The Lion's Den(74)
I laugh. “We met when we were fifteen,” I say. “And she wasn’t always such a bitch. She’s been through some things.…”
“Like what?”
I sigh, unsure why some part of me still feels the need to protect her, after everything. “Her mom’s husbands, for one. All four of them. The last one was a cop who beat the crap out of Rhonda and gave Summer a black eye when she tried to intervene. And the one before that, number three…did some horrible shit, too.”
Amythest pauses in front of a display window featuring impossibly thin mannequins dressed in resort wear, and places her hand on the glass, transfixed. “If I were rich,” she muses, “do you think I’d wear clothes like that?”
I laugh. “Not all rich people wear caftans and gladiators.”
She wipes a tear that rolls from under her glasses. “Ugh.” She groans. “This kind of shit doesn’t usually upset me. But this week I just feel so…small. So fucking lame.”
“I know what you mean,” I say. “If it makes you feel any better, Summer only got here by opening her legs.” This isn’t true. She’s done far more than that to secure a place at John’s side, but I want to cheer Amythest up.
She snickers. “You say it like it’s a bad thing. From where I’m sitting, it looks pretty good. Except the fact that John’s doing me behind her back, of course.”
She spins as though she’s made her point and strides up the sidewalk. I hasten after her. I want to stop her in her tracks, to shake her and open her eyes to just who she’s messing with, but I worry revealing anything more to her than I already have would only backfire.
After a few turns up farther narrow streets lined with tawny shops and faded blue shutters, the maze abruptly ends. To our left is the changeable blue sea, backed by mountains; to our right, a grassy hill with a citadel on top. I stare up at the fortress, shading my eyes. “I think I read that’s some kind of museum now. Wanna check it out?”
She shakes her head, the purple streaks in her hair glinting in the sun. “It’s so nice out. Let’s walk along the water.”
The sun is strong as we hike along the path by the ocean and I wish I had a hat, but the view is to die for and the breeze keeps us cool enough. After a couple hundred yards, we come to a parking lot and an arched gate. An investigation reveals it to be, improbably, a cemetery.
Rows upon rows of closely stacked marble graves, most of which resemble legless twin beds with cross-engraved headboards, sit upon sandy shale, the waves of the bay crashing on the rocks only yards below. Amythest stares in wonder. “How cool.”
We wander through the cemetery contemplating the names and years, and I do my best to translate the epitaphs. “‘Do not mourn my death, but celebrate my life,’” I read. “‘Gone too soon. Loving mother and grandmother.’ Oh, this one’s Shakespeare: ‘Like as the waves make towards the pebbl’d shore, so do our minutes hasten to their end.’”
“Heavy,” she says.
“How about this one: ‘Danser au paradis’—‘dancing in heaven.’”
She laughs. “I like that. Emille Broulet Marchand, 1903–1923, she was just my age.” She stares down at the grave. “You know, my real name’s not really Amythest; it’s Jessica. I changed it because…I don’t know, I guess it made me feel special.”
“But you are special,” I say.
She gives me a shy smile, then shifts her gaze to the horizon. “I wouldn’t want to be buried by the sea.” She shudders. “All that water. I know I’d be dead, but…”
“You’ve gotta learn to swim,” I say. “When we get back to LA, you can come over to Wendy’s and—”
She snorts. “As if Wendy would ever invite me over.”
“She’s really not—”
“I don’t care,” she cuts in, holding up a hand. “After this week, you’re the only one of these bitches I ever want to see again.”
My phone dings, and I fish it from the bottom of my purse. It’s a text from Summer. My pulse quickens as I read:
This is John’s boat and it leaves when he says it does. It is not your boat u r a guest here and on our schedule. I can’t believe how rude u r. After all we have done for u. Be there at 5. U have a mtg with John, and u can apologize to him for how ungrateful u r.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Summer.” I hand her the phone. “Fuck her. After all she’s done for me? I let that bitch sleep in my bed for I don’t even know how many months for free! I’ve picked up the pieces after every one of her relationships fell apart. I’ve given her clothes, gotten her jobs…”
I’m seething. I want to throw the phone in the ocean and never go back to that floating prison. If I had any more money, I would jump ship and get a flight back. I wonder if…No. I can stick it out. It’s only a few more days.
“Shit,” Amythest says, returning the phone to me.
“We should head back to the boat.” I drop the phone into my bag and march out of the cemetery, fuming.
Amythest scampers after me, peppering me with questions I can’t answer as we hurry along the sea path, then weave through town. “If you guys were such good friends, why does she hate you now? How long has she been like this? Did you do something to her? Why did you come on this trip?”