Whisper to Me(51)

“Good. Maybe being locked out will make you think about these things.”

I withdrew my hand, leaving the keys where they were. I would have to hope Dad was home not too late, though he’d said he wouldn’t be back for dinner—that was why I was going to Paris’s place to begin with. He’d be pissed with me for staying out at night—not that I had a formal curfew, but he didn’t like me being out in the dark with the killer around—but what could I do?

I opened the door.

“Wait,” said the voice. “Put on a jacket. You look like ****.”

I went to the closet.

“No! Not that one! What are you, color blind?”

“Better?” I asked.

“Satisfactory,” said the voice.

As I passed the monkey, I pushed my luck—I reached out my hand, thinking the voice might not be paying attention.

“You want to bleed tonight?” asked the voice.

I went out without my keys.

When I got to Paris’s apartment building, I pressed the bell and heard the buzz that said the door was unlocked. I went in and rode up in the elevator to the second floor. As I neared her door, a guy in a dark suit came out—he was in his forties maybe? I glanced at his hand—there was a gold wedding ring on his ring finger.

He lowered his eyes as he passed me and hurried into the elevator. He had a belly that was stretching his white shirt, although the rest of him was skinny.

Paris was holding the door open and she looked—and if you’d told me I’d ever see this I wouldn’t have believed you—she looked embarrassed. Or more than that, ashamed.

I didn’t say anything—what could I say? I just smiled at her and she smiled back, and we went inside.

“Let’s go to the piers,” said Paris.

“What?”

“Let’s do it. Ride the Ferris wheel.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No. Why?”

“I’m town. People from the town don’t go to the piers.”

“Oh please,” said Paris. “Like you didn’t go when you were a kid.”

“That was different. I was a kid.”

She shook her head sadly. She had eyeliner ticking up from the corner of each eye, bright blue; it made her look like a cat. Pin-striped pants, high heels, a shirt. Big bangles on her wrists, in all colors. She grabbed a half-full bottle of Smirnoff from the counter. “Anyway, I’m not town,” she said. “I’m from New York. I’m a tourist basically. A student tourist. I’m everything you town people hate. So we’re going,” she said. “There’s nothing you can do about it.”

Story of my life.





I’ve just noticed that I called the bottle of vodka “half full.” Whereas I told you that my dad is a glass-half-empty kind of guy.

That must make me an optimist.

Well, I guess I wouldn’t be writing this otherwise.





Paris, of course, was right; we had fun.

The sun was setting over the town as we got to the end of the street by her building. We climbed up the steps onto the boardwalk, joining it just between the SLOT MACHINE ARCADIA, which is decorated with spray-painted murals of satyrs and nymphs frolicking in a dell by a stream, and VINNIE’S TATTOO STUDIO.

“You want?” said Paris, holding out the bottle of vodka.

I shook my head.

“Killjoy,” said Paris.

“My allergy,” I said.

“There are no peanuts in vodka, Cass.”

“No.”

“So have some.”

“I can’t.”

She stopped, took another swig, and looked at the bottle, then at me. “You did before we went to the group.”

“Yeah, because I was nervous. But it was only that one time. I don’t drink.”

Paris puzzled was a beautiful thing to see. It was not something that happened a lot. Her eyebrows stayed knitted. “Why not?” she asked.

“It’s if I do eat peanuts. Or something with peanuts in it. Alcohol makes an anaphylaxis much worse.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Seventeen to twenty-seven. That’s the danger zone. When most allergic people die. Because they drink and get sloppy, and then they get a reaction and their bodies are already weak from the booze.”

“Huh. Who’d have thought it.” She took a swig of vodka and threw the bottle, still nearly half full, into a trash can—laid it up like a basketball player, hand curled over, the bottle flying in a perfect parabola before landing with a chink. Then we crossed the wide wooden walkway, skirting kids carrying cotton candy, and laughing groups of teenagers. Balloons in a hundred colors rose from the wrists of toddlers, like sky-jellyfish.

Then we were across the boardwalk, and in the amusement park.

We went to a booth and bought evening tickets—they gave us blue wristbands with the moon printed on them. Already the sun was low in the sky over the town, painting the rooftops orange. We were just paying the teller—a young girl working for the summer, I guessed—when a guy at the back of the booth came over and looked at me through the glass.

“Cassandra?” he said.

I nodded.

He came out a door in the side of the booth. Russian Pete, I think he was called? Short, always wore a bow tie, had eyes that puffed out, fishlike. He did a kind of measuring motion with his hands. “Jeez, you got big.” He called over his shoulder. “Hey, Finn.”