“No.” I shake my head slowly, mulling over the idea. “It doesn’t make sense, plus it’s notreal.”
“You don’t have to believe it.” Izzy shrugs, putting her phone away and standing, her not-so-subtle cue for me to wrap it up. “If he was doing some kind of ritual, then it was real to him, wasn’t it? That’s all that matters.” She picks up her bag from the floor. “Now get me out of here. All this talk is freaking me out.”
NINETEEN
That afternoon I find myselfback in the art studio with everyone else. Most people are working on practical projects, but there are two other writers in the class. Neither is writing an article, though—one is working on a dystopian game show novel, and the other is writingBuffyfanfic in the form of performance poetry. Izzy said it was surprisingly good this morning. I’ve chosen not to believe her. Everyone else is getting on with their wholesome, arty tasks, while my brain is full of murder.
“Do you mind if I look through these?” Scarlett drifts up to my table and places a hand on the pile of old magazines.
“Go for it, they’re not mine. You need them for your project?”
“Maybe.” She flicks through the top magazine without saying anything. Scarlett is one of those people who exudes such self-confidence that she doesn’t need to fill the silence. I watch as she pulls out a few pages before she looks at me. “You got your phone back, then?”
“Hmm?” I say, so she nods at my cell on the desk. “Oh, yeah, the police dropped them off earlier.”
“That’s good. Izzy said you were doing some work in the library this morning?”
“Erm, yeah, just a bit of historical research.” I don’t feel the need to elaborate.
“Oh, boring. I like vintage clothes, but I’m more of a modernist,” Scarlett replies. She picks up one of the pages, a picture of rolling hills in the sunshine. “Give me a theme?” she asks.
“I have no idea,” I admit. “Being artistic is not my forte.”
“Don’t say that.” She spreads the pages and plucks a few out. “Everyone is an artist, in their own way. What about weather? I saw the storm is still bad where your dad is.”
“Yeah, it is.” I watch her tear sections of each glossy page, arranging them loosely on the table.
The storm in the Maldives has been all over the internet, and they’re still throwing around the word “unprecedented,” even though it’s rainy season there, which is the only reason Dad and Kim could afford to go. I spoke to Dad at lunch and they’re both okay, but there are still no boats traveling between their resort and the mainland. There’s no way he’ll be home in the next couple of days. I haven’t spoken to Mom today, but I imagine it’s given her a great reason to argue with my dad all the way from Australia.
“There.” Scarlett looks down at her handiwork. I move around the table to join her and shake my head, bemused.
“How did you do that so quickly?” I sigh.
There are only a few pictures layered together, and the edges are ripped and uneven, but the collage is striking; a small, lonely house placed in an expanse of green fields, the sky a thick, heavy band of solid black above it. The whole scene is framed by a huge, rolling wave, the kind that looks like it will sweep everythingaway in one angry crash. It’s not just about weather, it’s expressive, and a lump forms in my throat as I see my own helplessnessinit.
“That’s really good, Scarlett. It makes me emotional,” I admit, feeling stupid as I say it, but she smiles.
“It does?” I nod. “Good. I like making art that speaks to people. Maybe you should make something that shows your own feelings instead of bottling them all up,” she says innocently.
“I don’t do that,” I respond, but I say it too quickly and she looks unconvinced. “All right, maybe I’ll give it a go.” I crack a smile. “Thanks.”
Scarlett smiles again but doesn’t say anything, just glides away toward her own station in her paisley maxi dress. I wonder how many of those floaty outfits she has.
“All good here?” Izzy appears next to me as Scarlett pauses in front of Ford, who starts gesturing toward his canvas. The painting now has the shapes and outlines of a face on it in flat blocks of color, and I shiver as I remember what Kim called it. Dead coloring. “Does she ever just wear jeans?” Izzy hisses, regaining my attention as she narrows her eyes at Scarlett.
“Says the resident fashionista,” I say, unscrewing the top of my water bottle as Izzy straightens her red linen playsuit and purses her matching lips.
“She’s just so…ethereal.”
I force down a gulp of water past a laugh. “You make it sound like a dirty word,” I sputter, liquid dangerously close to leaking out my nose.
“You know what I mean.” Izzy waves a hand. “What if helikesethereal?”
I glance over at Ford and study his body language. He’s turned away from Scarlett slightly, his shoulders high and arms crossed over his chest. He uses his thumb to worry at a ring on his right hand. If anything, he looks defensive.
“I don’t think so,” I reassure Izzy, placing my bottle back on the table. “You like him that much?”
“No.” Izzy sighs, and I can almost see little love hearts reflecting in her eyes. “Yes. You don’t think he’s cute?”
