The Hearts We Sold(10)

She watched the swell and tide of the small crowd, the few people who had begun dancing—but it was just an excuse to grind against someone they liked. Dee watched with half annoyance, half longing. She couldn’t imagine letting someone stroke the line of her back, to grasp her hip or press a kiss to her throat.

It wasn’t that Dee didn’t want sex or kissing or any of the other things her classmates always seemed to be doing. It was just—she was afraid. She tried to imagine speaking to a boy, flirting with him, taking her clothes off—and her mind just went blank.

She wasn’t attached to her virgin status. As far she was concerned, it was like a mole on her forearm—it was simply there, visible for all the world to see, and sure, it would be nice to be rid of it, but when was the time? Or the opportunity?

Besides, she would probably do it wrong.

Dee found herself near a desk—its contents cleared away and replaced with a hastily assembled assortment of snacks. She considered the bowl of pretzels, wondering how many people’s hands had been in that bowl, when someone joined her.

Dee sensed the girl before she saw her. She must have been someone’s friend, smuggled on campus. There were seniors who swore it was easy to sneak people in if you knew the security routes. This girl was pretty, with lush dark hair and heavily lined eyes. She was the kind of girl who wore a lot of makeup and wore it well. But that wasn’t what drew Dee’s attention.

Her red cup was held in a prosthetic hand.

Dee froze. She knew better than to assume. People lost limbs for all sorts of reasons. Maybe she’d been born that way. Maybe she was a cancer survivor. She could’ve gotten her left hand stuck in a garbage disposal for all Dee knew.

But it still didn’t stop her mind from racing. Because there was one sure way to lose a limb these days.

To trade it away for something else.

“You think the pretzels are any good?” said the girl. She spoke slowly, as if the syllables were difficult to pronounce.

Dee shrugged. “I don’t think you can get food poisoning from a pretzel.” Her eyes were fastened to the girl’s sleeve, to the place where the metal and plastic prosthetic disappeared.

The girl cleared her throat, and Dee’s gaze snapped to hers.

The girl smiled—half defiant, half mocking. “See something you like?”

Dee’s eyes fell to the table and she shook her head. “Ah, no. Sorry. I mean—I shouldn’t have stared. Sorry.”

This was why she hated parties; inevitably, she would do or say the wrong thing and the memory would haunt her for weeks to come.

The girl’s face softened. “No problem.” She dug into the pretzel bowl and offered Dee a handful.

Dee took them, if only so she’d have an excuse not to talk. For a moment, the silence hung between them. Dee considered moving away, finding Coffee-Distributor Julia or making an excuse about going to the bathroom, but then the girl spoke.

“I’m used to people staring,” she said. Her breath smelled like sugar and vodka. “It’s the first thing most people see. So long as it’s not the only thing they see, I’m fine with it.”

“Ah.” Dee had no idea what to say. She felt as if she stood upon a minefield, and one wrong word might destroy her.

The girl gave Dee a shrewd look. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” said Dee honestly.

The girl laughed and her cheeks colored. “You’re the only sober person here. I like you.”

“I get that a lot,” said Dee. “The sober part, not the people-liking-me part.”

That made the girl laugh again, and she put her drink down so it wouldn’t spill. “You come to a lot of parties, then?”

“No,” said Dee truthfully.

The girl beamed at Dee, as if they floated together on some sea of alcohol-fueled goodwill. “You want to know, don’t you?” She traced her fingers down the metal of her left hand.

“No,” said Dee. Too quickly.

The girl smirked. “It’s not just you. Everyone wants to know. I usually tell them I was in an accident.” She leaned in closer, and Dee knew how drunk the girl must have been—drunk enough to let slip truths she would have otherwise held close. “People get really judgey when they know you’ve done a deal.”

Dee inhaled sharply. “So you did… uh…?” She gestured vaguely at the girl’s left arm. “I thought—well, I thought people under eighteen couldn’t…”

“Demons don’t make covenants with anyone under sixteen,” the girl said, picking up her drink again and taking a swig. “I was seventeen. Last year.”

Dee bit the tip of her tongue, trying to hold the words in. Her resistance lasted only a few seconds. “But what—I mean, if you don’t mind me asking. What did you…?”

“Ask for?” The girl flashed her a bright smile. “It’s nothing scandalous. I didn’t ask for bigger boobs or a perfect memory. Which, looking back on it, might have been more useful.”

Dee waited, and sure enough, the girl shrugged. As if this was just another drunken confession.

“I wanted my parents together,” she said. She wobbled on her high heels and she gripped the side of the desk. “But demons can’t make people love you. That’s part of their thing, right? They can’t affect emotion… and they won’t kill people. Not can’t, but won’t. My demon, she said that it’s too much trouble for what they get out of it.” The girl laughed.