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  The car slowed as it approached. She turned to look and something splattered across her face. She smelled rotting apple, sickly-sweet and foul. Whooping laughs and shouts of "FREAK!" and "CUTTER!" accompanied spitting gravel as Keegan's rusty Camaro lurched forward. Rocks peppered her, and she slipped, trying to avoid them. Her head hit the curb at the same time as her hands.

  Head ringing, she reached up and felt her face. There was a jagged tear in her right cheek. Her finger went right through and touched her tongue. Gross. She fingered the wound for a moment, then got up and hurried home, her hand pressed to her cheek.

  If Mom sees this, I'm never leaving the house again.

  * * *

  Her mom was asleep when she got home. She half-slammed the door and tromped up the stairs to the bathroom—sneaking would inevitably backfire—and her mom called out from her bedroom. "How was the party?"

  "Fine. I'm getting in the bath in a minute."

  "Okay, sweetie," her mom said, voice groggy. "See you in the morning."

  "Good night, Mom." She walked into the bathroom, turned on the light, and shut the door. She thought about locking it, but that would just make her mom curious.

  She looked in the mirror. Oh, crap. It was worse than she thought. The wound was a quarter-sized gash from her jaw to her cheekbone, and she could see her tongue through the hole. She poked her tongue through, then pulled it back. That's disgusting. No amount of regenerative cream would fix that wound overnight. She got an idea, and headed to the sewing room. If you have to be a freak, you might as well own it.

  Chapter 9

  The lights came up in the bath, and Ani pressed the button to raise the lid. The familiar hiss as the seal released was a relief—it always was. The coolant pump kicked on as she lifted the lid, and the gooey mixture of formalin and other noxious chemicals ran off her body into the floor drain her mother had installed between her bedroom and the bathroom.

  She toweled off, got dressed, put on some vanilla perfume, and ran down the stairs. She walked into the kitchen while her mom had a spoon full of cereal halfway to her mouth. "Hi, Mom!" she said. The spoon froze, and her mom’s mouth with it. Ani smiled.

  Her mom reached up and touched her own cheek. "What. Did you do. To your face?"

  Ani ran her hand down the fourteen safety pins in her cheek, bunched so tight that the stitches in the skin beneath didn't show. "You said I could get whatever piercings I wanted to."

  Her mom set the spoon down. "That's disgusting."

  Ani grinned. "It's school picture day."

  "Ah," she said. "I forgot." She pushed the bowl away and stood from the table, her face tinged green. "Rebel as you must, my darling child. Just keep your grades up."

  "I will."

  As her mom walked into the bedroom, Ani followed her.

  "Hey, Mom, I noticed something yesterday."

  "Oh, yeah, what's that?" Her mom had already showered and thrown on scrubs for the day. She always wore scrubs to work, called it a perk of being a nurse.

  "In this cold weather, when I breathe out, there's no mist. What if someone notices that?"

  Her mom sat on the bed to put on her shoes. "Huh. Good thought." She tied her shoes, thinking. "Keep a bottle of water with you, and just before you go outside, inhale a capful or two. That should do the trick."

  "Okay, Mom, I'll try it on my way out to the bus. Love you!"

  * * *

  Her breath fogged nicely as she waited for the bus. Kids gaped in astonishment as she got on, and murmurs accompanied her to her seat. This time they amused her—she might be falling apart, but she'd beaten the rules, and beaten the odds, again. She was still free. She could deal with Dylan. If he even remembers anything. She sat down and turned her head to the window, feigning sleep as the bus stopped in front of the Daniels's House.

  Fey dropped into the seat beside her, and a glance revealed perfect hair, perfect makeup, a polished nose stud, and polished eyebrow rings.

  "Hey, Fey. You look nice today."

  "Thanks," she said. Ani turned toward her as Fey handed her the iPod's right headphone. "So do—holy shit! What did you do?" Her eyes wide, she reached up and ran her fingers down the safety pins. "That is some crazy shit, Ani." Without further comment she sat back, put the other headphone in her ear, and closed her eyes.

  * * *

  Dylan wasn't in school. Jake texted him, and he claimed to be hung over after waking up freezing in a dumpster. I hope that's true, Ani thought. In the bath last night, she'd had plenty of time to think about how far she'd go to keep him quiet. Could I do it? Ignorance is bliss. She wasn't even sure what "it" was at this point.

  She got more disgusted looks by the end of the day than she'd had all year, and the only one that hurt was Mike's. She'd walked into Trig and he looked up, grimaced, and looked away. He didn't say a word to her through the whole class. Yeah, well, if I didn't do it I'd never see you again. She'd rather gross him out than be a memory.

  Fey was acting funny by the time they got on the bus. It wasn't quite the silent treatment, and it wasn't the I-don't-care-about-anything malaise. It was monosyllabic, standoffish, and grumpy. She scowled down the aisle, arms folded.

  "What's up?" she asked. Don't ever ask emo kids "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing," Fey said. She turned her body toward the aisle and didn't offer the headphone.

  Ani nibbled her bottom lip. Do I pursue this one, or let it go? "Are you pissed at me?"

  Fey rolled her eyes. "No. I'm not pissed at you. Why would I be pissed at you?"

  "Then what?"

  Fey sighed. She rolled her head to the side to look Ani in the eyes, then shifted her body to face her. "Look at you."

  Ani looked down at herself, then back at Fey. Fey’s eyes were bloodshot, her skin flushed pink under the heavy pale makeup. "I don't know what to say, Fey. What do you see?"

  Fey reached over and ran a finger down her unblemished left cheek, an oddly intimate gesture. "Everyone was talking about you today. Everyone."

  "Yeah," Ani said. "About what a freak I am." And at least today I deserved it.

  "No, you don't understand, that was just the kids. They don't matter. They ain't nothing. Who cares what a bunch of morons say?"

  Ani shook her head, confused. "What are you saying?"

  Fey crossed her arms. "The teachers. Bariteau. Weller. Those guys. Every time someone starts talking shit, they say something nice. Ani's a good artist. Ani's a great pianist. A great composer. She works hard. She's going somewhere. She gets out of here, she cleans herself up, she gets a life."

  Ani didn't know what to say, so she said nothing. Fey tapped Ani's forehead with her finger, the nail digging at her skin.

  "Hey, Ani? You in there? You understand what I'm saying here? I'm not pissed at you. I'm pissed because of you."

  Now she was really confused. "Fey, I... Why would that make you mad?"

  "Because if I had the balls to show up to school with a bazillion safety pins in my cheek, and kids talked about me, you know what the teachers would say?"

  Ani came up blank. "No."

  "Not a damn thing."

  She handed Ani the headphone. Damn. I was hoping she'd forget. They rode home to My Chemical Romance.

  * * *

  When she got home, the Audi was already in the driveway. She walked in the house and her mom was at the kitchen table, a paper with school letterhead in her hand. "What is this?"

  "Uh..." Ani said. "I don't know, Mom. What is that?"

  "You'd think it'd be about your face, but it can't be, because this is postmarked last Friday."

  "Mom… what? You have to tell me what it is."

  "Conference requests. Weller. Gursslin. Johnson." She gestured to a chair. "Sit." Ani sat. "Explain."

  "Mom, my grades have slid a little." Her mom's eyebrow went up. I hate that eyebrow. "Not much. Nothing less than a B- minus." I hope.

  She just sat there, staring. Ten seconds went by. Then twenty. Ani shifted in her chair, una
ble to look away.

  "Okay," her mom said, raising a finger. "You're quitting the Lair." Ani opened her mouth, but the upraised finger stilled her tongue. "You can burn incense in your room. I'll give you a bit of an allowance, or you can sell booze to that little alcoholic boy who's always on your heels. But if you can't handle a job and your schoolwork, the job goes. You go to school, you come home, you do your homework, and then, if and when your grades improve, we can talk about another job somewhere." She dropped her hand.

  "Mom, seriously, the Lair is the perfect job. No uniform, so I can stay covered up, I never have to go outside, and there's, like, zero chance of injury. It's perfect. I'll get my grades up pronto. I promise. I don't need to quit."

  "Doesn't the marking period end Friday?"

  "Yeah, but I can do make-up work. They'll let me. They love me." Come on, Mom....You can't do this. You can't.

  "Tell you what, I'm going to these conferences on Friday, and we'll re-evaluate then."

  * * *

  Ani stayed after every day, and did a mountain of make-up and extra credit work. Friday came and went. She got her new work schedule and posted it on the fridge. Her mom said nothing.

  * * *

  Tuesday, November 9th was another skating party, and Ani sold refreshments with her mom again. With her new system, she didn't have to worry about getting hungry. She tapped her fingers to the beat inside her coat. She was so small, and her hands so cold, that no one ever commented on the bulky jacket she had taken to wearing all the time. It gave her a place to hide chemical hot packs, too.

  With the blade in her sleeve, she could cut right in front of people and they never noticed. Tiny cuts kept the edge off, and would heal without a trace in the bath overnight. Larger cuts could wait to be mended until she got home.

  But today, Dylan was stuck watching his little sister, and that put him in the gym with her. He kept creeping looks at her wrists from the corner of his eye, as if she wouldn't notice. Couldn't you at least look at my boobs like a normal person? She couldn't understand what motivated these death-obsessed depressives, so full of life and so empty of spirit.

  She was nothing like them. Nothing. An outsider in a clique of outsiders, what popularity she enjoyed was strictly a function of Fey's favor. The big-city Jersey girl had the emo crowd wrapped around her little finger, boys and girls vying for her attention at every turn. Angry, hopeless, trapped on a dead-end street of her own making, Fey for some reason had adopted Ani as her best friend. Perhaps her only friend. These people are such a drag.

  The opening riff to California Girls—Katy Perry, not the Beach Boys—set the little girls to delighted shrieking. She was more like them, full of life, full of hope for the future. Mom will come through soon, and all this will be over. Please, God, let this be over.

  "Who died?" Dylan hollered over the music. He'd walked up while she daydreamed.

  She looked up at him from behind the refreshments table. "Excuse me?" Do you remember, Dylan? And what the heck am I supposed to do about it if you do?

  "You look like someone died," he said.

  "Are you volunteering?" she asked.

  He put a dollar on the table and picked up a pack of Skittles. "I'm just trying to be friendly." It must be some kind of special talent to be able to sulk while yelling.

  "Sorry, I'm just grumpy," she said. Dylan wouldn't notice the faux pas—emo kids never apologize for negative emotions.

  He dragged a folding chair across the floor and plopped it down next to her. Ani noticed with some satisfaction that his steps were small and accompanied by an occasional wince. He eased down into the chair, rested his elbows on his knees and popped a handful of candy into his mouth. "What's got you grumpy?"

  Her gesture encompassed the room. His lack of response was refreshing. It was as normal as she'd ever seen him.

  Unasked and unwanted, he helped Ani sell candy and soda to already-hyper children, but at every idle moment, his eyes drifted to her. He helped his sister with her skates, but as she laced up, he stared at the refreshment table. Over the course of an hour, his chair got closer and closer to hers. Her mom gave her a stern look—all she could do was shrug. Another shift, another inch, and she couldn't take it anymore.

  "Jesus, what?"

  He jerked back. He swallowed, hard, and looked at his feet. She waited. He leaned in so that she could feel his breath on her ear. "I need to talk to you about Halloween."

  No no no no no no no. She leaned in close, too close, so that her face wouldn't betray her. He smelled clean, with the familiar undertone of blood and meat that everyone carried. "What about Halloween?" She could taste his pulse, throbbing in his neck. The urge was a little rough today, but she'd had a lot worse.

  "Did I...?" His exhale was sharp even over the throbbing bass line. "Did I...? What happened?"

  Huh. She pulled back so she could look in his eyes and to distance herself from his flesh. His grimace was pained, but his eyes showed nothing. "You tell me."

  "I don't know. When I woke up I could smell you." Gross. "The incense and vanilla perfume and that medicine smell underneath, and...." He ran his hand through his Edward hair.

  "And what?" Don't say it, Dylan. Her eyes flashed to her mom and back. Please.

  "And I really hurt." His eyes flicked to his crotch and then to the crowd of kids.

  "Good," she said, her voice flat.

  "Oh, God," he said, crestfallen. "I didn't hurt you, did I? I was drunk, and I'm so sorry—"

  She put a finger to her lips. "It's okay, Dylan. You didn't do anything but get in my personal space. When you didn't back up, I backed you up. Forcibly. With my knee. That's all." He didn't say anything, so she added, "No big."

  He collapsed in a slump as the song ended. "So we're cool?" he asked in the relative quiet.

  "Sure, Dylan, we're cool." Really, really cool.

  * * *

  Her mom let her walk home. It was only a few blocks, and delayed the inevitable bath. It was cold, and she could make out the Milky Way through the streetlights, but only just. After an evening of pounding dance music, she decided to mellow out with Imogen Heap on the walk home. iPod in hand, she didn't hear the Washingtons' Doberman until it was too late.

  Sleek and lean, it stepped out of the hedgerow, bared teeth shining white in the moonlight. She killed the volume, wary, and kept walking. Where's your leash, Mac? The dog stepped forward, snarling, its breath frosting in the cold. Ani froze. Everything runs from me. Everything.

  She sidestepped toward the street, and Mac lunged. She shrieked, flailing, as the dog hit her. Teeth closed on her right arm, tearing through her coat and crushing her wrist as she fell. Her head bounced off the asphalt as Mac gnashed inches from her throat.

  She slapped at Mac to dislodge him, kicked him off with both feet. She tried to stand and he bowled into her, knocking her back to the ground. He scrambled with her, snapping at her face. Desperate, she grabbed the dog's throat with her left hand. Her fingers dug in, and Mac's snarling turned to a whine. She closed her fist and pulled. Blood gushed over her face, hot and salty. Mac collapsed on top of her, and she almost shoved the meaty handful into her mouth. She threw it to the side, and a disappointed groan erupted from her mouth.

  She pushed him off and rolled to her hands and knees. She licked her lips, shuddering in horrified ecstasy. Gasping in panic, she tore up her sleeve and raked with the razor blade, slicing skin and tearing her muscle, coated with canine blood, thick and black in the streetlight. She did it again. And again. Better. Not good, but better.

  Footsteps pounded up behind her, and she whirled, fists raised, razor still in hand. Mac's blood dripped down her face. Dylan slid to a stop three feet from her, eyes wide with shock.

  Brains.

  "Jesus, are you—" His face blanched. "Oh my God, Ani. You're… You… I'm sorry. I didn't know."

  Hot blood. Meat. Brains.

  She stared at him, fists still raised, and bared her teeth. Calm down, Ani. That's a person
.

  He put his hands up, palms outward and fingers spread wide. "Easy, Ani. It's me. Dylan. It's okay." It's anything but okay. "The dog's not going to hurt you."

  She stared at the vein in his throat, throbbing, pulsing, pumping blood to his brain. Brains. She stumbled backward, fists opening in supplication.

  "Get away from me, Dylan." She gasped out the words. Closer. Please, just a little closer. "Go." Her stomach lurched, her throat constricted. Brains! The world started to haze red.

  He stepped toward her. "I just want to make sure—"

  "GET AWAY!" she screamed, taking a shambling step toward him.

  He backpedaled, turned, and ran.

  * * *

  She was a sobbing wreck when she reached the house. She'd lost her wig, and the back of her head felt soft. Stringy wisps of hair—all she had left—were matted with dog blood and hung from her face. She stumbled in the side door behind her mother.

  "Took you long enough," her mom said, turning. The chair fell to the floor as she leapt to her feet, and she backed toward the living room. And the shotgun behind the couch. "Ani?" she asked, voice quivering. Her face was sorrow and rage.

  Ani shook her head. "Mom, I'm okay. It's dog blood. Washingtons' dog. Mac. He attacked me. I—I killed him."

  Her mom’s mouth opened in an 'O' of concern and she rushed forward, arms open wide. Ani put out her hands. "Mom! Stop!"

  She stopped, wary. "What is it, sweetie?"

  "It's the blood. It's got me all wonky. I need a dose. Bad."

  Her mom nodded toward the basement door. "There's one in the fridge. I'll meet you downstairs in twenty minutes. Give it time to kick in."

  Ani lurched to the door and half-fell down the stairs. Her hands shook as she yanked open the fridge door, and it took her three tries to extract the liquid from the phial into the syringe. She heard furniture shift over her head. Mom. Bloody. Delicious. Right upstairs. She found the tiny hole in the back of her head where her mom administered injections, but the entire area was pliant and mushy. She jammed the needle in place and depressed the plunger.