is sitting down and his twin sister is leaving and
he is not following
. He feels her hesitate, knows she is tugging on that strange flap of soul, the overlap they’ve always shared; but the part of him that laughed, the part of him that is still buzzing with love, knows he is not ready to leave just yet. Knows he doesn’t have to.
“See you later,” he says. He doesn’t look at her when he says it, but he knows she hears him—because she does leave, her offense receding like a car with a stereo thumping bass, losing volume as the distance between them increases.
Jennifer is leaning so far forward she
is
pressing her chest into her food. Rabbit wonders what’s in that pink stuff she’s been drinking.
“Jeeeeeesus. You had to grow up with that?” she says.
“We shared a womb,” he replies, still stunned by his daring.
Jennifer pulls a face and sits back, a lump of mashed potato clinging to her shirt. “She must’ve come from the bitchy side.”
“She got all the crazy-whore genes,” Chastity says, giddy to play this game.
“She’s not even that good,” Chrissy, the turncoat from chorus, says. “She’s okay, I guess. If you enjoy the sound of cats being thrown into blenders.”
There is something intoxicating about this. Rabbit, who has never gotten drunk, imagines this must be what it feels like, his face warm and his mind dulled, his spine and tongue loosened, his gut tingly with the thrill of doing something he has never done before.
“Or chipmunks being fed firecrackers,” he says.
Jennifer laughs riotously, as if it’s the single funniest thing any human has ever said. Harrison claps him on the back, and Rabbit wonders for a moment whether Harrison is gay too. He really is sort of cute. He isn’t the tenor, though. The tenor is out there, and Rabbit is going to meet him this weekend. He smiles.
Bad Rabbit is out.
7
Who Are You
N ATALIE IS SKEWERED. Pierced, shish-kebabed. Viola Fabian instructed her to
Get over yourself, Natalie,
and for hours she’s been walking around with a spear through her guts. She’s surprised she didn’t clothesline anyone while she was filling her dinner plate with sad brown food (and come to think of it, the sad brown food is likely making her feel worse). Now she’s lying on her bed, staring at the flaking ceiling and prodding the sore point of entry with her fingertips, wondering if she’s inadvertently toothpicked herself to this mattress, like a slice of tomato in a club sandwich.
Get over yourself,
Natalie
. Get
over
yourself, Natalie. The whole time they were standing in the elevator, Viola knew who she was. But of course she knew: Viola Fabian was omniscient. Is omniscient. Is here in this hotel.
Dr. Danny would think this is fate. He would call this an “opportunity for healing.” Natalie is starting to think it is fucking
hilarious,
that maybe she ought to give more serious thought to the handgun on her nightstand in conjunction with Viola Fabian’s sudden reappearance in her life. Surely this can’t all be a coincidence; it could, in fact, be the universe’s way of suggesting a course of action. She’s already got blood on her hands. What’s a little more?
Is this the first weekend she’s had by herself, alone without Emmett, since the break-in? Natalie cocks her head back into the pillows and jiggles her legs. It
is
. It
is
the first weekend on her own; the first hours, the first day that is totally and completely her own. Since.
She sits up on the edge of the bed, belly and back aching, and surveys her room, anxious, desperate for a detail that might derail her brain. The room is not without its charms. All the furniture is old and heavy, made from dark, knotty wood, and the bedding and curtains are warm and thick, the color of overripe apples. It smells odd, shut-up and unaired. Is she the first person to stay in this room since last year’s Statewide? There’s no way a hotel this enormous, a
resort,
essentially, in a town this
he is not following
. He feels her hesitate, knows she is tugging on that strange flap of soul, the overlap they’ve always shared; but the part of him that laughed, the part of him that is still buzzing with love, knows he is not ready to leave just yet. Knows he doesn’t have to.
“See you later,” he says. He doesn’t look at her when he says it, but he knows she hears him—because she does leave, her offense receding like a car with a stereo thumping bass, losing volume as the distance between them increases.
Jennifer is leaning so far forward she
is
pressing her chest into her food. Rabbit wonders what’s in that pink stuff she’s been drinking.
“Jeeeeeesus. You had to grow up with that?” she says.
“We shared a womb,” he replies, still stunned by his daring.
Jennifer pulls a face and sits back, a lump of mashed potato clinging to her shirt. “She must’ve come from the bitchy side.”
“She got all the crazy-whore genes,” Chastity says, giddy to play this game.
“She’s not even that good,” Chrissy, the turncoat from chorus, says. “She’s okay, I guess. If you enjoy the sound of cats being thrown into blenders.”
There is something intoxicating about this. Rabbit, who has never gotten drunk, imagines this must be what it feels like, his face warm and his mind dulled, his spine and tongue loosened, his gut tingly with the thrill of doing something he has never done before.
“Or chipmunks being fed firecrackers,” he says.
Jennifer laughs riotously, as if it’s the single funniest thing any human has ever said. Harrison claps him on the back, and Rabbit wonders for a moment whether Harrison is gay too. He really is sort of cute. He isn’t the tenor, though. The tenor is out there, and Rabbit is going to meet him this weekend. He smiles.
Bad Rabbit is out.
7
Who Are You
N ATALIE IS SKEWERED. Pierced, shish-kebabed. Viola Fabian instructed her to
Get over yourself, Natalie,
and for hours she’s been walking around with a spear through her guts. She’s surprised she didn’t clothesline anyone while she was filling her dinner plate with sad brown food (and come to think of it, the sad brown food is likely making her feel worse). Now she’s lying on her bed, staring at the flaking ceiling and prodding the sore point of entry with her fingertips, wondering if she’s inadvertently toothpicked herself to this mattress, like a slice of tomato in a club sandwich.
Get over yourself,
Natalie
. Get
over
yourself, Natalie. The whole time they were standing in the elevator, Viola knew who she was. But of course she knew: Viola Fabian was omniscient. Is omniscient. Is here in this hotel.
Dr. Danny would think this is fate. He would call this an “opportunity for healing.” Natalie is starting to think it is fucking
hilarious,
that maybe she ought to give more serious thought to the handgun on her nightstand in conjunction with Viola Fabian’s sudden reappearance in her life. Surely this can’t all be a coincidence; it could, in fact, be the universe’s way of suggesting a course of action. She’s already got blood on her hands. What’s a little more?
Is this the first weekend she’s had by herself, alone without Emmett, since the break-in? Natalie cocks her head back into the pillows and jiggles her legs. It
is
. It
is
the first weekend on her own; the first hours, the first day that is totally and completely her own. Since.
She sits up on the edge of the bed, belly and back aching, and surveys her room, anxious, desperate for a detail that might derail her brain. The room is not without its charms. All the furniture is old and heavy, made from dark, knotty wood, and the bedding and curtains are warm and thick, the color of overripe apples. It smells odd, shut-up and unaired. Is she the first person to stay in this room since last year’s Statewide? There’s no way a hotel this enormous, a
resort,
essentially, in a town this
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