The Curiosities, Page 4

  Him: i know where he puts his keys

  Me: i have an evening class

  Him: dairy queen is open late

  Me: you’re on

  “I’m wearing heels,” Daphne tells Apollo.

  “I’ll carry you,” he says.

  “If you touch me, I’ll...” Daphne is not witty, so she leaves the threat open-ended.

  Andy gets in one last text to finish it off:

  Him: ...make emma slap you.

  We climb out into the hot spring day and adjust ourselves for the trip according to our personalities. Daphne smooths her tiny khaki skirt and fluffs the hair at her nape to better volumize her curls. She hands me her purse. I drop my cell phone into her purse and stomp my feet to get the feeling back into them—they’ve fallen asleep since I was sitting on them in the car. Apollo inhales deeply, making his nostrils flare, as if the scent of new asphalt inspires him, and then caresses his BMW key as he remotely locks the doors. Andy slides his cell phone into the back pocket of beat-up jeans and picks some lint off Apollo’s collar.

  “Let’s roll,” Apollo says. We are already walking. He tries to put his hand on Daphne’s back, and she shies away like a spooked deer, putting me in between her and him. He frowns prettily. She pouts sadly. He knows this is against the rules.

  “What shall we see first?” I ask, because they are so busy not talking to each other I fear that we will end up in Sports Authority.

  “Borders,” Andy suggests. It’s a safe suggestion. Though he and I have cut class to be here and Apollo and Daphne spend much of their time as denizens of the history department, we cannot change what we are: book geeks. But I know what will happen when we get there. Apollo will try to follow Daphne, so she will pull me into the modern history section and use me as a human shield until Apollo loses interest and goes back to the Russian history section on the other side of the shelf, taking Andy with him. I am not a modern history person. It smacks of political science, which is not a real major.

  “I want to go to Hallmark,” I say. “And Things Remembered. And other boring old-lady stores.”

  “Why?” Apollo’s perennial look of confusion is replaced with true bewilderment. He holds the door open for all of us.

  “I need to get something to mark the occasion.” I pat Andy’s stomach as I pass by him. I remember that the others are not in on the pregnancy joke just as I realize that Andy’s stomach is flat and hard under my hand. I was about to smile, and I saw that he was too, but instead we exchange a look that feels like it lasts a minute.

  “What occasion? Lunch?” Daphne looks pissed at me. I am not supposed to have conversations that she is not a part of. Then she looks pissed at Apollo, who let his shoulder touch her shoulder. “I don’t get it. Emma, you should leave the funny to Apollo.”

  Andy and I bust out laughing, as Apollo hasn’t been funny since the day his BMW got a scratch and he made his voice three octaves higher than usual. Apollo, however, looks flattered and grants Daphne one of his most shining, godlike smiles. Daphne looks startled, as if she hadn’t realized how awesome he could be when he smiled.

  She lets him walk beside her all the way to Hallmark, and he keeps glancing over at her without trying to touch her. That leaves Andy and me to walk behind them, just us instead of lady-in-waiting and manservant for once. In the store, Daphne and Apollo head down the wrapping-paper aisle while Andy and I walk to the stuffed animals.

  I hold up an elephant to Andy; its eyes are slightly crossed. “Hi, I’m anatomically incorrect,” I say, moving the elephant’s head in time with my words.

  Andy pushes some animals aside until he finds one that he likes. It’s a horse with a green mane and tail. “And I’m more practical for most third century B.C. land wars.”

  “Are you going on about the Alps again?” I ask him with my elephant.

  “I can’t stop thinking about it,” Andy’s horse replies. “It was a significant FUBAR.”

  “I still get more views at the zoo.”

  Just then, Andy’s head jerks up to look over the display, and I follow suit. Apollo has an arm braced on either side of Daphne, carefully inserted between gift bags hanging on the wall, and amazingly, it looks like he might kiss her.

  Suddenly, Daphne bursts out, “I changed major.”

  Apollo leans back. “What?”

  “This morning,” she says. “I put in the paperwork. I got assigned a new advisor.”

  “So?”

  “Poli-sci,” Daphne gasps out, her voice desperate. She crosses her arms tightly over her chest. “I’m becoming a political science major.”

  Apollo lowers his hands from either side of her and steps back. He is looking at her with an expression of utter loss and betrayal. I am reeling a bit myself. A poli-sci major? It seems so drastic. But Apollo really had left her no other choice.

  “I will stop saying bad things about political science,” Apollo says, formally. “I may even take some modern Russian classes.”

  But things have changed, and we all know it. She’s not even the same species anymore.

  We leave the store, Apollo and Daphne several feet away from each other.

  I reach down and take Andy’s hand.

  GIRLS RAISED BY WOLVES

  by Brenna Yovanoff

  Brenna writes about high school in a way I never experienced it: as if high school were a million different worlds, all coexisting, and they’re not only each legitimate and meaningful, but important. Without magic or monsters she makes these characters matter. I both wish my high school had been like that and am vehemently glad it wasn’t. —Tessa

  The most obvious conclusion one could draw from this story is that girls are mean. Which may or may not be true. The underlying conclusion one could draw though, is that sometimes being who you are—whoever you are—is hard. Sometimes, you can have it all together and still drive yourself crazy. —Brenna

  Hadley:

  Valerie Solomon is perfect.

  Her makeup is flawless and over-the-top, and her hair is always completely amazing. It never looks like someone styled it with an eggbeater unless she means it to.

  We’re in the west-hall bathroom during the five-minute passing period between first and second, and she’s alone, which is weird because Valerie is insanely popular, and she is never, ever alone.

  She stands at the mirror, painting on lip gloss, pursing her lips for her reflection. I don’t want to look, but I have to anyway.

  Valerie is the girl all the other girls have a crush on. Not like a kissing crush—I mean, I guess some of them could have that too—but the kind of crush where everything a person does is irreproachable. The kind where you just want to be them.

  So when she turns around and looks at me and says, “Hey are you going to that party at Clara Finn’s this weekend?” it’s like being acknowledged by the pope or something. You don’t know if you should kneel, or bow, or avert your eyes before some vengeful god strikes you down with lightning.

  “It’s not really my scene,” I say, which is a massive understatement and also implies that I have a scene.

  She nods like she’s thinking hard about something. Then she holds out her hand. “Here, let me see you,” she says.

  It’s in the narrow window before the late call, but after the second bell. If we don’t leave now, we’re going to miss roll, but I step closer and hold very still while she stares at me.

  Valerie:

  I don’t know much about her. Just that she’s on lacrosse, which is the toughest sport Saint Paul’s has for girls, and her arms are thick and kind of built. She’s always covered in bruises. Usually that would be sort of gross, but on her they look almost decorative, like some kind of exotic body paint. Like someone has been dotting on purple splotches with a paintbrush. Her joints look hard and sturdy. She could take a punch, no problem.

  I’m nearly done to death. I know I’m not supposed to say that, because this is the prime of my life and I am blithe and youthful and privileged and bl
ah, blah, blah, but no. I am overly done to death, and yeah, I really mean that.

  The texture of my life is so dense, so all-consuming, that I stop being able to think about trig or symbolism or who won the war. It’s like this time in eighth grade when Logan Baines told me he was going to kiss me and didn’t do it, and then it was just like this thing hanging over me for weeks and I couldn’t relax or concentrate. I never knew when that kiss was going to come out of nowhere.

  Now it’s exactly like that, except for ski trips and parties, and I get kissed every weekend, but the feeling of waiting never goes away, like I am scrambled to pieces in my own skin.

  The waiting is always hanging over me, and all I want is for the other shoe to drop.

  Hadley:

  Valerie sticks out her chin and rakes her hair back from her face, turning away from me. “You should come anyway,” she says to her reflection. “Or at least not worry about people or scenes or whatever, because that’s just stupid.”

  “Why?” I say. And I mean, why come to Clara’s party, but also, why does she care one way or the other?

  “Because it’s better to just do what you want. Whatever you want. You should do what it takes to be tough,” she says, and her voice sounds tired and annoyed.

  “How do you mean?” I ask, not knowing quite how to take this. “What do you mean by tough? I mean, are you tough?”

  “I used to be, sort of. But that was back when I was young and dumb or however you are in eighth grade, and that’s stupid. I mean, it’s all Black Labels and Marlboro Reds and rebelling just to fit in.”

  The shape of her mouth is bored. Over it, and I nod. A Marlboro Red is a cigarette. I have no idea what a Black Label is.

  “Can I give you a makeover?” she says suddenly, talking fast, like I might say no. “Just a tiny one. A two-minute makeover.”

  And I nod because I want her to, even though this is not how I would have pictured it. Makeovers are the kind of thing friends do, not complete strangers standing in the bathroom after the late bell.

  She opens her makeup case and gets out a pale, iridescent liner. She draws a shimmery line around my eyes, then follows it up with a smear of glitter and candy-pink shadow. She does my eyelashes and my cheeks, rubbing in cream blush until I am very, very pink.

  “There,” she says, stepping back. “Now you look like me.”

  I don’t, but I do look different and kind of harmless. Even though I wear makeup sometimes, it never looks this soft when I put it on myself.

  Valerie takes a deep breath, zipping her makeup case. “Here, stand right here and don’t move. I want to try something.”

  So I stand with my arms at my sides, watching as she walks circles around me.

  “Perfect,” she says under her breath, and her voice is shaking a little. “You really do look just like me.”

  Her voice is so dark and ferocious that I flinch. I start to tell her no, that I’ll never be as pretty as her. I’ll never be Valerie, who is indeed perfect, even though her eyes are strangely red. Her mouth is working like she’s trying not to bite her lip.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She shakes her head and swallows hard. I half expect her to start crying.

  Instead, she hauls back and punches me in the face.

  DATE WITH A DRAGON SLAYER

  by Tessa Gratton

  This is a pretty Maggie story. I mean, it’s a story I think I would’ve written if I’d been Tessa instead of Maggie. Something about the banter and the teen voice and the angst seems very...I might just pretend I wrote it. Sometimes that happens when I’m remembering Merry Fates stories: I remember a Brenna story as a Tessa story or a Tessa story as one of mine. Sometimes I find stories of mine that I don’t remember writing. I always thought they were Tessa’s or Brenna’s. Basically what I’m saying is this is a very Maggie story, and if you ever ask me about it in person, I might lie and tell you I wrote it. —Maggie

  One Monday I sat down at seven in the morning to write my story, and five hundred words later I deleted everything. I started over, and after nine hundred words realized everything was wrong. By noon I’d scrapped three stories, and by three I was lying on my living room floor in utter despair that I’d have to post a piece of crap because nothing was working. I stared at my ceiling and decided I wanted to write about lying on the carpet in despair. Only, for a better reason than writer-fail. Somehow, I pulled this story about courage and assumptions and dragons out of my butt. And it’s my favorite ever, basically. —Tessa

  Sean Hardy is a dragon slayer.

  It was a small dragon, only about the size of a barn, but still. He killed it. They mounted its head on a flatbed truck and drove it around the country. Annie and I paid five bucks each to slip into a dark tent smelling of mold and musty seashells—it had been a saltwater dragon—for three minutes. They flashed the lights on and off and shot trails of fog at your ankles like they needed to make it scarier. The head just sat there, maw half open and greenish teeth filed down so nobody accidentally cut themselves and sued the carnival. Annie cowered back, hands clutching at her purse strap, but I reached out and touched its nose, just over the left nostril. The scales were rubbery there, and surprisingly soft. It reminded me of my dog’s belly.

  . . .

  Turned out, Sean Hardy came from a long line of dragon slayers, but he hadn’t known it. They weren’t Sigurd’s line or from any of the well-known Giant Killer clans. It was only this branch of a long-forgotten family that, back in Eastern Eurland in the fifteenth century, made a name for themselves going up into the mountains and returning with a horse-load of dragon eggs and hearts. One of their youngest daughters married a skald who moved to Eirelann and went native. They immigrated to the United States about three generations back and lost all the stories from back in Eurland. But Sean Hardy’s father did have a dragon tooth with one serrated edge a bunch of archaeologists said had to be from one of the Baltic saw-mouths that died out four hundred years ago. I guess that was proof.

  He was hailed as the heir to Sigurd despite his somewhat questionable pedigree. Three war colleges gave him honorary degrees despite the fact that he was only eighteen, and he got a half-ten commercial deals. Everybody knew his face. I have to admit, it was one you’d want to know, too. Eyes as gray as smoke, that ruddy look of the Eirish, but with shockingly bright yellow hair.

  We never heard him talk, except to say carefully scripted things like “Frosted Puffs: better than dragon tears” and “Only you can prevent troll attacks.” At school the prevailing theory was that he hadn’t actually killed a dragon, and if he was interviewed live he’d be dumb enough to say so. Annie, of course, defended him as if her own life depended on it. She said he was brave and had the heart of Thor. I said Thor was brave, for sure, but not very smart, and who’d want a guy with a great heart but lacking in the brain department?

  But whatever the case, when reports of a dragon rumbling the rocks in the Adirondacks came in, not only did they send in Sean Hardy, but the Vice-Jarl of State also declared a countrywide competition for a morale-boosting public date. Because apparently Sean’s only request before risking his life for the country was a simple dinner with a pretty girl.

  Confirmed my opinion of him right then and there. But it didn’t stop me from putting my name in.

  Come on. Don’t judge. There was a scholarship attached.

  . . .

  My family’s been dedicated Children of Loki since as long as we can remember. I’d say that gave me an edge in the luck department, except that there were probably thirty thousand other girls whose families were Lokiskin with their names in the pot too.

  My mom said it was destiny. The hand of Wyrd reaching out to pluck me from the teeming masses and set me on my true path, blah blah blah. I didn’t argue, because what was the point? I’d get a gorgeous new dress, a free trip to New York, a fine meal with a guy who was at least easy to look at, and then get to attend any college I wanted, no matter what the price. And I could get
into pretty much any of them.

  No sweat. I wasn’t nervous at all throughout the week of television interviews, through the very public shopping spree along Fifth Avenue with Mom, Annie, and a half-ten fashionistas who’d plaster me and my dubious fashion sense across the blogosphere. I wasn’t even nervous after they convinced me to pick a teal dress with thin straps I wasn’t sure I could wear with a bra.

  I didn’t get nervous until I knocked on the door of Sean Hardy’s penthouse suite, two cameras with their white-hot lights making sweat tingle on the back of my neck.

  . . .

  And there he was. They’d put a tie on him that complemented my dress. Little salmon-silver-and-teal swirls were the only color on him, though. Gray jacket and pants. Gray eyes. I did notice a small trefoil tattoo on his earlobe. I stared at it. Through all the interviews and photos I’d seen, I’d never noticed it. They must Photoshop it out. Or use some great cover-all makeup.

  He cleared his throat, offered his arm, and we were off.

  . . .

  Sweet Sigyn’s teeth, was dinner awful. They put us in the middle of a huge dining room where all the rest of the tables had been cleared away. Instead, there were cameras and reporters and a couple of priests, even. I guess they couldn’t stop laying magic to protect Sean in the morning when he went out to face the dragon.