Blue took her time, washing her hands and face and neck. She'd ask to take a shower before she left in the morning. Sleep in a bed for free, get cleaned up, and leave. They wouldn't even be in danger, since she hadn't given them her real name.
Wouldn't be in danger from her, at least. Marcos's problems belonged to him. Parents were stupid. Teena's aunt and uncle had been clueless about Rob, right up until they couldn't be any longer. They only loved the perfect, imaginary him, leaving the real him invisible.
Back in Marcos's room, the incense was lit, heady smoke spinning threads as the air moved with the closing of the door. His face was on his desk, and a strand of drool trickled from the corner of his mouth.
She shook him gently. He moved his head, too lazy even to smile. He was alive. He was okay. Now she could be irritated.
She'd go back downstairs and wait for Amy to come out of her sulk and tell her where to sleep. She grabbed her guitar, then her backpack. She noticed that the front pocket had come open. If she wasn't more careful about that, she'd lose her wallet on the street. She zipped it up.
The door swung open. Amy stood there, and for an instant Blue believed everything would be fine. Amy would see what Marcos had been doing and take care of him. That's what mothers did.
Or not. She glanced around the room, at Blue holding her things, at Marcos slumped at the desk, at the candle and the bag of powder. Anger spilled from her mouth like blood from an artery.
"I invite you into my home, I put all my goodness and trust in your hands, and you do this … to me. How could you? You prey on goodness, come here, and give my son poison." Flecks of spit flew from her mouth. Marcos shifted slightly, looked up at her, said something that was buried beneath her fury.
"You destroy everything, you and people like you. I know, I know all about your ugliness."
Blue crouched, frozen. Let Amy shout. Words couldn't destroy her. That was something Tish had taught her, not long before she'd vanished.
"Some people need someone to blame." Tish had paused, taken a swig from the beer she was holding. One of many, if the bottles on the counter told the truth. "It's the only way for them to make sense out of things. Doesn't matter who you are; if you fit what they need for a villain, you're it. It's all about them, not you."
The screaming wasn't about taking care of Marcos. It wasn't Amy being a mom. It was about who Amy saw in the mirror, about what she wanted others to see when they looked at her house. Outsides, not insides. She wanted someone to blame for Marcos. Someone who couldn't argue back.
Blue grabbed her bag and her guitar. The toxic flood of words continued as Blue pushed past her, hurried down the stairs, her socks slipping on the buffed floor.
"Get out, get out, get out!" Now Blue ran, Amy's voice growing louder and closer behind her. Her boots … They were back in Marcos's room; but she was already at the door, then out, running across the wooden deck in her wool socks.
The door slammed behind her. Complete quiet. She glanced back. The wall of windows made the downstairs a terrarium at night, a spotless sealed world. Amy paced within, her mouth moving constantly, never once looking out, trapped in her inhospitable home.
The night air wrapped around Blue, crisp, the stars sharp, the woods silent but for the rustle of dead leaves as the breeze moved through them. She would have traded her soul again for the chance to swear. Something long and satisfying, something that would have made even Teena whistle in appreciation. Writing it out wasn't the same.
Her boots were on the other side of the door Amy had slammed behind her. Without the boots, she'd lose her bet. Shivering in the cold, she wondered what exactly it meant to give up your soul.
That was stupid. She wouldn't lose. In the morning they'd leave. She'd stop Marcos, ask him for them. He'd help. He owed her that much. Thanks to her, his mom could go on pretending he was perfect. He wasn't the problem; Blue was.
In the meantime, she needed to stay warm. She padded back across the deck, down the stairs and underneath. The ground there was damp and cold, so she pulled a pile of leaves together. Tucked inside, leaning against one of the deck beams, she wrapped her arms around her knees and settled in.
Blue woke with a start at some sound she couldn't classify. The leaves scraped against her neck as she rubbed her eyes. It was still night, the sliver of moon lowering itself behind the trees. What had she heard? An animal? A car?
She wiggled her fingers and toes, trying to work the chill out of them. Now that she was awake, she wouldn't find sleep again. She carried her bag and guitar up onto the deck.
Inside, the lights were still on, but no one was visible. The clock in the kitchen read 2:00. She held her ear to the glass. Nothing.
She tried the doorknob. It turned. Quietly, slowly, she crept across the floor to the stairs. Still no sound beyond the ticking of the clock. This would be easier than she thought. If anyone woke, she'd just run—first for her boots, then out of the house. If Amy hadn't called the cops before, she wasn't going to do it now.
She continued up the stairs, thankful that the stairs didn't creak. Marcos's light was still on. He'd moved onto his bed, one arm dangling off the side.
Blue grabbed her boots and scurried back down the stairs. At the bottom she paused. Something held her there, something she couldn't quite label. A noise just out of range, reminding her of the crunch of gristle between teeth. A hint in the air of something hot, bitter.
She padded down the hall beneath the stairs, the way Amy had gone earlier that night. The same sound again, so soft she thought it might be a mistake, some trick of her ears or the night. Deep down, she knew she should stop. Whatever was going on in that house had nothing to do with her.
Curiosity wouldn't let her leave without knowing. Down the dark hall she went, stopping by a door left ajar. The smell flowed out of the room. She tensed herself to run and peeked around the corner.
It was an office. A computer sat on top of a desk, its lit screen displaying an account whose numbers were all red. Beside it waited stacks of unopened mail, a utility bill on top.
Amy was seated at the desk, one hand on the mail. Her other hand traced aimless circles in the air. Beside her stood a man. Dark brown hair, blue cotton dress shirt. He leaned over her, one hand on the back of the chair. The sound came from him. He was chewing, his teeth making slight clicking sounds as his jaw moved.
Blue shifted to see what he was chewing. Something pale, gossamer strands that stretched from his chin to Amy's head like fairy chewing gum. Stretched farther as he straightened up, turned his head toward Blue. Amy's head turned, too, her mouth slack. Startled, Blue watched the motion of Amy's hand, identical to the scrabbling of a dying barn cat after Gus Thompson's pit bull had caught it by the neck and shaken it like a toy. Not aimless—futile. Little more than synaptic desperation, her wide open eyes full of … shock.
Suffering.
The man grinned, then resumed chewing, the threads stretching farther, thinning, the light fading in them. The sound coming from between his teeth—gristle being ground with pleasure—made Blue's stomach turn. The man's grin grew wider as Blue stepped back, her hand on the door. Amy's mouth moved, too, almost as if mimicking his; a pale bubble swelled between her lips
The man tugged his head back. With a slippery snap, the threads broke free of Amy's head. His jaw moved four more times, the final strands disappearing into his mouth. He raised one hand and touched a finger to the bubble between Amy's lips, watching Blue as if a funny secret rested between them. His finger crooked, the bubble broke, and a wail—pitched so high that Blue felt more than heard it—assailed the room.
Blue ran. Her boots bounced back and forth against her thigh, and she slid to her knees halfway across the main room. She scrab bled back up, kept going, through the door, across the deck, grabbing her things as she went. She crossed the driveway in a bound and headed into the woods, stumbling over fallen logs as boughs whipped her cheeks.
She ran for a long time. All she could hear were the leaves beneath her feet, and her own breath hurricane-loud. Finally, one foot caught in a shrubby tangle and she fell flat out, the guitar giving a loud twang.
She held her breath. No sound came from behind her. Of course, what she'd left behind could follow her without noise. She was sure of it. She closed her eyes tightly, as if that could erase what she'd seen. Not just what she'd seen, but the soft chewing crunch that echoed in her ears.
Eventually the cold seeped through her fear. First thing was to stay warm. She put her boots on and felt the ground beneath her. Dry leaves blanketed the ground; she collected them, crawling in a circle and reaching as far as she could to bring them close. Again and again, until she had enough and could burrow deep within.
