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Her cell phone rang at two p.m. on Sunday. She'd gotten up to visit the bathroom and grab a bottle of water, but no food, and her whole body felt weak and abused. "Where are you?" the voice on the other end demanded. Claire squinted at the clock and scrubbed a hand through her matted, oily hair.
"Who is it?"
A sigh rattled the speaker. "It's Jennifer, idiot. I'm waiting at Common Grounds. Are you going to show or what?"
"No," she said, and then tried again. "I'm sick."
"Look, I don't care if you're dying, I've got a mid-term tomorrow for half my grade! Get your ass down here now!"
Jennifer hung up. Claire threw the phone down on the nightstand with a clatter and sat -- or fell -- onto the bed. I can't. I just want to sleep, that's all.
Someone rapped gently on the door, and then it creaked open. Eve was standing there, with a cracked, much-abused plastic tray in her hands. On it was a frosty glass of Coke, still fizzing, a sandwich, and a cookie.
And a red rose.
"Eat," she said, and slid the trap onto Claire's lap. "Man, that's one hell of a hangover."
"Hangover?" Claire looked at her oddly, and sipped the Coke. It went down sweet and cool, and that helped. "I'm not hung over."
Eve just shook her head. "Been there, CB. Trust me on this. Eat, shower, you'll feel better."
Claire nodded. She did feel a spark of hunger, distant as it was, and managed to take two bites of the sandwich before weariness overtook her again. She tried the cookie in between.
The shower felt like heaven, and Eve was right about that, too; when she finally got dressed and finished half the sandwich she felt almost alive again.
Her cell phone rang again. Jennifer. Claire didn't even let her get started yelling and threatening. "Ten minutes," she said, and hung up. She didn't want to go, but staying in bed didn't seem to be doing much for her. She took the tray downstairs, washed up, and grabbed her backpack on the way out.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
Michael. He was standing in the hallway, blocking the door, looking like he was guarding the gates of heaven itself. His hands looked raw and pink -- still healing from the burns. She thought about that, about how important his hands were to him, because of the music, and felt a sharp stab of guilt.
"I'm meeting Jennifer at Common Grounds," she said. "Tutoring. For money."
"Well, you're not walking, and I can't take you until dark."
"I can," Eve offered. She joined Claire in the hall. "I need to go in to work anyway. Kim didn't show again, they called a little while ago. Hey, overtime pay. Gotta love it. Maybe we can afford tacos."
Michael looked exasperated, but it wasn't like there were a lot of choices. He nodded and stepped out of the way. Eve stretched up on her toes to kiss him, and that went on for a while before Claire cleared her throat, checked her watch, and got her moving to the car.
It was a short ride to Common Grounds, but not exactly a comfortable one, because the first thing Eve said was, "Is it true? Oliver killed the Fentons and Captain Obvious?"
Claire didn't want to talk about it, but she nodded.
"And Michael? Michael was there?"
Again, the nod. Claire looked out the window.
"He got hurt. I saw the burns." This time she didn't even try to answer. Eve let the silence stretch for a few seconds, then said, "Don't shut me out, Claire. The four of us, we're all we've got."
Except that what Claire had couldn't be shared. Not with Michael, not with Eve, and certainly not with Shane.
She was alone, carrying an ugly weight of knowledge she didn't want and couldn't use. And every time she thought about Oliver's icy smile, about him ripping out Christine Fenton's throat, she felt sick. I'm helping him, if I keep working for Myrnin and Amelie. But she was also helping Michael. Sam. Myrnin.
Eve seemed to sense it wasn't time to push; she pulled to a stop in front of the coffee shop and said, "Stay inside until dark, then Michael will come get you."
"I'm going to see Shane," Claire said. "But I'll get a ride home."
"Claire, dammit -- " Eve sighed. "I can't stop you. But if you wait, you and Michael can go together. I'll see you guys tonight. Tacos for dinner, right?"
Nothing sounded very exciting to her right now, but Claire nodded. She got out and walked into Common Grounds, which was a sea of noise and conversation -- packed, as always, with college students and a few locals. She was getting used to picking out the gleam of ID bracelets.
Jennifer was sitting at the same table Monica favored, sipping a drink that Claire bet was the same thing Monica drank, wearing an outfit that was probably Monica's hand-me-downs, or at least copied from the same designers. She looked angry, and scowled at Claire as Claire dropped her backpack on the floor and slid into her chair. "You look like crap," Jennifer said. "Sick sick, or hung over?"
"Does it matter?"
"Hung over," Jennifer said, and grinned. "And here I thought you were all underage goody-two-shoes."
The smell of coffee was making her feel queasy, but Claire went to the counter and ordered a mocha anyway. Oliver wasn't on duty, and she didn't know the two working as baristas.
When she turned around, somebody else was sitting at Jennifer's table in the previously empty third chair.
Monica.
Crap. I can't deal with her. Not now. She felt horrible, and the last thing she wanted to do was match wits with the witch-queen.
Monica gave her the x-ray scan, looked at Jennifer and did an over-the-top hand to the forehead. "I thought the homeless look died in the '90s?"
"Shut up." Claire slid into her chair, mocha in hand. "I'm tutoring Jennifer, not you."
"Bitch, I wouldn't let you tutor me. You'd probably give me all the wrong answers."
Which was a totally good idea, and Claire saw the fear flash into Jennifer's expression. She sighed. "I wouldn't," she said.
"Why not?"
"Because -- because this matters. School." They both looked at Claire like she was a lunatic. "Never mind. I just wouldn't. You want my help or not?"
Jennifer nodded. Claire reached for her notebook and flipped to the notes she'd taken in economics, and started explaining. Jennifer was trying, at least; Monica kept sighing and fidgeting, but Jennifer seemed to be kind of following along. She even got a couple of the formulas right, when Claire pop-quizzed her. It took about an hour to get her to the level of a solid B, but that was good enough. Jennifer wasn't interested in As, and Monica couldn't have cared less.
