Eliza and Her Monsters(14)

I know, if I had ever met Olivia Kane, author of Children of Hypnos, I would have probably burst into tears and collapsed on the floor at her feet. I doubt Wallace will do that, but I don’t want to take the risk.

Interacting with Wallace would be so much easier if he knew who I was. I would control every conversation. Every meeting. Every action and word that passed between us. LadyConstellation is a god who creates currents in her own world. Eliza is a guppy getting tugged along by those currents, unable to even see where they take her.

LadyConstellation will have to wait. For now—with Wallace, at least—I’ll have to make do with Eliza Mirk.





CHAPTER 8


Two things wait for me at home.

The first is Emmy’s care package, a neat little box taped with hearts and frosted with glitter.

The second is Davy. When I step through the door, his big white body careens around the corner and slams into my legs and hips, knocking me off balance. He never jumps, but stands there, tail wagging, waiting for me to pet him. Which of course I do, because who can resist petting their dog when he offers himself up like that?

I fall on him. Davy holds me up, panting and shedding and being adorable.

“Somebody’s back from doggy camp!” Mom comes around the corner after him, wearing her baby-talk face and making pouty lips at Davy. “You had a fun time with your friends, didn’t you, Davy-Dave?”

“You don’t have to talk to him like he’s a child,” I mutter into Davy’s fur.

“What was that?” Mom says.

I straighten up. “Nothing.”

“He got a nice long week running with the pack, and now he’s back with us in time for Halloween. Aren’t you, bud? Oh, Eliza, you got a package. I put it on the kitchen counter.”

The way she says it, you’d think it had a bomb inside. She only puts things on the kitchen counter when she isn’t sure if she wants to keep them or take them out to the garbage cans in the garage.

“It’s from Emmy, Mom,” I say.

She frowns. “From Emmy. What is it?”

“I don’t know yet.”

I release Davy; he follows me into the kitchen, Mom trailing not far behind him. I grab a pair of scissors and tear open the box.

Inside is a note from Emmy and a pile of assorted goodies one might expect to receive from a fourteen-year-old college student: hard-lead drawing pencils she probably got at a steep discount from the campus bookstore, or charmed out of some art student; a picture of a man made from a collage of body parts she must’ve found in magazines and online, who somehow manages to be anatomically correct; and of course a few packages of ramen. Mom makes a face at the man picture and the ramen. I ignore her and open the letter. It’s handwritten; Emmy likes to dot her I’s with hearts. Ironically, she says.

E!!!

You better like your care package! I know you said you needed some new hard pencils, so I hope you haven’t bought any yourself yet. The ramen is for eating, because I know you forget to do that sometimes. But of course we both know the best part of this is the Mr. Greatbody. Yes, he has a name. I have taken everything you’ve told me about your perfect man over the years and I have created him for you. Marvel at my masterpiece. Feast your eyes on my fantastical creation.

Speaking of eyes . . . if his eyes fall off, it’s because I ran out of glue. I’m a civil engineering major, not a craft supply store.

Love you lots!

Emmy

I look at Mr. Greatbody again. Strong jaw, striking eyes, lean muscle—honestly, it’s the sort of thing anyone could find attractive. I’ve never been picky about what guys look like, and I think Emmy buried a joke about that in here somewhere. I laugh anyway.

“What is that?” Mom asks. I taste the disdain in her voice.

“Nothing,” I say, gathering up the box and its contents. “Inside joke.”

“Is Emmy . . . Emmy’s a girl, right?” Mom follows me again as I leave the kitchen and head up the stairs.

“Yes, Emmy’s a girl. When have you heard of someone named Emmy not being a girl?”

“I don’t know, but with these internet people, I thought I’d ask. . . .”

I clench my teeth to keep my mouth shut. I don’t think she means to offend me anymore—she probably never did—but whenever we get into this conversation, one of us ends up too angry to continue. I jog up the stairs, Davy on my heels, and turn down the hall for my room.

“I’m not sure I like that they have our address, either,” Mom starts.

“They’re my friends. I don’t give our address to people who aren’t my friends.” I step inside my room. Davy scoots in after me, and I close and lock the door. Mom’s footsteps stop outside. Then comes her huff at the closed door.

“You should take Davy for a walk later!” she calls.

“Sully and Church take him for walks,” I yell back. “They love it.”

“What kind of homework do you have?”

“I don’t know. Math. Physics.”

“Make sure you get it done. We got a call from your homeroom teacher again, she’s worried you aren’t doing as much as you should be—”

“It’s not like I’m applying to Ivy League colleges, I’m going to get in. Why does it matter?”