The Black Coats(2)

Later, Robin wouldn’t remember walking there, or pushing the door open to find Julie Westing sprawled out on the couch, reading. Her friend would take her upstairs and hold her up in the shower. She would wash the blood out of her hair and ice her wounds, her hands shaking with rage. She would call Robin’s parents to say that she fell down the stairs and that she was going to stay with her for a few days. Her best friend would hold Robin through that long, dark night, reassuring her that she was safe now and that they would have their revenge.

And three weeks later, Julie would stand by as Robin pulled on her father’s black coat and, with shaking hands, picked up a baseball bat.





Part One





One


Austin, Texas. Present day.

Thea Soloman was up to her elbows in clay when someone secretly placed the envelope next to her bag. It was a busy pottery workshop, with almost wall-to-wall bodies in the small art room at Roosevelt High. Thea was at her favorite pottery wheel, the one in the corner, away from everyone. As the clay wove its way up through her long brown fingers—so cold and slimy and lovely—Thea had the distinct feeling that this wheel was made for her. It didn’t ask anything of her. It didn’t want her to talk about Natalie; it didn’t want her to smile. Thea just wanted to pick her glazes in peace (today a cheery yellow semigloss, for the sunshine she couldn’t muster), and then feel the simmering kiln kiss her skin with its hungry heat. A tight curl of brown hair fell over her eyes, and Thea blew it upward. She felt safe here in the back corner, and so she was a bit unnerved when, upon returning from washing her hands, there was a black envelope lying next to her bag.

“What?” Thea picked up the card, looking to see if anyone was watching her. No one was; the teacher was laughing loudly at something human-Barbie-doll Mirabelle Watts had said, and a bunch of boys were giggling in the corner as one carved a penis out of clay. Thea sat down on her stool, turning the envelope over in her hand. The front of it was bare, and on the back there were two letters, visible only when she turned it in the light, a hard script of black gloss on the black envelope: BC.

Thea frowned. Was this a prom invitation? The last thing she wanted was to go to prom. Also, no one wanted to take her, so that worked out great for everybody. She slipped her fingers under the flap and winced when the paper sliced cleanly into her fingertip. She brought her finger to her lips and sucked away the small dot of blood. She pushed open the envelope, the inside flap revealing a gorgeous yellow-gold backdrop covered with a myriad of black images in an Edwardian pattern: black-winged butterflies, a gold scale, splatters of ink that bled into thorny roses and sharp daggers. In the middle was a silhouette of a woman, her chin raised high. It was so beautiful that Thea ran her fingers over the pattern, feeling the soft texture of the black over the gold paper. She pulled on the card inside. Black cardstock slid out, bound with a black lace that covered up embossed gold lettering.

Thea again looked around to see if anyone was watching and then carefully unwrapped the black lace binding. Her breath caught in her throat as she read.

Angel of the Waters.

Ten minutes.

Don’t be late, and don’t share this note with anyone.

Thea’s head jerked back. What is this? Is someone trying to trap me? That couldn’t be right—her high school was far too boring for something like that, and yet . . . worse things happened. Worse things had happened. But unlike her life for the last six months, this was something interesting, something mysterious. Angel of the Waters. Thea thought for a moment. The Bucket. Of course. She paused, her mind cartwheeling. What did she have to lose? Her clay vase was now puttering in a sad circle, neglected and deformed. Thea leaped to her feet and threw her book bag over her shoulder while grabbing the envelope with her other hand. Mrs. Brown followed her out into the hallway. “Thea? Are you all right, dear?”

Thea turned away from her and hid her face, playing the only card she had. “Sorry. I just need to see the counselor.”

Mrs. Brown nodded. “Of course, dear. Go right ahead.”

Once Mrs. Brown returned to her classroom, Thea took off, sprinting down the gray hallway that ran underneath her enormous high school. Poor Mrs. Brown. Poor friends, poor parents, always waiting for Thea to crack, always concerned. Maybe she finally had. Thea ran up the cement stairs, pulling her other arm through the strap of her backpack, taking the stairs two at a time. Ten minutes. How long did I sit there, admiring the envelope like a total idiot, while this invisible clock ticked? Five minutes? She ran past classrooms in a blur, her curly hair tangling in her backpack as she flew by the offices. She picked up speed as she neared the doors of the school, bursting past the metal detectors and out into blustering Texas wind, warm even in February.

The Angel of the Waters statue sat in front of their school. About twenty feet around and about ten feet deep, it had once been beautiful, or so she had heard. Now a bronze cherub with her hands outstretched towered over a circular fountain filled with green water. Across her draped robes, someone had spray-painted “Fuck this school,” and her eyes had two black X’s across them. The fountain itself had stopped working long ago, and now it simply churned filthy green water back and forth. There was a reason the students of Roosevelt High School had christened it “the Bucket.” Thea examined the fountain, unnerved by the angel’s blinded eyes. Thea walked slowly around the fountain, inspecting every possible surface for . . . anything. A note? A phone? There was a lone boy sitting beside the fountain, watching Thea with piqued interest.