Who am I? I am a secret, she thinks, every part of me concealed.
Someday she will show them who she truly is.
Someday she will show them that she doesn’t belong to them at all.
* * *
Logan is waiting for her at the edge of the clearing where the Saracen house stands. He grins when he spots her, flicking his cigarette onto the ground and stomping it out. He’s striking, with strong cheekbones and pale eyes. He’s twenty-five, but Juliette has trouble thinking of him as any older than she is; he acts like an overgrown kid.
He drags her in close and presses a hard kiss to her lips. He tastes of cigarettes. The kiss is all teeth. He gropes up under her shirt with one eager hand and she shoves him away with an exasperated sound.
“Cut it out, Logan,” she says. His smile is crooked and unbothered.
“Just happy to see you,” he tells her. She snakes an arm around his waist, her lips tingling. Walking next to him like this is awkward, making her steps uneven. His bony hip digs into her side. His fingers manage to dangle just over her cleavage. “Here. Take this,” he says. He tucks a single pill into her palm.
“What is it?” she asks.
He shrugs. “Nothing too intense. You need to relax.”
She sets it on her tongue; he follows the gift with a flask and she washes it down with what tastes like turpentine but is probably cheap bourbon. She needs something to take the edge off. This—the house, the crowd, and especially Logan—stopped being new months ago, stopped being fun shortly after. Without chemical assistance, it’s turned deadly boring, in fact, but she isn’t ready to admit it yet, because she’s got nothing else.
Inside, a few of the usual faces are already there. A couple of them lounge on the couch, others sit splay-legged on the floor. It looks like a D.A.R.E. video, she thinks, and smothers a giggle that draws an odd look from Logan.
There is tinny music playing from someone’s phone, a slow-rolling conversation that Juliette can’t catch the thread of. Logan keeps his arm around her shoulder and kicks someone off the couch so they can sit there, the closest thing to royalty their little gathering has.
It’s both exactly what everyone says about the Saracen house and far less interesting. At first the mere presence of alcohol and drugs—mostly prescription pills lifted from parents’ medicine cabinets, plus Logan’s premium supply—felt shocking, electrifying. The novelty has worn off.
Whatever Logan’s given her, though, it’s giving her that pleasant, floaty feeling. She burrows against Logan, and his hand finds its way inside her shirt again, stroking her hip. Kaitlyn is telling a story she’s told a half-dozen times before, gesturing broadly and putting on voices. Elaine examines her fingernails, leaning against the wall with an expression that suggests she’s just as over all of this as Juliette.
Then Nina walks in. Is it everyone who turns to stare at her, or is it only that she becomes all Juliette can see? She wears her standard uniform, a simple top under an unbuttoned flannel shirt, rolled up to the elbows. It’s unpretentious, dressed up only with a few silver bangles. A tattoo of a sword decorates her forearm. She spots Juliette and walks toward her, stepping over a couple of people to get there.
“Scoot,” she orders. Juliette wedges herself more firmly against Logan to make room; he grunts in annoyance as Nina drops into the gap she’s created. The older girl taps a cigarette out of a pack and then holds up the pack to Juliette. “Want one?”
“She doesn’t smoke,” Logan says, but Juliette nods. Nina winks. Hands Juliette the cigarette and then, as Juliette lifts it to her lips, takes out her lighter. It’s silver, with a bee and a flower etched in the metal. Juliette’s eyes fix on her fingers as they flick it open, light it.
“Anything interesting happen while I was gone?” Nina asks. Then she laughs, tosses her head. “Never mind. Nothing interesting has ever happened here.”
“Hey, remember when Seth sliced his arm open and had to go to the ER?” Kaitlyn asks.
Nina lets out a plume of smoke. “Oh yeah. That was kinda cool. Come on, we’re sitting around like a bunch of losers. At least play some decent music.”
Decent music is procured. Juliette manages a few puffs of the cigarette. When the ash gets too long Logan confiscates it with a laugh and puts something new into her palm; this time she doesn’t ask what it is. It doesn’t matter. It’s something to make this anything other than depressing. It makes the colors bend, blur. It makes time braid into new shapes, so that she isn’t sure at what point she stands up—Nina pulls her up—and starts to dance with her.