Cold Hearts

“Hey, guess what?”

“What?”

“I told you to guess.” 

“Kitty, please—”

I heard voices around me, though all I saw was darkness. My head was pressed down onto the table, my arms wrapped around it. To any outside viewer, they probably would’ve assumed I was either sleeping or dead. My untouched lunch sat at my elbow, and outside the wind was howling through the grate, sending eerie whistling through the dreary December day.

“Josh is gonna ask Alicia to the Snowflake Dance.”

“Ugh, no way.”

“Yes way!”

I was pushed so far to the edge of the lunch table that I had half a butt cheek hanging off the bench. The other kids had already gotten quite skilled at ignoring me.

“I mean. . . he might as well try?” Selena changed her tune, trying to be kinder than her first impulse.

“I can’t believe they scheduled our dance for the end of the world!” Kitty laughed.

A boy butted in. “Our last hurrah! Lol.”

“Shut up, Colin,” Selena said. To her friend, “Kitty, what are you going to wear?”

I couldn’t begrudge them for the subject; I was thinking about the dance, too. Mrs. Porowski had handed out the flyers before prayers that morning, and now it sat crumpled in my backpack. 4pm, December 21st. Dress code: no bare shoulders, no skirts above the knee. And other rules, too.

No outside dates, I thought. 

At the end of lunch, I zipped up my lunch box— I had only taken a single bite out of my PB&J— and trudged behind the other kids out to recess. 

I wasn’t cold, but I should’ve been. I sat down on the sidewalk outside of the Circle, the building to my back, and watched the kickball players shiver on their bases. I tugged my hat down over my ears, if only to hide how they’d failed to turn red. Ever since winter had come, I had been numb to the change in weather— and numb from worrying over it, too. The only reason I had a hat and fingerless gloves was at Dad’s insistence. But I was still wearing my standard hoodie.

I stuffed my hand in my pocket. My fingertips brushed against something metal.

“Ah!”

Pain rocketed down my spine and jolted me awake. It was like I had swiped my hand over the top of a fireplace. The teacher turned to check on me, but I played it cool. I nodded, and said that I was fine. Just static.

When her back was turned, I flipped up the flaps on my gloves, turning them into mittens, and pulled out Diana’s silver rosary. 

I had forgotten that it was there, buried under the other stuff that clogged my pocket— pens and lifesavers and bouncy balls. Even cushioned by the glove, I could feel a dull throbbing pain; like wisps of smoke were about to erupt from my palm.

When I glanced to the side, I saw that the area around the grate was empty. A cruel idea struck me. 

I knew now why Diana had gone out of her way to give me the stupid thing. For my freaking protection.

 I rose to my feet, holding the chain tight. The damp smell and cold air wafted up from the metal grate, batting at my long bangs. I leaned over it, blinking as the combination made my eyes water. I held out my hand and loosened my grip, beads spilling out from between my fingers. 

“If you’re going to leave, it’ll have to be soon,” Dad said. “There’s a storm coming.”

He was right; the air was taut and wet, weighing down my long hair. Straight-backed, I listened with glistening eyes to the far away grumble of  an angry, dissatisfied heaven.

“I don’t want to go,” I said, staring down at my dirty nails.

“Then don’t.”

“But. . . I must.”

“Then, if you’re going to leave, it’ll have to be soon.”

It was all circular. I scowled, and paused in my carding to lean forward, the wooden chair underneath me creaking. Through our open door, dark clouds were eating up the sky. The verdant English fields were muted, a deep gray-green.

Dad said no more, continuing his spinning as if nothing had passed between us. When I turned to complain further, he was gone. 

I laid aside my brushes and kicked up the dust. I straightened out my skirts, letting them toss about before walking away. My kirtle hung at my sides, ill-fitting and dull red. I ran with a galloping, stupid-ass skip in my step to the woods that loomed ever closer and closer, to search for flowers.

A stream twinkled, winked at me from silty water. Humming, I peeled off my veil like a second skin. Condensation beaded on my fine honey hair. It swam in the air, catching on mossy trees as I wiped my forehead with the back of my wrist. The forest path was all mud, start to finish, thunder rumbling overhead.

The shadows cast by trees stood in straight lines, rows of soldiers. But as I leaned down, my nose nearly in the mire, looking for anything beautiful, they rippled like a pond’s surface. From behind black wood, a naked woman unpeeled herself and stood in my path. 

Devil, devil, I thought even as she grinned at me with a finely formed mouth. She was dark-haired, curtain and drapes, with eyes like lily pads and lips like blood.

She said, “Why do you look so sad, my lady?”

I let my veil drop from my hand. It splashed in the water, in the mud. The fine white cotton was blackened. “I am gathering flowers for my wedding. I’m to be married tomorrow morning.”

“And do you love him?”

The shadows tilted in the rapidly shifting sunlight, eating me whole. I stared at the lovely demon, bewildered beyond measure. “That doesn’t matter, my love.”

She raked her nails across her own collarbone, posing. “Would you rather marry me?”

“Well, of course,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because you’re beautiful.” I stepped forward, dragging my dress through the muck. “And you desire me. I’ve always wanted to be desired.”

“How sad.”

“I’m a sad girl,” I said. “And I’m mad, besides. No one else would love me, so how could I refuse? You’ve been dogging at my heels all my life.”

“Then you must hurry.” The devil slipped close. She took my hands in hers. “There’s only one way to break your contract. Take this. . .” 

She flicked at my palm, drawing blood. I laughed as she lifted my hand to her mouth, kissing it. In my other hand, a sheathed knife appeared. 

“And go to the temple. You must kill the animal on the table. No other. Before sundown.” 

The sky was swirling, clouds prismatic and bloody as I ran out of the woods. The devil’s temple was below the graveyard. Chloe let me in, her fragile little hands lifting the door’s latch effortlessly. The gates creaked open and I spun inside.

The crypt was open at the top, gray and moldering, its walls coated in ivy and lined with disciples and candles. Stalks curled around my ankles, so I untied my leather boots as I was led deeper inside. 

Before me was an altar; its once gold surface was no longer visible, adorned with white flowers blooming like bubbles in a boiling pot. I trampled them without regard. In the corner, Chelsea had her head lowered under a hood, pounding on a drum. Somewhere under this and the thunder, a little girl was crying.

Anonymous hands unlaced my kirtle, tugged me out of the pieces until I was barefoot, wearing only my shift. Jashanna extended a hand, avoiding my gaze in respect. I smiled and took it, lifted to stand above the altar. 

Diana was strapped to the table. Crying, hysterical, pulling at her bonds to no avail. We were matching in white; she even had the flowers braided into her hair. She looked me in the eye and gasped. “Lauren.”

Who was she talking to? That wasn’t my name. 

I unsheathed the knife. Otherworldly metal flashed in the candlelight. The crypt glowed green from inside.

Diana continued to scream. “Lauren! Lauren!” 

Both hands gripping the handle, I raised the knife above my head. The strange name rolled in my ears. Staring down, I saw two Dianas. Three. Countless Dianas, writhing like worms. 

I raised my head to the High Priestess, watching me with hooded eyes.

“It’s moving too much,” I said.

Eleanor smiled. With a nod, she appeared at the other side of the altar. She waved a hand over Diana’s eyes. All life behind them faded. Her mouth hung open, but there was no more nonsensical screeching. Now that she was still, I was able to properly position the blade over her throat.

“Lauren?”

"No!" 

Bianca blinked at me, her wrinkled nose so close I could count her pores. In her hand, she held out a stack of worksheets flopping in the space between our desks. 

“Uhh. . .” My mouth was dry. The surface of my desk had a pool of spit underneath my chin. I shuddered and pushed myself up with my elbows. As I woke, pain arched down my arm. I uncurled my hand, and the rosary’s heavy cross clunked onto the floor. 

“Sorry.” I reached out to take the homework.

Bianca caught sight of my hand and shrieked. 

All eyes were on us, now. I stood up like a shot, knocking my chair over in the process. I met Mrs. Porowski’s stunned expression. “I just need— uh, the bathroom!”

Over the sink, I slathered my burn in soap. There was a pink, scabby ring from my palm to the back of my hand. There were even faint indents from individual beads. The soap was watery and mild, dripping over the injury without providing any relief. I lathered fiercely. 

“G— go— w-what the fuckity-fuck?” My teeth chattered. As I scratched at it, the pain once again lanced down my arm, spiraling. 

I looked away from the mess, and my breath caught in the mirror. Bright light, filtered through the clouded glass window, fell upon the side of my acne-riddled cheek. My hair was sticking straight out, purple bags under my eyes. I was so messed up. 

Some hateful thing inside of me (the same that dreamed of murdering former friends) was pushing its way out to the surface, folding me inside-out. I was the kind of kid PSAs were made for, begging me not to blow up the school and everyone in it. 

My wrists were itchy. I leaned down, checking under the stalls. No one. So I rolled up my sleeve. My scars were shiny and taut, zig-zagging up my wrist to my forearm. Closing my eyes, I ran them under the faucet. The cold eased the distraction, so I had a moment to think.

The last thing I remembered before that creepy dream had happened at recess. And now it was the second-to-last class of the day— the sun was just about in the right place in the sky, warming the walls golden. And I had no idea what had happened in-between. Why hadn’t I gotten rid of the rosary like I’d planned?

I hissed in frustration and, with movements violent and fast, turned off the tap. Water splashed across the floor, stray drops now dripping slow into the sink. Ploop, ploop. 

I opened my eyes and Sydney was there.

She was standing right next to me, hand frozen where she had been mid-tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She wasn’t looking at me. She was looking at my arm. 

My brain went into overdrive. Inevitable consequences fell like dominoes in rapid-fire succession. Sydney would narc, because narcing was what all Sydneys did. Dad would find out (about everything, somehow??) and he would be angry that I lied, yes, but he would be angrier at himself. I would be the one to give him cold comfort. It wasn’t his fault that he’d raised a broken child; I’d been defective right out of the box. Understanding this, I would be shipped off to an asylum with gray walls that blocked out the sky and forced to wear pink and heels and pray to Jesus every night to bring me a good husband and I’d never see Eris again and—

Sydney was still there. 

I flexed my fingers and lowered my arm, unrolling my sleeve until it dropped down to curtain the ugly sight. 

Sydney’s eyes were like saucers, but someone had spilled water in them. She blinked rapidly. “Are you okay?”

Of course I wasn’t.

“You. . . you’re perfect the way you are.” She stepped closer. I may have had a good insult game running in my head, but on the outside I had frozen. She reached out to take my shoulders, but thought better of it. Her arms hovered in the air, her palms stretched towards me. “Lauren, you are so beautiful. You just have to see it inside you.” 

I was pretty certain I knew what my insides looked like, and they were only beautiful to freaks turned on by blood. I stared at Sydney; she must’ve seen something different than what I intended in my eyes. 

She said, so matter-of-fact, “Your life isn’t a book. Don’t end it.”

This couldn’t be happening. Nope. I was dead. I must’ve drowned in the pool on Halloween, and all else that followed had been the incoherent brain-death as I turned to soup underground.

Sydney tried to give me a smile. It quivered at the corners, white and straight, waiting for me to reciprocate. I didn’t. All sound was gone but an evil rushing in my ears.

Oh, she was crying for real. Sydney’s lips moved, her perfect face blotchy. Why? She hated me? She should’ve been happy to learn that I was planning to leave her alone for good. 

She grabbed my shoulders and shook me, rattling me around until all those confused thoughts were a spiral, a whirlpool. 

“. . . and so many people would miss you, Lauren. You won’t be able to get into Heaven, either. Everyone deserves to live in God’s grace. Please don’t. . .” 

She clasped her hands tight. My stomach boiled. I finally moved— to run away. 

My sneakers skidded down the hall, alerting all the other classrooms to my escape. I turned a corner into the stairwell and slammed straight into the wall. My teeth rattled and I crumpled to the floor. The salt and pepper tile swam under me as I wretched, blood spilling from between my lips. My world was swirling. I saw maggots writhing in the bile.

I pulled out my phone and dropped it in the blood. It slid out from under my fingers as I dived for it; my hands were red once I flipped it open. I stumbled down the stairs. Gotta get away, gotta get away.

I waited and waited for my call to go through. Waiting, waiting— 

“Hello? Ophelia?”

— and screaming at the top of my lungs.

Eris was mad. She was so so mad. I could tell. I could always tell, nowadays. Even when we were apart. Even when we were close enough that I could see her smiling— Eris was always smiling at me. But I knew because something heavy and cold would gather in my stomach, would push its way up through my throat. When she saw me picking at my scars. When I tried to sneak away to my own bed. When she thought I was avoiding her on purpose.

I shouldn’t have called. I should’ve kept my weak little baby mouth to myself. 

On the phone, my words had been labored. From the moment Eris had picked up, it was like there was an anvil in my stomach. I panted and panted, clutching at the waxy wall.

Eris said, “It was that girl, wasn’t it? She hurt you.”

“No!” I winced, my throat raw. “No. It— it was the opposite. She was really nice, and I don’t know what to do.”

My screaming had alerted the whole floor. But as the janitor rushed down the stairs with a mop as a sword, he somehow managed to miss me entirely, lurking in the corner. 

I waited for that stormy feeling to lessen, for Eris to calm down. But it didn’t. She was dead silent on the other end. I panicked, my hands shaking, and hung up. 

Still, I knew what she wanted. She wanted me home, in her sights, where she could comfort me, wrap me tight and lean over my bed, showering me with kisses until I fell asleep. I didn’t call her back, but I took advantage of the strange pall cast over me to leave the building. I waited for her by the grate, cold air blowing up the back of my neck.

Soon enough— too soon— Dad’s SUV came squealing into the Circle like a Fast and Furious scene. The scent of burnt rubber filled my nose. Through the open window, Eris grinned triumphant with a strand of hair between her teeth. 

I slid into the passenger seat. My bag dropped like an anchor at my feet.

“We’re going dress shopping,” Eris said.

I unzipped the bag and dug through until I found the Snowflake Dance pamphlet. I smoothed it out in my lap as Eris put the car in reverse.

I’m going to get in so much trouble, I thought. The school shrunk away from my line of sight. They’re going to think I died or something.

“Umm. . . Eris? I have some bad news. . .”

“What’s up?” She started spinning the wheel madly, turning the car forward in the middle of the street. The bumper swung perilously close to a nearby parked car. 

I tried to explain that I couldn’t take her to the dance, but words failed me. My mouth opened and closed, staring at her. She was in high spirits, and it was giving me whiplash.

“Gimme.” She snatched the paper off my lap and held it out, her arm balanced over the steering wheel. She nudged the car into drive with her elbow. “What's the problem, little one? Were you planning on dressing like a slut?”

“N-no way!”

“Good.” She winked at me. “That’s my job.”

She crumpled the paper up again and tossed it back into my lap. I didn’t try to talk about it after that; it wouldn’t do to spoil her good mood, the one she was trying so hard to spread to me. I bit my lip and let my worries fly out the open windows.

The mall smelled terrible. I’d never noticed before. Not only that, but Burlington Coat Factory’s acidic lighting was maybe the only thing that could make Eris look ugly. It turned all of her skin, from her face to her bared stomach puke yellow.

She poked me through rows of dresses, an unflinching taskmaster of fun. Her leather cuffs whacked the back of my head whenever I drifted off for too long. Not that it seemed to bother her much. She was too busy stacking dress upon dress into her arms, anything they had in black or red. I didn’t remember telling her my size.

The deeper we got into the Juniors section, the antsier I became. 

I turned to Eris and said, “I don’t want to shop here.”

“Why?” She readjusted the stack over her arm. Her other hand brushed my face.

“It— it’s too normal.” 

“Well, you’re a normal girl.” She pinched my cheek.

“Shut up. . .” My face was flushed.

Eris laughed. She wrapped a gentle arm around my shoulder and pushed me into motion. 

“Well, if you insist. . .” she said. “I’ll show you something even better.”

She dropped the dresses she’d collected over the rack and brought me up the escalators to a store I’d only walked past before— a high-end boutique with white walls adorned with glittering gowns. I reached out to check the tag on one— and dropped it like touching a hot stove. 

“Eris?” I whispered, but she was walking ahead of me. “Eris, I can’t afford. . .”

She turned my way, a hand on her hip. I froze in my tracks. She nodded her head towards the dressing rooms, and I went ahead. 

Time escaped me again. Next I knew, I was in a booth with a mirror and a thin curtain, and Eris was sitting down on the bench across from me. I was staring at the way her tall boots pressed into the inner flesh of her thigh, and not at her face.

“Go on.”

Hanging in the dressing room was a dozen near-identical dresses— strappy and knee-length, in black and red. I began to unzip the side of my jumper before I remembered the curtain. I started to pull it out, screeching.

“Don’t.”

“Huh? But. . .” 

“No one’s going to come in.” She leaned back against the wall and folded her arms. “I can assure you, Ophelia.”

She was talking weird again. I let my dress fall, stepped forward out of it. The quarter of the curtain I had pulled out was my only narrow barrier.

“You don’t know that,” I said. I hooked my sleeves over my hands and tore the polo off over my head. The dressing room was drafty, and I shivered without warning.

“Once I set my mind to it,” Eris said, leather creaking as she stood, “I can make anything happen.”

I grabbed the top dress. The hanger, tossed to the side, clattered against the gray floor. I tugged it over my head as fast as I could. 

“Ack!”

“Sweet, clumsy Ophelia. . .” Eris stepped into the dressing room and undid the zipper. The black fabric unrolled from my eyes. She took my arm, put each one through the sleeves. She wrapped her arms around me as I stared, dumbfounded into her eyes.

“I can dress myself.”

“Of course.” She lifted my chin. “But don’t I do a better job?”

She was right, of course. Eris was better at everything than anybody in the world. She was smart, beautiful, eternally self-assured. How could I ever hope to emerge from that shadow?

I didn’t have to, though. She already loved me. But in that moment, in a well-lit changing room, wearing a dress that cost my tuition, wrapped in the arms of an amazing woman utterly devoted to my well-being— I’d never felt more alone. 

Eris slid down to untie my shoes. I didn’t know when or how, but she’d also brought me a pair of heeled Mary Janes to wear. Like Cinderella, tender hands changed my shoes, so careful I never stumbled. When I opened my eyes to the mirror, I was three inches taller. A black dress, edged with lace, fell like a waterfall across my drooping shoulders. Eris patted down my hair, slicking it back so it wasn't sticking out every which way.

Why was I not happy? It was all perfect. Eris was perfect. She was making me perfect. Why, G-d, did I not feel that giddy swelling I’d known when we first met? Why, when Eris stroked my shoulders, did my vision for a moment flash with white hot anger? We were in love.

“Eris. . .” I halted her hand with mine. My eyes slid away from my reflection. “I called you because. . . I’m scared. Sydney saw my scars. She’s going to tell on me.”

She withdrew her hands, leaned down to kiss my neck. “Oh sweetheart. . . this is why you never should’ve hurt yourself in the first place.”

“This isn’t about that.” I grit my teeth. “I’m— I’m trying. Will you please help me?”

“Always.” She stood up to her full height behind me. She looked like a statue, a looming guardian angel missing her wings. “What do you want me to do?”

“Anything,” I said, staring straight ahead. “I just want her to shut up.”

The next morning, I took a preemptive strike. The secretary let me in via the buzzer. When I opened the door, the wind howled so fierce that it nearly pulled out my arm. I marched straight to the office with my head held high. 

Dad had been joking with me over breakfast, apparently unaware that I had been playing hooky yesterday. The weather was forecasting a nor’easter coming in overnight, and he wouldn’t stop talking about prepping the sled dogs to bring me to school until I laughed. 

The Office Lady had, at any given movement, a receiver glued to her ear, a pen growing between her fingers, and her feet rooted to the ground underneath the front desk. Yellow post-it notes rounded her spot, stuck to staplers and mugs and the crown of St. Anthony’s plastic head. I leaned on the doorframe and fiddled with the strap of my backpack. My shoes sat in-between the transition point between tile and burgundy carpet. It was only after she put down the phone that she acknowledged me.

“What do you need, honey?”

It seemed obvious to me, and needlessly cruel to make me say it out loud. I shifted my footing, and the wood creaked underneath my shoulder. “I missed some classes yesterday.”

“You did?” She sounded surprised. “I didn’t see you in the nurse’s office.”

“I wasn’t sick.” Well, I was, but probably nothing a nurse could help. “I left when I wasn’t supposed to.”

The Office Lady was shaking her head. “Lauren, sweetie, I don’t have time for your games. None of your teachers marked you as absent.”

My stomach dropped. “But I was?”

The phone rang. Office Lady gave me a very stern look.

“Now,” she said, “I don’t know if this is a prank, or a bid to get into detention for Lord-knows what reason, but you won’t be fooling me. Please, get to class before you miss anything for real.” 

Was I really so unimportant that no one had noticed I was gone? Certainly, if Sydney had told someone, they should’ve been looking for me specifically. 

But the day went by as normal. Too normal. No one made any snide comments my way. No teachers called me out for doodling. Even Sydney was quiet, though I guess that wasn’t surprising.

I got nervous, and desperate. In History, I stared this way and that at the anti-bullying statements on the blackboard, the Hang in There! cat poster on the window. Ms. Wood was young and smart. If there was any adult who would believe me, it had to be her. Throughout class, I struggled to catch her eye, to look appropriately kicked-puppy-esque and in need of saving— but each time, I swore she was looking right through me. 

So, while the rest of the class cleared out to go to lunch, I cornered Ms. Wood at her desk. 

I said, “Can I talk to you, Ms?”

“Of course you can, sweetie.” She turned to me, blinking in surprise as if she somehow hadn’t noticed me before. She readjusted her blazer as she took hold of all her stuff— her lunch and keys and green travel mug.

“Did Sydney talk to you at all, yesterday? Uh, after lunch, that is.”

“Why are you asking?” Her lunch box was tucked under her arm. Over her knuckles, a soccer ball key chain dangled. She was looking at me, calmly, but something implacable was different. Her blinking was slow, unevenly spaced.

“Because. . . she might’ve said something about me. About how I. . . want to kill myself. And I wanted to let you know that it’s not true.”

“That stupid girl is always lying for attention.”

I did a double-take. For a moment, I thought Eris was there somehow, able to butt in. But it was only Ms. Wood in the room, taking a long drink from her cup. I let her finish, but she only lowered it from her lips and waited for my reply. 

I said, “Well, I don’t think she knew she was lying. It was all just a big misunderstanding.”

“You don’t have to defend her,” Ms. Wood said. “I’ve had to deal with Sydney for years. This is exactly the sort of thing she would do— trying to ruin your life.”

“She’s not!” How had I somehow ended up on Sydney's side, here? “She’s just trying to help. And— uh, not.”

Ms. Wood tilted her head back and laughed. The coffee cup in her hand wobbled. I took a step back, frightened.

“You’re acting weird.” I continued to back away, step by step until I was straddling the door with both hands. “Just, forget I talked to you. And don’t punish Sydney.”

Now, with some distance, I could tell that Ms. Wood was standing unusually straight-backed, her heels pressed together.

 “Oh, don’t worry. Sydney will be punished in due time.”

I walked down to lunch alone. Through the windows, the thin cloud cover congealed, sticking low to the sky until the sun was swallowed. The coral walls looked sad and gray. My head was to the floor, my shoes squealing, but in my mind’s eye I was still seeing Diana strapped to the table. Her words from Halloween bounced between my ears. You can figure it out. 

Only then did I consider my previous conversations with Sydney. How many of her snide comments had been meant in earnest? How often had her calling out my failings been meant as honest advice? Certainly, when it came down to it, she wanted to help. When she’d approached me last Field Day with the gross period talk. . . was she trying to commiserate? 

All those years of copied macaroni paintings, of following me into clubs. . . that time our family’s SUVs were side-by-side and she rolled down the window to tell me that my shirt was inside-out—was that her idea of friendship?

I was broken out of my thoughts by a dozen hard clicks, doors suddenly jerked closed. Above me, the loudspeaker was crackling. 

“There is an active shooter on the school premises. This is not a drill.”

The cafeteria floor was smooth and sticky against my back. The blinds, dusty from disuse, were pulled over the windows. All the lights were off. The whole middle school was there, but it was all very, very quiet. 

Oh, not now. . .

I grabbed onto the nearest bench and hauled myself up. I was now across from Kitty and Bianca. In the far corner of the room, Diana was playing with her DS under the table, the bottom half of her face lit in faint blue. The teachers were too busy watching the doors to notice.

Something in my gut coiled deeper at the sight of it. She didn’t have her stake, or whatever other sort of silly things she packed in her backpack. Even if she did— if she tried playing hero now, it was going to get her killed.

But that wasn’t my business. We weren’t friends.

Kitty was already whispering furiously, so I leaned in and asked, “What’s going on?”

“Are you stupid?” Bianca said. “First you play dead and scare Mrs. Porowski half to death—”

“I am,” I said, scratching the back of my neck. “But I’m also, uh. On drugs.”

I looked at Kitty. 

She said, “Kevin Pitts saw the shooter at recess.”

“Kevin Pitts is a whiny baby,” I said. “It’s a public park. How do we know this guy is going to kill us?” 

“Girl.” Kitty hissed the noise through her teeth, spit on her braces. “It’s a girl.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Bianca said. “It sounds like a baby shower.”

“So, he saw a woman with a gun?”

Kitty nodded. “And red hair.”

“Irish?” Bianca looked surprised. 

“No, like blood.”

“Be quiet, girls.” Sister Agnes turned to us, glaring. Kitty slapped a hand over her mouth. Bianca pulled out her Blackberry. I turned again to look around the tiny cafeteria. Josh was passing around a stick of salami. Selena was reading a book, her hands shaking. Alicia had her head on the table.

Kitty started to pick her teeth. Bianca stared at her phone with the thinnest film of tears across her eyes.

“Where’s Sydney?”

In sync, both girls looked up. They stared at me— and not at Sister Agnes, now stalking towards us.

Kitty said, “I don’t know.”

Bianca said, “I don’t care.”

Sister Agnes grabbed my shoulder. I whirled around to face her. I didn’t care about volume. “Sydney is missing.”

Her old hard face loomed over at me, eyes dark. “And?”

“And. . .” I swallowed. “You should find her! What if she’s been hurt?”

“Then that is God’s will.” She squeezed my shoulder tighter. “If she dies, it is because she was always meant to.”

“Bianca—” I looked over. “How could you say something like that? Isn’t Sydney your friend?”

“She was.” Bianca pushed up her glasses. “But I’ve come to the light. She was nothing but a petty, mean bitch. I’m glad she’ll be dead soon.”

“. . . Kitty?”

“Ditto.” 

I could’ve sworn this was another nightmare, if it weren’t for the sharp details. The undeniable physical space.

I stood up, facing Bianca. “Give me your phone.” 

Sister Agnes was still trying to hold me back, but it was like she wasn’t even there. A terrible strength was welling up within me; I was certain that I was capable of tearing everyone in the cafeteria to shreds.

Bianca snatched the phone off the table and pressed it to her chest. “N-no.”

“I wasn’t asking,” I said. “Give it to me.”

Maybe what I had seen earlier wasn’t tears. There was a film over Bianca’s eyes, but it was over Kitty’s, too. Sister Agnes, Ms. Wood, Diana, every kid in this cafeteria— all of them.

Bianca squared her shoulders, took a sharp intake of breath. “St. Catherine’s doesn’t tolerate bullies.”

I lunged across the table. 

There was screaming. Bianca slid off the bench and I straddled her with my legs, scrabbling for the phone. She was gasping, squirming back and forth to keep it from me. I dug my fingers underneath hers, misjudged and stabbed my pointer finger so deep into hers that I drew blood. 

“I need to— my parents— I have to say good-byaaaghh!!”

The blood splattered over her glasses. She clutched at her red fingers, shaking. I held the phone tight in my fist as Sister Agnes hauled me to my feet. She pinned my arms to my back. I hung my head, my bangs obscuring my vision. The room was silent. 

I was finally beginning to get it. 

“What’s my name?”

Sister Agnes didn’t speak.

I ran my tongue over my teeth. I spoke with an authority I hardly felt. “Tell me what you think my name is.”

Her nails dug into my crossed wrists.

On the floor, Bianca had gone catatonic. She looked like a wax statue, her hands laid over her chest in claws, her mouth ajar and filled with saliva. I crossed my thumbs underneath Sister Agnes’s grip. She pushed at me, and my spine lifted so I was standing straight. I could’ve torn myself free, had I wanted to. 

Instead, I said, “Let me go.”

And she did. 

Bianca’s phone rang and rang against my ear as I circled the halls. I glanced behind every corner, calling, “Sydney?”

Whenever I passed a classroom, my feet too loud and too fast against the floor, I could feel the people behind the door tense, the collective held breath. I wanted to yell, to tell them they would all be fine— that there was only one person the “shooter” was out to kill today.

The call went to voicemail, and I swore. I slammed down on the call button, and started again. Behind me, a cold draft brushed my arm. I swung around.

The back door was ajar. 

Outside, the stormy sky was nearly black. Wind was stirring up the remaining damp brown leaves on the grass, howling against the building. Naked tree branches groaned, and swallows burst into frightened clouds as I rushed past.

My call went through. On the other line was silence.

“ . . . Sydney?” I bit into the side of my hand. Anxiety was making my heartbeat throb, so I stumbled forward until I could lean against a tree.

“Oh, hiiii Ophelia,” Sydney said.

I felt boneless, and collapsed face first against the trunk.

“Sydney. . .” I breathed. “You’re alive?”

“For now.”

Her voice was light, spacey. I grunted, propping myself up with my elbow. The bark cut through my sleeve. “Where are you?”

“On the road to my destiny. Silly!”

I rolled around, so my back was against the tree. I pinned my feet to the roots, stretching until I was staring up through the naked branches. “And where is that?”

“Death.”

“Listen—” I bashed the heel of my hand against my forehead. “Is Eris with you?”

“Nooo. I was just going to meet her. How exciting!”

“Well, don’t talk to her without me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to save you.”

I finally stood properly, wind rustling my hair. Even though I was small, even though I was stupid and ugly— in that moment, I was the only one who knew what was going on, and the only one who could make it all better.

Sydney laughed. “Oh, Ophelia, but what’s there to even save? Do you expect me to thank you, if I live? That I would turn around and become a kinder person?”

My pride crumbled like a soda can underfoot.

“. . . Yes?”

“No!” The connection crackled. “I’m never going to change. Some people just deserve to die. And I’m one of them!”

I was getting a nosebleed. I realized, abruptly, that smashing my face against a tree had hurt.

Sydney went on. “Maybe I’m an annoying bitch now, but in death I can do so much better. I can feed my superiors, and whatever’s left can go to the fishes. When I’m dead, my family will have an angel to pray to and my school will have a face to put on all their fundraisers.”

I wiped my face, sniveling. The red smeared across my pale blue sleeve, and I realized that maybe I couldn’t save anyone, do any good in the world, ever.

“Do you really want to take that from me?”

“Yes!” I stumbled forward, nearly tripping, onto the sidewalk. My eyes shot to the flagpole— the outer limits where the sidewalk dipped down to the dirty banks of the river. On the other end, Sydney tssk-ed. 

“One last spot of revenge, trying to deprive me of martyrdom? How rude. But it doesn’t matter. We can meet each other in Hell, one day.”

I took off running. Almost immediately, pain stabbed at my side. Years of being the gym wallflower came rushing in to bite me. “You’re— hah— not going to— ah— Hell, Sydney.”

“Oh, but I am.” Emotion was leaking out of Sydney's voice like a balloon. “I’m already there.”

There was a thump in my ear— Sydney had dropped the phone.

“Sydney? Sydney, please. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. We can be friends! Please. . . turn around. . .”

Her voice was barely audible— and she wasn’t talking to me. “Will it hurt?”

“Depends,” another voice said, “on if you keep quiet or not.”

River water rushed over the line, and then silence.