Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(8)

The dogs erupt into a chorus of barks and I freeze, convinced that it’s Evelyn trying to catch me in a lie. I duck below the peephole, picturing her standing on the other side of the door, her weepy eye pressed against the circle of glass, looking for a teeny, tiny Sean.

Evelyn knocks again. “Hello?”

My heart hammers in my chest as the dogs leap against the door, some of them howling now. There’s nothing they love more than visitors — though shouldn’t their animal senses alert them to the danger that awaits on the other side?

A third thump, this one so heavy that it reverberates through my body, which is trying to melt into the wood of the door. “Open up, jackass. I know you’re in there. I just saw you walk by the window.”

Jackass? That doesn’t sound like Evelyn. The dogs are now dancing in circles. Sure, they get excited for visitors — any visitors — but there’s only one person who makes them dance like this.

I let out a relieved breath and pull open our creaky front door, boxing out the snuffling dogs, to see Nessa — Cathy’s best friend and partner in Gothworld — standing on the stoop, her squid-ink-black hair hanging in her ghost-white face.

“Jeez, took you long enough,” Nessa says. “What the hell were you doing, tweeting about your doll collection again?”

“They’re not dolls. They’re action figures. And I don’t tweet about them,” I say, and step aside to let her in. “She’s upstairs.”

“Cool.” Nessa enters and brushes past me. I get a whiff of her heavy makeup as she goes by. The smell brings back memories of spirit gum and Halloween costumes.

“Oh, hey.” She turns back and smiles. “I never got to tell you. You guys were totally savage at the Battle of the Bands. I didn’t expect you to be that good.”

“Thanks,” I say, completely caught off-guard by the compliment.

“Okay, well. See ya.” Nessa flashes another smile, then makes her way into the living room. The dogs attach themselves to her like iron filings to a magnet, wagging their tails, squeaking and whimpering, leaping this way and that. You’d think they were starved for affection the way they crawl all over her.

A brief flash of me crawling all over Nessa blindsides me, and I shake my head like a golden retriever, trying to dislodge the unsettling image.





ROAST BEEF, POPOVERS, potatoes au gratin, creamed spinach, creamed corn, and vanilla shakes.

This is the fattening feast that has been laid out in front of us tonight. Which, if we were a normal family, who ate normal food all the time, might seem completely . . . normal, if a bit excessive. But since Mom is a total health freak who swallows fistfuls of vitamins and runs five miles a day, every day, rain or shine, it’s more than a little weird to see this kind of food on our table. Weirder still, this is the third time in five days that Mom’s prepared some kind of ginormous spread.

“Okay, what the hell’s going on?” Cathy stares at the food on the table. “Are you guys getting a divorce, or what?” She plops herself down in her chair and ushers several of the curled-up dogs out from under the table with her stocking feet.

“Don’t be rude,” Dad says, tucking his napkin into the collar of his sweater with one hand and scooping a pile of potatoes onto his plate with the other.

“I’m not being rude,” Cathy says. “I’m just concerned about my pants size. I’ve gained, like, ten pounds in the last week.”

Mom shrugs. “So I’ve relaxed my dietary restrictions a bit. Big deal. If you ever turned off your computer and exercised a little, maybe you wouldn’t be gaining so much.”

“Is that so?” Cathy says, staring at Mom’s rounding belly. “Then what’s your excuse?”

Dad points a serving spoon at her. “That’s enough out of you, young lady.”

“What?” Cathy shrugs. “It’s not like I’m saying anything we all haven’t noticed. Right, Sean?”

“I don’t . . . know.” I avert my eyes, not wanting to get involved.

“Oh, come on. You know. Mom’s packed on a few lately. And she’s cooking like she expects Paula Deen to show up and join us for dinner. If Mom’s depressed or something, are we just supposed to ignore it?”

“I’m not depressed,” Mom says, her eyes getting moist.

“Just eat your food, Cathy,” Dad says.

“I’m a vegetarian,” she announces, staring at her empty plate.

“Oh, really?” Mom asks, snuffling back her tears. “Since when?”

“Since right now. I just decided.”

“Not me.” My mouth is watering as I serve myself some roast beef. “I love me some meat.”

Cathy smirks. “So I’ve heard.”

I glare at her. “I didn’t think vampires could be vegetarians.”

“And I didn’t think little mama’s boys could think for themselves.”

“That’ll be quite enough,” Dad says.

“Ignore your sister, Sean.” Mom pats my hand. “She’s probably just having her period.”

Cathy narrows her eyes. “Just because I don’t want to have a heart attack at eighteen doesn’t mean I’m PMSing.”

“Look, if you don’t want to eat, don’t eat,” Mom snaps as she serves herself a puddle of creamed corn. “I’ll bring the leftovers down to the shelter, where I’m sure the starving homeless children would appreciate a nice home-cooked meal.”