In Her Skin(43)

“Yes.” No. I became Vivi to have a family. To have you. But I cannot say these things because you’ll see me as weak, and to be weak around you is the most dangerous of all.

“The insects—that feeling. It’s still there?”

“Yes.”

“In your chest and lungs and—”

“I said yes,” I snap.

You smile. “Then you’ll need to control it.”

“I can control it. Most girls would have crumbled. I let it lift me. It’s what drove me to escape.”

“It will also destroy you if you don’t learn how to use it.”

I roll to face you. “How do you know this?”

“I have it inside me, too.” You wet your lips. “And I can teach you to use it.”

We move to my room and climb out the window left open by Wolf, you first, to the roof. I didn’t know you could get to the roof from the fire escape; I only considered it as a way down. It’s windy on the tarred roof, but you bring the plaid blanket that you gave me a few long weeks ago, when you first gave me your warmth, and you have climbed up here before. We wrap ourselves in it and lie on our backs, your leg slung over mine, owning me. The sky is full with city light, and dark clouds pass, close and fast.

“I’m going to go quickly. If you don’t get it, I’m not going to explain it to you,” you say, and I am not patient with fools, either.

“That feeling is your power. That’s what lifted you out of that crappy hotel room away from your dead mother’s boyfriend when most girls would have clung to him because it was all they knew. That’s what drove you out of Tent City and into our home. And when they come for you—the doubters and the cops and whoever else figures out you aren’t Vivi, and they will—you need to use that power to stand your ground. Pretending you’re Vivi isn’t enough. You need to get rid of them. That’s where your rage takes over.”

I sit up on one elbow. “Get rid of them?”

“You should be prepared to. Selectively eliminating threats is completely realistic. But you have to practice. Use your rage when it isn’t necessary. The most effective predators attack prey without an immediate need or use for it. It’s called surplus killing. Think of wolves killing a whole henhouse of hens and eating just one. They’re not killing for the fun of it. They’re honing their reflexes, their skills. You need to exercise your rage, or it will get dull. I do this myself, and I can help you do it, too.”

I think of fencing. You’re talking about fencing, I’m sure of it.

“That said, you have to hide it. Blunt the sharp edges. When a victim shows rage, it’s called admirable. In a predator, rage is a lack of humanity. It scares people. Shape yourself so no one can see it.”

“I guess.”

“You need to be prepared. Once your rage takes over, there is no grasp of reality or balance until it’s exhausted. You’ll find yourself looking down at what you’ve done, and the shock will creep in. Resist. You need to get your head together fast to figure out how to get away with it.”

I think you are telling me to kill people who get in my way of being Vivi. You’ve said it before: we are natural-born killers. But I’m going to pretend you aren’t, because we are here under this big sky and you are warm and I have nowhere else to go.

I shiver underneath the blanket. You draw me nearer.

“You and me: we’re like sticks. Apart we were easily broken, but together we’re strong.” You bend and kiss my head. “Never leave me.”

We lie like this against each other. I watch my breath in clouds over my face. After a while, you slip from under the blanket and start the climb down.

I sit up. “Where are you going?”

“To bed. It’s a school night.”

My world is upside down and you are thinking about getting sleep for your classes tomorrow. You stop on the ladder before your head disappears.

“Oh, also: my parents were right. You should totally do the Today Show.”

*

Three days later the Today Show sends a limo to pick up Mr. and Mrs. Lovecraft and me at an ungodly hour. It’s four hours and twenty minutes of a near-silent ride, where everyone is absorbed in their own electronics and reading materials. I try to ask Mrs. Lovecraft what I am expected to do and say, but she insists I need only tell the truth: we are a family, I am doing well, and everything is better.

It would have been better if you were here.

“Do you think maybe this could backfire? Like, it could make the reporters more interested?” I sound so stupid. Straddling the line between being innocent Vivi and knowing they know I am Jo means everything I say comes out sounding like a backward woman-child.

Mrs. Lovecraft takes off the glasses she wears to read. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“No. I get why this is good. Once the world knows I don’t remember anything, the police can’t push,” I say, puppet that I am.

“That’s exactly right. As far as the press goes, never doubt that we can protect you.” She pats my knee. “We’ve been through this before. We will always be able to protect you.”

As we drive deeper into New York, towers crowd the sun and everything turns gray. I’ve never seen New York, but I say nothing of this. When Mr. Lovecraft says, “There’s Lady Liberty!” I bob my head to see. Thirty Rock, as Mr. Lovecraft calls it, is like Quincy Market on steroids, with fountains and distracted tourists. How easy it would be to pickpocket, and I banish the thought, for that is not the right mind-set for today. I want to stop and see the fountain and the golden statue, but the Lovecrafts are serious, and this is not a time to be a goofy tourist. We arrive in a lobby where the air smells pumped in and ride a fancy elevator, exiting into another lobby with huge posters of the show’s hosts. The receptionist asks our names and tells us to go directly to the greenroom, which is not green but orange, with a feast of pastries that has me drooling. From here you can watch the show in real time on one of the flat-screen TVs, and I don’t, because it freaks me out. The Lovecrafts don’t, either. A quick-talking woman rescues us from our nerves. She identifies herself as our producer, treating me like a piece of china, which is good, because it helps me get back into character. What she doesn’t do is tell us what they’re going to ask. We’re supposed to go on at 8:35, and we’re waiting for a fourth person. The producer sighs when at 8:02, Harvey Silver strides in, pink stripes down his gray suit, legs and arms scissoring like a grasshopper. He shakes Mr. Lovecraft’s hand and kisses Mrs. Lovecraft on the cheek. I am starting to feel like an afterthought, as in I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t notice if I stayed in the greenroom, and this is good, too, actually. Harvey asks where you are, to “complete the family picture,” and the only words I hear are “unpredictable,” and he nods knowingly, and I am not surprised.