People Like Us(52)

“I’m not using that on Spencer.”

“Think about it. Now that there are two bodies and your motive applies to both of them, the clock is ticking.” Nola pushes the hair back from my forehead. “You are on fire, Kay.” She digs through her desk drawers and retrieves a bottle of aspirin. “Take one.”

“I’ll think about it,” I tell her.





16


I wake up soaked in sweat but shaking with chills. I must have drifted off still lying in Nola’s bed, dressed in her pajamas. I sit up and blow my nose while my eyes slowly adjust to the light. My phone is glowing on the floor next to me and when I pick it up, I see that it’s already early afternoon and I have three missed calls from Brie and one text consisting of a picture of the god-awful message I left on her door. I rub my forehead with my palm. A migraine is gathering force. There’s also a missed call from Spencer but no voice mail. I tap his name, but as soon as the phone rings, I end the call and dial Brie’s number.

“Where are you?” she says by way of greeting.

“I’m still in Nola’s room.” My wrecked vocal cords and stuffed nose combined with congestion in my ears make my voice sound like a maniacal troll’s, and it startles me so badly, I nearly drop the phone.

“Be right there.” She hangs up, and I sit there uncomfortably, feeling like a child waiting in the principal’s office for her parents to arrive so that the punishment phase can begin. It’s even worse that I’m dressed like a character in a whimsical movie where a child’s wish to be a grown-up suddenly comes true with hilarious consequences. I reach for the clothes I was wearing last night, still in a pile on the floor, but to my dismay, they are still damp and cold. I grit my teeth distastefully and text Brie, bring clothes please?

I look around Nola’s room. It’s an odd feeling being in someone’s room without them. The first time I was alone in Spencer’s room, I tore every inch of it apart. I looked for evidence of prescription drugs, ex-girlfriends, embarrassing childhood photographs, a retainer, anything I might not already know about him. Nothing particularly scandalous turned up. There were a couple of mildly pornographic sketches in the back pages of his math notebook, some girl’s pink fuzzy sweater stuffed in the back of his closet, and an Altoids box in his underwear drawer containing a handful of assorted pills I identified as three Adderall, four Klonopin, four oxycodone, and seventeen actual Altoids.

I was a little curious about the sweater, a new-looking cashmere cardigan, but it was so buried back there between soccer jerseys and winter coats that it didn’t particularly worry me. And the tiny stash of pills was like candy compared to some of the crap Spencer’s friends messed around with. Altogether it was a disappointing expedition, and I never mentioned my findings. I wonder about the sweater now, though. This was months before the incident that broke us up, but it clearly belonged to someone, and Spencer may have had her in his room before the night he walked in on me and Brie.

I stand, my head fuzzy and legs wobbly, and make my way over to Nola’s desk. It’s meticulously well organized, with stacks of books on one side, electronic devices on the other, and rows of knickknacks lining the edge. She has a wooden box that looks like it’s been carved out of driftwood, an old-fashioned inkwell, and an array of writing instruments, including several antique fountain pens and a feather with long, dusty plumes. There is a replica of a human skull mounted on a polished mahogany stand with a brass plate engraved with the words ALAS, POOR YORICK. Even I recognize the quote from Hamlet. She has stacks of suede-and leather-bound journals and scripts, some of them Shakespearean and some by playwrights I’ve never heard of: Nicky Silver, Wendy MacLeod, John Guare.

I pick up one of the journals and flip through. It’s filled with beautifully calligraphied journal entries in violet ink. The first one I turn to is dated three years ago and describes a breakfast in excruciatingly boring detail—we’re talking oatmeal with milk and honey, a cup of tea, and a glass of orange juice. The entry describes the consistency of the oatmeal, the acidity and amount of pulp in the juice, the cracks in the ceiling. It must have been a writing exercise or something. I start to flip ahead in the journal, but a sudden knock at the door sends a wave of guilt through me. I replace the book and open the door to find Brie standing in the doorway, unsmiling, holding a stack of clothes. She’s even more difficult to read than usual with a pair of aviator sunglasses and a hood partially obscuring her face. Her skin looks ashen and her usually glossy lips are dry and cracked.

“Hi.” I sniffle.

She shoves the clothes at me and slips into the room, closing the door behind her. “Get dressed,” she orders. “We’re going.”

I obey meekly as she removes her sunglasses and eyes the room distastefully. She scoops up my clothes and places them in her backpack. “So, what, you’re like Nola Kent’s bitch now?”

I squeeze myself out of Nola’s tiny T-shirt and glare at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Brie lifts the T-shirt off the floor with one finger like it’s contaminated with bedbugs. “First, you’re dressing like a little clone. And FYI, you look ridiculous in this.”

“I know that.” I pull the warm fleece Brie brought me over my head and instantly feel comforted by both the familiar feel and smell of it. It smells like Brie, like our cranberry-pomegranate shampoo and our mint-basil deodorant. I feel a little bit like myself for the first time in days.