Chapter Thirty-Five
The plan begins early.
‘When’s the last time anyone cleaned that shower?’ I say, hauling my bucket of cleaning supplies into the living room on Saturday morning. ‘The clump of hair I pulled out of the drain was easily the size of a rat, so—’ When I look up, my mother is staring at me with her mouth hanging open.
‘What?’ I say.
‘Are those … rubber gloves?’ she says.
I glance down at the sunflower-yellow rubber gloves that extend all the way up to my elbows, the water splotches I got on my sweatpants when I scrubbed the bathroom tiles on my hands and knees.
It’s the kind of outfit someone who’s feeling ten thousand per cent better and therefore should be allowed to leave the house so she can break into her boss’s home would wear.
‘I wasn’t going to touch that disaster zone with my bare hands,’ I say.
Huddled up on the couch in purple yoga pants and an oversized sweater, my mom squints at me. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re about to ask me for something?’ she says slowly.
‘Ask you for something?’ I say with a scoff. ‘I told you, I’m feeling way better. I figured cleaning the bathroom was the least I could do after you took care of me all week.’
‘I take care of you every week,’ my mom says.
‘Yes, you do!’ I exclaim. ‘So, let me clean the bathroom once in a while.’
I lug the bucket into the kitchen and start filing away the cleaning bottles under the sink.
‘Do you want a hot chocolate?’ I call to my mom.
The soft drum of her sock-covered footsteps pads into the kitchen. ‘What are you trying to do?’ she says from above me.
As I rise to my feet, my mom frowns at me, arms folded.
‘Why can’t I just clean the bathroom?’ I say, yanking off my rubber gloves with a wet smack.
‘You look tense. Let me make you a hot chocolate.’ I spin around and wrench open the cabinet where my mom keeps all eight hundred boxes of her herbal tea.
‘Do you know if we finished the mini marshmallows, or—’
‘I don’t want a hot chocolate,’ she barks. Her hand lands on my shoulder, stilling me. She turns me back around. ‘Does this perhaps have something to do with the fact that you’ve been cooped up in this house for the last five days and now it’s the weekend?’
Damn, she’s good.
‘I mean,’ I say slowly, searching my brain for some kind of plausible denial.
Something that will make her believe I chose to scoop the hair from our shower drain with an unbent coat hanger out of the goodness of my heart.
But she’s right. Let the second part of my escape plan commence.
‘Okay, fine. Maybe.’ I let my face fall, wounded.
From my sweatpants’ pocket, my phone vibrates, but I ignore it.
Now’s not the time. I need to concentrate on my lines.
‘It’s just – Sam and I made up last weekend after Elliott’s party and I haven’t been able to see her all week, so when she asked if I could hang out tonight, I just thought – I don’t know, things between us still feel really fragile. I don’t want to ruin it.’
My mom’s eyes search my face, her jaw working quietly over her tongue.
‘Please,’ I say, my voice actually cracking. ‘I really do feel better, and—’
‘Fine,’ she says on a sigh. ‘But don’t you dare come back late and try to tell me on Monday that you’re feeling run-down.’
‘I won’t, I won’t, I won’t,’ I say, looping my arms around her shoulders. The reason for going out tonight might’ve been a lie, but the relief I feel is genuine. I bury my face in the orange-scented waves of her hair. ‘Thank you.’
She shoves me away playfully. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ she says, returning to the living room. ‘I’ll take that hot chocolate now.’
‘Coming right up!’
I fill two mugs with milk and slide the first one into the microwave. As it begins to spin, spotlit by the microwave’s orange glow, I fish out my phone to check my texts. Waiting on the screen is an unread message from Max.
Max
So … the most typical thing basically ever just happened
Despite everything that occurred on prom night, things with me and Max mostly went back to normal, almost as though I didn’t tell him my lame crushes were changing people into literal monsters.
He’s been so busy with last-minute gala prep, I basically had to ban him from talking about the curse, out of fear that he’d just give up sleeping in order to fit everything in.
Instead, we’d been texting all week like friends.
Because even though it was all supposed to just be an act, he’s somehow become a real, genuine, actual friend of mine.
Just a friend. A friend whose house I’m actively planning to break in to.
I thumb back my reply, tongue wedged between my teeth.
Indie
Let me guess, Rick has gone full bridezilla setting up for tonight
Indie
I told you he would – he’s hoping this gala is where he and your dad finally become BFFs
Indie
He has a lot at stake
The microwave dings. I set my phone back down on the countertop and retrieve my mom’s mug.
The gala tonight starts at seven, and now that I’ve got permission to leave the house, I can go around then instead of having to wait for my mom to fall asleep.
The walk to Woodley Park should take me about an hour; it’d be faster on the bus or Metro, but I can’t risk being caught on any video cameras in case Austin somehow does suspect I’m the one who’s robbed him and gets the police involved.
I swirl my pinkie finger through the lukewarm milk and stick the mug back in the microwave for another thirty seconds. My phone buzzes with Max’s reply.
Max
Well he’s gonna have to wait
Max
Because my dad’s not coming
My stomach drops. Austin Taylor isn’t coming to the gala? How can that be possible? Panic coils tight in my chest, my fingers shaking as I write back, Wait WHAT???
Did Austin somehow find out about my plan?
But I brush that possibility aside. If he did, surely he’d have come straight here and confronted me.
It’s more likely that he’s sick or something.
But in that case, he’ll be holed up in his house, ruining any chance I’ve got of breaking in unnoticed.
I just promised my mom I’d go back to school on Monday. And what does this mean for Max?
Max
There’re a bunch of storms hitting the UK rn
Max
All flights cancelled
Relief immediately crashes through me. Austin Taylor is still in the UK. Austin Taylor will still be in the UK tonight, which means my plan isn’t off. But any sense of relief I have is shadowed with guilt.
Oh my God, Max, I’m SO sorry, I write back.
Because no matter how I feel about Austin Taylor or F’resh or MENtal, Max has worked so hard on this gala.
I’ve never seen anyone put so much energy into an hors d’oeuvres menu.
All the weeks he’s spent planning this thing, all so he can impress his dad – without him there, it’ll have been for nothing. Because Austin Taylor is F’resh.
Is the gala cancelled? I ask, dread creeping back in. The microwave chimes again, but I barely hear it.
Max
No, my dad thinks we should still go ahead
Max
The people coming have spent so much $$ supporting MENtal
Max
It just sucks he won’t see it
I let out a long breath. Max will still be out tonight too. Everything is still going according to plan. Everything to do with me, that is.
The mug of milk is steaming this time as I pull it out of the microwave.
I scoop in three spoonfuls of hot chocolate powder and stir until only a few brown lumps remain on the surface.
At the bottom of the fridge is a half-empty canister of whipped cream.
It expired three weeks ago, but it should still be fine.
When I return to the counter, my phone is buzzing again, but this time it’s not from a text.
Someone is calling me. Max’s name flashes on the screen.
Before answering, I peep around the corner to the living room, but my mom’s attention is squarely on the true crime documentary that’s blaring from our television.
‘Hello?’ I say, fully prepared for the telltale background thrum of a butt dial.
But Max’s voice, though shaky and hesitant, comes through. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Is it weird that I’m calling you on the phone? It kind of feels weird that I’m calling. But I wanted to talk to you about something.’
Alarm bells chime faintly in my head. Max doesn’t know about my plan tonight. He can’t. I try to defuse my nerves with a forced laugh. ‘Sounds suss,’ I say, popping off the whipped cream lid.
‘Well, I kind of had an idea,’ he says. ‘Which, you can say no to, of course. But I was thinking – my dad’s not coming tonight any more, which means there’ll be an empty seat at my table. And I wondered if maybe, you know, you might … want to … come?’
The whipped cream nozzle, now positioned directly over my mom’s mug of hot chocolate, slips from my hand. It catches on the mug’s lip and tips it sideways, flooding the counter with the steaming hot chocolate.
‘Shit!’ I scream, reaching for paper towels.
‘What’s wrong?’ my mom shouts from the living room just as Max says in my ear, ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m good,’ I call back as I rip off a wad of paper towels and drop to my knees.
The hot chocolate has spilled over the edge of the counter and is pooling on the kitchen floor. I scrub at it frantically, the hot chocolate flowering across the paper towel as blood roars in my ears. Me? At the gala?
‘—you wouldn’t have to talk to anybody,’ Max is rushing into the phone.
‘We could have dinner and then hang out in the green room. When I’m not working, obviously.
I just figured, you know, if my dad can’t see the gala, it would be cool if, you know …
you did.’ A beat of silence drops between us, just Max’s breathing on the line until he follows quickly with, ‘If you want to.’
From the living room, the TV shifts to a loud commercial about car insurance.
I rest my head against a cupboard, trying to tune out the noise.
I can’t go to the gala tonight. I’m going to be too busy breaking into Max’s house.
I mean, unless I just went for a little bit and left early.
Theoretically, I could get to the gala when it starts, hang out for a few hours and head to Max’s house after.
The gala goes until midnight, and he’ll be helping break down the event until at least one in the morning, giving me plenty of time to do what I need to do.
I’ll already be on the right side of DC.
Images of Max, sitting alone at one of the tables and framed by the warm haze of twinkle lights, floats into my head. His soft smile, his curls skimming the sharp edges of his shirt collar. All I’d have to do is go for an hour and leave.
Or, that same little voice that’s been taunting me these last few weeks from the back of my head whispers, you could always go home with him.
‘Okay,’ I say, banishing the thought and pushing myself back to my feet. ‘I’ll go.’
After everything Max has done for me these last few weeks, supporting him tonight at this gala – it’s the least I can do. And if it helps dull some of the guilt I feel for popping open his broken basement window and diving head-first on to his couch later, then that’s cool too.
‘Seriously?’ Max says.
It’s only an hour. Two hours, max. I lob the wet paper towels into the trash can.
‘Seriously,’ I say back.
But first, I’ll need a dress.