Page 50 of Of Angels & Absolution

Annabel Lee laughs and slides the opossum into one of her crates. “So, what’d I miss when I was out there hexing anyone who messes with my room while I’m gone for break?”

“Hexing?” I squeak. “Do you really do that?”

“Sure, why not? If some cunty-bee messes with my room while I’m gone, they deserve it.”

“Isn’t that… witchcraft?”

She wiggles her black-nailed fingers at me. “Catholic by birth, heathen by choice.”

“You missed Ronique admitting she wants to get boned by a beefcake,” Manson says, draping himself lazily over Annabel Lee’s pillows like a fashion model. “Our little Ronnie’s growing up.”

“Never thought I’d see the day,” Annabel Lee says, covering her heart theatrically. “Tell me everything.”

“She’s scheming how to pull aFreaky Fridaywith Mercy here so she can slide up on Saint Soules,” Manson announces. “Sans clothes.”

He sits up and catches his reflection in her mirror, then starts fussing with his bleached hair to perfect the artfully tousled look he’s sporting today.

“Too bad you’re going home,” Annabel Lee says to their friend.

“I know,” Ronique says, flopping back on the bed. “So lame. I’ll be in Ohio while y’all are skiing in the French Alps together.”

“You ski?” I ask, remembering a trip to Aspen with my family. A blindingly white, sunny slope filled with smiling, neon-clad skiers is the last place I can picture the gloomy, black-clad goth girl in front of me.

Annabel shrugs and melts onto the foot of the bed in the same way Manson does, an effortless pose that looks like she’s simultaneously sitting for a Victorian portrait and dreadfully bored. “My parents drag us to France every year, and eventually, we branched out from Paris to explore other options.”

“How tragic for you,” Ronique mutters, rolling her eyes.

“I wasn’t complaining,” Annabel Lee says. “We didn’t get a choice growing up, but I still loved it. No one does elegant indifference quite like the French.”

I glance from her to Manson. Maybe that’s what truly sets them apart—not the clothes they wear or who they want to kiss or the hexes they do, but the worldly air about them that only the truly wealthy possess, one they’ve picked up, intentionally or not, from traveling far and frequently enough to experience other cultures.

“Now that I’m on my own, I could stay home if I wanted,” Annabel Lee says, petting the black ball of fur next to her. “But where’s the fun in that? Plus, it’s a free trip to France. It would take me months working at the store to earn enough for that. And you know how my parents like us to all be together for the holidays.”

I try to imagine it, the side of Angel’s family that our parents wouldn’t let us associate with, the ones who threw bricks through our windows, the rough gangsters who inspire lore about the wrong side of the tracks, sipping lattes in Paris cafés, prancing through the Alps like the Von Trapps. I stifle the urge to laugh.

“I think it’s sweet,” Manson says, patting Annabel Lee’s calf. “That you still go, and that they still go.”

“Oh yeah, it’s great—until you hear them trying to recreate their honeymoon, or whatever they went to that hotel for before they had us. From the sounds of it, it was to conceive. It’s a little less sweet when it’s your parents traumatizing you with their sex noises.”

“I don’t know, your mom’s kinda a MILF,” Manson says. “I don’t blame your dad for still being horny for her after five kids.”

“And… Yep, it’s official. My brain just imploded.”

I glance at Ronique this time, wondering if she feels a little awkward, a little left out, when the other two go on about things with the comfortable familiarity of friends who have known each other for far longer than their college years. But she scowls and looks away when our eyes meet, then changes the subject to some explosion that just blew up part of the abandoned mall, killing one person.

Predictably, Annabel Lee wants to go see the scene of the crime.

When they’ve all packed up and gone—I stayed as long as the invite lasted, even though I felt like an outsider, just to have some company—I take Dr. Jekyll out, and we wander the quiet campus together. My footsteps squelch in the wet, dead grass, and the damp, cold air makes me huddle deeper into my coat. The buildings are locked, so there’s nowhere to go, and eventually I head back to my room. My dorm is empty except for me, the lobby quiet and dark. I even miss the grumpy nun who usually mans the desk.

At least I don’t have to look over my shoulder every other step, prepared to dart around a corner or into a nook if I see Heath or the Sinners.

In my room, I stare out the window at the quiet campus. Everything is closed except for the church, which will have several services over the break.

Before I can consider the implications, I find my feet carrying me in that direction. My heart beats erratically, and I clutch the cross on my necklace. Will Father Salvatore be there? Will he be alone? Do all the priests stay here during the break?

I step inside the church, out of the wind, and take a breath before heading through the atrium and the ancient wooden doors the sanctuary. It’s dark within, only lit by a few wall sconces and the light filtering through the stained-glass windows. I move down the center aisle, my wooden clogs making my footsteps echo hollowly in the cavernous room. When I reach the front, I slide into the second pew and lower the kneeler.

I don’t know how long I kneel there, praying, before I hear the soft scuff of footsteps and know I’m not alone. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help peeking from the corner of my eye to see what other unfortunate soul is here on the last day of classes. I’m surprised to see one of the Sincero boys sliding into a pew across the aisle, a few rows back. My spine stiffens, and mymind races through possible scenarios. I might be able to fight off all seven of them, but without Angel’s help this time, it’ll be a challenge.

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