Vicious Little Darlings (21 page)

28

O
n Wednesday, Dr. Shelby comes to the door wearing a gas mask.

“Flu season,” he explains in a warbled voice.

I guess a regular surgical mask just wouldn't cut it. But I'm used to all of Dr. Shelby's eccentricities by now.

“I have three loads for you today,” he says excitedly.

He leads me into the kitchen, where I wash my hands, put on a pair of gloves, and start loading the dishwasher. I feel his beady eyes creep up my back and down my thighs. I remind myself that I'm getting paid twenty dollars an hour to tolerate this.

The phone rings, and Dr. Shelby disappears into his office.

When I finish loading the dishwasher, I go into the living room and crack open my microeconomics textbook. I got a D on my midterm and I'm afraid I'm going to fail the class. I flip to page one: the law of supply and demand. Something I happen to know a lot about, living with Maddy and Agnes. The more available I make myself to them, the less they want my friendship. From now on, I should limit their time with me—be mysteriously absent once in a while—and see if it increases their demand for me.

As I contemplate this, Dr. Shelby appears in the doorway, still wearing his gas mask.

“I'm letting you go,” he says.

“What?” I say, caught off guard.

“Please leave.”

“Did I do something wrong?” I ask. “Did I mix the plastics with the metals again?”

“No, but your services are no longer required. Please go.”

“But—”

“You're fired,” he insists.

I throw up my hands. “Whatever.” I grab my book and backpack and get up to leave. Dr. Shelby springs to the front door. As I walk toward him, I take a good hard look at his freaky face, which I'll never have to see again. He hands me a white envelope, and I take it and walk out the door.

“Sarah?”

I stop, but don't turn around.

“Choose abstinence.”

What a freak. I continue walking.
Choose abstinence?
From what? Sex, drugs, or alcohol? Or does he want me to be like him and abstain from life?

When I get to the end of the block, I open the envelope. Three hundred dollars. Not bad for ten minutes of work. I decide to reward myself with a slice of pizza from the pizzeria next to the mail center, so I head toward Lemon Street.

Inside my mailbox is a letter from Nana. Strangely, the envelope is typed and looks like it was done on a typewriter. Why so official? More important, when did Nana acquire a typewriter? I shove the letter into my backpack. As I'm walking out, I spot a girl from my econ class, and it occurs to me that I could ask to borrow her notes. She might say no—people are pretty cutthroat here—but it wouldn't hurt to ask. And it sure beats my other option, which is to fail economics.

The girl has Bettie Page bangs and a high, tight ponytail.

I clear my throat. “Bettie?”

“Betsey,” she corrects me.

“Right. Betsey.” I don't tell her I got temporarily confused by her bangs. “I'm Sarah. I'm in your econ class.”

“Micro or macro?”

“Micro.”

She stares hard at my face. “I don't think I've seen you in class before.”

“Yeah, I've missed a lot of classes. I was actually wondering if I could borrow your notes.”

She looks me up and down—at my hands and my cargo pants and my dirty combat boots—as though trying to assess whether I'm worthy of her precious notes.

“I don't usually lend them out, but I guess it would be okay as long as you returned them to me within an hour. I don't like to be without them for too long. You can photocopy them.”

“Thanks. I'll be quick.”

“Well, I don't have them with me. They're in my room and I won't be home till six.” She pauses, then smiles. “Why don't you come to my house for dinner?”

Why is she being so nice all of sudden? Actually, who cares? I need those notes. “Sure,” I say. “That sounds great.”

“I live in Tyler, right next to Bass Hall.” She wiggles three fingers at me and glides out of the mail center.

And then I realize what I've just agreed to: dinner in a dorm. Being in a dorm again will be awkward. For a moment, I consider not going, but the fear of failing economics urges me on.

At the pizza place, I buy a large Diet Coke and skip the pizza. I sit down and tear open Nana's letter. Inside, wrapped in a sheet of lined notebook paper, is a round-trip ticket to LA. Unbelievable. There is no enclosed letter, no card, not even a Post-it—but Nana actually
wants
me to come home. Did she and Howie break up? I can't stop smiling. I never thought I'd be looking forward to seeing her, but I am. The day after finals, I'll be back in California.

Of course, thinking about going home also makes me miss Reed. For a moment, I consider inviting him to Nana's for Christmas. He'd probably think I was nuts. But he invited me to his house for Thanksgiving, so why not reciprocate? It's the polite thing to do. And who knows? Maybe we'd have a better shot in California, without Maddy's interference.

I decide to call Reed before I lose my nerve. I take my phone out of my backpack and call his cell. It rings a few times and then I hear a recording: “I'm sorry. The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and try your call again.” I call his home phone and get the same recording.

He changed his numbers? Not because of me? Without thinking, I send him an e-mail from my phone. I type:
How are you?
But I don't expect a response. I want to cry but I'm too stunned. I think of his sandpapery Adam's apple; his dark eyes; his pale, pale skin. His beautiful, grotesque drawings and his apartment, which always smelled of turpentine. He was my first real boyfriend and I'm not ready to let go.

But I guess I have no choice. It's really over now.

At six o'clock, I arrive at Tyler House. I take a deep breath before ringing the doorbell.

A girl with pigtails lets me in. She telephones up to Betsey's room and, a minute later, Betsey trots downstairs swinging her big ponytail from side to side. Together we walk into the crowded dining hall. We fill our plates with lasagna, garlic bread, and salad. I can already imagine what the food will taste like, and I know it will pale in comparison to Agnes's cooking. Betsey grabs a stack of chocolate chip cookies leftover from lunch and we scan the dining room. Since there are no empty tables, she suggests eating in her room.

I follow her out of the dining hall and up to the third floor, which smells like a locker room. At first I'm relieved to be out of the claustrophobic dining room, but then I experience a different kind of anxiety: eating in Betsey's room will be uncomfortable. I feel so removed from dorm life. How will I explain my bizarre living situation? How will I ward off Betsey's questions?

Her room is typical, with Matisse and Dalí posters on the walls and empty Coke cans adorning the windowsill. One of the beds is unmade, and its burgundy sheets look a little dirty. I get a sudden flashback of life at Haven House: music blasting from across the hall, the communal bathrooms, the disgusting hairballs. I can't imagine moving back there.

We sit down on Betsey's purple chenille rug.

“Much better. It gets so loud in there sometimes,” Betsey says. “Which house do you live in?”

“I live off campus.”

“That's cool. Do you live alone?”

“No, I live with two other girls.”

“Do they go to Wetherly?”

“Yeah, but you probably don't know them.”

“What are their names?”

Excuse me, but is this an interrogation?
I think Betsey just broke some kind of record: four questions in less than two seconds.

I force a smile and say, “Agnes Pierce and Madison Snow.”

“You're kidding.”

I raise an eyebrow. “No. Why?”

“Well, everyone knows them—or at least knows
of
them.”

“Really?” I wonder if it's because they're wealthy. I bite into a cherry tomato and the seeds go squirting out of my mouth. To my horror, they land on Betsey's arm. “Oh my God. I'm so sorry.”

Betsey stares at her arm. My eyes dart frantically around the room, searching for a paper towel or a box of tissues.

“Sorry,” I say again.

“Don't worry about it.” She reaches under her bed, pulls out a roll of toilet paper, and wipes her arm. “Actually, I've seen you on campus with Agnes and Madison. I wasn't sure it was you, but now you just confirmed it. So … what's it like living with them?”

I shrug. “Pretty normal, I guess.” So that's why Betsey invited me over; she wanted to grill me about Maddy and Agnes.

She grins at me. “But aren't they sort of … odd?”

“No,” I lie, feeling suddenly protective of them. Then, out of curiosity, I ask, “What do you mean by
odd
?”

“I heard they were like Siamese twins—you never see one without the other. Supposedly they're so close they can communicate telepathically.”

Betsey looks like she's waiting for a response, so I laugh and say, “I think I've heard them talk once or twice.”

She doesn't laugh, and her expression is heavy. “I heard that Madison tried to kill herself once.”

I nearly choke on my garlic bread. “What?”

“Yeah. Supposedly she's pretty screwed up. She took a bunch of sleeping pills. I guess they found her in time and pumped her stomach.”

Shrugging, I say, “I never knew that.”

“But you do know that Agnes is very controlling of Madison.”

I try to hide my surprise at the statement. “I haven't really noticed,” I lie.

“Well,” she says, still chewing, “one time Agnes flew into a jealous rage when she caught Madison talking to some girl in her class.”

“I'm sure that's not true—”

“No, this girl in my house—Susie Rosenberg—she saw the whole thing. She said Agnes went ballistic. She grabbed Madison by the hair and called her a slut in front of everybody. No one could believe it. So much drama, you know? I mean, hello, we're in college, not junior high. Besides, poor Madison is mentally ill. You'd think Agnes would be gentler with her.” Betsey gives me a curious look. “You really haven't witnessed any of this stuff at home?”

“No,” I say, averting my eyes.

“You're not that close to them, then?”

“Not really.”

“You should probably keep it that way. At least, don't get too close to Madison. Agnes might come after you.”

A nervous laugh escapes me.

“I'm not joking.”

“When did that incident happen?” I ask.

She shrugs. “A month ago, maybe.”

“That doesn't sound like Agnes. She doesn't even use words like
slut
.”

“You're right. She didn't call her a slut. She called her something else, something more subtle. I can't remember what it was …” Betsey tears off a piece of garlic bread and shoves it into her mouth. “
Coquette
!” she exclaims, mouth full. “She called her a coquette.”

I don't know what to say. Despite Agnes's jealousy, it's hard to believe she would fly into a rage in public. She's too proud, too controlled. Besides, why would she react so insanely to something as harmless as Maddy talking to another girl in class? I can understand why Agnes thinks
I'm
a threat, but not some random stranger.

And yet, the word
coquette
does lend Betsey's story some credibility. It's exactly the kind of funny word Agnes would use. Her kind of insult. But if the story is true, Maddy would have been mortified and definitely would have told me about it, right? Then again, she didn't tell me about her most recent argument with Agnes.

I don't know what to think anymore. Who are these people, my so-called best friends? Do I even know them?

29

W
hen I get home from Betsey's, the house is dark and Maddy and Agnes are MIA. So much for my supply and demand experiment; they didn't call me once today. On the counter there's a note written in Maddy's hand:

S,

We went to see a movie. Back late.

M & A

After what Betsey told me tonight, I'm relieved they're not home.

At eleven thirty, when I'm lying in bed awake, I hear the front door click open. Maddy and Agnes's muffled voices float up the stairs.

“I won't do it,” says Agnes.

“You owe me after what you pulled tonight,” Maddy says in an agitated tone.

After a long pause, Agnes says, “I didn't do anything. I'm sorry you misunderstood.”

“So, you're saying I'm stupid now?” Maddy shrills.

“Lower your voice.” Another pause. “Of course I'm not saying that.”

“You send mixed messages.”

Silence.

Maddy says, “A true friend would help me.”

“What you're asking is absurd. It's inconceivable. I can't, M. The answer is still no.”

“Fine. Forget it. I'll never bring it up again.”

“Try to understand.”

“Don't touch me!”

“I'm sorry.”

Maddy says, “Just leave me alone.” She comes up the stairs. Her feet shuffle outside my door and, a moment later, a slow, deliberate knock penetrates the stillness of my room.

“Sarah?” she whispers. “Are you awake?”

Though I'm intrigued by the snippet of conversation I just heard, I don't want to deal with suicidal Maddy right now, so I ignore her. Eventually she goes away.

It's the middle of the night when I wake to a light tapping on my shoulder.

“Sarah.”

I turn toward the voice and find Maddy sitting in my bed, eyes flickering in the dark.

“Help me,” she whispers. She's trembling.

“What happened? Did you have a nightmare?”

She shakes her head.

I reach for the switch on my bedside lamp, but Maddy grabs my arm. “No! She'll see the light.”

“What's going on?” I sit up, now fully awake.

She curls up into a ball, resting her chin on her kneecaps. “We didn't go to a movie tonight. We went to the Wetherly Inn.” Her voice quavers for a moment and then she regains control. “Agnes said she wanted to talk. She's been really aggressive about our friendship lately, demanding more and more of me, making me promise that we'll be best friends forever. When we got to the hotel, she told me she had booked a room. She said it'd be quieter up there than in the dining room, so I said fine and we went up to the fourth floor. When she opened the door to the suite, I knew something was up.” Maddy makes a face. “There were flower petals on the bed, chocolate-covered strawberries on the nightstand … I asked Agnes what she thought she was doing. She just smiled and told me to check out the bathroom. So I did, and there was a Jacuzzi tub filled with warm water and more flower petals. Again, I asked her what she thought she was doing, and she smiled and told me it was
for us
.”

My head starts to throb.

“She wanted us to take a bath together. I told her I thought it was inappropriate and that I wanted to go home. But she got so angry she started punching the wall. I told her to stop, but she said she wouldn't unless I agreed to stay a little while longer. I had no choice—she's the one who drove—so I said okay, and I sat down on the bed and ate a chocolate-covered strawberry.”

I scratch my head and wonder if Agnes is having a breakdown.

“After she cooled off,” says Maddy, “she offered me a glass of champagne. When I refused to drink it, she threw the glass against the wall. Then she went into the bathroom and drained the tub. When she came back, she sat down on the opposite side of the bed, not saying anything for a while, and then out of nowhere she pushed me down on the bed and …” Maddy swallows.

“What?”

“She … she … forced herself on me.”

For a moment I can't speak. Agnes forced herself on Maddy? What does that mean exactly? I want to ask Maddy but when I turn toward her, I see that her face is broken, gray, sapped. I can almost see the energy trickling out of her, so I tell myself the details aren't important.

Clutching Maddy's limp hand, I ask, “Did she hurt you? I mean, physically?”

“I'm okay.” She turns away and begins to sob.

“I … I just can't believe it,” I stammer.

“Me neither.” She covers her face. “I feel so dirty and disgusting. And ashamed. Afterward, she kept apologizing, but it was too late. She said she didn't know what came over her, that she loves me so much it's literally driving her insane. She even broke down and cried—it was the first time I'd ever seen her cry. I just don't understand anything anymore, Sarah. If she really loves me, why would she do something like that?”

“I don't know. Maybe she's having a mental breakdown.”

Who
is
Agnes, anyway? I don't doubt that there's a dangerous, unstable side to her—a side that apparently even Betsey knows about—but is Agnes really capable of rape? Is rape what Maddy is accusing Agnes of? It just doesn't sound right. And yet Maddy can't be lying. Who, other than a complete sociopath, would lie about something like this? Maddy is troubled, and maybe she really did attempt suicide once, but deep down she's not a bad person. I know this. It's intuition. Or faith. She might not have the best track record for truth telling, but she is genuinely upset right now—that much I can see—and she's not such a magnificent actress that she'd be able to fake this.

I put my arm around Maddy's shoulder and hug her while she cries some more.

After a long silence, I ask, “What are you going to do?”

She pulls away. “What do you mean? There's nothing I
can
do.”

“You can report her.”

Maddy wipes her eyes on her sleeve. “No! She's my oldest friend. I could never do that. Besides, I feel sorry for her.”

“She
raped
you. That's what you're saying, isn't it, Maddy?”

“Yes. But I can't report her. Then
I'd
be humiliated.” She pauses. “Things would be different if I were attracted to her, but I'm not. I'm not gay, and even if I were, I'd never want to have sex with
her
; she's like my
sister.
It's sick! She thinks that just because I'm a virgin—well, not after tonight, I guess—but just because of that, she thinks there's a chance I'm a closet lesbian.”

“But you're not a virgin,” I remind her. “You lost your virginity to Brian.”

She covers her face with her hands. “No, actually, that was a lie. I made the whole thing up because I wanted to impress you. I wanted you to think I was experienced and worldly like you, not the boring old virgin that I am—or
was
. I was going to tell you the truth eventually, but I guess I forgot.” She looks at me. “I'm not like you, Sarah. You're special. You've got something … something that makes people gravitate toward you. Sebastian saw it. Reed saw it. And I see it.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“And that makes you even more charming.”

Charming? Me?

She chews on her pinkie nail. “I'm scared, Sarah. I think the psychic's predictions are coming true. I don't know what Agnes is going to do next. She's dangerous. Something bad is going to happen; I can feel it.”

“Don't say that.”

“It's true. Agnes is going to kill me. She'd rather see me dead than with someone else.”

“You have to report her—”

“I can't!”

“Then you have to stop being friends with her.”

She inhales. “If only it were that easy. She'll never let me go.”

And I know she's right. Agnes is the exact definition of relentless. She'd never give up on Maddy. Maddy is her life.

“Sarah,” Maddy says, staring into the wall, “what if she … attacks me again?”

Before I can shake my head, Maddy murmurs, “You don't know her like I do. She has this other side. A dangerous, sexual side.”

“Then why did she tell me she was asexual?” I say.

“She likes to think she is, but she's not. She thinks she's superior, superhuman, beyond the flesh. But she's just repressed.” Maddy turns to me and clenches her jaw. There's fear in her eyes. “Rape isn't about sex, anyway, right?” she says. “Agnes was trying to show me who's boss. She sensed me pulling away and this was her way of telling me she's never going to let me go.”

My chest tightens. “Do you want me to talk to her?”

“No! Promise me you won't say anything, Sarah. Please. I'll figure something out. But, for now, let's try and get some sleep.”

“Who can sleep?”

“We have to try. Let's talk tomorrow. Meet me at Norton Center at noon.” She leans over and kisses my cheek. “I love you, Sarah Bear. You're my one true best friend.”

I say nothing and wonder what Agnes would do if she heard that. Die, I conclude, that's what she would do.

After Maddy leaves, sleep is impossible. I replay her story over and over in my mind, and what sounded valid in the moment now sounds outrageous. Agnes isn't a rapist. I may not know her as well as Maddy does, but I know she's no monster. I've never seen Agnes being sexually violent, so doesn't she deserve the benefit of the doubt? She has never lied to me, whereas Maddy has told countless lies. And didn't Betsey say Maddy was screwed up? She doesn't even know Maddy, but apparently that's the rumor. What if this is just another one of Maddy's tricks, like the ketchup incident? What if she really
is
a great actress and this is her performance of a lifetime? Maybe she's trying to get me to hate Agnes. Though if she actually got me to hate Agnes, what could she possibly gain from it?

Then again, Agnes
is
excessively uptight and anal, and people like that eventually snap. In the beginning, I didn't even like Agnes, yet I allowed her to woo me with her money. I practically put myself on a shelf and let her buy me—with the free rent and food and gifts—all the while thinking Maddy was the problem. I blamed Maddy for everything. But maybe Maddy wasn't the problem. Maybe it was Agnes all along.