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I force a smile. “No. Not Alec. That bastard has been sent to reform school in Poland. He’s out of our lives forever.”
“And nothing else is up?”
“Nope.” Except that I need you and Eli to stop whatever you’re up to so I can protect you from whatever the fuck Antony and Nero have planned. “I’m just missing my girl time.”
“Yay, me too. I feel like we haven’t hung out much lately. So, this is our place. I’ve lived here all my life. It doesn’t have a turret or an indoor bowling alley like Malloy Manor, but I like it.” George bounds up the steps onto a small patio crowded with flowering plants and dangling crystals. She holds open the kitchen screen door for me. “I dug out some more clothes from the thrift store to show you.”
As I enter the kitchen, a woman glances up from wiping down the counters. She looks like she could be George’s older, less-wacky sister, with the same pixie-shaped face, cropped hairstyle, and brilliant green eyes. She wears a cream-colored maxi dress and leather sandals, a feather necklace, and a frown that deepens when she recognizes me.
“Hi, Mackenzie.” She leans over the counter and sizes me up. “I’m Anne-Maree. It’s nice to see you again.”
That look gets my back up, and I’m ready to snap back at her before I realize what’s happening here. Mackenzie used to be friends with Cleo, and the two of them bullied George in junior prep. Of course we did. That’s what girls like us do to girls like George.
I assume that all kids keep their problems locked away in heart-shaped boxes the way I do. But not George. George is an open book, the pages covered in bold scribbles. Her mother knows Mackenzie bullied her daughter because George would have spilled her guts every day after school, and now that same girl is back in her daughter’s life as a so-called friend. George may have decided she’s forgiven me, but that didn’t mean Anne-Maree Fisher had.
Okay, wow. So that’s what parental love looks like.
I’d forgotten.
Daddy always says that love will be your boldest strength and your greatest weakness. Anne-Maree Fisher wears her love with all the ferociousness of a lioness. My heart aches as I shove back memories of my parents that threaten to overwhelm me. I need to focus on George tonight. This might be my last chance.
“Hi, Anne-Maree.” I look around the faded kitchen with the crystals and rattan planters hanging in the window, the large spice rack shaped like a tree and filled with ingredients I’d never heard of, and the bright-blue refrigerator bulging under the weight of concert posters and sketches and takeout menus and tarot cards stuck to it with magnets shaped like David Bowie’s head. “I love your house.”
Anne-Maree nods, but I can tell from her eyes that she thinks I’m bullshitting. I’m not. I’ve only a foot in the kitchen door and already their house feels warmer, more comfortable, more homely, than anywhere I’ve ever lived. And that’s with Anne-Maree’s frosty reception.
“So… Mackenzie, George is telling me you started at Stonehurst this year. It must be hard to catch up at a new school after so much time away.”
George shoots her mom a look, and a wordless exchange indicates that I’ve been a topic of conversation in this house before. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that kids sure can be monsters, but George is safe now that the biggest monster of them all is on her side.
“I’m managing. I’m working with a tutor, and my friend Noah is helping me.”
“Mom, are there any snacks?” George opens the fridge. I peer over her shoulder, noticing a lot of kale and microgreens.
“Sure. There are buckwheat muffins and activated cashew nut bites in the cupboard.” Anne-Maree slings her purse over her shoulder. “I’m off. I’ll be staying over at Paul’s tonight. There’s money on the counter for pizza – remember, Raphael’s does that great cauliflower crust you love. Call me if you have any problems.” She shoots me a look, as though she expects me to be a problem.
“We will. Love ya, Mom.” George leans up to kiss her mom’s cheek. A knife twists in my gut at their easy companionship. For the first time in a long time, I ached for my parents – for my mother’s kisses and my father’s firm smile when I did something that pleased him. I always thought being alone in the world makes me strong – just the way Daddy taught me. But I’m starting to wonder if loving people gives you something to fight for.
As soon as the door swings shut, George drags me into the living room and lifts the couch cushions to reveal a stack of non-organic, teeth-rotting snackage she stashed there. “My mom’s a health-food nut. But don’t worry – I got supplies. And I have a chocolate mud cake stashed under my bed. I promise it contains absolutely zero buckwheat.”
“You’re hilarious. And also my hero.” I unclip my purse and angle it toward her, showing her the bottle of port I spent way too much time choosing from the cellar. “I raided Daddy’s liquor cupboard. I figured he wouldn’t mind.”
“I’ll get the glasses.” George tosses me the remote. “You choose our movie.”
As George fills rainbow-colored tumblers with Howard Malloy’s forty-year-old port, I scroll through the selection on George’s hard-drive. Her tastes are predictably George – lots of horror films, music documentaries, and weird arthouse films mixed in with the Disney and Japanese anime. I dive into the horror section and choose something with lots of blood and gore. George comes back with drinks and a huge-ass chocolate cake wobbling on a stand, a knife sticking out the top. She sets down her goodies and flops down next to me.
“Excellent choice,” she beams as she sees my selection. “I don’t understand how people have movie nights and watch Titanic or whatever. It’s horror or nothing.”
“I know, right? Horror movies don’t get nearly enough credit. They contain lots of important lessons. Like never run through a creepy forest wearing only your nightgown.”
“And they teach kids the importance of researching arcane shit in libraries,” George adds. “My dad worked on this film, did you know that?”
“No way.”
“It was actually his big break in the industry. After this he hooked up with Damien Scott – you know, the director of Bloody Valentine Massacre – and his career started going places. I grew up watching horror films with Dad – a new one every Friday night. He once said the most unrealistic thing about horror films for millennials is that they always start with someone buying a house.”
I snort. “I started watching them because my real life was such a horror film, they were the only thing that felt real. You should see my room. My parents brought me a porcelain doll every year for my birthday and Christmas. It’s like a real horror film set. I can’t even sleep in that room anymore.”
“Hell yes.” George leans forward. “I want to see your creepy doll room. Did you remember, you and Cleo bloodied up one of your dolls and stuck it in my locker?”
