Page 10 of Sinister

In hindsight, I shouldn’t have posed more rhetorical questions to the universe. It has a funny way of answering them.

4

PETRA

How can a girl who just turned eighteen have enemies? Maybe a hater or two, like the St. Anselm Hive admins, but not full-blown adversaries who would actively try to harm me by, let’s say, drowning me in a pool?

While Sin is off to the dryer, doing practical, useful things, I sit on the edge of the bed and grapple with a fresh round of paranoia.

The room is dimly lit, and shadows dance across the walls, cast by the revelers who are now scattered across the grounds adjoining Rutherford’s mansion. The party has moved to the lawn, and it feels like I’m strangely alone inside this sprawling structure.

A couple of minutes later, the door creaks open, and Sin steps back in, looking slightly awkward.

“They’re in the dryer now,” he says, giving me a small smile. “Shouldn’t take too long.”

“Thanks,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper. “I really just want to get my clothes back and go home.”

“Yeah, I would too if I were you,” Sin replies, sitting down on a chair across from me, his posture as stiff as mine.

There’s a moment of silence that stretches awkwardly over the next several minutes. Exhaustion and lingering alcoholic tipsiness combine to make me quite lethargic. I simply sit there, fiddling with the sash of my robe.

Sin clears his throat a couple of times, but when I fail to react, he is forced to break the silence.

“So,” Sin begins hesitantly, as if flailing around for a safe topic to discuss, “what’s your favorite class this year?”

Again, his obvious efforts to put me at my ease endear him to me, so I decide to help him out by at least trying to make small talk. “Probably my graphic design class. I get to work on some cool projects.”

Sin looks genuinely interested. “That sounds awesome. I’ve never really hung out with someone from that field. Tell me more?”

And though it feels surreal to talk about mundane stuff like schoolwork after the evening I’ve had, I say, “Yeah, I designed a poster series for a local art event. Lots of people seemed to like it.”

Why did I say that last part out loud? Do I want to impress Sin?

“Amazing!” he says, his eyes actually lighting up. “I’d love to see them one day.”

“Maybe I’ll show you sometime.” It would be nice to have someone to talk to about these things. Maybe it was high time I got myself other friends. Well, other is an overestimation.

I’d have to have one friend first, and though I consider Amelia a member of that—very exclusive—group, she’s still just an online person, not a real one.

So when Sin drops the thin thread of our conversation, lapsing into a fidgeting silence, I pick it up.

“What about you? Any favorite classes?”

“Well, practice, obviously,” he replies with a mischievous grin. “But honestly, I’ve been enjoying my English classes more than I expected.”

“Hey, come on! How was I to know that you weren’t just born looking like that?” I reply, nodding to the bulging muscles visible even through the frumpy robe.

He smiles.

“So . . . are you reading anything interesting at the moment?” I ask.

“Right now, we’re going through some classic literature. Just finished The Great Gatsby.”

“Ah, Fitzgerald,” I say, nodding. “I like Tender is the Night better. Have you read it?”

“Nope, but now I must,” Sin replies with more enthusiasm. “What’s it about?”

“It’s about an alcoholic man married to a madwoman,” I reply drolly before realizing that Sin looks puzzled. “It’s a way more poignant book than my description would have you believe. I just . . .” My words taper down into nothingness because this is delicate territory.