The Most Dangerous Place on Earth(72)
The clouds had passed over and stars strained to blink between the redwoods. They were deep inside that dark and winding canyon; branches shielded much of the sky.
“You have to go,” the boy said, his voice panicked.
She laughed. The laughter rolled over her body in waves that picked up speed and power until she felt she would drown beneath them. She was drowning already, doubled over now, gasping for air. (A boy had drowned once, or almost drowned, in the Valley Middle School swimming pool as the rest of the eighth grade had watched—was that right? His fat arms stirring the water, blond head pulsing frantically under another boy’s hand? Was this a true memory, or only a trick of her mind?)
—
After a week of quiet, a nurse knocked on her open door. “Emma? You have a visitor.”
“Come in,” Emma called, relieved. She propped up on her elbows, gritting her teeth through the now-familiar pain, prepared to apologize as soon as Abigail appeared.
But it was Elisabeth Avarine who followed the nurse into her room. Elisabeth was model-tall and perfect, but slouched when she walked. Miss Celeste would have pushed her shoulders to the wall, tipped her chin up with two fingers, told her, Posture, darling, posture. Who will stand you up in this world if you will not do it yourself?
“How are you feeling?” Elisabeth asked.
“Okay, I guess. I don’t know. I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I know. Still.” She glanced at the monitor by Emma’s head. “Is it okay in here?”
“I guess. The nurses are nice. The food is fucking foul.”
Elisabeth smiled. There was an awkward pause as she looked around the room; she seemed to be searching for something to say. Finally she asked brightly, “Who else has come to visit?”
Emma thought of Abigail, Ryan, Nick Brickston, Dave Chu, Jonas Everett, Lexie Carlton—her circle of friends was wide. She knew they loved her. She hadn’t heard from any of them yet. This thought caught in her throat; she shook her head. “What’s going on at school? What did I miss?”
“You know.”
“Did Damon get in trouble? They told me everyone else was okay.”
“He’s in jail, I think. The police came to my house—they had all these questions—I didn’t know what to tell them.”
“Did your mom flip her shit?”
“It was pretty bad. But good, too, in a way.”
“Serious?”
Elisabeth shrugged.
“That is fucking incredible,” Emma said. “I can’t believe she didn’t murder you.”
Elisabeth reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out Emma’s iPhone. “I almost forgot, I found this in the Red Room—I mean, that’s what we call the guest room.”
The Red Room, Emma remembered: the color of the walls recalled the meat of a beating heart. Emma had perched on the edge of the bed, the down mattress exhaling underneath her. The walls cast pink light on her hands. Ryan Harbinger lay before her, stretching to fill as much space as possible, just like boys like him always did, without even noticing. Above him hung one of Elisabeth’s mother’s art experiments: a grotesque yarn macramé, maroon, that looked like sinews torn and stringing down the wall. Ryan’s eyes were closed and his caramel-colored hair, which usually swept low over his forehead, now fell back to reveal a secret band of untanned skin, and a cluster of tiny, gleaming whiteheads at his hairline that no one, she was sure of it, had ever seen but her. She wanted to pop them, one by one. He opened his eyes.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.” He smiled sleepily, fingered the skin at the small of her back.
Leaning down, she kissed him. He returned the kiss, flattening his palm, pressing her toward him. Urgent, awake. She wanted more. She wanted to taste him all over. She wanted the salt on his palms and the sweat between his shoulder blades. The spice of tobacco on his fingertips. The tang of beer on his tongue. She pushed her palm over his hair, finger-combed the waves. He sat up, pulled off his T-shirt and dropped it on the floor beside the bed. She pushed him back to the pillow. Lay beside him and connected the dots of three small moles on his shoulder, each perfectly round and flat, the color of dark chocolate. Raked her fingernails from the curve of his elbow to the seat of his palm, trailing goosebumps. Tongued his belly. His fingers. Sucked on his bared neck, the blood pumping frantically under her mouth. He moaned. Gripped the cords at the back of her neck. She gasped, released him. Opened his mouth with her fingers and kissed him softly there. He pushed back. He unbuckled his jeans and kicked them to the floor. He was the only boy she knew who wore briefs, not boxers—they were electric blue and clung closely to his hips. She liked them. She slid her fingers under their elastic band and giggled as she snapped it, leaving a shocked pink strip of skin. He bucked. Grinned. Let her do what she would. He didn’t tell her he loved her or even that she was beautiful, but she knew that he liked it. She knew that she was wanted.
She didn’t remember all of it, but she remembered that he came. She did too. It didn’t always work that way—Abigail had said a lot of girls couldn’t get off ever. (Had Mr. Ellison told her this? Disgusting thought.) So what was the point of doing it then, Emma had asked her, because since losing her virginity to Jonas Everett freshman year, she’d hooked up as much for her own pleasure as for any boy’s.