Vicious Little Darlings (4 page)

There. I feel nothing.

I turn toward Agnes, who's examining her car for damage. There's blood everywhere.

“Agnes, do something!” Maddy wails.

“What do you want me to do?” Agnes says, fingering a tiny dent on the door.

“Anything. You're premed. You of all people should know what to do.” Maddy removes her thin white jacket and covers the fawn with it. The jacket slowly turns scarlet.

The fawn's eyes, I notice, are liquid, desperate—a little like Maddy's.

“She's in so much pain,” Maddy whimpers. “We have to take her to a hospital.”

“Can't do that. They'll send us home,” Agnes says. “I doubt it has health insurance.”

“That's not funny,” says Maddy.

“I'm just saying hospitals don't admit venison as patients,” Agnes says, suppressing a smile. “Besides, I don't think this deer is going to make it. It's bleeding pretty heavily.”

“What about an animal hospital?” I suggest.

“We're in the boondocks,” snaps Agnes. “There are no animal hospitals here.”

“Well, we can't just leave her here to be eaten by wild animals, can we?” Maddy trembles. “You did this, Agnes. You have to fix it. We can't just abandon her. We can't!” She's practically delirious. She must really love animals.

Agnes goes over to Maddy and pats her on the head, as though Maddy were a small child. It's an odd, slightly condescending gesture.

“Do something,” Maddy whines again, looking up at her.

“Agnes,” I say, “do you have a first-aid kit in your car?”

“Of course.” She pops open the trunk and takes out a large blue box. She then crouches down next to the fawn and expertly bandages its injured leg with a long strip of gauze.

But the fawn continues to bleat.

“I've stopped the bleeding,” Agnes announces. “Now what?”

Suddenly another deer—a much larger one—appears out of the darkness, probably in answer to the fawn's wails. Maddy notices it first and whispers to me, “It's the mother.” Agnes is still hunched over the fawn, her back to the mother deer. The mother deer leaps toward Agnes.

“Watch out!” Maddy screams.

“What?” Agnes turns around. The mother deer, standing two feet away, shrieks angrily at Agnes. Agnes calmly gets up and reaches inside her pocket. As the mother deer inches toward her, Agnes slowly backs away and pulls out her gun. She's going to shoot it?

“No, Agnes, don't hurt her,” Maddy pleads.

“I'm not going to,” Agnes says, annoyed. “God.” She points the pistol in the air and fires it. The sound is so tremendous that my whole body shakes.

The mother deer sprints back into the forest, into the night, and leaves her offspring half-dead on the empty highway. Mothers. Why am I not surprised?

“Let's take her to the house. We can nurse her back to health there,” Maddy says, wiping away tears with the back of her hand. Her T-shirt is soaked with the deer's blood and she's looking a little like Stephen King's Carrie right now.

“They allow pets in the dorm?” I ask.

“No, but you don't mind, do you, Sarah?” Maddy pleads. “She won't bother us and we'll just keep her until she gets better. Then we'll bring her back to the forest.
Please?
”

I don't know what to say. I never had a pet growing up, but who knows? Maybe my childhood would have been more tolerable with a cat or something. Nana claimed to be allergic to anything furry, especially if it moved, but she was just lying to me so I wouldn't bug her about getting a dog. But if she really knew me, she wouldn't have bothered. I never would've asked for a dog—they're too hyper. But fawns are pretty mellow, right?

“Okay,” I say reluctantly. Relief spreads across Maddy's face. Agnes looks to the ground and shakes her head.

What if the fawn has ticks? What if it can't be litter-box trained?

“I'm going to name her Hope,” Maddy says cheerfully. She sweeps the fawn into her arms and carries it to the car.

“Wait,” Agnes says to her, opening the trunk again. She takes out a piece of tarp and drapes it over the backseat. Then she and Maddy maneuver the fawn into the car.

Silently, we drive away.

4

I
t's Sunday night and I'm in my room with Maddy and Agnes. The first two weeks have flown by and I have more or less settled into my life here.

Our room is on the small side, sparsely furnished with identical sets of everything—beds, bureaus, desks, chairs. It's a cozy space, with dark wood floors, a sloping roof, a bay window, and a window seat. Maddy's poster of Monet's “Water Lilies” hangs above our desks, and her red Persian rug fills the space between our beds. What the room really needs is my River Phoenix poster, which is still rolled up in the closet, but I'm not ready to share that side of myself with Maddy and Agnes yet. They might think I'm some kind of deranged fan.

Maddy is sitting cross-legged on the floor, feeding Hope chunks of Brie while flipping through the latest issue of
Vogue
. Agnes, who never sits on the floor unless there's something separating her from it—like a cushion or a textbook—is sitting at Maddy's desk, using her laptop. I'm sitting on the window seat, reading
Us Weekly
and trying hard to ignore Agnes, who's been whining about her roommate, Crystal Buckley, a Texas cheerleader type with long, dirty-blond hair and acrylic nails. The first time I saw Crystal in the hallway, I thought, Wouldn't it be funny if Agnes were forced to share a room with someone like her? Then, when I found out Crystal actually
was
Agnes's roommate, I couldn't help but think I was psychic. I'm pretty intuitive when it comes to stupid things.

“She borrowed my Kelly bag without asking,” Agnes says. “Then she had the nerve to return it to me filthy.”

“Filthy?” I ask.

“There were little specks on the strap.”

“Specks?” I repeat.

“Yes! They were disgusting. I don't know what they were.” Agnes sighs. “I have to move out. I can't bear another minute with that beast.”

Maddy looks up from applying face cream to one of Hope's hooves and says, “Don't you think you're overreacting?”

Agnes just looks at her. “What in God's name are you doing?”

“What?” Maddy asks. “Her paws looked dry.”

“That's Crème de la Mer!” Agnes exclaims. She shakes her head disapprovingly, but she doesn't fool me: her eyes are full of adoration.

“Hope is worth it,” says Maddy. “Aren't you, Hope?” She moons at the deer.

Hope gives Maddy a blank look. I guess fawns only have one expression because I haven't seen Hope look anything but blank since the night we ran her over. Luckily, she's doing a lot better now, but having a pet deer is not much fun. The room is starting to smell like a zoo: dank and strangely fishy, no matter how much Jo Malone Maddy sprays into the air. And since Hope failed our litter-box training session, she basically goes to the bathroom wherever she wants. The odor is so bad I'm surprised our housemates haven't complained yet.

Another annoying thing about Hope is that she likes to walk around the room at night, making it impossible to sleep. As cute as she is, she has horrendous breath, which for some reason she enjoys blowing on me in the middle of the night. I've been fantasizing about a speedy recovery for her so we can take her back to the forest. But I wonder how Maddy will handle it. She and Hope are practically codependent now. Even Agnes is starting to warm up to her, despite her aversion to animals, shyly petting her now and then when she thinks no one's looking. Once I caught her feeding Hope champagne truffles. “What?” she said when I gave her a funny look. “Champagne gives me migraines. I guess my mother forgot about that when she was putting together my care package.” Agnes frowned, fed Hope another truffle, and added, “But at least someone likes them.”

“There,” Maddy says to Hope. “Your paws are properly hydrated now.”

Agnes grins at her. “You mean
hooves
.”

“Oh, right.” Maddy laughs.

Agnes turns back to her laptop and says, “It's good to see you happy, M.”

It's obvious to me now that Agnes is in love with Maddy—she practically coos whenever she speaks to her—but I wonder if Maddy sees it. She'd have to be clueless not to, but if she does, she's definitely not acknowledging it.

“She's so vile,” says Agnes.

“Who?” I ask.

“Crystal. Haven't you been listening to me?” snaps Agnes. It amazes me how fast she can go from zero to bitch.

“If she's so horrible,” I say, “why don't you just shoot her with your gun?” I snort and look over at Maddy, who isn't laughing.

Agnes keeps staring at her computer screen. My joke hangs in the air.

A minute later, Agnes whines, “Maddy, how am I going to get into med school with that bimbo for a roommate? I can't even study in my own room. Did I tell you she sleeps twelve hours a night and can't tolerate any light?”

“You've told us a million times,” I say.

Agnes purses her lips. “I was talking to Maddy. You're just lucky you got Maddy for a roommate and not some freak.”

Agnes is right. Maddy is a great roommate. She's considerate and easy to live with—minus the whole fawn fixation, of course. Her obsession with hair is a little annoying—she trims her split ends with a pair of Winnie the Pooh scissors while talking on the phone to Sebastian—but nobody's perfect. I could have done a lot worse. I could have gotten Agnes.

Maddy rests her face in her hands, a gesture that makes me think of Audrey Hepburn, and says to Agnes, “It'll get better. You just need time to adjust is all.”

“How can I adjust to someone who tweezes her pubic hair in front of me? Why doesn't she have the decency to get waxed in a salon, or at least do it in the bathroom where I don't have to see it? The really abominable part? She doesn't put the tweezed hairs in the wastebasket. She just throws them on the floor, where they get stuck between the floorboards.” Agnes turns red with agitation. “I can't sleep at night knowing those wretched pubic hairs are scattered across our room. It's like she's marking her territory. I have to move out.”

This is the first time I've seen Agnes lose her cool. Obviously she has a bad case of OCD, and in a weird way, that's comforting to know. But I also feel for her. I wouldn't want somebody's pubic hair all over my room either.

“But you can't move out,” I say.

“Why not?” says Agnes.

“First-years aren't allowed to live off-campus.”

“Let's just say the rule doesn't apply to you when the school's expecting a large donation from your parents. I don't think they'd object to my living in Zimbabwe if that's what I wanted.”

I try to picture Agnes in Zimbabwe, dressed in her twinset and pearls, riding an elephant. The image makes me shudder.

Agnes glares at me. “What?”

“Nothing.” I look at Maddy, who's moved on to cuddling with the fawn.

“Oh my,” says Agnes, pointing at her computer screen. “Come and look at this house.”

I get up from the window seat. On-screen is an image of a large white Victorian house that reminds me of the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland.

“This is the one,” Agnes says. “M, come look.”

Maddy untangles herself from the fawn and comes over. “Oh, wow. I like the porch. How many bedrooms does it have?”

“Four. So that's one for each of us, plus an extra room for Hope.”

“You're going to rent this house?” I ask Agnes.

She nods.

“Why?”

“Because I want my own place, and this way we can all live together.”

“Yay!” Maddy says, clapping her hands.

“But …” I trail off. Live together? Is she serious? Would the college even allow me to live off-campus? They're certainly not expecting a large donation from Nana. And even if they allowed it, I wouldn't be able to afford the rent.

Agnes says, “Let's go drive by.”

“Now?” Maddy asks.

Agnes nods.

“Okay,” says Maddy.

Agnes raises her eyebrows at me. “Coming?”

“No,” I say. “I have a lot of reading to do.”

“Oh, come on, it'll be fun,” Maddy coaxes.

“I have to read three psych chapters by tomorrow.”

“Well, in that case,” Agnes says, “enjoy the stench.”

“Hey,” Maddy says, slapping Agnes's arm.

“We won't be long anyway,” says Agnes, snatching her car keys off Maddy's desk. “Don't forget to lock the door.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Security,” Agnes says.

I ignore the warning. We live in an all-female dorm at an all-female college. What could happen?

Maddy kisses the top of Hope's head. Then she comes over to me and kisses the top of mine. “Sure you don't want to be with us?”

I can't help but wonder about her choice of words:
be with us
. Are we not allowed to be apart?

“I'm going to stay here,” I say.

Agnes opens the door and “Down Boy” by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs blasts into the room from across the hall.

“I like this song,” I say.

Agnes immediately closes the door. “Sorry, but I can't hear. Come on, M.”

“You know,” Maddy says, stroking my hair, “I think you'd look really cute with a pixie.”

“What?”

“Like Winona Ryder in
Girl, Interrupted
.”

I shake my head. “I've never had short hair before.”

“It would look
so
good on you. Here, I'll show you a picture.” She grabs a hair magazine from a pile on the floor.

Agnes taps her foot. “Can we do this later?”

“Just a sec,” says Maddy.

“I'll be outside,” Agnes says, opening the door again and disappearing into the hallway.

Maddy holds up a picture of a waif with short, spiky hair. “Isn't that adorable?”

“On her, yes. On me, it would look stupid.”

“Are you kidding? With your bone structure? It'd look even better on you.”

Her compliment makes me uncomfortable, so I say, “Shouldn't you get going?”

“Yeah, I guess. We can talk about this later.”

Can't wait.

Finally Maddy leaves, closing the door behind her. Alone at last. Well, sort of. Hope is looking at me with her wet, dopey eyes.

I think of Nana and picture her sitting on her rat-colored La-Z-Boy, feet propped up, chain-smoking, eyes glued to the TV. Should I call her? We haven't spoken since the day I left California. I don't really feel like talking to her, but I'm almost broke and the check she promised to send still hasn't arrived. Before I left, I asked Nana if she thought she'd get lonely without me. She just shook her head and said, “I could always get a dog.”
You told me you were allergic,
I wanted to say but didn't. Nana's a bitch. I don't get it: aren't grandparents supposed to love their grandchildren? Isn't it one of the laws of nature or something?

I decide not to call her.

Not knowing what to do with myself, I open the door to the large walk-in closet Maddy and I share. I study her clothes: Marc Jacobs, Chloé, Louis Vuitton, Proenza Schouler, and a bunch of designers I've never heard of. Most of the pieces are unworn, with their tags still dangling at their sides. I reach for one of the price tags: $3,175 for an Azzedine Alaia dress. It's worth more than my entire wardrobe. I let my fingers run over the mistlike fabric.

Then a pink gown with spaghetti straps catches my eye. It's incredibly soft and looks like something Paris Hilton might wear on a rare good day. It's not something I would ever wear, even if I had the body for it, because it's just not me—I hate pink—and yet I have the urge to put the dress on.

So I do. I know it's weird, but I can't seem to stop myself.

Maddy is way taller and curvier than I am, so the dress hangs on my body like a drop cloth. But does that stop me from prancing around the room like a debutante? Sadly, no. I feel amazing in the dress, completely transformed. So this is what it feels like to be Madison Snow. Life suddenly appears a lot sweeter.

I step in front of Maddy's full-length mirror and do a shimmy. Then I pull the dress taut against my body and pile my hair on top of my head. Maybe Maddy was right. Maybe I should think about cutting my hair. I could use a change, and short hair would be so much easier to manage. Plus, with no guys around, who is there to impress?

I can't stop staring at myself. Is this what heiresses do? Pose in front of mirrors all day long?

Suddenly I feel a twinge of panic. I feel strange and disoriented and I can't breathe. It's like I'm being consumed by Maddy. This dress, which was once on her perfect body, is now on mine. I've crossed a line.

I try to distract myself with the framed photograph of Sebastian sitting on top of Maddy's dresser. It's a black-and-white snapshot of him lying in bed, looking unbelievably sexy, like he's just woken up. I put down the frame, then open the top drawer of Maddy's dresser. It's a minipharmacy, with everything from Adderall to Zoloft. Is she depressed? Well, who isn't? I pick up the bottle of Zoloft, but before I can open it, there's a knock at the door.

Shit.

I try not to panic, remembering the door is unlocked. I put the bottle back into the bureau and slam the drawer shut.

“Maddy? Can I come in?” It's a guy's voice.
Sebastian?
But Cornell's so far away.

I try to undress as quickly as possible. But then the zipper gets stuck. I tug and tug on it until it
really
gets stuck.
Damn.
I sprint toward the closet just as the doorknob begins to turn.