Elizabeth Hand - Black Light

“Ali called.” Hillary handed me a plate swimming with maple syrup. “She wants to go to the Elephant’s Trunk. She can’t cut Interdisciplinary again, so I told her we’d pick her up afterward.”

I slid behind the table and ate while Hillary cleaned up. He seemed pensive, even brooding, and with his usual offhand grace had dressed the part—an old tuxedo shirt of Edmund’s tucked into his patched and embroidered jeans, a dark blue naval officer’s jacket. I watched him stalk across the kitchen, loading the dishwasher and gathering his books for school. I said nothing, recalling his anger last night. But I felt uncomfortable—it wasn’t like Hillary to stay mad about anything. When I finished eating we went out to the car, still without speaking, and drove to pick up Ali.

“I need earrings if we’re going to this thing tonight,” she announced as she clambered into the front seat beside me. She shivered dramatically. “God, it’s cold.”

Hillary eyed her outfit—short-sleeved black leotard, black ballet slippers, bell-bottom jeans so frayed her skin showed through. The same thing she’d been wearing yesterday, as a matter of fact. “Maybe you should put some clothes on.”

“Screw you.”

Ali leaned her head against my shoulder. I wrinkled my nose. She smelled of smoke and patchouli oil and something I didn’t recognize, a sweetish, faintly chemical odor. “Didn’t you go home last night, Ali?”

“Uh-uh. I crashed at Jamie’s.” She yawned, and I felt a stab of hopeless envy, seeing her in bed with Jamie Casson. She had dark circles under her eyes; her lips looked swollen and bitten, and there was a tiny greenish bruise on one arm. “You guys didn’t bring me any coffee, did you?”

Hillary snorted. “Yeah, sure, Ali! And pancakes, too! No, I didn’t bring you coffee. Wasn’t there any at his place?”

“No. Ralph won’t buy coffee. He says it’s, like, a capitalist plot to steal money from the Aztecs.”

“The Aztecs ?”

“Or something ,” said Ali defensively. “Gimme a break, I feel like shit.”

“That’s good. Cause you look like shit,” I said, and ducked as she elbowed me.

Hillary drove us to the Elephant’s Trunk, a head shop in Mount Kisco, where Ali bought a little brown vial of amyl nitrite (HEART-ON EXOTIC FRAGRANCE, the label read) and I tried on an orange-and-green paisley Indian print dress. It was low-cut and calf-length; long shirred sleeves, flowing skirt, no tassels.

“What do you think?”

Great, Ali mouthed. She sat on the floor, eyes huge as teacups, the open vial cupped in one unsteady hand. “Grrr—unh…”

She slumped against the wall. Ignoring her, Hillary stepped over to examine me. He frowned. “It’s sort of a funny color. It’s sort of two funny colors.”

“It’s orange,” I said.

“Well, yeah, that’s what I mean. It’s sort of a weird shade on you. I mean, isn’t it sort of a weird color on anyone, orange and green? I thought you were going with your mother—”

I gave him an icy look. “What, to Lord and Taylor? I like it—” I ran my hands over the bodice. “It’s cool.”

“Don’t listen to him, it’s great.” Ali got up and stumbled toward me. “And it looks really cool with those boots. But you need a necklace or something. C’mon.”

I picked out a pukka-shell necklace and a handful of silver bracelets so thin and supple it was like wearing a Slinky on my wrist. For herself Ali chose a pair of very large earrings, Mexican silver inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and shaped like peacock feathers. Hillary flipped through a bin of used albums, every now and then holding one up for me to see.

“Wow. In the Wake of Poseidon . Do I have that, Lit?”

“Dunno.”

“What about this: Supersnazz .”

Ali cozied herself back onto the floor and put on her new earrings. “Cool, huh? Hey, you want some of this?”

She unscrewed the vial of amyl nitrite and inhaled loudly. Behind the register the store manager looked up, glaring.

“Oh, great ,” Hillary groaned. He shoved the album into the bin, turned to the manager, and smiled apologetically. “Boy, she sure loves that exotic fragrance, huh? I was just going to—”

“I said not in here . Get her out,” the owner commanded, pointing at the door. “Now.”

We went. “I don’t believe that stuff is legal,” Hillary fumed as he herded Ali into the car. “It can’t be good for you.”

“It’s not,” I said. “The next sound you’ll hear is her cerebral cortex hitting the floor.”

Ali laughed. Her pupils had shrunk to black specks and her wide tawny eyes looked gormless as a kitten’s. “Yeah. And the sound after that will be Lit picking it up again.”

Hillary shoved in an eight-track and started the car. “You’re a fucking mess, Ali.”

“Sure, man. But I’m cute .”

It took us most of an hour to get back, winding along old Route 22 through the maze of backroads and villages threaded into the foothills of the Siwanoy Mountains. Ali and Hillary fought over the eight-track.

“Black Sabbath.”

“T. Rex.”

“Black Sabbath.”

“T. Rex.”

“Duck season.”

“Wabbit season.”

“Duck season — ”

“You are both total idiots.” I stuck my head out the window, trying to escape from flying tapes and Ali’s cigarette smoke. “Next time I’m walking.”

“Forget it, we’ll fucking compromise —”

Hillary punched off the tape player and fiddled with the radio dial. Finally he homed onto a faint signal.

Ali joined in with her hoarse sweet alto, and after a moment Hillary did the same—

Then the signal faded, and the car filled with the soft hiss of dead air. I stared out at the late-autumn vista— golden hills, lowering sky—and recalled Hillary’s stricken voice the night before.

What the hell does it mean, Lit? What does it mean?

I rubbed my arms. Ali lay passed out on the seat between us, her head on my lap and her fist jammed up against her mouth. Now and then her leg kicked reflexively against his, and Hillary would gently push her away. I fixed on that tiny star-shaped bruise at the crook of her elbow, and tried not to think of Jamie Casson kissing her there.

“What is it, Lit?” Hillary said at last.

I shook my head. I had felt uneasy for so long it was like a dull pain in my breast, or a throbbing headache; not something that could possibly come from outside me. I gazed out the window a long time before answering.

“I—I don’t know. Just this—”

I gestured at the trees gone glimmering gold and crimson beneath tungsten clouds, the leaf-strewn river winding alongside the highway. I had always loved this stretch of the road, the secret knowledge that Kamensic Village was crouched behind that last dark curve of the river. Now I could hardly bear to look at it.

“All this…” I said numbly.

Hillary stared straight ahead, after a moment nodded. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

No you don’t, I thought. None of you even have a fucking clue.

I glanced down at Ali snoring in my lap. Then with all my strength I slammed my hand against the door.

“Lit!” cried Hillary. “What the hell are you doing?”

A long red welt immediately bloomed across my knuckles. Ali opened her eyes to gaze at me blearily, then dropped back to sleep. Hillary glared. “Lit—”