Vicious Little Darlings (2 page)

2

S
ebastian drives a tricked-out Porsche SUV, metallic black with a red and gray leather interior. He's just finished explaining to me the car's various features: twenty-four-carat-gold cup holders, wood imported from the Ivory Coast, cable TV, and custom massaging suede seats. It's an obnoxious car, disgustingly ostentatious, the kind of car you'd expect Snoop Dogg to drive. I'm tempted to say this out loud, but Sebastian would probably take it as a compliment, and the last thing I want is to pay him a compliment, so I quietly lean back into my vibrating seat. I hate to admit it, but the shiatsu action does feel pretty good.

Sebastian turns to Maddy, who's riding shotgun. “
¿Dónde es la restauranto?
” he says in a wannabe-Spanish accent.

Maddy laughs. “Sweetie, it's,
Dónde está el restaurante
.”

“Oh, yeah.” He playfully slaps his forehead.

“It's next to the movie theater, remember? We drove by it earlier today.” Maddy turns around and rolls her eyes at me. “Sebastian wants to major in Spanish.”

Stupidly, I ask, “Are you Spanish?”

“No,
señorita,
” he says, chuckling. “I'm three-quarters English, two-thirds French, and one-eighth Dutch. Or something like that.”

I can't do the calculations—at least not without a pen and paper—but I
do
know that all those fractions add up to more than one person. It's a good thing Sebastian is not majoring in math. But how the hell did he get into Cornell?

He looks in the rearview mirror. We make eye contact. “You know why I'm majoring in Spanish?”

“Why?” I smile into the mirror.

“Well, I got this boat—a real beauty—and next summer I'm going to sail it to Spain. Maddy's coming with me. Right, babe?”

“I'm not sure yet, sweetie,” Maddy says. “You have to learn how to sail first.”

“Anyway,” Sebastian continues, “I figured it'd be useful to learn Spanish for when I go there, even though everybody speaks English nowadays. And then I thought, since I'm gonna be studying Spanish for a whole year, I might as well major in it too.”

I nod politely, though I think Sebastian is an idiot, and I almost lose it when I catch him winking at his own reflection in the rearview mirror.

Maddy leans toward him and begins to stroke his arm. I feel a twinge of jealousy, which is a real surprise to me since I've never liked boneheads. But despite how annoying Sebastian is, I can't deny that I have this uncontrollable urge to run my fingers through his hair. I can even imagine how it would feel—thick, soft, slightly damp. And what would it be like to kiss him? Warm. Warm and rough.

But I shouldn't be thinking about stuff like this. Sebastian is Maddy's boyfriend, not mine.

He plugs his iPod into the car stereo. Josh Groban. Singing in Italian. Kill me now. Sebastian starts singing along, and he's got this blissful look on his face. “I love Spanish music,” he says.

This is Italian
, I want to say. But I can't because now I'm perversely intrigued by Sebastian. Yes, he's cheesy, but he's cheesy in such a fresh, weird way. I think I'm in love.

Or not.

Sebastian drops us off two blocks from the restaurant; it's easier for him to get on the highway. He's quite the gentleman.

“Nice meeting you,” I say, and jump out of the car before he can respond.

It takes Maddy another five minutes to extricate herself from the pimpmobile. As I'm standing outside, the car windows start to fog up. When Maddy finally opens her door, she's got bed hair and an embarrassed look on her face. Before she can step out of the car, Sebastian leans over and licks her face—is he trying to be a dog or a Neanderthal?—and Maddy's embarrassment quickly turns to annoyance. Even I'm annoyed just having to
watch
this.

Maddy climbs out of the car, eyes lowered, face pink.

“Love you, babe,” says Sebastian. “You're my girl.” He blows her a kiss.

“Love you too,” Maddy says, shutting the door.

We hear a muffled “
¡Adiós, chicas!
” before the car screeches away from the curb.

Maddy smooths down her hair with one hand and wipes her cheek with the back of the other. “Sorry about that.”

“
No problemo
,” I say in a mock Spanish accent, instantly regretting it.

After an awkward silence, Maddy lets out a tiny laugh. “You're funny,” she says, and we begin our walk toward civilization.

She tells me that the town of Wetherly is basically this one long, dull street. Beyond it, the roads lead to forestland and open space. Depressing. We pass a used bookstore, a tea shop, an ice cream parlor, and several restaurants, all of which appear to be closed. When we finally arrive at Antonio's, I'm not exactly shocked to find it closed as well.

“Shoot,” Maddy says, “it's Sunday.”

“So?” Through the restaurant window I see a ceiling-high wine rack and pillar-candle chandeliers.

“Town closes on Sundays.”

My stomach growls. “All of it?”

“Most of it. Anyway, don't worry, I'm sure we'll find a place,” Maddy says. “Let's keep walking. I think I see something up ahead. See that blue light?”

I nod, and we walk toward the light.

It hits me that I haven't seen a single guy since Sebastian. I know Wetherly is a women's college, but does that mean the town is all-female as well? Because I don't think I could survive in a place where there aren't any men. I've never even had any female friends. I usually try to avoid girls because I'm afraid of them. When guys are mad at each other, they duke it out and then forget about it, but when a girl is mad at you, she'll ruin your life. That's exactly what happened to me when Brad Taylor's frigid and super-popular girlfriend, Sophie, found out I'd slept with him. She and her girl posse stole my backpack, egged Nana's Oldsmobile, and smeared dog shit on our front door. They terrorized me until I stopped going to school. Luckily, Nana was oblivious to my ditching, and my teachers just thought I had premature senioritis.

We stop in front of a pub where a man (finally!) in jeans and a black leather jacket is guarding the door. He's bald and muscular, and he lets us in without checking our IDs.

Inside, the place is packed. Maddy slides into a round red-leather booth, and I scooch in next to her. It's dark, the room lit by just a handful of tiny red lanterns. The air is clammy and smells a lot like feet.

I spot a few guys. A couple of them are cute. Then again, everyone looks cute from afar. There's one guy in particular who catches my eye. He's baby faced and a little on the short side, and he's standing in the corner clutching a beer. He's got an adorable button nose like River Phoenix's—which is great for me because I love River Phoenix. He may be dead but he's still hot, I always say. I first fell for River a few years ago when I saw him in
The Mosquito Coast
, which just happened to be on TV that day. It was fate. I loved everything about him: his dirty-blond hair, his blue eyes, his pouty lips, even his name. I mean, how great is a name like River? It's grand and sexy. River and I, we'd make the perfect couple. If he weren't dead, that is.

No matter. I still carry a picture of him in my wallet: a tiny, black-and-white glossy I cut out of
Entertainment Weekly
. It's an intense portrait: tight and very noir. His hair is slicked back, and there are these huge shadows around his eyes so you can't really tell if he's looking at you. God, I wish he were still alive.

Back to the cute guy in the corner. He has honey-colored hair and he's wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt with a regular T-shirt over it. Since I'm feeling kind of brave, I think I'll go talk to him.

As far as I'm concerned, there are two ways to get a guy to like you: act dumb or be slutty. If you do a combination of the two, the guy will practically fall in love with you. Sad but true. I usually opt for slutty because I hate acting dumb, and I would never do both because I don't want anyone to fall in love with me. I've never been in love before, but my parents were supposedly in love once, and the last thing I want is to end up like them: divorced and miserable. Plus, I really don't want some guy calling me twenty times a day. Or licking my face.

I glance back at the River look-alike. He's still standing in the corner. And he's still cute. Unfortunately, he seems to be checking out some girl at the bar. But here's the bigger problem: he has breasts. Not man boobs,
breasts
. River Jr. is a
girl
! I can't believe I didn't realize this earlier. It's dark in here, but still.

“I'll be right back,” I say to Maddy, and hurry to the restroom, where I rinse my eyes out with cold water.
Much better.

When I return to the table, I find Maddy sandwiched between two rough-looking guys. One has a greasy ponytail, and the other has a shaved head and a pockmarked face.

“Hi,” I say, standing in front of the booth.

“Hey, Sarah,” Maddy says. “So, the bad news is they don't serve food here, but the good news is that Bobby and Joe bought us some drinks.”

Bobby and Joe smile at me.

“Great. Thanks,” I say, although it appears that Joe, the one with the shaved head, has already chugged down the drink he bought me.

“Sit,” Bobby orders. I don't know where he expects me to sit since he and his friend have taken up the entire booth, so I snatch a chair from a neighboring table and plop down at the end. Bobby is sitting very close to Maddy, staring at her lips while his tongue darts in and out of his mouth, lizardlike. Maddy, looking uncomfortable, turns away from him, but he counters by grabbing her hand, which she jerks away. Bobby snickers at Joe.

A few seconds later, Bobby begins to stroke Maddy's hair. I should probably be feeling pretty scared right now, but instead I'm just pissed. Can't Bobby tell that Maddy isn't interested? She's trembling, for God's sake. And what right does he have to touch her?

I take a deep breath and try to calm down, but it's useless. When I'm mad, it's like I'm possessed; I never know what I'm going to say or do. The
nerve
of this guy for even thinking he has a chance with Maddy. Where does his deluded sense of confidence come from?

“Hey.” I wave at Bobby to get his attention. “Maddy has a boyfriend, so maybe you should go hit on someone else.”

He withdraws his hand from Maddy's hair and looks at me. “Do
you
have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Well, I'd give you a shot, but I'm not into scrawny chicks.” He laughs hard, pounding the table with his fist.

Joe lets out a guffaw.

“That's okay,” I say. “I prefer guys with brains anyway.”

Bobby stops laughing. His chest begins to heave and his biceps appear to be flexing of their own accord. Now I'm a little scared. I wait for him to say something.

A whole minute passes before he says, “Care to repeat that?”

Still possessed, I say, “I think you heard me the first time.”

His nostrils flare. “I know what your problem is, sweetheart. You've never been with a
real
man.”

A bead of sweat trickles down my back. “Actually, I have.”

“Yeah? Why don't you tell me about it?”

“It's none of your business.” I glance at Maddy, who has turned an unnatural shade of pale.

Bobby looks at Maddy and then back at me. “Tell you what, tough girl, I'll make you a deal. You tell me about the last time you spent the night with a real man, and I'll leave you and your friend alone. Okay?”

Or we could just walk out of here.
Unfortunately, Maddy is wedged between these two yahoos.

Sensing my fear, Bobby smirks. “Well?” He turns and makes a kissy face at Maddy.

Out of nowhere, a small, bony hand reaches forward and grabs Bobby by the ponytail. His head jerks back. “What the fuck?” he yelps.

Standing next to me is a short, anorexic, homely-looking girl with a dark brown bob and a death grip on Bobby. She leans in close to Bobby's face and whispers something in his ear, and then, surprisingly, Bobby gets up and leaves with Joe trailing closely behind.

“How did you know we were here?” Maddy asks the girl with the bob.

“You weren't picking up your cell, so I called Sebastian,” the girl says.

Maddy slides out of the booth. “But I told Sebastian we were going to Antonio's.”

“It was closed. I drove around until I found this place. Come on. Let's get out of here.”

I follow the two of them outside, where Maddy introduces me to her friend Agnes Pierce. Although I'm grateful to Agnes for sort of having saved my life, I instantly know that I'm not going to like this girl. There's just something about her. She's got small, hateful blue eyes and an unnervingly steady gaze. Her lips are thin and unsmiling, her cheekbones sharp, and she's wearing the strangest outfit for a girl our age: a boxy, baby-blue cashmere sweater set, cream-colored pants, and pearls. From the crook of her elbow hangs a quilted ivory Chanel bag. She looks like she could be her own mother.

“We should go,” Agnes says.

Her black Mercedes sedan is parked right in front of the bar. I reluctantly climb into the backseat, which feels like a coffin: chilly and airless.

“I know a place,” Agnes says, starting the car. She turns on the stereo, blasting classical as though it were gangsta rap.

I once read that listening to classical music was supposed to make you smarter. This was when I was still in high school, about a month before I had to take the SATs, so naturally I was curious about the theory. Every day for a week, I listened to those old guys: Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Tchaikovsky—but by the end of the week I didn't feel at all smarter. And then I started thinking, why do I want to be smarter? Smart people are never happy, and since I'm already depressed, classical music could have serious repercussions for me. What if I were to end up in a bloody tub one day all because of Brahms? So, I no longer listen to classical music. Unless it's forced upon me, like right now.