Perfume by Caroline B. Cooney

that the antidote to Venom would drift her way again, or that she would be awake enough, or determined enough, to snatch it.
    To be without a body, the ultimate prison, was a form of death.
    “I think,” mused Wing, “that I will return to Timmy. Danger is intoxicating and although Timmy is nervous now, he is also drawn. The unbelieving half of him is in the ascendant.”
    “What horoscope are you talking about?” said Connie, puzzled.
    Wing continued to address Dove. “Timmy has overcome the handicap of being ugly and turned it to an advantage. Male movie stars often do that; I can think of several TV series in which the star is ugly, and yet he manages to be sexy and attractive, too.” Wing smiled. “Yes, I believe I will ruin Timmy. That would be satisfying.”
    “Dove, what are you babbling about?” said Luce. “You sound awful.”
    Dove was merely resident in the brain, like a parasite. She could not talk to Luce, nor explain, nor change voices. She did not even feel particularly emotional; Wing, whose emotions, like hate, were as strong as crimson and blood, had swamped Dove’s sweet, soft, pastel emotions.
    Connie kept trying to get Dove to talk to her. Through Wing’s eyes, Dove watched Connie’s mouth flap. Wing was not interested in Connie and remained silent. It was Hesta with whom Wing talked.
    Connie was hurt. She looked from Dove to Luce, hoping for an explanation but none came.
    “Let’s go shopping after school, Hesta,” said Wing.
    Although she had always despised Dove, Hesta took this in stride. Hesta accepted the new personality completely and eagerly. Connie did not. Eyes full of pain, Connie stared beseechingly at the girl she thought was her friend. I’m sorry, thought Dove helplessly, but it isn’t me. It’s Wing.
    Luce said, “Dove—aren’t you sitting with us at lunch?”
    Wing laughed.
    “I’ve come to my senses, dumbo,” said Wing.
    Luce and Connie were out of Dove’s vision but she heard their voices: “Is Dove on something?” whispered Connie, weeping at the back of her voice.
    Luce said, “She’s just being rotten. Forget her.”
    Forget her.
    A sort of terror spread through Dove—whatever relic of Dove remained now. Her two best friends would forget her. How easy it would be for them, because Wing was not going to leave a single trace of Dove.
    Wing dismissed Connie and Luce as if she were brushing ants off her food at a picnic, and went with Hesta. Hesta disdained cafeteria food; it was too disgusting for her to consume. But Hesta would never bring lunch with her, either, because that was too common. Hesta got a candy bar, a soda, and a bright red apple out of the vending machines and linked arms with Wing and they went outside together to talk about pitiful rejects like Connie and Luce.
    “Oh, give me a break!” Wing said. “Can you believe I used to hang out with them? Please!” Wing and Hesta laughed hysterically, looking back at Connie and Luce, and laughing even more.
    Don’t say things like that out loud, thought Dove. I have to come back here, you know. What will I do for friends when it’s my turn again?
    It won’t be your turn again, you fool, said Wing. I am here, and I am here to stay, and I am going to make good use of your body.
    It won’t be my turn again? thought Dove. She stared out the narrow opening of Wing’s eyes. There was nothing to see but Hesta, and Hesta’s mean superior crowd, and Hesta’s big grabby hands.
    I don’t want to look at this, thought Dove. She tried to close her eyes, but that was not within her control, and she was stuck there, watching, unblinking unless Wing chose to blink.
    “Among other things on my agenda,” said Wing to Hesta, “such as skipping Luce and Connie, and destroying Timmy, and acquiring a new wardrobe, is getting a new name.”
    Hesta cocked her head, very birdlike. But not dovelike. She was a crow, perhaps, pecking at a roadkill. “Dove is a pathetic excuse for a name,” agreed Hesta.
    No,