A Drop of Night(4)

Later, in Departures, Penny was power texting, her hair brushed forward to hide the scarring on her cheeks. Mom was telling her something about Madame Pripatsky’s carpel tunnel syndrome. I was being pathetic, thinking, Mom? Penny’s not even good at ballet. I’m the one going to Italy. Talk to me.

And I was saying, “Penny, don’t forget to feed Pete.”

I adore Penny. I have no right to. I shouldn’t even be allowed near her, but I do. She’s the only person in the world I’d bother rescuing, if, say, the whole world were about to be hit by a comet and I had a spaceship. She’s the one who gave me the nickname Ooky, back when she was two and the name ‘Anouk”‘ involved way too much drooling. When she was four, she told me she wanted to be a fish when she grew up, a blue one, also a veterinarian. I remember saying she could totally do that because blue fishes skilled in veterinarian work were really rare. She’s eleven now. She wants to become principal dancer at the New York City Ballet someday. She can barely walk upright.

I remember Penny nodding to me. Her thumb, tapping away at her screen. Me and Mom, staring past each other. Mom’s forty-three. She’s got huge hair, like Mufasa. She’s charismatic. She can make shareholders, VPs, the hot dog–seller on the curb outside her building follow her into the void. She’s never spared a drop of that charisma on me. Not in a long, long time.

We stood like that for maybe ten seconds, but it felt like a million years, and inside I was screaming for her to just turn her eyes a quarter of an inch and look at me.

She didn’t. She fixed her gaze on a point over my shoulder and said: “Keep those Italian boys in line.” And then she smiled this tiny, grim smile that said: Serves you right.

It does serve me right. She’s absolutely correct.

She unwrapped another square of gum. Leaned down and whispered into Penny’s ear, like they were friends, or at least a mother and a daughter. I watched them and I wanted to slap Mom, grab her flowing black clothes and shake her until she screamed, until she hated me, because if she hated me at least she’d have to look at me. I stood perfectly still, my skin crackling. “There are three bottles of Mo?t behind the couch in the basement if you guys are planning on celebrating when you get home,” I said.

I left feeling sick and angry, and hid in the business-class lounge as soon as I got through security. Chewed on blood orange rinds until my mouth hurt. Three of my classmates from St. Winifred’s were there, also on their way to Perugia. A trio of perfect brains and perfect nose jobs and perfect Tiffany jewelry, whispering and throwing glances in my direction. One of them—Bahima Atik, I think—waved. I pretended not to see. I don’t feel bad about that. Trust me, neither did they. At St. Winifred’s you don’t have friends. You have allies. You have trade agreements and pacts of nonaggression, and if you’re lucky you have one or two people who won’t stab you in the back. Unless stabbing you in the back is a prerequisite to becoming president of something, in which case, buy a coffin; you’re already dead.

I snap back to the present, and I feel the anger again, nestling behind my ribs like it belongs there. I left the lounge that day like some kind of dark and spiny sea creature, daring anyone to get too close. It’s where all this started, I guess. This searching for something colossal, some epic task that would make people move out of the way when I walked down a hall, that would make me fearsome and great and impossible to ignore. I hope this is it.

I could have done a million other things. I could have gone through the Long Island house with a baseball bat and broken all the Kutani porcelain. I could have made party streamers out of Mom’s and Dad’s sensitive business emails and thrown them around at their next fund-raising gala. I could have picked up drug-addled Ellis Winthrope and flown to LA and sent pictures of our wedding to the whole family. But this is better. It’s my coup de grace. Or maybe just my coup, no grace.

I look down at my phone. Three minutes until I meet the others.



I spot Jules Makra first. He’s leaning against a pillar by Gate B-24, scrolling through his phone. We each got a little bullet-pointed spreadsheet in the blue folder, like we’re superheroes in a lame cartoon. Age. Skill set. Majors. Extracurriculars. Mug shots so we know how to spot each other.

Jules is tall, gangly. Jittery. Elaborately sculpted black pouf hairdo that looks like he spent ages trying to get it right. It’s starting to droop. His earphones are in and his leg is bouncing to a very irregular-looking beat. I tap my fingernails on the handle of my bag. Steel myself and walk toward him, suitcase whizzing behind me.

A second before I reach him, he looks up. Sees me. Grins.

Jules Makra up close: a little bit punk, a little bit hipster. Rolled-up chinos and this weird, bright thrift-shop shirt plastered with Russian dolls and flowers, all crinkled up under a lopsided bomber. His eyes go sharp for a millisecond, little splinters over his grin. He’s assessing me.

I assess him back. “Are you with Professor Dorf?”

“Yeah!” he says. He pulls out one earphone and his grin widens. “You’re Lilly?”

“No.” I glance around for the others.

“Um. You’re Anouk?”

No, I’m William Park. I almost say it out loud, but then William Park shows up, so scratch that idea.

I like Will Park’s face. He looks like someone studiously observed everything about Jules and inverted it. He’s tall, too, but bulky and broad shouldered, and while Jules looks about to pop a shoulder blade out of his skinny back, Will looks self-contained. Calm. Except for his jaw, which is sharp enough to cut stone and slightly tense, like he’s clenching it. He’s wearing a newsboy cap pulled down low and a ratty old pea coat that was probably shabby chic in the 1920’s.