He stopped at her noise. “What?” he asked.
She stared up at him, at this man-she-knew-who-was-a-stranger, this person who’d risked everything in his world to kidnap another human so he could thrust away like a zoo monkey whenever he wanted. This loser had made a biological act so imperative that he was willing to go to prison to feel the same relief he could get with his own hand.
She made a strange noise again, but this time it was a giggle.
The giggle turned to laughter.
And once unleashed, she couldn’t stop. He might kill her for it, she knew that, but who the hell cared? He’d trapped her in a dungeon. All bets were off.
“What?” he asked again, his face twisting.
Looking at him, she realized he could have his pick of women, at least in Saint Cloud. This only made her laugh harder, a shrill cackle mixed with sobbing. Did he not even know what real love, good love, felt like? Had no one told him that the embarrassingly animal act was the doorway, not the destination, that the fun part, the magic, the whole point was letting your guard down completely with another person? That it was the connection and vulnerability that elevated what was essentially an extended sneeze to something worth fighting wars over? He’d stolen a Maserati to get at its keychain. He was an Olympic-level idiot. The King of Dumbasses.
She laugh-wept even harder.
“Stupid bitch,” he muttered angrily, shoving his belt back into place. The lighting turned his eyes into sockets, but his shaking hands told the whole story.
“You won’t be laughing next time,” he said, his voice thick. “Believe that.”
He marched out of the room.
She heard the sound of locks scraping tight.
And she began to plan.
She wasn’t going back to the Emptiness.
Not now that she’d remembered who she was.
CHAPTER 11
I woke up feeling headachy and sad. It took me a few disorienting moments to remember why. I didn’t want to think about Maureen and what she’d been doing. It was none of my business. If she wanted to tell me about it, she would. Otherwise, me and Brenda had made the right choice, putting it out of our heads.
Except it kept crawling back on razored knees. So rather than get out of bed, I yanked my notebook from beneath my mattress. It had distracted me from things even worse than what I’d witnessed last night. I used it like a regular diary, writing my dreams and what I was mad about and who was cute. I also wrote songs in it, words to go with the beats that kept coming to me. But I didn’t feel like doing any of that, couldn’t find a lick of the creative juices, so I shoved it back into its hiding spot and headed downstairs.
I hadn’t heard Dad come home the night before. I listened for his morning sounds. Nothing. He must have already left for work. The bathroom door was partially open. Normally, I’d knock to be sure it was empty, but I was in a mood so I just barged in.
Junie was leaning toward the mirror. She jumped back.
“Stop snooping!” she cried.
“Sorry. I didn’t think anyone was in here.” I looked around, my brow wrinkling. “What were you doing?”
“Practicing my smile,” she said, sullenly. And then she grinned.
It was a great smile. When she grew into those teeth, she would be the prettiest girl in Pantown, all wavy auburn hair, green eyes, and creamy skin. Unsettled from last night, weary from a poor night’s sleep, I couldn’t help but grin back. “Make sure to bring Mom lunch, okay? I work till two.”
As a reflex, I pulled my hair forward to shield the one side of my head as I biked across the Zayre Shoppers City parking lot. I didn’t need to. My knot of melted flesh was already covered. My Quadrafones were snug to my scalp, playing this month’s pick, Led Zeppelin’s Presence. I’d started wearing ’phones right after the accident, once it was healed enough not to hurt, to hide my deformity. In retrospect, that was officially the dumbest thing I could have done because it drew attention to me, wearing big ol’ earphones not connected to anything. Now I was at least smart enough to carry a tape recorder.
Thanks to the Columbia Record and Tape Club, my whole life had a soundtrack.
“Nobody’s Fault But Mine” started piping through my ’phones. It was my favorite song on the tape. Too bad I was nearly at the Zayre employee entrance. I’d have to listen to the rest of it later.
I’d started working at Zayre the week after school got out. Dad had insisted I get a job. He said a woman needed to be able to take care of herself in this world, that he didn’t want me to ever have to rely on somebody else. Then he called in a favor to get me the position. I worked at the deli counter with Claude and Ricky and some older ladies. We pulled icy soda and slung sandwiches with a side of chips and a frog-colored pickle spear.