Chapter 27 Chanel
Chanel
When the dreaded day arrives, my only remaining obstacle is Ares.
I wait until the middle of history class to execute my plan. While everyone else is studying, I frown down at my collar, patting
the empty space there. Then I speak up, my voice ringing clearly through the classroom. “Hey, has anyone seen my necklace?”
The response is instant. Everyone except Ares lifts their head from their worksheets, and even Mr. Murphy pushes away the
bowl of Caesar salad he’s been loudly munching on for the past ten minutes.
“What does it look like?” Bobby asks.
“It’s kind of shaped like a heart. Red rubies, with this huge diamond in the middle.” I shake my head, feigning confusion.
“I was literally wearing it when I walked into the room half an hour ago, I swear. I don’t know how it isn’t here anymore. . . .”
“Did it fall off just now, maybe?” Rainie asks.
“Maybe,” I say. “But I’ve looked around my desk, and it’s not here. It’s not on the floor either.” I heave a dramatic sigh, then add in a deliberately unconvincing voice. “No, that’s fine. Sorry, guys, go back to what you were doing. I’ll try to find it myself.”
“We can help you search for it,” one of the guys at the back volunteers. Jason. He’d asked me out three times last year, even
though we’d never had a proper conversation, and had once written a poem about my eyes, which he’d started reading out loud
to me before I stopped him for the sake of his own dignity. “It must be somewhere in this room.”
“Really?” I shoot him my brightest, most grateful smile. “That’s so nice of you to offer.”
He almost leaps out of his seat. “Don’t worry. We’ll find it,” he says, like he’s making a solemn vow.
There’s a flurry of activity as people start checking around them, flipping their textbooks over and pushing aside their laptops
and scanning the gray carpets and chairs. I pretend to join in, routinely shuffling some papers and remembering to look concerned.
But I keep my attention pinned on Ares’s pencil case, waiting for someone to notice the silver glint of the chain dangling
out the half-open zipper.
Jason’s the one who finds it. “Hey, isn’t that—” He pulls the chain out, holding up the evidence.
The classroom falls silent.
“Dude, did you steal Chanel’s necklace?” Jason demands.
As murmurs circle the room, Ares’s eyes flash to mine, betrayal and accusation burning in them, and I know he knows.
This is what you get, I imagine myself saying to him, my voice as cold and hard as my heart.
Since he’s refusing to go to prom with me, there’s no point in trying to act like a cute prom couple anymore.
I just have to make sure he can’t go anywhere tonight.
“What the hell?” someone else says.
“I didn’t take it,” Ares protests, but I can tell that nobody believes him. They probably assume we had a lovers’ spat or
a falling-out.
“Ares.” Mr. Murphy rises from his desk, his voice serious. “Theft is strictly prohibited on school grounds—well, anywhere.”
Ares glowers at the teacher, which isn’t helping his case. “I’m telling you, I didn’t take it. Why would I steal something like that?”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to stay behind for detention after school,” Mr. Murphy says gravely. “Please return
the necklace to Chanel right now.”
I try to keep my face passive as he walks over, but my heart thuds with each step he takes in my direction. We haven’t been
face-to-face like this since the night by the lake, and it’s only when he comes closer that I notice the new bruises on his
face. His split lip. The way he’s holding himself gingerly to one side, like there’s something sharp digging into his left
rib cage.
I frown, helpless to control the concern that rises up inside me; a knee-jerk reaction, like shaking your hand when you’ve been burned.
I almost open my mouth to ask if he’s okay, if he’s been fighting at the Cave again, to demand to know why he isn’t protecting himself.
Then I remember I no longer have the right to ask him these things, if I ever did.
That I shouldn’t care in the first place.
And he doesn’t give me a chance to speak to him anyway.
He doesn’t even look at me properly when he drops the necklace on my desk, his movements quick, as if he’s eager to discard it.
Then he’s already turning around, hands in his pockets, his back to me.
Pain sears through my chest, threading together every strand of the past and future shared between us, from the moment I first
saw him walking down the dark alley to the vision of flames engulfing my only home.
But this is necessary. I just have to do this, and everything will be okay. Ares will be kept after school for detention.
The house will be empty, and my mom will be safe, and there will be no fire tonight.
But when I get home, my mom is still standing around in the middle of the living room, her suitcase lying wide open, her clothes
strewn everywhere.
“What are you still doing here?” I ask, my words coming out too fast, too panicked.
My mom frowns up at me. “Should I not be here? This is where I live.”
“Sorry,” I say, fighting to regain control of my expression. “I just mean . . . isn’t your flight leaving in, like, an hour?”
“That’s plenty of time,” she says, tossing in silk dresses and travel-sized packets of makeup wipes without any sense of urgency.
“It’s not like I have to wait in line. Oh, I probably should bring my other jacket,” she adds under her breath, rummaging
around in her suitcase and pulling out a blazer.
Which is really just great. It’s not even that she hasn’t finished packing for her trip. She is now actively unpacking. I can feel a scream building inside me, but I clench my teeth, take a deep, steadying breath, and dart a glance outside the window.
It’s not too late; the sky is a deep blue, the moon not visible yet. As long as I can get my mom out the door before darkness
falls . . .
“Which jacket are you looking for?” I ask as calmly as I can, even as a low, buzzing sound fills my head, like a violent swarm
of bees. I can barely even hear myself speaking, just the desperate thud of my heartbeat.
“The leather one with the gold clasp—”
“I’ll fetch it for you,” I say, rushing toward the bedroom before she’s finished her sentence.
When I return, she’s staring at herself in the mirror, but she looks exhausted. Defeated. She touches a finger to the faintest
crow’s-feet around her eyes, stretching the skin there like she can magically erase any lines. Sighs.
My heart aches for her.
There was a time—even if it feels like an era ago now, a past life—when my mom was happy. When she did her makeup because she enjoyed showing off her beauty and not to cover the dark circles under her eyes.
When she’d float through the house humming, with a bouquet of lilies in her arms.
I remember a random November evening, coming home from school and smelling the briny scent of boiled crabs and my dad’s famous
sugar-and-vinegar sauce before I even crossed the threshold. Listening to the clatter of chopsticks against plates, cracked
shells, my mom planning out her next trip to Paris with my father. Both of them smiling when they saw me step inside.
We had all been happy here, and it’s hard not to imagine those moments of happiness stored inside this very house, in the curtains my mom had chosen and the dining room where we shared countless dinners and the massive walk-in closet where I’d wobble around in my mom’s heels as a kid while my dad watched, laughing.
If the house burns, where does that happiness go?
Where else am I meant to find proof that we’d been a real family once?
“Here,” I say quietly, passing my mom the jacket. “You look beautiful, by the way.”
She manages a small smile. “Thank you, darling.”
“Really. You’re beautiful.”
“I know,” she says, but without her usual conviction, and presses a quick kiss to my forehead. “Call me if you need anything,
okay?”
“I will,” I assure her, and then finally, finally, she’s leaving. Once the door closes, I slump back against the wood, allowing the relief to wash over me for approximately
three seconds before I rush into my bedroom to change. I still have one last stop to make tonight.