4. Petra
PETRA
How can a girl who just turned eighteen have enemies? Maybe a hater or two, like the St. Anselm Hive admins, but not full-blown adversaries who would actively try to harm me by, let’s say, drowning me in a pool?
While Sin is off to the dryer, doing practical, useful things, I sit on the edge of the bed and grapple with a fresh round of paranoia.
The room is dimly lit, and shadows dance across the walls, cast by the revelers who are now scattered across the grounds adjoining Rutherford’s mansion. The party has moved to the lawn, and it feels like I’m strangely alone inside this sprawling structure.
A couple of minutes later, the door creaks open, and Sin steps back in, looking slightly awkward.
“They’re in the dryer now,” he says, giving me a small smile. “Shouldn’t take too long.”
“Thanks,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper. “I really just want to get my clothes back and go home.”
“Yeah, I would too if I were you,” Sin replies, sitting down on a chair across from me, his posture as stiff as mine.
There’s a moment of silence that stretches awkwardly over the next several minutes. Exhaustion and lingering alcoholic tipsiness combine to make me quite lethargic. I simply sit there, fiddling with the sash of my robe.
Sin clears his throat a couple of times, but when I fail to react, he is forced to break the silence.
“So,” Sin begins hesitantly, as if flailing around for a safe topic to discuss, “what’s your favorite class this year?”
Again, his obvious efforts to put me at my ease endear him to me, so I decide to help him out by at least trying to make small talk. “Probably my graphic design class. I get to work on some cool projects.”
Sin looks genuinely interested. “That sounds awesome. I’ve never really hung out with someone from that field. Tell me more?”
And though it feels surreal to talk about mundane stuff like schoolwork after the evening I’ve had, I say, “Yeah, I designed a poster series for a local art event. Lots of people seemed to like it.”
Why did I say that last part out loud? Do I want to impress Sin?
“Amazing!” he says, his eyes actually lighting up. “I’d love to see them one day.”
“Maybe I’ll show you sometime.” It would be nice to have someone to talk to about these things. Maybe it was high time I got myself other friends. Well, other is an overestimation.
I’d have to have one friend first, and though I consider Amelia a member of that—very exclusive—group, she’s still just an online person, not a real one.
So when Sin drops the thin thread of our conversation, lapsing into a fidgeting silence, I pick it up.
“What about you? Any favorite classes?”
“Well, practice, obviously,” he replies with a mischievous grin. “But honestly, I’ve been enjoying my English classes more than I expected.”
“Hey, come on! How was I to know that you weren’t just born looking like that?” I reply, nodding to the bulging muscles visible even through the frumpy robe.
He smiles.
“So . . . are you reading anything interesting at the moment?” I ask.
“Right now, we’re going through some classic literature. Just finished The Great Gatsby.”
“Ah, Fitzgerald,” I say, nodding. “I like Tender is the Night better. Have you read it?”
“Nope, but now I must,” Sin replies with more enthusiasm. “What’s it about?”
“It’s about an alcoholic man married to a madwoman,” I reply drolly before realizing that Sin looks puzzled. “It’s a way more poignant book than my description would have you believe. I just . . .” My words taper down into nothingness because this is delicate territory.
How do I convey to this popular, well-mannered, well-liked guy that I’m drawn to morally grey, outright toxic characters like the couple at the center of Fitzgerald’s final novel?
“Just what?” Sin chimes in, urging me farther on with a nod.
“I guess I just like the idea of two broken people trying—and inevitably failing—to make each other whole, if that makes sense.” There, I said it. Let the judgment begin.
“Wow, that’s . . .” Sin begins, and the look on his face is inscrutable. “That’s such a nuanced take, Petra. Now I really want to read this book.”
I smile and look away, not wanting to show how relieved I feel that he didn’t deem me a bigger freak than I’m usually known to be. “So what did you think about The Great Gatsby?”
“I actually liked it a lot. The whole idea of chasing a dream that’s always just out of reach . . . that was painfully relatable.”
“How can you have unattainable dreams?” I blurt out, half-amused and half-incredulous. “You’re the poster child for success: popular, athletic—”
“Handsome?” Sin cuts in with a joking wink, and we both end up giggling. When we pause for breath, he sighs and says, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Petra.”
It’s a cryptic statement, sure, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of my curiosity. Even though I am curious.
“I guess I’m learning,” I reply instead.
He shifts in his chair, his expression turning more serious.
“What is it?” I ask, unable to keep a lid on my nosiness after all.
“Why did you come to the party tonight?” Sin asks seriously, as if he wants to really understand my scattered motives, those I couldn’t make sense of myself.
“I mean, you don’t seem like the party type—and not in a bad way!
” he hurries to add, ever-sensitive to how his words could be construed in different ways.
Something I find I quite like about him.
I look away, feeling a twinge of regret and other unspeakable feelings. “I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to do something different on my birthday. My parents forgot about it, so . . .”
“What? Your biological parents?” Sin asks with an expression of disbelief before looking regretful about his words. “Sorry for that question; it just came out.”
“No, I get why you would ask that. And yes, my biological parents, as far as I know. I’ve even got my father’s nose. Famously so.” I try to lighten up the conversation that’s gotten really serious really fast.
Sin’s face softens as he says, “Petra, I’m sorry it hasn’t been a great birthday. And about your parents. That sounds really tough.”
“It’s actually not that bad.” Somehow, I feel the need to defend my parents. Or maybe I want to reduce the amount of abjection my life seems to contain.
At any rate, I suddenly feel that I don’t want to continue being an object of pity any longer.
“I get to spend a lot of time on my own, and honestly, it’s a relief. It’s made me really independent and self-reliant, you know.”
“That’s pretty obvious, but . . .” Sin hesitates, as if trying to summon the kindest words possible. “It must be lonely, right?”
“Yep, it is,” I reply without missing a beat. “I thought that was pretty obvious, too.”
We both chuckle briefly, and then another spell of silence settles between us.
Outside, our peers are playing hide-and-seek among meticulously manicured hedges, while others are probably engaged in more lascivious activities in the manor’s many rooms.
Thinking about the latter group makes me blush and become anxious for some reason, so I clear my throat.
“Actually, I almost wouldn’t have come tonight.
But my friend Amelia convinced me to give it a shot,” I admit.
I don’t want Sin to think that I am a loser with literally no friends, so I continue, “She’s my best friend, in case you were wondering.
The one person in my life I can rely on without thinking. ”
“She sounds real cool, Petra. Where do you guys usually hang out?” Sin asks, getting up from his chair and stretching his legs.
My eyes can’t help straying toward his sinewy calves, but I train them on his face before he can notice.
“Umm, on Instafriends? I’ve never actually met her.” I have a sheepish expression on my face, but not for long. “It’s like we don’t even need to see each other to be in tune with each other. I know it sounds corny when I put it like that, but trust me, she’s . . . yeah, she’s a real one.”
Sin has been watching me wax eloquent about my online friend with a faint smile on his face. When I fall silent, he says, “And you’ve never wondered if you were being catfished or something like that?”
“You mean that Amelia is actually a fifty-year-old creep who likes befriending teenage girls online?” I ask with a throaty chuckle.
“Something like that, yeah.” Sin’s voice is teasing and gentle, as if he wants me to laugh more, lighten up more.
“Not really, no. And even if it is a grown man masquerading as a girl, and a very girly girl, then he has never made me feel unsafe or unheard, so that’s a win in my book!”
Sin has been grinning and chuckling this whole time, and I don’t want him to stop. I want the easy, friendly banter to keep going till it fills up the aching hole in my heart.
But pretty soon, sooner than I’d like, another long stretch of silence unfolds in the room.
Just then, Sin looks around the room, then down at the bed.
“You know,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eye, “I think I remember Elias mentioning something about a hidden stash in here.”
“A stash of what?”
Sin drops to his knees and peers under the bed. “Yeah, let’s see . . .” After a moment of rummaging, he pulls out a small, dusty box. “Bingo!”
He opens the box to reveal several bottles of assorted liquor.
“That’s a lot of expensive alcohol,” I point out.
Sin looks up, his smile widening. “Want some? It might help pass the time.”
I hesitate. I probably shouldn’t. But the thought of sitting here, alone and awkward, waiting for my clothes to dry, feels unbearable.
“Sure,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Why not?”
Sin pulls out a bottle of whiskey and two plastic cups. He pours a generous amount into each cup and hands one to me.
“To broken people,” he says, raising his cup.
“To broken people,” I repeat, clinking my cup against his before taking a sip, the whiskey burning its way down my throat. Soon, my body feels relaxed again.
Sin sits back on the floor, leaning against the bed.