Seven Days in June(22)

Acting on an impulsiveness Eva had thought she’d lost forever, she boldly leaned closer to Shane, narrowing the space between them. They were close. Too close.

“One thing,” she whispered, her lips by his jaw. She didn’t want anyone to overhear. “Before I forget.”

“What’s that?”

“Stop writing about me.”

Only Eva could’ve noticed the change in his expression. She saw the flinch. The slow, satisfied curl of his lip. His bronzy-amber eyes flashing. It was like he’d been waiting years to hear those words. Like the girl whose pigtails he’d been yanking during recess all year had finally shoved him back. He looked gratified.

In a voice both raspy and low, and so, so familiar, Shane said, “You first.”





Chapter 8





Thus with a Kiss I Die




2004

GENEVIEVE’S TEMPLES WERE THROBBING LIKE CRAZY. THE TUSSLE WITH Lizette’s pedo boyfriend earlier that morning had wrecked her head. And the sunlight beaming brightly on the schoolyard wasn’t helping.

It was the first Monday in June, and her first day at this Washington, DC, high school.

Admittedly, being new at the tail end of senior year was awkward. But Genevieve was a pro at not fitting in. At her previous four high schools, she’d been either catnip for generic mean girls or ignored. But each night, with clockwork regularity, she’d whip out her steno pad and fix it. She’d rewrite the day in her favor. Turn herself into a superhero. Get them all back in fiction.

It’s my own fault. Who’d want to be friends with me?

Her face was usually contorted into a pain-induced grimace. In terms of conversation, she had two settings: searingly blunt or deeply sarcastic. She didn’t giggle. Genevieve didn’t mean to be off-putting, but just like today, she’d usually lived five lives by the time she got to school. She hadn’t yet learned how to put on a mask of being fine, despite her personal disasters.

And so far, twelfth grade had been a disaster. She’d always managed to maintain a 4.0. But this year, her migraines had blossomed into gothic territory. Hurting too badly to focus on school, she’d started skipping, spending multiple days in bed—either in paralyzing agony, high from painkillers, or a nauseating combination of both. Her As had become D minuses, causing Princeton to rescind her admission. Princeton was supposed to save her. What would save her now?

In the tub that morning, Genevieve had had an epiphany. It was time for a friend. She wanted to know someone’s secrets. And she needed someone to know hers.

Washington, DC, would be a fresh start. She’d just pick someone and dive in. How hard could it be? Horrible people had friends. O. J. Simpson had friends.

Her last school, back in Cincinnati, had been tough. But West Truman High was way tougher. The schoolyard was erupting with kids in utter chaos, with no teachers in sight. The crowd was G-Unit-video fresh in throwback jerseys, Timbs, and candy-colored weaves. Percussion-frenzied go-go beats were blasting from a boom box, and half the school had on Madness tees.

In contrast, Genevieve’s look was “Tomboy” meets “I Don’t Give a Shit.” She was wearing an ancient Nas Illmatic concert tee, sweatpants she’d cut into shorts, and Air Force 1s. Her curly coils were piled into a massive pony atop her head. As usual, she hid her scrawny frame in an oversized men’s work shirt.

She stationed herself by the bleachers, in a cigarette graveyard. Operation Friend looked bleak. The schoolyard crowd seemed impenetrably cliquey. There were some lone students scattered on the bleachers, though. Squinting in the sun, she surveyed the rows for a friendly face.

He was sitting in the top row of the bleachers, leaning against the heavily tagged brick wall. White tee and Timbs. A book was balanced on his lap, and he was reading it with his brow furrowed in concentration, chewing his lip. He looked like he was living the words.

That’s how I read, too, she thought.

Then he turned a page, and she caught a glimpse of his gold-flecked chestnut eyes. The sun caught them, and they shone bronze. Was it a trick of the light? This boy radiated such peacefulness. An angel among mortals.

Genevieve trusted beautiful boys. She was safe with them, because they wanted prom queens, not her. Boys in her league were the ones to worry about.

She headed up the rickety bleachers. That was when she noticed the fraying cast on his left arm. No signatures. She got a bit closer and saw a fresh scab slashed across his nose. A step closer, and she saw that his knuckles (on both hands) were bruised purple and green. And his pupils were really, really dilated.

Okay, he was looking less angelic. But now that she was standing in front of him, it was too late to turn back. He peered up at her with mild curiosity and then went back to his book. James Baldwin’s Another Country.

“Hey,” she said. “Can I sit here?”

Silence.

Before she lost her nerve, she plopped down next to him.

“I’m Genevieve Mercier.” She pronounced it John-vee-EV Mare-see-AY.

He frowned at her.

“It’s French.”

He gave her a look like no shit.

“Is it cool that I’m sitting here?”

“No.”

“Are you an asshole?”

“Oui.”

Social experiment, failed. Genevieve knew better than to equate beauty with perfection. She lived with a former Miss Louisiana who looked pristine but had once dusted their entire apartment with a Neutrogena face wipe.