Brutal Precious Read online

  Curly, dark brown hair falls into his eyes. Steel-colored eyes, a blue so dark you can’t see the light through them. The color of swords and the ocean, both terrifying, both sharp, both can kill you. He killed a little part of me. His eyebrows are thick and his mouth pleasant, and if you squint he could be in a British boy-band, maybe, possibly. The freckles on his nose are still there, the freckles I’d written stupid poetry about. He’s taller than I remember – taller than most of the boys here and his biceps are huge, he’s been lifting and it’d make any girl swoon but it just makes me want to barf. All I want to do is puke, right here, all over the potted plant I’m hiding behind. But above the panic-static that’s currently turning my brain to mush, another part of me screams wordlessly.

  What! The! Fuck! Is Nameless! Doing! Here!

  Here, of all places, here, of all goddamn colleges. It has to be a joke. He has to be visiting a friend, or something. He can’t be enrolled here, learning here, sleeping within the same ten miles of me. He can’t be. He just can’t. I came here to avoid him. I moved to an entire state to leave him behind, and now he’s found me again. No, shit, there’s no way he’s here just for me. It’s a coincidence. His shitty, threatening emails earlier in the year were just last-gasp effort taunts, his way of – of – of what? Somewhere in the back of my mind, Dr. Mernich’s sessions stick with me, burning dark and hard. Triggered. His way of triggering me. He wanted me to remember. And now he’s going to get to see me remember. In person.

  “H-Hey, are you okay?”

  I look up. A girl with honey-colored hair and huge gray eyes behind glasses blinks at me. She smells faintly of musky roses. My stellar powers of observation alert me to the fact she has tits even bigger than Kayla’s and a thick, soft, belly, but I barely register it through my haze of panic.

  “I’m decidedly not okay,” I say, my voice thin and high.

  “Yeah you look like crap,” The girl covers her mouth, then whispers. “Um, not in general. But right now you look sick, is all. Bad-sick. Not, um. Rad-sick.”

  Rad-sick. I can feel the literal stars beginning to gleam in my eyes as history unfurls and I discover the only person on the planet Earth who may have beaten I, Isis Blake, in making stupid puns. And having fabulous curves. And smelling like roses. But then I remember I’d been in the midst of undergoing a mild panic attack.

  “You are really cute and all,” I say quickly. “But I’m currently facing down the fact my ex-boyfriend goes to this college, which is extreme grossness. You probably don’t want to stick around for something that’s the same level of gross as, like, a vat of Nickelodeon slime, so if you could just leave so I can get back in the mood of being terrorized helplessly, I’d appreciate it.”

  Glasses-girl frowns, and searches the crowd. “He terrorizes you? I’m so not down with that, fryslice. Which one is he?”

  “Oh, he’s the one with the hellish menacing aura barely concealed beneath a mask of vague antisocial tendencies and abs and he’s currently walking into this very room and oh my god I have to go. To space.”

  I dart out the back door just as Nameless pushes into the cafeteria. I gulp twilight air and my steps are so big and frantic I almost trip. Glasses-girl steadies me by grabbing my elbow.

  “Hey, um, seriously, do you want me to take you to the nurse?”

  I consider her for a long moment. “You know, that would be lovely. But first, I’m going to puke on your shoes so you probably won’t want to do that, or even be remotely nice to me anymore.”

  “Okay.”

  I unceremoniously puke on her shoes. When I’m not making attractive hurling noises anymore, the girl laughs.

  “I’m Diana. These are my roommate’s shoes. She’s a bitch.”

  “Oh man,” I wipe my mouth. “I love messing up bitch-shoes. I’ve done it so often. Mostly to this one stupid pretty boy. And now you. Not that you’re a stupid pretty boy. Because you have boobs, not a penis. Obviously. Um.”

  There’s a thoughtful pause. Diana looks thoroughly informed of her own gender.

  “I’m Isis.”

  “Nice to meet you, Egyptian goddess of fertility,” Diana smiles.

  “She was full of magical spells and almost always naked, which is coolio except for probably sand in her hooha, but I’m not actually into marrying my own brother – sidenote: grody – and if I had Isis’ banging magic powers – pun totally intended – I would be hexing dudes, not sexing them, and I’d definitely not stay here for four years to figure out what I don’t mind doing to make money until I die and oh god I need to lie down.”

  So I do. On the sidewalk. Diana watches me with unmistakable morbid curiosity.

  “Your puke puddle is right by your head,” She points out helpfully.

  I wrinkle my nose and scooch five feet sideways into the grass. And the grass turns into a hill and I’m rolling and it smells like earth and new fresh green sproutbabies, and when the world stops spinning and I stop moving and Diana teeters down the hill asking if I’m okay, bringing that soft smell of roses with her, and I start laughing.

  All the terror in my chest was spun out by the rolling fall. It broke the hard, icy grip of Nameless. The smell of the sun-warmed ground and the feel of grass tickling my butt reminds me it’ll pass. He’ll pass. He’ll die, also, someday, and then I’ll really be free, but it’s not the end of the world. He’s here. I’m here. But we’re different people now. I’m stronger, because of everything that’s happened. Because of him, and the pain. But mostly because of Sophia, and Jack, and Kayla and Wren.

  I want to be happier. Happy like Sophia is now. Happy like I want Jack to be, now.

  Even if they’re both gone. Even if they’re all gone.

  Even if I’m all alone.

  Diana watches me laugh, smiling, and sits beside me. It’s then I confirm my suspicions – only a total weirdo would continue to hang out with someone who puked on her shoes, then rolled down a hill like a sugar high hamster and laughed about it. Diana could be a serial killer. Or a genuinely nice person. Both the sort of people who shouldn’t be hanging around yours truly.

  “You’re crying,” she says offhandedly, picking a dandelion and blowing the fuzz away. I wipe my face.

  “I’ve been doing it a lot lately. Because, you know. Crying is fun. If you think about it like Splash Mountain for your eyes.”

  Diana giggles. I stand up, brushing grass off my sculpted abs.

  “Anyway, it’s been fun but I must go and contemplate the fact I might be losing my fucking marbles.”

  Diana shrugs. “I think you’re just scared. It’s scary. College. We can do anything. We can fail or flunk, or drink or smoke or have sex, and no one cares. We’re not kids anymore. There’s no parents here. Whatever happens in our future, happens because of the choices we make now. That’s real scary.”

  I watch her face. She hugs her knees.

  “And seeing exes you haven’t seen for a long time is scary, too.”

  I lose all will to leave, and flop down beside her. The last thing I wanna be right now is alone. We watch the sunset rip through the sky with fire and velvet.

  “Boys are weird,” Diana concludes sagely.

  “I don’t know anything about boys except they make weird noises sometimes,” I say.

  “That’s called speaking.”

  “Oh.”

  Diana squints at me. “If he did something bad, I can punt him for you.”

  “You usually go around mercenarily offering to punt people?”

  “I have four little brothers. It’d be a waste to let my talents wither.”

  It’s my turn to chuckle. Voices make me jump. I shoot a wary look up the hill, but it’s just a crowd of loud obnoxious girls shrieking as they pass.

  “I really didn’t wanna live constantly looking over my shoulder again,” I sigh. “It was shitty in Florida and it’ll be shitty here.”

  “I would say ignore him, but I guess that’s easier said than done, huh?”

  I nod. Dia
na picks at a blade of grass. I’m about to say something deep and profound and possibly life-changing when Yvette’s clear, strong voice cuts between us. A guitar case is strapped to her back, pink hair matching the sunset.

  “Oyyyyy! You coming to the show or what, numbnuts?”

  I stand, shakily. I shoot one last look back at the cafeteria. The choker of thorns around my neck is gone, now. He’s gone. I’m safe. For now. Diana stands with me, and I smirk at her.

  “On a scale of one to duh, how much do you like music?”

  -6-

  3 Years

  47 Weeks

  1 Day

  Emel Hall is a massive glass and wood contraption built by rich wrinkly alumni who wanted to see their name on something large and impressive before they kicked the bucket. The music majors and people who like Bright Eyes too much hang around here pretty much 24/7, and they’re the ones who put this whole thing on. It’s a battle of the bands type of deal; handfuls of grungy college kids with aspiring indie bands performing on a stage to a likewise college crowd. Alcohol isn’t allowed, but people sneak it in water bottles and flasks, laughing and sloshing about like waterlogged pirates. With trust funds. And essays due the next day. Not that pirates wrote essays. But if they did¸ it would be about singing parrots and knife-fights and fat booty of the not-woman kind, or possibly simultaneously of the woman kind and the treasure kind, because, well, pirates.

  “Hold this for me. Take pictures of me on it. I want to see my own awesome live in Technicolor.” Yvette shoves a phone into my hand. Diana, looking a little lost but sweetly excited, giggles.

  “Are you in a band?” She asks. Yvette looks at her like she’s just seeing her for the first time.

  “U-Uh, yeah. Um. Major Rager.”

  “It’s not that good of a party,” I correct. “There aren’t enough people getting naked.”

  “Major Rager is the band name, dork,” Yvette nudges me. “I’m late – we’re next. If SOMEONE had been answering her phone instead of making me run around campus looking for her –”

  “I told you! The government is listening to everything I say. I’ve switched to smoke signals.” There’s a pause. “Their texting plan is obscenely cheap. And arson-y.”

  Yvette rolls her eyes and wades through people towards backstage. Diana and I watch the current band shred the hearts of the crowd as their lead guitarist rips out an ear-rending solo.

  “She’s cute,” Diana shouts to me.

  “Not as cute as me!” I shout back. “Wait, who are we talking about again?”

  “Your friend. Yvette’s her name?”

  “Oh, yeah. She’s my roommate. I sort of infect everything I touch like that. She’s going to get even cuter as my spores take over her body and turn her into my willing minion.”

  Diana giggles. I pause.

  “I’m not actually that evil.”

  “I know,” she says. “Evil people don’t cry as much as you do.”

  I didn’t used to cry so much, and I want to tell her that, but I realize the story would be too long. You could fit it in, like, at least three books. So instead I contemplate whether Diana meant Yvette’s cute in the general adorable girl way or the ‘hey baby, you’re 2 cute get in my bed’ way. The sudden vastness of where I am hits me just as the enormous exhaustion of an emotionally draining day decides to punch me. It’s a one-two combo and I mumble an excuse and stumble through the crowd, finding relief outside, where people smoke and the music isn’t quite as shouty. I hug my knees to my chin and watch the moon rise over the quieting campus. This is my home now, but it doesn’t feel like home. When does it start to feel like home?

  “When you start feeling safe,” a voice cuts in. My ears know it before my eyes do and I suddenly regret coming out here, coming to this school, and living in general.

  Nameless smiles down at me, hands hooked casually in his jean pockets. He is tall and wrapped in shadow and my fingertips go numb. He sits beside me, the paralysis creeping from him in static waves and flooding me up to my eyes.

  “But you’ll never feel safe here, will you? Not with me around.” Nameless looks at me, straight on in the eyes, and some deep part of me curls in on myself, waiting for the inevitable hurt.

  “Why?” I manage through tight lips.

  Nameless shrugs, brushing hair from his eyes. “My aunt and uncle – Wren’s parents – are here in Ohio. Mom felt better about sending me here where there’s family. I wanted to go to UCSD, but, you know. You can’t have everything you want in life always. And even if you do get it, you might regret it. But you know that already, huh?”

  He smiles at me, all teeth, and I start shaking, my legs and my arms and my neck quivering uncontrollably.

  “Real sorry to hear about your friend,” Nameless sighs. “He prodded at my firewalls for the longest time. Annoying bug. What was his name? John? Jake? Whatever, he’s gone now. He hasn’t poked me for months, and your high school’s records showed he stopped coming towards the end. Must’ve sucked, finally finding a boy stupid enough to fuck you, and then having to watch him slip from your fingers.”

  Nameless laughs, and quickly, too quickly, pats my shoulder. My panic tenses every muscle without my permission and, like it’s being pulled by marionette strings, my leg juts out and kicks him square in the side. He makes a winded coughing noise, and the genial mask he keeps up fractures to shards, the smile turning cruel, the jovial light in his eyes twisting to malicious offense.

  “You little bitch –”

  His hands reach for me, and I’m ducking, but neither of us get to move any further, because someone steps between us.

  “That’s about enough of that.”

  And I recognize this voice, too.

  Dark jeans, a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Shoulders I know – shoulders I slept against a long time ago. Tawny, gold-brown hair sticking up in the back. It’s an illusion, it has to be.

  “And who the fuck are you?” Nameless sneers.

  “I’m hurt you don’t recognize me, Will. All that prying into our school records, but no prying into my photos? That’s lazy of you. Lax. I’d almost call it a mistake.”

  I see Nameless’ eyes go wide, but he quickly adopts a neutral face, a smirk tugging at his mouth as he stands up, his full height almost level with the newcomer’s.

  “We’re all here, then. Fabulous. The party can finally start. It’s about damn time,” Nameless sneers.

  He looks at the newcomer, and then me, before turning and walking away down the well-lit sidewalk. Like a spell, the paralysis lifts when he’s out of sight, and I gasp for air.

  “Shit, shit, rancid shitmonkeys!” I stand and brush myself off, willing the trembling to stop. It’ll take hours. And it’s not just Nameless that’s causing it.

  Jack Hunter turns to face me.

  It feels like years, but it’s only been months. A few months. He looks so much older – lines around his eyes that didn’t used to be there. His face matured somehow, the sharp angles of pubescence rounded off in a handsome, hawkish way. His eyes are the same frigid, clear blue, brows drawn tight.

  “Isis, I –”

  I pull my fist back and punch him. His head snaps to the side, and the people around us go even quieter. Someone murmurs ‘fight’, but no one moves. Except Jack. He slowly turns his head to me, a red welt blossoming on his Legolas-high cheekbones. I expect rage to ice over his eyes, but it never does.

  “Isis,” he repeats, softer now.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are, running off like that?”

  Jack flinches (flinch? Jack? Never.) but doesn’t break his gaze on mine.

  “You’re shaking,” he says.

  “I know I’m fucking shaking! I’m a lot of things right now, and shaking is the least homicidal of them! You left all of us! You just…disappeared! Your Mom, Wren, shit – everyone. You left everyone behind!”

  Jack’s frown deepens. I catch a glimpse of his hands at his sides – strong and spidery as ever.
I want to hold them, I want to hold him, to lunge in and hug him until he can’t breathe or leave again, to tell him it’s okay, to tell him I forgive him, but the fury and Nameless’ words mush together in my head and come out as acid on my lips.

  “You left me behind.”

  “Isis, please, let me –”

  “No!” I interrupt his soft, pleading voice. It’s so unlike him, it scares me. Almost as much as Nameless’ hands shooting out to grab me. Almost. “Did you think a fucking ticket to Europe would make me forgive you? On what fucking planet is a ticket a substitute for a proper goddamn goodbye, and how can I avoid said planet for all conceivable time?”

  ***

  She is fire and rage, all claws extended, her hair swirling around her in the gentle night-summer wind and her cinnamon eyes ablaze with light from the hall. She shines in the velvet darkness, a little thinner than I remember, and a little sadder, but burning all the same. Always burning. I warm myself on her fury, embracing the searing hot-sweet feel of her wrath and all the vibrant life behind it.

  She is here, she is within reach. She is real and corporeal and angry with me. Maybe she’s never not been angry with me, and that’s why it feels right. We have always been at odds. We have always clashed. After months of feeling wrong, this - staring down my hellion (mine? No, I threw the chance to call her mine away.) – is the only thing that has felt right. The planets are in place, the last clockgear snaps into motion, and the world begins to turn again, as is proper and right.

  “I thought you were going to Stanford,” I try. She bristles.

  “Don’t change the subject, buttlump.”

  “You should’ve gone to Stanford. It would’ve challenged you.”

  You would’ve been happier there. You would’ve bent the whole world to your will. You would’ve met smarter, kinder boys, there. Boys who aren’t me.

  “Wow,” She scoffs. “I didn’t think it was possible, but you’ve somehow gotten even better at pissing me off. Call the pope, because we have a bonafide fucking miracle on our peasant hands.”