Page 97 of Cackle

The next morning, I head to Sophie’s first thing. I decide to stop in the Good Mug for coffee. I wait for Oskar to comment on the two coffees, on the fact that one of them is for Sophie, but he doesn’t. He does ask me if I’m feeling all right.

“I feel great,” I say. “Why?”

He shakes his head.

It’s nippy, and there’s a shimmering layer of frost on the ground, but it’s not bothering me at all. I like the way it makes me feel, how it reminds me of my body. You’re here, the cold says. It’s now.

I trot up to Sophie’s door and set the coffees down so I can knock twice. The door opens itself and I step inside. Sophie is at the top of the stairs wearing a long purple velvet robe with black fur trim.

“Pet,” she says, yawning, “good morning.”

“Am I too early?” I ask. “I have coffee.”

“I’m tired is all,” she says, descending the steps. “Thank you for the coffee. How was your date?”

I hand her the cup and she removes the lid to sip. She looks at me, her eyes bright and eager.

“You don’t know?” I ask her.

“Know what, darling?”

“About the date?”

“What do you mean?”

“We talked,” I say. “Last night. On the stall?”

I was so sure. I didn’t doubt for a second.

“The stall?” she asks.

“Are you messing with me?”

She leans back, puts a hand over her heart. “No, darling. I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh,” I say. “I guess I had too much to drink or something. I could have sworn . . .”

“Tell me,” she says. “Come. Let’s sit.”

We sit on the stairs and drink our coffee as I give her a play-by-play of the night. I tell her about handsome, terrible, bland Pascal. I tell her about Dan and his repulsiveness. She scoffs.

“Some men are so foul you wouldn’t even bother to save their blood,” she says.

“Sorry?”

“Never mind,” she says. “Continue.”

I tell her about how the restaurant was tacky and the food was gross, about how I drank straight whiskey and escaped to the bathroom. I tell her about how I saw the graffiti, the message that I assumed was from her. The red ink.

She keeps shrugging and shaking her head like she had nothing to do with it, like she has no idea what I’m talking about. I’m not sure I believe her. Part of me hopes she’s lying, because the alternative is scary. Did I hallucinate? See what I wanted to see? Was I drunker than I realized?

I tell her about how I started to get sassy, but then realized it was futile.

And then I tell her about the bones.

She’s silent as I recount the story. She doesn’t sip. She doesn’t move. I don’t think she breathes.

“I laughed. I started laughing. It took me over. I thought it was the funniest thing I’d ever seen, the funniest thing to ever happen. He was bleeding from his mouth, spitting out bones, and I was laughing. I laughed. The whole restaurant was staring.”