‘I was with you the whole time,’ I speak slowly. ‘Why, and how, would I do this?’
‘Then how?’ she cries, ‘I only made one of these, and you know who the last person to wear it was … so how is it here?’
Her tear-filled eyes search mine before her body falls limp against my chest. I hold her close, thinking she’s about to collapse to the pavement.
And it hits me, like a punch in the middle of my chest: I still can’t have Gianna. Not without hurting her more than I already have.
My mind races through what happened the last time we got what we wanted. I’ll never forget her gut-curdling scream.
I pull away, releasing her once she’s steady on her own feet. A familiar hollowness seeps into my chest and up my neck, leaving a bitter taste in the back of my throat, one I relish in so I never forget it. I have to remember what I fucking came here for. A wave of rage tightens my muscles and I let it take over, fuelling my fire.
My eyes fall to the mask in my hand, a skull face painted silver. The same mask that arrives via text every year. Only now I’m holding it.
Chapter 10
Gianna
FOUR YEARS AGO
My fingers are coated in UV resin, but it’s worth it. Flakes of clear coat fall from my skin as I rub my right thumb and forefinger together while holding a hairdryer in my other hand. I moved aside my installation paper artwork to create a new one, and now four full-face, skull-shaped tactical masks stare back at me, each one painted a different chrome colour.
The black mask has a twisted grin and deep scars. It’s so polished, I can see myself reflected in its glare. The red mask has cavernous grooves, high cheekbones and sunken eye sockets that make it look like the devil.
Curing with UV light leaves behind a yellow tinge, so I experimented with fibreglass resin for the white chrome skull. I touch the edge, finding it’s no longer tacky. The hairdryer did the trick. I pat myself on the back for the ghost-white I achieved for the Jason-style hockey mask.
I saved my favourite till last. The deep silver mask is the same gunmetal grey as the Mustang. I cut aluminium wire and created the mouthpiece to look sewn shut with vertical bars.
Unplugging the hairdryer, I wonder what’s taking Monz so long. She skipped classes and spent all afternoon workingwith me, so I can’t take credit for the red mask – she painted all of that on her own. I left the curing with her so I could watch my brother’s basketball practice till she texted me to say the rest of the costumes were ready, when I came back to take over.
I grab my phone and check the time. Basketball practice should be finished by now, so I whip my bag across my shoulders, tucking my amethyst into the side pocket. As I’m about to head out, I see Professor Quick walking past, a large stack of papers in his hands.
He grins when he spots me. ‘What are you working on today, Gianna?’
I gesture to the new masterpieces scattered on my table.
‘They look good,’ Professor Quick says, giving an approving nod as he moves toward the large doors. ‘We can chat tomorrow about what you’re submitting for the first-year showcase, but I think it should be that.’ He points at the masks.
‘Oh, no, they’re just for the carnival tonight. You know, Lucifer’s Dream.’
‘Even better. They’ll have a lived-in story.’ He nods toward the equipment scattered across the table. ‘Make sure you put your tools away, and don’t forget – the gates for the creative wing shut at six now.’
Refusing to take two trips, I tuck the curing lamp under my right arm and stack the enamel paints and brushes into my left hand. I make my way to the supply closet. Shuffling into the long, narrow room behind the whiteboard wall, I almost drop the lamp, but I save it in time, squeezing it harder between my elbow and my ribs. I consider flipping on the light switch as I enter, but the late afternoon sunset filtering through the main windows allows justenough light in to see. I crouch down by the shelves at the back of the room and have started returning the enamel bottles according to colour, when I hear footsteps slowly approaching.
Prickles shoot down my spine and I look back. At the storeroom entrance, a figure stands.
My eyes sweep across his black trackies, black hoodie and a black chrome skull mask. I breathe a sigh of relief when blue cuts through the eye holes.
‘Ryker,’ I breathe, feeling my shoulders relax. ‘Jesus, what are you doing?’
He stalks toward me wordlessly, the silence disturbed by stray charcoal and pastel chalks being crushed beneath his boots. I watch, unable to move or even blink as he pushes the easels, sending them scraping across the floor to the side. I laugh awkwardly and repeat my question, thinking this is a joke, but he doesn’t answer.
This is a joke, right?
My heart pounds. My stomach swirls with … something. He steps forward again, and my heart somersaults while a stab of heat strikes between my legs.Am I turned on?I should be scared. I should run. But I don’t move. I can’t. I don’t want to.
Another slow, torturous step. My skin puckers with goosebumps. And then I realise …
I like it.
