Stealing Infinity, page 4
He shrugs. “Guess I got curious,” he says.
Then, without another word, he leads me out of the graveyard and into a much stranger place.
9
“This is what Arcana is really about.” Braxton ushers me inside a massive room that makes me think of the Palace of Versailles…if it had been decorated by Salvador Dalí.
The dance floor is crowded with couples, all of them swaying to the song sung by a torch singer wearing a long beaded gown and a mask with golden antlers.
The walls display a collection of oddities. Everything from antique clocks with hands that spin backward, to gold framed portraits where all the subjects, women included, sport curlicue mustaches. And just above, perched along the top like a crown, is a long row of taxidermy hunting trophies—each head dripping with tiaras, elaborate wigs, and piles of glimmering jewelry.
“Not to worry,” Braxton says when he catches me looking. “They’re fakes. No animals were harmed for the sake of aesthetics.”
All around us, people are laughing, dancing, while waiters wander with drink trays expertly balanced on their palms, the boys in slinky black dresses, the girls in tuxedos.
It’s exactly the right amount of strange. A visual feast for the eyes. And a million times better than school. It’s probably the coolest place Elodie has ever taken me. It’s too bad she isn’t here enjoying it, too.
I survey the sea of masks, wondering if Elodie is somewhere among them, as Braxton waves over a beautiful boy in a black strapless gown, plucks the last two drinks from his tray, and hands one to me. The glass is cut crystal, its contents a pale shimmering green.
“It’s called The Green Fairy.” Braxton clinks his rim against mine. “To new beginnings,” he says, his voice rising over the noise.
I watch him drain his glass, but I don’t drink from mine. I mean, he’s cute. And, at least on the surface anyway, he’s harmless enough. But I’m not about to toss back some weird drink I don’t recognize.
“Why do they call it that—The Green Fairy?” I ask, swirling the contents and watching the sparkling liquid swirl up and down the sides.
“Aren’t you going to try it?” Braxton motions toward my glass.
I shake my head, about to offer it to him, when the singer switches to a familiar song—the same one Elodie and I sang on our way to the mall. The rain had paused, so she cranked up the volume and lowered the car’s top. As I tilted my face to the sky, I imagined we were riding the wind to some distant horizon. The memory leaves me so floaty and light, I tip onto my toes, about to take flight.
“You okay?” Braxton asks, but the words are muffled, like he’s drifted a thousand miles away.
All around me, the music grows louder, causing my ears to buzz, my breath to grow quicker, as my vision tunnels in and out of focus, while the bodies on the dance floor slither and blur.
Braxton leans toward me with a look of concern. “Natasha,” he says. “You all right?”
I want to ask him why the whole room is shimmering and swirling. And how is it possible the animal heads are all laughing, as the oil painted faces tumble out of their frames. But I can’t put a voice to any of that. All I can do is watch in horror as the collection of clocks melt and drip down the walls.
From somewhere far away I hear a voice say, What the hell did you give me?
It’s a moment before I realize it’s mine.
“I didn’t give you anything.” Braxton motions toward my glass. It’s still full. But my fingers are shaking so badly, the tumbler crashes to the floor.
“Looks like Elodie was right about you,” Braxton says, but I have no idea what the words actually mean.
The song has slipped deep into my brain, and now everything is distorted, including me.
Braxton’s masked face looms before me. And despite the ground giving way beneath my feet, despite the ceiling and walls curling toward me, I still manage to gasp, “What the hell is happening?”
Last thing I remember, before I black out, is the feel of Braxton’s arms breaking my fall.
“Oh darling,” he says. “I’m afraid you’re about to find out.”
10
When I come to, I’m at my desk.
It’s not until I see Mr. Jansen at the chalkboard that I realize I’m in English class.
What the—
Flashes from the night before appear in random bursts in my head. Like pieces of a puzzle, some fit easily together, while the rest are more like a dream—guys in slinky black gowns, a moose wearing a tiara, something about a green fairy, a song like a lullaby for my mind—
None of it makes any sense.
And worse, no matter how hard I try, I can’t unearth a single memory of how I ended up here.
Frantically, I look all around, then glance down at myself, only to find I’m wearing my hoodie over the dress Elodie bought me when we went shopping.
Shopping.
It’s one of the few things I remember, and I cling to the image of the two of us crammed inside that dressing room like the life raft it is.
When I look at my feet, I see the heels Elodie bought me have been swapped for my sneakers. Though my backpack and cell phone are missing.
A stream of images races through my mind…Arcana—that strange underground club with the tarot cards, my gravestone, a boy in a blue velvet mask… Did I forget to get my stuff from the bag check girl?
Or did something else happen?
Something so bad, my mind blocked it out?
My heart starts to pound, my leg to shake. And when I glance up, I see my teacher is staring right at me. So I stitch my lips closed, force myself to keep it together, and focus on the test sheet in front of me.
With a shaky hand, I sprint through the questions—checking random boxes, scribbling nonsensical words. Then the second I’m done, I leave it on his desk and bolt from the room.
As the door closes behind me, I hear him call out my name, but I can deal with that later. Right now, there’s no time to waste.
I need to find my phone.
Need to text Elodie so she can explain what the hell happened to me.
The chilled morning air strikes at my cheeks as I rush toward my locker, hoping to find my bag and my cell stashed inside. My fingers twitch as I work the dial, mentally reciting the combination as I race against the beat of heavy footsteps thudding in the near distance.
C’mon, c’mon! I kick the locker below mine and curse my clumsy fingers for falling just short of the final digit, forcing me to start over.
“Natasha?”
Furiously, I spin the dial. The only person who calls me that is Elodie, and that wasn’t her voice.
“Natasha Clarke?”
The footsteps grow more determined, and they’re no longer alone.
“Step away, Natasha.”
My heart runs a riot in my chest, my breath growing choppy and quick.
But I won’t look.
Can’t look.
If I can just get inside this damn locker, then—
A heavy hand clamps down on my shoulder and spins me around. It’s Mr. Morris, the school principal. I recognize the red-faced man beside him as the school’s security guard.
“Natasha, I’m going to have to ask you to step aside,” Mr. Morris says.
“But why? What’s—”
Before I can finish, the guard slips some tool from his pocket—a cross between a Slim Jim and a crowbar—and cracks my locker wide open.
The principal sighs.
The guard grunts.
And I stare in disbelief at a pile of brand-new designer clothes, shoes, and sunglasses that definitely isn’t mine.
“Come with me.” Mr. Morris gestures for me to follow as the guard clears out my locker.
“I don’t understand,” I say, my voice so shallow and empty, I feel like a ghost of myself.
11
Turns out, the worst part of the perp walk isn’t getting the side-eye from the front office staff and the suck-up crew of students who choose to ignore a perfectly decent list of electives so they can work alongside administrators.
The worst part is seeing the exhausted slope of my mom’s shoulders, the drag of her mouth and disappointed blunt of her gaze when she watches me getting hauled into Mr. Morris’s office.
After my dad left, it was like our roles got reversed. My mom found a low-paying job where she showed up on time and acted like any other responsible adult. But the second she got home every night, she morphed into this fragile childlike state, looking to me to fill the void of my dad’s absence.
I started handing over most of the money I earned from babysitting gigs, and later, my after-school job.
I did whatever I could to offer the kind of emotional support I was so desperately in need of.
Because of it, she’s grown so dependent on me, she no longer acts like a parent.
And I can tell by the way she sighs when I enter the room that she views this whole mess as an act against her. I’m just another disappointment to add to the pile.
I take the seat next to her and fold in my body until I’m as small and inconspicuous as possible. With my shoulders hunched and legs tightly crossed, I wrap my arms around my middle and stare at the toe of my sneaker, waiting for the lecture to start.
“We received a credible report that you were hiding stolen merchandise in your locker. I’m sorry to see it confirmed. Is there anything you’d like to say for yourself?” Mr. Morris leans back in his chair, pretending there’s a chance for me to explain this away, that he hasn’t already made up his mind about me.
Between my abysmal academic performance and my mom’s frayed blouse and nicotine-stamped fingers desperately shaking in need of another, he’s drawn his own conclusions about the type of family I come from.
The father is gone. The mother is struggling. The daughter’s given up.
And while he’s not wrong about us, he is wrong about me. I may be willing to break a few rules, but I didn’t steal any of that stuff.
Though I did recognize it as the pile of castoffs from yesterday’s shopping trip. It’s everything Elodie and I decided against.
Mr. Morris steeples his fingers and waits for me to defend myself.
What I say is, “Where’s Elodie?”
For the first time, my mom looks directly at me. “Who?” Her eyes narrow until they’ve nearly vanished.
“Elodie Blue. Where is she?” Too late, I realize how ridiculous I must sound.
The steeple collapses. Mr. Morris leans forward, hands flat on his desk. “About the stolen merchandise. Do you have anything to say for yourself, the evidence we uncovered?”
Evidence?
That’s when he turns his computer screen around and plays the surveillance video of me stashing a pile of stolen goods in my locker. With my dress bunched up near my crotch and my eyes heavy with smudged black eyeliner, this is not a good look.
According to Principal Morris, a crime has been committed and I’m their prime suspect. And while I know exactly who’s behind it—I mean, who else could it be, but the very person who insisted on taking me shopping—I also know no one will believe me.
Elodie Blue has emerged as the star of this school.
While I’ve spent the last few years teaching people to expect the very worst.
“I really need to talk to Elodie,” I say, my voice again betraying my urgency, but I’m too desperate to care.
Principal Morris sighs. Splays his fingers across his desk and confirms what I’ve already guessed: I’m in serious trouble.
I’m escorted outside, the principal on my left, a cop on my right. A crowd of students begins to gather.
Someone calls out my name, and I jerk my head around, needing it to be Elodie so she can say something, anything, to get me out of this mess.
Only my gaze lands on Mason’s. He looks shocked, scared, and heartbroken all at once.
What happened? he mouths, but the cop yanks hard on my arm, harder than necessary, and hauls me away.
Before I’m shoved into the back of a squad car, I turn to my mom. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “But I didn’t do it. I need you to believe me.” I cling to her, searching for some unnamable thing she’s too defeated to give.
“I’d hoped for more,” she says, her bony frame pulling away, leaving me to wonder if she’s talking about her life or mine.
12
There are worse things than jail.
I mean, nothing I’ve ever experienced, but there are definitely worse things than being photographed, fingerprinted, and frisked by a female cop with abnormally strong fingers. Every single day, people deal with tons of legit atrocities that make what happened to me pale in comparison.
But the worst part is knowing I brought it upon myself. There was a voice in my head that warned me not to follow Elodie past the school gates, and yet I went ahead and flipped it the bird.
“You’re lucky,” they tell me. “You’re still a minor. Once you turn eighteen, the consequences become serious.”
Well, my mom’s disappointment feels pretty serious.
Getting expelled from school feels very serious.
The court fees I’m facing feel really, really serious.
The thought of going to juvie is unthinkably serious.
I haven’t even made a dent in my list of serious when someone calls out my name.
“You Natasha Clarke?”
I nod, having no idea what to expect.
“You’re free to leave.”
“Seriously?”
The guard bends a brow, unlocks my cell, and arcs her arm toward the door. “Must be nice to have rich friends.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about.
After stopping by the desk to claim my hoodie, I head outside, where I pause on the sidewalk and tip my face toward a ragged scrap of cloud left blistered and singed by the noonday sun.
Freedom never felt so good, or so warm.
When I snap my eyes open, I’m looking at an idling shiny black Mercedes. The rear window lowers to reveal a boy in the back seat. My backpack dangles from his fingers.
Braxton.
Oh, hell no.
Without thinking, I make a grab for it, but he’s quicker than me, and he yanks it clear out of reach.
“What the hell?” I cry. Refusing to give up so easily, I come at him again.
“Whoa!” He holds out a hand to stop me. “You might want to turn it down a notch. In case you haven’t noticed, we have an audience.” He jerks his head toward two cops paused beside their squad cars, both focused on me, and not in a good way.
“What do you want?” I whisper.
“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go for a ride.” He clears a space by moving aside.
I glance over my shoulder to see the cops slipping into their vehicles and driving away. Then I peer inside the Mercedes, trying to see who’s behind the wheel, but the windows are blacked out and there’s a privacy panel between the front and back seats.
“There’s not enough ice cream and puppies in the world,” I tell him. “Just give me my backpack already.”
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
I cross my arms and frown. “Why the hell would I?”
Asshole.
Breathing an exaggerated sigh, he climbs out of the car and taps the roof twice. A second later, it’s gone, leaving just the two of us.
“You’ve had a rough night, Natasha,” he says. “I’m sure you must be exhausted.”
“What the hell did you do to me?” I take what’s meant to be a menacing step forward. Though, unlike me, Braxton remains so completely at ease, I can’t help but wonder if I should’ve taken a chance and made a big scene while those cops were still there.
Braxton raises both hands, clutching my backpack in one of them. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not what you’re thinking. You fainted, that’s all.”
“Fainted?” My laugh is sharp. “Despite the costume you wore, this isn’t actually the eighteen hundreds. Women don’t just have fainting spells anymore.”
The corners of his mouth tense. In a tight voice, he says, “I promise you’ll get your bag. But first, let me buy you some breakfast. There’s a diner up the road—they serve pancakes all day.” He gestures vaguely in that direction, but I keep my gaze fixed firmly on him.
“I have another idea,” I say. “How about I march back inside the station and tell them everything I remember from last night, along with everything I suspect. You do know I’m a minor, right?”
“I’m well aware.” His tone is weary. “Thing is, you’re not going to tell them anything. Mainly because you’ve been released into my custody. I’m the one who bailed you out. I’m the one who’s going to clear your name and get your record expunged.”
None of this makes any sense. From the moment I snuck out of school, I felt like I’ve entered an alternate world. At the most, Braxton’s a year or two older than me. Why would they release me into his custody?
Not to mention—where the hell is Elodie?
What I say is, “What’s really going on here? And don’t try to lie. You fucked my whole life. The least you can do is tell me the truth.”
I guess he wasn’t expecting that because, for the briefest moment, he loses a grip on his cool. I can see it in the tightening of his lips, the twinge in his jaw. But it’s his hands that really give it away. The second he starts to fidget with his gold signet ring, I take it as a sign that I’ve gotten to him.
When he notices me looking, he shoves both hands in his pockets. “I’m happy to answer your questions,” he says, the words laced with the slight hint of a proper British accent. “Perhaps over some scrambled eggs, or a short stack?”
