Prey Page 9

  Jess grabs her arm. “To the girls' room. We'll see you guys in a few minutes.”

  I watch them weave through the dancers, the lights reflecting bright spots of color off the backs of their dresses and hair until they disappear into the shadows on the far side of the gym.

  Honey

  The bathroom is foggy with hair spray. Girls are preening at the mirrors, smearing on lip gloss and gobs of mascara. The mix of so many different perfumes makes me more nauseated, and I rush into an empty stall, lock the door and lean against the cool metal wall, fighting for control.

  Jess bangs on the door. “You okay?”

  “I will be,” I lie. My stomach is churning, my heart beating hard. When I close my eyes, all I see is Lori Settles' necklace—the Celtic love knot on its silver chain nestled at her throat. A Christmas gift from a friend.

  “Want me to go get you something to eat?” Jess asks.

  “No. I—I don't want to throw up.”

  “Bad news. How about some cola?”

  “Not now.”

  I take deep breaths, force myself to calm down. I've seen that style of necklace twice, once here in Atlanta. Whoever gave it to Settles could have bought it right here in the city. And once in a velvet box in Ryan's room.

  “Do you need to go home?” Jess again.

  “I don't know yet.”

  I hear the voices of other girls saying, “What's up with Honey?” and “Is she all right?”

  “Stomach bug,” Jess says.

  No germs, I think—fear. My legs feel wobbly. “How about a wet paper towel,” I say to keep Jess busy. I need time to think. Why would Ryan give Lori Settles a necklace? A bribe for grades? Stupid. I discard that notion quickly. Why? I can't face the ugly thought that keeps banging against the inside of my head.

  “Incoming,” Jess says, passing a soggy wad of paper towels under the door of the stall.

  I take them, wring them out into the toilet and press them to the back of my neck. The cold feels good and revives me. I do more deep breathing. You're being stupid, I tell myself. I'm letting it ruin my night. There are plenty of people who could have given Settles her necklace. Maybe even Coach. Or a friend from her past. Or one of those firemen from that time we worked the carnival. I remember how a few of them were falling over themselves to talk to her. I'm betting the necklace Ryan bought is still in his room.

  “Status report,” Jess says.

  “Better,” I say, getting a handle on my emotions. “I'm coming out.” I unlock the door and step out into a circle of curious girls.

  “Show's over,” Jess tells them. “Scram.”

  They scatter and I walk to the mirror. At least I didn't cry, so my mascara's in place. I fumble for lip gloss, smear it on.

  “Whatever it was, I'm over it,” I say.

  “Probably your period,” Jess says. “Sometimes just before I start, it knocks me out.”

  “You're probably right,” I tell her. “Mother Nature can be a royal pain.”

  Lori

  hey look so fresh-faced. The girls in their pretty party dresses. The boys in sports jackets or suits. I can tell none of the girls get dressed up much because their bodies aren't at ease with the swish of filmy fabrics, or the cut of strapless dresses over underwire bras, or the lift of high-heeled shoes. They walk stiff-legged, afraid of stumbling and making fools of themselves. But they are young, with smooth skin and girly laughs and all their hopes for love riding on goodnight kisses in the moonlight. So naive.

  I watch the boys watching the girls. They can't keep their eyes off cleavage and soft shoulders and high, rounded butts. They push against their dance partners, pressing the shapes of the girls to accommodate their own, feeling bare skin and risking a quick kiss when they think we chaperones aren't watching. As if I'd step between them. Let them revel in their illusion of romance. It's over soon enough.

  When Ryan arrives with the horsey girl in tow, my mouth goes dry. He looks delicious wearing a coat and tie, both bought by me. I want him to know the luxury of quality fabrics and well-cut clothes. He should know that the garment universe doesn't consist only of T-shirts and denim. The stretch of Italian linen across his shoulders, the slimness of his waist and narrow hips, excite me. He always makes me want him.

  He's smiling at the girl and she's smiling back. Can he see how she feels about him? Does he know how much she wants him? If he's blind to her, I'm glad. I can't compete with her youth.

  “Young love. Isn't it grand?” Coach Mathers interrupts my thoughts.

  “Very grand,” I say.

  “I don't even remember being that young.”

  He's attempting to engage me in conversation, but I don't care to talk to him. He's a nonevent on my calendar. “I do.”

  After a few minutes of staring at the dancers, he asks, “So, are you finding your way around Atlanta well enough?”

  “Yes.”

  “Took me a long time when I first moved here. Why do you suppose they named so many streets Peachtree?”

  “Yes, that is peculiar.”

  He's annoying me. I want him to leave me alone. I turn and see Ryan and a group of his friends coming toward me. My nerve endings tingle. I was content to stay in the background tonight and out of his way because lately he's wanted to reconnect with these kids. I'm cool with that. Mostly because I think he'll tire of them quickly. Especially when he has me waiting for him.

  I force myself not to look at Ryan. Two of the girls are in my classes, so it's easy to smile and talk to them. They admire my necklace. The girl Ryan's with, Honey, can't take her eyes off it. “A gift from a friend,” I tell them, knowing they could never guess just how friendly Ryan and I are.

  Once they walk away, I ask Mathers to get me a soda and he scurries off like a lovelorn puppy. The music is loud and the colored lights swirl across the dancers like smears of bright paint. I close my eyes and absorb the sound like a sponge. I was never this young. I should have been. But my father took it all away from me. And my mother did nothing to stop him. Not one damn thing.

  Ryan

  I'm awake in my room at two in the morning, rest less, thinking that the dance was a big waste of time, when my computer signals that an urgent e-mail has hit my inbox. It's from Lori.

  Did you like the dance? Was it all you wanted it to be? I thought you looked good enough to eat….

  The e-mail goes on to describe what she'd like us to be doing to each other right now, and all I want is to get into bed with her. My body aches. I need her. I feel ready to explode.

  Want to come get me?

  She replies:

  Let me grab my keys and I'm on my way.

  I dress in black, open a window and edge out onto the porch roof, then slide down a side column holding up the porch. I've made this escape many times to meet her, so I'm waiting at the end of my block when she drives up. I get into her car.

  She reaches over, squeezes me, and I shiver. “I don't want to wait one more minute,” she says. She drives to a nearby golf course and parks behind a clump of trees on the rough. I slide my seat as far back as it will go and she climbs on top of me. In minutes, our clothes are off and the insides of the windows are steamy. “I want you,” she whispers. “I want you now.”

  When it's over, when we're both limp and gasping for breath, she buries her face in my chest. “For what it's worth, I hated seeing you with that girl.”

  “Neither of us had a good time,” I say. “Honey got sick to her stomach and we just went through the motions the rest of the night.”

  “I'm sorry she got sick.” Lori doesn't sound too convincing.

  “Did you have a good time with Mathers?”

  “He's not my type.”

  “Good. I didn't like seeing you with him, either.”

  She pulls back and the necklace I gave her catches a stray gleam of light. I touch it. “It looks good on you.”

  “Especially when it's all I'm wearing.”

  I grin. “Right.”

 
Suddenly a beam of light hits our side window.

  “What's going on in there?” a man's voice says. “You all right? Have an accident?”

  I freeze. Lori rolls off me, scrambles into the driver's seat, cranks the engine.

  “This is private property!” the voice shouts.

  I make out the shape of a man in a uniform holding a flashlight. “Cops!” I tell Lori.

  The man bangs on the window.

  “A security guard,” she says. “Hang on.” She puts the car into reverse. The tires spin in the soft dirt and for a second I think we're stuck, but the tires grab on to hard clay and the car shoots backward.

  The man yells, “Stop!”

  The tires squeal as we hit pavement and the car fishtails, but Lori holds it and in seconds we're wheeling down a side street. My heart's racing, but I feel electrified, alive to the tenth power. Lori slows and we both let out a whoop. “Awesome!” I shout between fits of laughing.

  “That was a close one.” Lori pounds the steering wheel. “He ate our dust!”

  We drive, and as the pumped feeling leaves me, I begin to sweat. “What if we'd been caught?”

  “We weren't.”

  But my adrenaline is gone and all I want to do is get back to my room. “Better take me home.”

  “Better get dressed.”

  I've forgotten I don't have clothes on. I manage to tug on my jeans, shirt and shoes while Lori drives slowly around for block after block. Once I'm dressed, she makes a turn onto my street and stops a few doors down from my house. I look over at her. “What about you? Want me to wait while you dress?”

  She pulls an athletic jacket from the backseat and slips it on. “I'll finish when I hit my parking lot.”

  I grin. “Don't get pulled over by a cop.”

  She leans over and kisses me. “I love you, Ryan. You make me feel alive. I don't know what I'd do if I ever lost you.”

  I get out, jog through two yards to the barking of neighborhood dogs, shimmy up the porch column and scramble into the safety of my room. It's four in the morning when I collapse on my bed. I'm glad it's Saturday and I can sleep in.

  Honey

  Mom comes into my room around ten on Saturday and asks, “How was the dance?”

  I've been awake for a long time but too depressed to get out of bed. I turn toward the wall. “Great time.”

  “I'm so glad. I heard you come in but thought I'd wait until this morning before getting a report.”

  “Later,” I tell her, knowing there's only one thing to report and I'm still sorting it out.

  Mom picks up my dress from the floor. “Honey, this dress cost a lot. Don't leave it wadded up this way.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  She takes it to my closet and hangs it on the back of the door, fluffing and smoothing the shimmery fabric. “You and Ryan looked so good together last night. I've already downloaded the digital photos Dad took onto the computer. When you come down, take a look. You were glowing. Did Ryan have a good time?”

  I can't tell Mom the truth—our date was a bust. That's what happens when you get your hopes up. A burst bubble. Ryan was bored. I was confused. All I could think about was Lori Settles and her necklace. Ugly thoughts. Hateful ideas. “You'll have to ask him,” I say.

  Mom stands beside my bed, and I feel her gaze on my back. “You feel all right?”

  “I'm fine. Hungry.” I toss back the covers. No use making Mom wonder what's going on with me. She has the instincts of a hawk, and wheedling power to boot.

  “I saved you some pancake batter.”

  “I'll be right there,” I say.

  When she's gone, I crawl into sweatpants and a sweatshirt, find a scrunchie and pull my hair into a ponytail. I don't look in the mirror because I know what I look like—I'm big-boned and oversized and I have smudges of last night's mascara under my eyes. The real Honey Fowler. Across the room, the dress hangs on a padded hanger, sapphire blue and feminine, a curse from the night my dreams crashed and burned. I'll never wear it again.

  I have to know the truth. It takes me a week to devise a plan. I wait for an afternoon when I know Ryan's not at home, when his dad's on the road, when their housekeeper is almost ready to finish her chores for the day. I ring Ryan's doorbell. When Mrs. Gomez opens the door, I say, “Hey there. Remember me— Honey Fowler?”

  “Yes, Ryan's friend.” She gives me a big smile. “Ryan's not here.”

  “Rats!” I act disappointed. “Listen, I really need a favor. He's got some material I need up in his room for a project I'm doing at school and it's due tomorrow. Can you please let me in so I can go up and find it? I promise I won't take long.”

  I see her hesitate.

  “We can phone him on his cell,” I say, hoping she won't call my bluff. “He's in the library, so he may not have it turned on.”

  She gives me a smile and steps aside. “I am sure this will be okay.”

  “Thanks!” I rush up the stairs and into his room, my palms sweating and my heart racing. Liar, liar! I hear my conscience shout.

  His room is neat as a pin. A place for everything, and everything in its place. No velvet box in sight. He could have put it anywhere. I can't quite stoop to opening the dresser drawers and pawing through his things. Nothing on his desk, either. Just his computer. I go to his computer, remembering that it's password protected. I pray he hasn't changed the password since fifth grade, when we played computer games together.

  He hasn't. I call up his e-mail program. I rummage through his inbox, outbox, deleted messages. Nothing. I hear Mrs. Gomez start the vacuum downstairs. Hurry, I tell myself.

  Minutes later I find a subfolder inside a saved folder marked WORLD HISTORY with a list of e-mails from carnivaldaze. The folder is large and organized by date. Just like Ryan, I think. I choose one and read it, and almost go into shock. It's graphic, sexual and explicit. And Ryan's replies to this person's e-mails leave nothing to the imagination. I feel sick.

  Below, the vacuum stops and Mrs. Gomez calls out, “Are you finished, Honey?”

  “Almost!” I shout back. “Just five more minutes.”

  I find a stack of writable CDs on a shelf next to Ryan's computer. My fingers have lost all feeling and I almost drop the blank CD that I pick up. I slide it into the machine and copy the entire subfolder.

  Back home, I run upstairs and lock my bedroom door, turn on my computer and with shaking hands insert the copied CD into the disk drive. When the list of files flashes onto the screen, I read them, starting from the earliest date to the one from as recent as the day before. I see the entire history of Ryan's relationship with carnivaldaze. He addresses her by name in several of the e-mails: Lori. No doubt remains in my mind that Lori Settles, Ms. Settles, is carnivaldaze and that she and Ryan are having an affair.

  Bile rises into my mouth and I fight off the urge to vomit. Ryan and Lori. Student and teacher. Boy and woman. Friends with benefits. Lovers.

  I exit the program, remove the CD and stash it between two books on a shelf. I wish I could wash out my brain and rid myself of the pictures the e-mails have imbedded in my mind. I wish I had never snooped. Too much information.

  The pain is unbearable, the sense of betrayal stupefying. When I left Ryan's room an hour ago, I left my romantic notions behind, my idea of sex as something beautiful and meaningful between two people who love each other. I also left behind my hopes, my dreams, and my heart.

  Honey

  It feels as if worms are crawling around in my brain. I've read the e-mails about a hundred times over the past few days, and I'm convinced that Lori Settles is a monster and that Ryan is despicable. Worst of all, knowing what's going on between them has pulled my life out of shape and turned me into someone I don't like.

  The secret I'm carrying around is eating me alive. I can't sleep. I've lost interest in school, and I blew our final game of the season so badly that Coach took me out at halftime and made me ride the bench. I don't care. I just want the pain inside me to stop
.

  “What's going on with you?” Jess asks after cornering me in the hall at my locker.

  “Nothing. I've just had a lot on my mind.”

  “Everything all right at home? With your brother?”

  “Cory's fine, and the parents are all right too.”

  “Then what? It's like you're off on a distant planet.”

  “Two huge papers due,” I say.

  Jess looks worried. I think about telling her what I know, but don't. I want to tell someone but don't know who to tell, or how.

  “You just look so unhappy,” Jess says. “I miss my friend.”

  Tears bubble up into my eyes. “I'll get on top of things,” I tell her. “Back to normal soon.” But it's not true. I don't even know what normal is anymore. My thoughts are torturing me. My feelings are overwhelming. I want to do something. I have to do something.

  Cory comes home for Easter and I realize I've missed him. I envy him too, because the world he lives in isn't as complicated as mine, at least not when it comes to emotions. We're outside tossing a ball when Ryan and Joel drive by in Joel's car. They stop, come across the front lawn. Just seeing Ryan makes my stomach all queasy. I recall a time when it was jumpy every time I saw him—a time when every nerve in my body was lit up because he was near me. Knowing what I know now, I just feel sick.

  Joel sits on the front step and gets on his cell. Ryan walks up to me and Cory.

  “Hey, buddy,” Ryan says to my brother.

  Cory recognizes him, but he doesn't offer himself to be hugged. Autistic kids are that way—sometimes they want you, sometimes they don't. Sort of like Ryan, I think.

  Cory walks away. “How's he doing?” Ryan asks me.

  It's hard for me to speak to him, but since it's about Cory, I say, “He's doing good at that school. They think he can mainstream into third grade next year.”

  “That's great.”

  Cory wants me to toss him the ball. Ryan picks it up and rolls it to him. Cory lets it lie at his feet. “He wants me to do it,” I say. I go, pick up the ball and hand it to Cory. He waits until I'm several feet away and rolls it to me.