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I groan. “No, I’m not bragging. She’s been cursed to love me. Now do you get it? Her feelings are reliable because they’re not real.” My voice breaks on the last two words, and I look at the floor.
There is a long pause.
“How could you do that to her?” Daneca says finally. “That’s like brain rape. That’s like actual rape if you— How could you, Cassel?”
“I didn’t,” I say, biting off each word. She could have given me the benefit of the doubt for just one minute. She’s supposed to be my friend. “I’m not the one who worked Lila. And I never wanted her to—I never wanted this.”
“I’m going to tell her,” Daneca says. “She has to be told.”
“Daneca,” I say, “just shut up for a minute. I already told her. What kind of person do you think I am?” Looking at Daneca’s face, I can see exactly what kind of person she thinks I am, but I keep going anyway. “I told her and I’ve tried to stay away from her, but it’s not easy, okay? Everything I do seems to be the wrong thing.”
“So that’s why—” Sam cuts himself off.
“Why I’ve been acting so weird about her?” I say. “Yeah.”
“But you’re not an emotion worker?” Daneca says cautiously, no longer quite so disgusted. I appreciate that she’s at least trying to sort through what I’ve already said, but I can’t help resenting that the one thing I actually didn’t do is what she’s accusing me of.
“No,” I say. “I’m not. Of course not.”
Sam looks over at the doorway, and I follow his gaze to see the blond worker kid that Mrs. Wasserman took in.
“So if you’re not the one who cursed her…?” Daneca asks me, whispering.
“That part’s not important,” I say.
The kid turns to us, his face pinched. “I already heard you. You don’t have to whisper.”
“Leave us alone, Chris,” Daneca says.
“I’m just getting a soda.” He opens the refrigerator.
“We have to do something,” Daneca says. Her voice is still low. “There’s some emotion worker going around hurting people. We can’t just let—”
“Daneca,” Sam says. “Maybe Cassel’s not ready to—”
“Emotion workers are dangerous,” Daneca says.
“Oh, shut up,” says Chris suddenly. The refrigerator gapes open behind him. He has the soda in his gloved hand, and he seems ready to hurl it at one of us at any moment. “You always act like you’re better than everybody else.”
“This is none of your business,” says Daneca. “If you don’t get your soda and get out of here, I’m calling Mom.”
Sam and I share the awkward look of outsiders in the middle of a family squabble.
“Oh, yeah?” Chris says. “Maybe you should tell your friends that you’re an emotion worker instead of hiding it. Do you think they’ll still listen to you then?”
For a moment everything stops.
I look at Daneca. She has the blank look of shock, eyes wide. Her hand is raised protectively as if words could be warded off. The kid isn’t lying.
Which means that Daneca has been.
Sam falls off his stool. I think he was trying to stand up and wasn’t really thinking about it, but he winds up stumbling back as the stool crashes to the floor. His back hits the cabinet. The expression on his face is awful. He doesn’t know her anymore. It cuts me to the bone because that’s exactly how I’m afraid he’ll look at me.
I lean down and right the fallen stool, glad to have something to do.
“We’ve got to go,” Sam says. “Cassel, come on. We’re out of here.”
“No, wait,” Daneca says, walking toward him. She falters as if not sure what to say, then turns back to the kid. “How could you do this to me?” Her voice is a thin wail.
