Missy got home just before 6:30, smack dab in the middle of dinner prep. So at 6:34, after she'd kicked her boots off in the mudroom and washed her hands, Missy was chopping vegetables on the kitchen island while Sue was garlicking up the loaf of Italian bread. Their mom bustled between the kitchen and the dining room, grabbing plates and utensils and dropping helpful comments about how Susan should be sure to layer both sides and Melissa should hold the knife just so. As if Missy needed any help with that.
After their mom hightailed it back into the dining room, Sue muttered, "God, reek much?"
Dead face firmly in place, Missy said nothing as she chopped.
"I forgot," Sue trilled. "Emos don't shower. They just bathe in their own tears."
Missy asked, "Hear that?" She paused, listening, then said, "That's the sound of me not giving a damn what you think."
Sue rolled her eyes. "You are such a loser. Bet you want to grow up to be a vampire."
Missy thought of how much she'd love to bash Sue's teeth in, and never mind that she'd scrape her knuckles on the hidden braces. Sue didn't know the first thing about Missy. No one did. "I'm sorry," Missy said, "I don't speak poser."
"No, but you're fluent in asshat."
The girls glared at each other so heatedly, it was a minor miracle the air between them didn't catch fire.
"Susan," their mom called, "help me with this, would you?"
Sue's hateful look melted into the classic Mom-loves-me-best smirk before she sashayed to the dining room.
Missy stuck her tongue out at Sue's back and thought very dark thoughts about her little sister. Only a freshman but already a grade-A bitch: that was Susan Miller. Sure, there'd been a time when Missy and Sue had been the best of friends. But that had been a lifetime ago. Once Sue hit high school, she'd morphed into Teen Barbie, complete with the plastic veneer: cheer squad, debate team, student council, a string of boyfriends in her wake. The day Sue had realized that her crowd made it their business to insult people who looked and acted like Missy had been the day the siblings' friendship ended. At first, Missy had watched Sue's descent into popularity and wondered how anyone could be so perpetually on and not lose themselves. Then the daily taunts had started in earnest and Missy had stopped caring about her sister at all.
She really didn't give a damn what her sister thought of her. Lips pressed together tightly, Missy diced a cucumber. Sue could just drop dead.
It would have looked like suicide, a cold voice whispered.
Missy almost jumped out of her skin. She whirled around, knife in hand—but no one was there. Sue was kissing up to their mom in the other room, and their dad hadn't come home yet.
Missy was alone.
Clearly, she was losing her mind. If she really were emo, like Sue and everyone thought, she'd write a poem about it.
Letting out a shaky laugh, Missy started chopping the cucumber again. She was just stressed out over going to the party; that was all. She glanced at the time on the oven clock and bit her lip. At this rate, she'd never be ready by 8:30.
The thought froze her, and then she berated herself for caring about the time. She'd show up at Kevin's when she was good and ready, and not a moment sooner. If she didn't see Adam there, it was no big deal.
And if he did get there before her, well, he could just wait.
Smiling grimly, she chopped with more vigor.
Her father walked through the door at 6:50, and dinner was served at 7:00. Dinnertime in the Miller household was family time, as Mr. and Mrs. Miller had always insisted, so as they passed around the plate of garlic bread and scooped out the spaghetti, they went around the table, talking about their day. Dad was all about the upcoming office launch, as usual, talking about network systems and T1 lines and whatnot and how the CEO kept changing his expectations so Dad had to keep changing the specs. Mom chatted about how the marketing chief and the Internet marketing director wanted Mom and her team to meet with them next week to discuss a microsite for the company's business journal. Missy listened with feigned interest, asking pointed questions at the right moments to prove that she was really listening and, more than that, really cared.
As Sue prattled about her latest boyfriend and her latest cheer routine, Missy slurped on spaghetti, chewing every bite thirty times before swallowing. Silently counting the bites let her mostly tune out her sister's nails-on-a-blackboard voice.
When Missy's turn arrived, she shrugged and said, "Got an A on my chem test. Had soccer practice. Going to start in tomorrow's game. Going to a party tonight."
The table erupted in chatter—Dad was thrilled about Missy finally getting her chance to shine as goalkeeper; Mom was ecstatic over the A in chemistry and all "See how the studying pays off ?" Sue silently fumed, but whether that was over the attention Missy was getting or over the tidbit that Missy was going to Kevin's party was impossible to say. Both girls had an understanding: hating each other was fine, but not in front of the parents. Sue probably just didn't want to blow her image as a perfect daughter. Missy didn't want their parents involved—knowing them, they'd try to mediate by locking Missy and Sue into the bathroom until they worked out their differences.
But after a few minutes of their parents gushing over Missy, an ugly smile bloomed on Sue's face, poisonously sweet. "Hey, Mom, Dad? Could we get a new cat?"
Missy's heart stopped.
"I really miss Graygirl," Sue said, half petulance, half pleading.
Missy felt the blood drain from her face as she heard Graygirl's final cry, and once again she was holding the cat's dead body, felt it when the spark that had made Graygirl Graygirl fade to nothing and all that was left was a shell covered in old fur.
"The house does feel empty without a cat," her mom said. And her dad was nodding his head, saying that maybe they could get a couple of kittens, one for each of the girls.
You have blood on your hands.
Oh, God.
Missy had to leave, right now. "Excuse me," she said thickly as she scraped back her chair. "I have to go shower."
"Melissa, you barely ate," her mother chided.
"Lost my appetite." Missy tossed her fork and napkin onto her mostly full plate, grabbed the dish and her water glass, and tromped into the kitchen. She dumped the food into the garbage and left the dinnerware in the sink. Somehow, she managed not to vomit.
The spray would have hit you here.
She bolted up the stairs and dashed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Over the machine-gun fire of her heartbeat, she heard her mom call out something about slamming doors.
Missy was losing her mind. No other explanation for it. Hearing voices, remembering something that never happened—definitely insane. Probably certifiable.
She turned on the shower and began stripping off her clothes: First the long-sleeved black hoodie and then the ripped black denim shorts, yanking them off so quickly that she scored another run in her red and black striped tights. Next the black sports bra—a must during soccer days—and finally her panties, bright red. Let people think she didn't wear anything that didn't have black on it. She knew better.
Waiting for the water to heat, she ran her hands over her biceps, the pads of her fingers dancing along the raised scars. Her hands flowed over the thin lines on her shoulders, then down, over her wounded belly, her gouged inner thighs, then back up, as all the while she kept her gaze on the water.
The house does feel empty without a cat.
Swallowing her sob, Missy stepped into the shower and stood gasping under the scorching spray. She soaped and rinsed and lathered and rinsed and conditioned, all with the mindlessness of everyday routine. Then she coated her legs with shaving gel and took her oh-so-girly pink disposable razor and began to shave, running the cheap blade from ankle to knee, from knee to groin, slowly, almost lovingly. First legs, then bikini area, and last her armpits, all without a knick or scrape. When she finished, she held out her hands in penance, letting the steaming water absolve her of her sins.
Back in her room, now clean and toweled dry, she stood in her full-length bathrobe, staring at the spot on her bed where Graygirl had always been. If Missy turned, she knew she'd still see the cat sprawled in her usual place near the footboard, eyes closed and mouth pulled in a secretive feline smile, purring her contentment.
At the end, all she'd been was flesh and bones.
Blinking away sudden tears, Missy tore through her closet. Tops and skirts and pants, all imperfect and wrong. She had nothing to wear. Her clothing was flawed.
Her life was flawed.
She sank to her knees, hugging herself tightly. Buried at the bottom of her closet, her lockbox beckoned with promises of razor-sharp kisses, whispering that she could bleed out the badness.
Then his voice, Adam's voice, condemning her and branding her: Freak.
She rocked, gripping her elbows and worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. I don't need the blade, she told herself. I don't.
Please, God. I don't.
***
Sequestered on the top shelf of the closet, a white tie box waited patiently.
***
Outside the Miller house, a pale horse and a black horse stood side by side, eating the grass. The black horse ate as if starving, and the pale horse ate to pass the time. Beneath their hooves, the lawn withered, parched and dying.
The Black Rider listened as Death sang and played his guitar, his long fingers moving easily over the instrument's neck. The music was soothing to Famine; it was a reminder of her previous life, which she'd so recently given up to wield the Scales. Though she was one to school her reactions quite carefully—all things must be measured and treasured, after all, and emotions were no exception—she allowed herself to enjoy the moment.
When the last notes faded into the evening, she said, "It's almost as if you're human."
Death winked at her. "Almost. Come to see if your influence had its desired effect?"
If she blushed, it was hidden beneath the shadow of her wide-brimmed hat. "Some of us aren't as patient as you."
"No one is as patient as me."
Famine saw the truth in that.
"You know," Death said, "the two previous Black Riders didn't get along with the Red."
She sniffed her disdain. "Probably because the previous War slaughtered one Famine and tried to do so to the other."
"Probably," Death agreed cheerfully. "It makes one wonder why you're so eager to see the Red seat filled once more."
Famine frowned at Death, and for a time she said nothing. Eventually she replied, "We need balance."
"Ah." A slow grin played over his face. "You do have an intimate understanding of the importance of balance, don't you?"
She, too, smiled—but hers was a quick thing, as if the notion of humor was fleeting. "You taught me well."
"Such flattery. One would think you want something."
In for a penny and all that. "Will you tell me if we must wait much longer?"
Death strummed a D chord thoughtfully before replying. " 'All it takes is one bad day to reduce the sanest man alive to lunacy.' "
The Black Rider arched a slender brow. "Nietzsche?"
"Moore." He strummed an A chord, followed by a G and another D. "Our girl's about to have a very bad day." With that, he began to play a song, and he lent his voice to the music.
Famine looked to the sky, but unlike the song, there was no bad moon rising—there was no moonlight at all tonight. Even so, Death's message was clear.
The girl would make her choice tonight.
The Black Rider nodded. As far as Red candidates went, the girl wasn't that bad. Maybe she'd make a good War.
And if not, Famine would just have to destroy her again.