Rachel Caine: Glass Houses

Claire blinked. Somehow, she’d been thinking that she’d be the one begging for them to consider her …and normal? Eve thought she was normal?

“Sure,” she heard herself say. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Eve grabbed her backpack and slung it over her own shoulder, on top of her black silver-studded purse in the shape of a coffin. “Follow me.” And she bounced away, up the walk to the gracious Southern Gothic front porch to unlock the door.

Up close, the house looked old, but not really rundown as such; weathered, Claire decided. Could have used some paint here and there, and the cast-iron chairs needed a coat, too. The front door was actually double-sized, with a big stained-glass panel at the top.

“Yo!” Eve yelled, and dumped Claire’s backpack on a table in the hallway, her purse next to it, her keys in an antique-looking ashtray with a cast-iron monkey on the handle. “Roomies! We’ve got a live one!”

It occurred to Claire, as the door boomed shut behind her, that there were a couple of ways to interpret that, and one of them—the Texas Chainsaw Massacre way—wasn’t good. She stopped moving, frozen, and just looked around.

Nothing overtly creepy about the inside of the house, at least. Lots of wood, clean and simple. Chips of paint knocked off of corners, like it had seen a lot of life. It smelled like lemon polish and—chili?

“Yo!” Eve yelled again, and clumped on down the hall. It opened up to a bigger room; from what Claire could see, there were big leather couches and bookshelves, like a real home. Maybe this was what off-campus housing looked like. If so, it was a big step up from dorm life. “Shane, I smell the chili. I know you’re here! Get your headphones out of your ears!”

She couldn’t quite imagine Texas Chainsaw Massacre taking place in a room like that, either. That was a plus. Or, for that matter, serial-killing roommates doing something as homey as making chili. Good chili, from the way it smelled. With…garlic?

She took a couple of hesitant steps down the hallway. Eve’s footsteps were clunking off into another room, maybe the kitchen. The house seemed very quiet. Nothing jumped out to scare her, so Claire proceeded, one careful foot after another, all the way into the big central room.

And a guy lying sprawled on the couch—the way only guys could sprawl—yawned and sat up rubbing his head. When Claire opened her mouth—whether to say hello or to yell for help, she didn’t know—he surprised her into silence by grinning at her and putting his finger over his mouth to shush her. “Hey,” he whispered. “I’m Shane. What’s up?” He blinked a couple of times, and without any change in his expression, said, “Dude, that is a badass shiner. Hurts, huh?”

She nodded slightly. Shane swung his legs off the couch and sat there, watching her, elbows on his knees and hands dangling loosely. He had brown hair, cut in uneven layers that didn’t quite manage to look punk. He was an older boy, older than her, anyway. Eighteen? A big guy, and tall to match it. Big enough to make her feel more miniature than usual. She thought his eyes looked brown, but she didn’t dare meet them for more than a flicker at a time.

“So I guess you’re gonna say that the other chick looks worse,” Shane said.

She shook her head, then winced when motion made it hurt even more. “No, I—um—how did you know it was—?”

“A chick? Easy. Size you are, a guy would have put you in the hospital with a punch hard enough to leave a mark like that. So what’s up with that? You don’t look like you go looking for trouble.”

She felt like she ought to take offense about that, but honestly, this whole thing was starting to feel like some strange dream anyway. Maybe she’d never woken up at all. Maybe she was lying in a coma in a hospital bed, and Shane was just her lame-ass equivalent of the Cheshire cat. “I’m Claire,” she said, and waved awkwardly. “Hi.”

He nodded toward a leather wing chair. She slid into it, feet dangling, and felt a weird sense of relief wash over her. It felt like home, although of course it wasn’t, and she was starting to think that it really couldn’t be. She didn’t fit here. She couldn’t actually imagine who would.

“You want something?” Shane asked suddenly. “Coke, maybe? Chili? Bus ticket back home?”

“Coke,” she said, and, surprisingly, “and chili.”

“Good choice. I made it myself.” He slid off the couch, weirdly boneless for his size, and padded barefoot into the kitchen where Eve had gone. Claire listened to a blur of voices as the two of them talked, and relaxed, one muscle at a time, into the soft embrace of the chair. She hadn’t noticed until now, but the house was kept cool, and the lazy circle of the ceiling fan overhead swept chilly air over her hot, aching face. It felt nice.

She opened her eyes at the sound of Eve’s shoes clomping back into the room. Eve was carrying a tray with a red and white can, a bowl, a spoon, and an ice pack. She set the tray on a coffee table and nudged the table toward Claire with her knee. “Ice pack first,” she said. “You can never tell what Shane puts in the chili. Be afraid.”

Shane padded back to the couch and flopped, sucking on his own can of soda. Eve shot him an exasperated look. “Yeah, man, thanks for bringing me one, too.” The raccoon eye makeup exaggerated her eye roll. “Dork.”

“Didn’t know if you wanted zombie dirt sprinkled on it or anything. If you’re eating this week.”

“ Dork! Go on and eat, Claire—I’ll go get my own.”

Claire picked up the spoon and tried a tentative bite of the chili, which was thick and meaty and spicy, heavy on the garlic. Delicious, in fact. She’d gotten used to cafeteria food, and this was just…wow. Not. Shane watched her, eyebrows up, as she started to shovel it in. “’Sgood,” she mumbled. He gave her a lazy salute. By the time she was halfway through the bowl, Eve was back with her own tray, which she plunked down on the other half of the coffee table. Eve sat on the floor, crossed her legs, and dug in.

“Not bad,” she finally said. “At least you left out the oh-my-God sauce this time.”

“Made myself a batch with it,” Shane said. “It’s got the biohazard sticker on it in the fridge, so don’t bitch if you get flamed. Where’d you pick up the stray?”

“Outside. She came to see the room.”

“You beat her up first, just to make sure she’s tough enough?”

“Bite me, chili boy.”

“Don’t mind Eve,” he told Claire. “She hates working days. She’s afraid she’ll tan.”

“Yeah, and Shane just hates working. So what’s your name?”

Claire opened her mouth, but Shane beat her to it, clearly happy to one-up his roomie. “Claire. What, you didn’t even ask? A chick beat her up, too. Probably some skank in the dorms. You know how that place is.”

They exchanged a look. A long one. Eve turned back to Claire. “Is that true? You got beat up in the dorm?” She nodded, hastily shoveling more food in her mouth to keep from having to say much. “Well, that totally blows. No wonder you’re looking for the room.” Another nod. “You didn’t bring much with you.”

“I don’t have much,” she said. “Just the books, and maybe a couple of things back at my room. But—I don’t want to go back there to get stuff. Not tonight.”

“Why not?” Shane had grabbed a ratty-looking old baseball from the floor and tossed it up toward the tall ceiling, narrowly missing the spinning blades of the fan. He caught it without effort. “Somebody still looking to pound you?”

“Yeah,” Claire said, and looked down into her fast-diminishing chili. “Guess so. It’s not just her, it’s—she’s got friends. And…I don’t. That place just—well, it’s creepy.”