Holly Black (14 page)

“And books,” I say before I can stop myself.

Jack blinks at me. “What?”

“And scenes from books,” I say, and add, “You know,
Brokeback
Mountain
was a book. Before it was a movie.”

“Actually,” says Noah, coming in through the door, “it was a short story.” Cold has reddened his cheeks and his eyes are bright behind the glasses. He grins at me while he hangs up his jacket, but I don’t smile back.

“I know that!” Jack looks furious.

“I think charades are a good idea,” Lisle says hurriedly, standing up and brushing crumbs off the legs of her skinny jeans. “I’ll go first.”

Lisle hurries up to the front of the room and starts acting out a scene I know perfectly well is from
Buffy
. Big shock there. I slink lower in the sofa, then feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s Ben.

“Come on,” he says, jerking his head toward the hallway. “No one will notice.”

Like I care if they do notice. I’m up and off the couch so fast I feel like I ought to leave smoking tracks behind, like the Road Runner. Lisle is acting out Buffy’s death from the fifth season of the show, toppling into the void as I follow Ben down the corridor and into one of the beige bedrooms off it. I close the door behind me and turn to face him. I have to lean against the door a little because I feel weak in my knees. He’s so handsome right now, his eyes startlingly blue under all that dark hair.

“You all right?” Ben asks. “You looked a little weird in there, like maybe you felt sick.”

“No,” I say. “No, I’m all right.”

He looks at me more closely. “You’re not upset with me, are you?”

“No, it’s just—” I swallow hard. I can’t believe I’m even going to say this. I would never normally say this to a boy. But Cathy would. Cathy always said exactly what she thought. “I thought we’d get to talk alone, just you and me.”

“I know. I told you, I promised—” He gives a shrug, a lopsided smile. “Anyway, I’m here now.” He moves over to me, puts his hands on my shoulders. “I know, I’m the reason you came here, right?”

“Well…” His cockiness is unbelievable; but then again, it’s just like Heathcliff to be that way. Online, that arrogance he could imitate so perfectly made me laugh, made my heart race. In person, it’s sort of—annoying. Maybe because I’m not so sure he’s just imitating someone else anymore. “Lisle’s the reason I came.”

“Right, sure.” He has his face in my hair, is nuzzling my cheek through it, my neck. His hands slide down to my waist, then back up again. I don’t want to do this right now—I want to talk, the way we talked online, the way we could talk about anything and everything. My mind races, trying to think of a topic to distract him, and meanwhile his hands race up my shirt, his fingers clamping down on the clasp of my bra.

“Stop that.” I push him away.

“Cathy?—”

I suddenly wish he wouldn’t call me that. But that seems unfair—I never minded him calling me Cathy online. I liked it, even. But it’s weird to have him look me right in the face and say it. Like he’s looking at me, but not seeing me. He presses up against me, harder. He says her name again, in a breathy voice. “Cathy.”

There’s a loud banging on the door. Ben jumps, banging me in the chin with his shoulder, and we move apart. I’m pulling my shirt down as the door opens. It’s Noah, framed in the hallway light. “Xena wanted to know where you were,” he says. “She wants everyone in the living room. We’re playing I Never.”

Ben raises an eyebrow at Noah; he’s giving him that look, that look boys give each other when they’re trying to communicate that they just got some action. Noah doesn’t look very happy. “Duty calls, I guess.”

Everyone in the living room is sitting in a big circle now, with bottles of booze in the middle, and shot glasses lined up. I squeeze in next to Lisle as Xena explains that I Never is a drinking game. We go around the circle and each person makes a true statement starting with the words ‘I never,’ like ‘I never have been to the Ice Capades.’” Then everyone who has been to the Ice Capades has to drink. That way you find out what everyone in the room has done. “It’s an icebreaker,” Xena explains. “Now, who wants to start?”

The statements start off pretty tame—“I’ve never flown in an airplane”—“I’ve never broken the speed limit”—and practically everyone has to drink to those. I’m happy to find out that whatever’s in my shot glass doesn’t contain diet chocolate soda. When it’s Lisle’s turn, she grins wickedly. I can tell she’s pretty drunk already—she’s listing to the side like a damaged sailboat, her hair extensions trailing. “I’ve never worn a rubber chicken suit,” she announces, and takes a big swig from her glass. She’s such a show-off—just because she once spent the summer working as the mascot at El Pollo Loco.

After a second, everyone else breaks up laughing, too. Suddenly people are yelling out I Nevers. I never kissed someone in a moving car. Made out on a plane. Had sex in a plane bathroom. Fooled around in public. All the statements are about sex now, and I hold my drink nervously, twirling the stem of the glass between my fingers. I have hardly anything I’d drink
for
, and even if I did I wouldn’t do it in front of all these people, these strangers.

I’m watching Ben out of the corner of my eye, seeing when he drinks. It’s a lot of times. He has his hand on Lisle’s knee. After a few minutes she brushes it aside.

“I’ve never slept with two guys at once,” announces Xena, chortling, and takes a big drink. Everyone’s suddenly quiet. Only the thoughtful-looking woman with the knitting gazes serenely into the distance and takes a small sip from her cup. I wonder what that means? Maybe she slept with two guys, but she only did it once? Xena seems to notice everyone staring at her, and shrugs. “What? I’m polyamorous!”

Noah is looking down at the ground, clearly trying not to laugh. It’s Lisle who speaks into the silence, as usual. “I’ve never,” she says slowly, “gotten turned on while I was role-playing online with someone.”

She drinks, slowly and deliberately. She’s looking around the circle as she does it, like she’s flirting with everyone at once. There’s a low rustle of nervous giggles. Then Jack, looking across the circle at Ennis, drops her chin and takes a drink. And now the others are drinking, tipping their cups back, and I look over at Ben and he’s drinking, but not looking at me while he’s doing it. Lisle nudges my side and I know she wants me to drink, but I’m frozen, holding my stupid plastic cup and thinking: Turned on? Really? Is that what was going on with us, with me and Ben? Here I thought we had this amazing thing, this connection where we could talk about anything, this connection that was special. But maybe we were just like all the other billion jerks online using the Internet and anonymity to get their rocks off.

I wobble to my feet, feeling dizzy and sick. In the bathroom, I splash water on my face—my cheeks are bright red, my hair escaping out of its ponytail and sticking to my cheeks. I’d like to think I look wild and untamed, like Cathy, but I know I don’t. I just look sweaty and a little insane. I tell myself I have to get back in there and sit next to Ben. Claim my place.

I push my way back into the living room, where the I Never game is still in full flow. People are hooting and screaming with laughter while they drink, and the room stinks like vodka. I look around for Ben, but he isn’t there. My gaze lights on Lisle instead. Her eyes dart away from mine, quickly, toward the hallway. Lisle can never help herself. She’s a terrible liar; her body language always gives her away.

Halfway down the hall Jack is standing in front of a closed door, her face puffy. She’s pounding on it. “Ennis,” she says. “Ennis, open up.”

“You know,” I say, “I bet her name isn’t actually Ennis.”

Jack scowls at me. “They’re in there together, you know,” she says, and there’s real spite in it. I guess she doesn’t like me much, but then why would she? I reach past her, twiddle the doorknob. “It’s just stuck,” I say, and without thinking, I push it open, hard.

Light floods into the bedroom, where Ben and the girl whose name I only know as Ennis are sitting on the bed, their arms around each other, their faces mashed together. Seeing people kiss in real life is never like it is in movies, is my first thought. My second thought is that I feel like I’m going to throw up. Again.

“Ennis!” cries Jack dramatically. Her eyes are huge, but I have the feeling she’s not so much upset as enjoying the drama of the moment.

Ben and the girl jump away from each other guiltily, but their hands are still touching. The girl—I can’t think of her as Ennis—shakes her head. “Oh, Jack,” she says. “Really.”

Jack makes a snuffling noise, but I don’t stick around to see what she says to her friend—if they are even friends anymore. I’m heading out of the bedroom as fast as I can go.

Halfway down the hall something clamps around my wrist. I’m spun around to face Ben, who’s glowering down at me, not looking very sorry at all. “Look, Cathy,” he says. “Sorry if you’re upset, but it’s a game. It’s
the
Game. We’re just having fun.”

But that’s just it. I’m not having fun. “Let go of my wrist, Ben.”

He lets go, a scowl passing across his handsome face. “Look, I’m sorry if I’m not exactly like some character in a book?—”

“See, that’s just it,” I say, realizing the truth while I’m speaking it. “You are just like Heathcliff.” And he is. Heathcliff was a selfish, rotten bastard, really. He didn’t care about anyone but himself, and maybe Cathy. And I’m not Cathy, which doesn’t leave anyone for Ben to care about, except, maybe, himself.

My bags are still in a huge pile on the bed, tangled up with a dozen other people’s belongings. I grab the bright green strap of my duffel and start hauling it free. I have no idea where Lisle is or what she’s doing, or how I’m going to get out of here without her or her car. Maybe I’ll take a taxi. Maybe I’ll walk to the nearby highway and hitchhike.

“Jane.” It’s Noah in the doorway, looking rumpled and worried. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m leaving. I’m out of here.” I jerk hard on the strap. It breaks off in my hand. “Shit.”

“You don’t have to go.” He comes up beside me and puts his hand on my back, his fingers tracing circles between my shoulder blades. It’s not at all the way Ben touched me: this is gentle, reassuring. My nausea starts to ebb, at least to the point where I can glance over at Noah without feeling like my stomach is about to shoot up into my throat. He’s looking at me with concern.

“I don’t have to. I want to. I don’t belong here.”

“Look, these people—” he gestures toward the door “—the people in the living room, you might not feel like you have a lot in common with them, but they’re nice people. Who cares if they like science fiction and fantasy and you don’t? The main reason they’re here is because they love a character enough to want to be that person sometimes. Isn’t that true for you, too?”

“It wasn’t Cathy I loved,” I said, throwing the broken strap down on the bed. “It was—oh, never mind. He’s your friend; you’ll just defend him.”

“Ben might be my friend,” Noah says carefully, “but he’s not perfect. I know that.”

A light flicks on in the back of my mind. “You were trying to warn me about him,” I said. “Earlier, out by the lake—weren’t you?”

“Er.” Noah looks like a trapped rat. “I was just saying that maybe he wasn’t exactly like you thought. People are sometimes—different—than they seem online.”

“Why would he even come to this?” I whisper. I know I shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help it. “If he didn’t even want to see me?”

Noah looks at the floor, the wall, anywhere but at me. “I can tell you what he told me. He said meetups like this were always full of lonely, geeky girls who go online looking to hook up. He said he was certain to score with someone. Probably you, but if not you…someone.”

“Probably me?” My voice is still a whisper and even the whisper hurts. In books, no one ever says “It’s probably you.” It’s always “It’s only you” or “It’s always been you.” Not “It’s probably you.”

“I’m sorry.” And Noah does look sorry, truly.

“I don’t get it.” I shake my head. “The things he wrote me, online, in e-mail—how could the kind of guy who goes to a party to take advantage of girls he thinks are lonely and pathetic be the same kind of guy who writes things like that?”

“Because,” Noah says, very slowly, “he didn’t write those things. I did.”

“You wrote them?” I stare at him. “All those letters—those messages—everything?”

“Not the messages. That was Ben. Just the letters.”

I want to not believe it, but I can’t help thinking about how I always thought the messages sounded like they were in a different voice than the letters, that it was never quite the same, that Ben would never say the same amazing things in IM or chat as he would in the letters he sent. But I always thought that it was just because his prose required time and polish. Now I know better.

“So you lied to me,” I say. “You knew Ben never wrote those letters and you didn’t say anything about it. Probably because you knew that if you did, you’d be screwing him out of his chance to score with some lonely, geeky girl.” My eyes are burning.

“I didn’t lie to you,” Noah protests. “I just—” He breaks off. “Okay, fine. I lied to you. But I didn’t mean to.”