Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(50)

She looks pretty hot, I have to admit, but all I keep thinking about is what Leyna would look like in this very same outfit. It’d take her Final Fantasy persona to a whole new level.

“Hey there, stranger,” Nessa says, sliding the door open.

I smile awkwardly. “Hey.”

“No one saw you, right?” She cranes her neck, searching behind me for potential spies.

“Not that I could see.”

“Good.” She steps aside. “Come on in.”

She leads me through the dining room, where nearly all of the surfaces — the table, the sideboard, the chairs — are stacked several feet high with overflowing orange file folders, old newspapers, and unopened mail.

“Don’t mind the mess,” Nessa says. “My dad’s an accountant.” As if this explains everything. “Come on. We’ll work in my room. It’s the neatest place in the house.”

We make our way up the green-carpeted stairs, hang a left, and head down a short hallway. We stop at an ornate blood-red wooden door. Carvings of vines, tree branches, and leaves decorate the six inset panels. This is not a door to a bedroom. More like an entryway to some enchanted castle.

“Sweet,” I say.

“My dad found it by the curb with someone’s garbage. They were just throwing it out. Can you believe that? We had to sand it, and cut it down, and paint it. But it was worth it.”

“For sure,” I say. “That’s the coolest bedroom door I’ve ever seen.”

Nessa smiles. “I think my dad secretly likes the fact that I’m into dark and weird shit. It gives him an excuse to hunt for cool stuff at antique shops and garage sales and flea markets. He’s always coming home with some new thing he thinks I’ll like.”

“That’s nice. You know, that he’s supportive and all.”

“Yeah. He’s pretty cool. When he’s not totally embarrassing me.” Nessa grasps the brass knob, then turns back. “All right, so. This is my inner sanctum. I don’t let just anyone in here. You are being afforded an honor, and I expect you to show courtesy and decorum. But most of all, I expect you to keep your mouth shut.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Sure. Of course.”

“If I find out you’ve breathed a word about my room to anyone — and that includes your drooling, emotionally stunted friends — not only will I no longer help you with your script, but I will happily place the world’s worst acne curse on you, which will make your face break out so badly that even your mother won’t be able to recognize you. Are we clear on this?”

I blink. “You . . . you know curses?”

“Screw with me and you can find out.” Nessa pushes open the door and steps inside.

My nostrils are filled with the sweet scent of smoky spices as I follow her into the darkened space of her bedroom. The heavy incense works in my favor as it should mask any lingering scent of pee. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the dim candlelight, but as soon as they do, my jaw drops. Everything is lush purple and deep crimson and dark wood. Her four-poster bed is canopied with sheer white drapery. The walls are decorated with all sorts of crosses, daggers, and knives; sketches of wolves and demons; old horror-movie posters; and dried boughs of red roses. The dressers and tabletops are covered with flickering candles, dragon statues, incense burners, chalices, and skulls.

It’s like we’ve entered someplace medieval and haunted and otherworldly.

“Holy crap,” I say, gawking at all the badass stuff. “This is hands down the coolest bedroom I have ever seen. Way cooler than Cathy’s gargoyles and red drapes.”

“Thanks.” Nessa smiles. “Glad you like it.”

“Like it?” I circle around, taking in the old beat-up leather-bound books lining her bookshelves, the crystal ball on her nightstand, the small flat-screen TV and PS3 on her desk, the fake tombstone hanging on the wall over her bed. “It’s like a movie set or something.” I turn to look at her. “Are you telling me your dad actually helps you decorate your room like this?”

Nessa shrugs. “At first he wasn’t too pleased by the whole ‘dark’ thing. I think he thought I was getting obsessed with death or something after my mom passed away. Which was kind of true. I mean, for a while I was really sad. But then I got really interested in dying.”

“Interested?” I say. “Like, wanting to?”

She rolls her eyes. “No. It was more like intense curiosity. Wondering about the process.”

“Of dying?”

“Yeah. Like, how it feels, you know? Is it like falling asleep? Does it hurt? And what happens afterward? Once you’re gone? Are we just here one day and then poof? Nothing? Or is there something else?” She laughs at my blank stare. “Don’t you ever wonder about that?”

“I try not to.”

“Well, you should. It makes you appreciate your life more when you know you only have a finite amount of time on this planet.”

“I think it would just make me depressed.”

“Actually, it’s just the opposite. Thinking about death gives you perspective on all the things that are fleeting in the world. The fact that we’re going to die gives life more significance. That’s why vampires are so bummed. They’re immortal and everything, but it’s meaningless because nothing matters. And speaking of meaning”— she moves to her desk and opens her laptop —“we need to talk about the theme of this movie of yours.”