Katie Lowe - The Furies

And yet, mere days after joining Elm Hollow – the new girl, late in the semester, with nothing special to recommend me, no gaudy quirks or stylish clothes – I had a friend. A friend, who wanted to ‘hang out’. I wondered if I was being set up; became convinced of this, over the hours that followed, when there was no sign of the girls, nor of Annabel, whose studio was empty when I passed, the following day.

Finally, Friday afternoon arrived, and I began the march towards the bus stop, among the hordes of fellow students, who had already focused their attentions elsewhere, now seeming not to see me at all. At the top of the hill, an old playground stood silhouetted in the afternoon light: the younger brothers and sisters of those students being collected squealed and swung, ran circles around their weary parents. I imagined my sister’s moon-white face among them, the rubber texture of her swollen skin; shook my head, searched for Robin in the crowd.

‘Wasn’t sure if you’d show,’ she said, grabbing my shoulders from behind, callused fingers brushing my cheek.

‘Why?’ I stood, frozen. It had been a long time since I’d last been touched, though I hadn’t realized it until now. My mother’s collarbones pressed against my neck, days after Dad died. That was the last.

‘Dunno,’ she said. ‘You just didn’t seem all that into the idea.’

‘Oh, no, I was – I just—’ I stopped, grateful to be interrupted by a cheer from the crowd by the bus stop; a girl dancing, whirling in circles, so fast she’d become a blur.

Robin and I followed the thinning crowd on to the last bus, her hand still tight around my wrist. She slid in by the window, guitar pressed against her knees; I sat beside her, pressed close as the bus filled up, packed with pale limbs and stale breath.

‘So,’ she said, turning to me, eyes wide, an exaggeration. ‘Where’d you come from?’

‘Kirkwood,’ I said, again.

‘I know that. Let me rephrase. Tell me everything. Tell me your story.’

I looked at her, my mind empty of all history, memory erased. ‘I … I don’t know.’

‘Interesting,’ she said, grinning, a smudge of mulberry brushed under stained lips. She saw me looking, raised a hand to her mouth. ‘You’re from round here?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Makes sense, then. Boring, boring, boring.’ She paused, narrowed her eyes. ‘Not you, I mean. The town. Is boring.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, leaning back against the seat. ‘Okay, let’s try something else. Pop quiz. Violet’s not talking because a) she’s shy, b) she’s got super interesting things to say but she doesn’t want to tell me, or c), she’s not that interesting after all and I’m sorely misguided. Go.’

‘Not c,’ I said, though I felt the sudden flash of a lie. I’m not that interesting, I thought. She’s right.

‘I guess a) and b) aren’t exactly mutually exclusive. So you are interesting, but you’re shy and you don’t want to tell me your secrets.’ She looked at me, smiled. ‘I guess that’s okay.’

I searched for another way, an easier line of conversation. ‘Let’s try the other way around. Tell me about you.’

‘Oh, me? I’m super interesting. Fascinating. A one-woman Pandora’s box. But I’m also a lot like you. I don’t give it away for free.’ She grinned. ‘We’ll just have to take it slow, huh?’

I smiled. ‘You play guitar?’

‘Horribly,’ she said, squeezing the neck of the case between her fingers. ‘Still, it makes me look cool. That’s a start.’

‘You are cool,’ I said, and blushed. I hadn’t meant to sound so desperate, so eager to please.

She laughed, a bitter snort. ‘Well, I guess that’s sealed then. You’re just about the only person around here that thinks I, Robin Adams, am cool. Which I’m pretty sure makes you my new best friend.’ She extended a hand, and we shook, a comical formality that felt strangely intimate in the crowded space. ‘Come on,’ she said, nudging my arm with her elbow.

The bus shuddered to a halt, and we edged out into the street, where the smell of the sea – something I hadn’t noticed was absent from the grounds of the school – whistled between the buildings. The sky had turned from blue to grey over the course of the afternoon, and tiny beads of rain started to fall, so imperceptibly I didn’t notice until Robin held a discarded paper over her head and gestured to me to follow, saying ‘This rain’s going to ruin my hair,’ as she bounded off.

I followed her into the grandly named International Coffee Company, with its one dilapidated location in a quiet street, in a town the world forgot. ‘Hey, bitches,’ she said, announcing herself to the room as we entered. The barista – all black hair and pillar-box red lips, tanned to the colour and texture of leather – waved and shouted ‘Coffee?’ Robin nodded, held two fingers up, and strolled to the back of the café, where the other girls sat whispering in a patched-up leather booth. ‘This is Violet,’ she said, pushing me towards them, thumbs pressed firmly into my shoulder blades.

The two girls looked up at me, with a bland curiosity, as I stumbled, caught myself, and smiled; they said nothing. After a moment, the shorter of the two – a girl with green eyes and pale, almost translucent skin – smiled and waved her cigarette coyly, gesturing me to sit by her side. The two were sharing a pot of tea clearly designed for one, which steamed lazily beside a thick, leather book on the table.

‘Queen bitch here is Alex,’ said Robin, sliding into the booth beside the other girl and throwing an arm around her, swiftly brushed away. She nodded, coolly, and sat back, weaving her hair into a thick, rope-like braid as she watched me, eyes hooded, almost black.

‘And this little cherub—’ Robin pinched her own cheek between finger and thumb and squeezed it white. ‘This is Grace.’ Grace rolled her eyes, passing her cigarette back to Alex, who took it, smoke curling in the air between them. Robin turned to the girls as I wedged myself in next to Grace, who slid closer to the wall, as though to leave a foot of space between us.

The girls smiled at me, dimly, before turning to Robin. ‘Did you …?’ Alex said, softly.

‘Not yet,’ she replied. ‘But good things come to those who wait, right?’

The waitress set two tall, black coffees down with a clatter, a pool forming around them, rolling down the almost imperceptibly slanted table towards me. She dabbed it with her apron, and I looked up, finding myself greeted by a girl with the same, deep features as the barista, but a good twenty years younger. ‘Hey, Dina,’ Robin said, the words sing-song, mocking. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Fine,’ Dina said, turning away and stalking into a back room behind the bar.

‘Religious nut,’ Robin said, sliding a coffee towards me. ‘I’m surprised she hasn’t come at us with the rosary yet.’

‘Or a stake,’ Alex laughed.

‘The power of Christ compels you, etcetera.’ Robin’s voice drew a swift warning look from the woman at the bar, and the girls went on in a whisper. I sipped the coffee, concealing a wince at the bitter taste, the dry, sickly layer it left on my tongue. This wasn’t the first time I’d tried to at least pretend I liked it – I had read enough to know all the people I admired adored it, and took it black – but then, as before, the taste gave way to a hot, fast-moving nausea, heartbeat racing like that of a rabbit in a trap. Still, I clung tight to the cup, feeling the warmth nip at my fingers, and made plans to jettison it the moment the girls were distracted, though the weary-looking plant at the edge of the booth, I soon realized, was plastic. The frayed leather seats, flickering light-bulbs and dusty, sun-bleached paintings had implied that from the outset.