past the bus stop and head toward Fillmore, to the one place that always makes me feel in control of my world.

Before I know it, I'm pushing open the door and a tiny bell is tinkling to announce my presence. I collapse into one of the four hot-pink armchairs in the center of the space. As my satchel hits the floor, Kelly Anne emerges from the back room, a beaming smile on her face.

“Greer,” she squeals with delight. “Darling, it's been weeks.”

“I know,” I reply, welcoming her hug as she leans down to give me a quick squeeze. “I've been busy.”

She laughs. “I was beginning to think you joined Shoe-aholics Anonymous.”

“Never.” I smile, a real and true smile.

At least some things remain the same.

“What can I show you today?” she asks, swinging her arm in a broad gesture at the walls of shoes lining either side of the shop.

“I need a new strappy date shoe,” I explain. “One of my silver Jimmy Choos—” Well, I can't exactly tell her it got lost in the Bay when a giant serpent creature tried to drown me. Not unless I want a one-way ticket to the psychiatric ward. “It's beyond repair.”

Kelly Anne gasps. Shoes are her life, and telling her that one is damaged is like telling someone you ran over their dog. Only with more tears.

Before she starts crying, I say, “I'm feeling colorful today.”

She nods, swallowing her grief. “I have just the thing.”

She slips into the back and I sink against the chair. With my eyes closed and new shoes on the way, I almost feel back to normal. What I need to do is will the monsters away. I'm a strong believer in mind over matter. Surely, if I focus my willpower on the issue, I can make the monsters disappear back into my subconscious.

I kick off my Ralph Lauren espadrilles, wiggling my toes against the plush white rug, and harness my mental powers. Fall will begin officially in a few days and I'll have to put my warm-weather wardrobe away. But for now, I'm holding on to the last bit of summer. And my last bit of sanity.

Soon, schoolwork and extracurriculars and other responsibilities will overwhelm me on a daily basis. I'll have limited time for shoe shopping, let alone more important things. Like Kyle.

The other night, when I bailed on him, he bought the phoned-in “I got marinara sauce on my top” excuse and was totally understanding. Or uncaring, I can never really tell with Kyle. Still, he was a good sport. Now I owe him.

Pulling out my cell, I call Kyle's number. He answers on the fourth ring.

“Babe,” he says with an exaggerated drawl. “What's up?”

I cringe, then release the tension. I don't need to allow any more stress right now. “Hello, Kyle,” I say politely. “Would you like to come over tonight?”

“Abso-righteous-lutely.” He laughs at his made up slang. “What time?”

I ignore his display of idiocy.

“I'm doing a little shoe shopping right now, but I'll be home soon,” I answer. “Come over anytime.”

“Right on.”

I'm about to hang up, to sink into the bliss of shoe shopping and pretend surfer-boy isn't in prime form tonight.

“Greer,” he says, dropping the overwrought-dude act. “You okay?”

“Yes,” I answer, closing my eyes and leaning my head back against the chair. “It's been a stressful few days.”

Saying that makes a little of the tension ease from my neck. Nothing can make it go away altogether, but every tiny bit helps.

“I'll bring my magic hands,” Kyle says. “That stress will be history by the time I leave.”

I grin. A massage would be—

“
If
I leave,” he adds, with a suggestive undertone.

Did he have to ruin the moment? Well, I won't let him. I need him tonight. And maybe . . . Maybe . . .

“Kyle, honey,” I say, in my sweetest tone. “Bring some strawberries.”

I hang up before he says something that changes my mind. After all the ridiculous things that have happened in the last few days, taking the next, not-quite-all-the-way-but-pretty-close step in our relationship might be precisely the memory eraser I need.

“Here we go,” Kelly Anne says, emerging through the curtain with a trio of shoe boxes in her hands.

She sets two of them down, opens the third, and pulls out all the stuffing to reveal a high-heeled strappy sandal in a brilliant shade of dark lime green.

“It's beautiful.” I take the shoe and run my fingertips over the satin straps.

“Try it on,” she instructs. “It feels divine.”

She holds out her own foot to show me that she's wearing the same shoe in bright purple.

The bell above the door tinkles. Kelly Anne goes to greet the new customer as I unbuckle the ankle strap and slide my foot into the shoe. She's right, it does feel divine. I quickly step into the other one.

“Let me go grab that for you,” Kelly Anne tells the new customer. She rushes by me, asking, “Don't you love them?” as she goes.

“They're gorgeous,” the new customer comments, with a weird click in her voice. “Are they comfortable?”

I glance up, ready to say, “Yes, quite.” But I freeze when, instead of a fellow shoe-shopping woman, I see a woman's body with the head of raven.

She twists her feathered head to the side, studying me.