But as far as I can tell, based on some very sketchy online sources, Beecher is something of a magical dead zone. Rare but not unheard of. I think it might have something to do with its proximity to Danvers, just a town over. Danvers is better known as Salem Village, where all that witch hysteria fuckeryactuallyhappened. Big magic went bad there, and it could have pulled from the surrounding area in the process, creating a void. Though honestly that’s just a guess. It’s not like the Old Ones are into explaining anything.
Still, even with minimal crime and a magical dead zone, pulling the shit Lennie just did is a good way to get the life drained out of her.
Or a face full of pepper spray.
But pointing that out to Lennie will only piss her off. We’ve been friends since freshman year. At times, she’s the most difficult combination of sensitive and utterly oblivious. I have to pick my battles carefully.
“What are you doing here?” I ask instead.
Lennie shrugs easily. “I was running late, and I figured you would be too because your stupid boss never lets you out on time. Thought you might want a ride, so I came this way to see if I could find you. It’s cold out.”
Carelessly thoughtful. That is one hundred percent Lennie.She donates half of her “allowance” to a local animal shelter in Beecher—except in the months she forgets. She’ll throw an obnoxiously loud party, inviting all the neighbors in her apartment building and sending pizza to the ones who don’t want to come (never mind that they might want peace and quiet over free food.)
Lennie is like that little spray of bubbles that pops out unexpectedly from the dish soap spout when you put down the bottle a little too hard. Fun, charming, impossible to contain, and ridiculously fragile.
My annoyance relents, subsumed by a wave of affection. And hunger. “Thanks, Len.” I walk around the car to the passenger side and climb inside.
“Besides,” she continues, as I settle in and buckle my seat belt, “it’s not as if anyone else wants me there. You’re the only one who insists on these weekly dinners.” Beneath her wry tone, her voice holds a mix of injury and bitterness.
There it is.I go still, hand frozen on the buckle release. A faint sensation, a trickle of warmth slips down the back of my throat. Like that first comforting spoonful of chicken noodle soup after a terrible bout of flu. Nothing has ever tasted better.
Sipping on other people’s misery—failure, rejection, disappointment, hurt, all tiny deaths in a way—is not quite the same as pulling life out of them, killing them in degrees. This is offered voluntarily, and rather than a sunny glow that I have to focus on directing, this is like standing with my hands out in front of a vent blasting hot air for a few seconds.
My stomach moans in relief, and I slump back against the headrest. Surviving this way isn’t easy; like sustaining life on a handful of stolen popcorn every day instead of digging into the steak and baked potato on the other side of the table. But whenthat steak and potato is a person, maybe even a friend, whose existence is threatened by your need to eat, well, then popcorn it is.
“That’s not true,” I manage to say to Lennie after a moment. But it is kind of true. “Daan will be—”
“Daan will be too busy chasing after everything in tight pants and a septum ring to hang out with me,” she says with a sigh. The two of them have a complicated relationship that I don’t understand. Mutual flirting, and jealousy of the other’s time, but seemingly nothing more than friendship.
The warmth of her emotion gathers and rolls down my throat. For some reason, the verbal expression of those darker feelings goes a lot further than just the mood itself or even a thought.
I keep an eye on her hands, resting on the steering wheel as she drives, just in case. But as always, she shows no sign of ill effects, other than a slight tensing of fingers. My little sips of her misery don’t seem to bother her, unlike everyone else. She doesn’t faint or vomit or turn gray. It’s almost like Lennie’s bulletproof, wrapped in her layers of focused self-absorption. Though I would prefer not to test that theory to the extreme.
“And Chessahatesme, even though I’ve never done anything but be nice to her,” Lennie continues, lifting her chin in defiance.
I despise this, being caught in the weird position of trying to talk Lennie out of her feelings… while also literally feeding on them.
I’m a bad friend.
No, you are ahungryfriend.
Same difference.
“It’s not you,” I say. “The two of you are just really different. That’s all.”
A drastic understatement. Chessa, my roommate and closestfriend, is Lennie’s opposite in nearly every way. Chessa is a townie who worked her ass off to get scholarships here; Lennie is a three-generation legacy. Chessa is tall and slender with dark skin and box braids; Lennie is short, curvy, and white with an expensive strawberry blond blowout that she maintains with biweekly trips to the local salon even though she’s never satisfied with their work.
Also, Chessa wouldn’t complain if she were on fire, but Lennie turns every paper cut into a three-day saga including possible blood poisoning and a brush with flesh-eating bacteria. Which is helpful for me, given my specific… needs. But it makes being friends with both of them complicated.
Lennie sniffs, then waves her hand dramatically. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. I don’t care.”
But she does. A lot.
“Guess who I ran into today.” Lennie bounces in her seat a little, her natural ebullience making a reappearance. She’s never down for long, just frequently. Mercurial. That would be the word for her.
“Professor Burkitt again?” I ask, unable to resist a smirk. Now that I’m not starving, I can pay attention again. I can be an actual friend instead of a black hole of need. I’m not full—never full—but the urgency has faded some.
Lennie gives a horrified squeak. “Jo! Ew, no!” But she’s blushing, hard enough I can see it even in the dim interior light of the car.
