Page 32 of The Luminaries
Like, really can’t breathe. She has gotten too close to a kelpie and now it’s dragging her underwater, away from air, away from life.
Winnie bolts into the girls’ bathroom. Four stalls meet her eyes, ancient but clean, as well as three sinks that look like they came out of an old-timey photograph. She bursts into the first stall, drops onto the toilet seat, and dunks her head between her legs.Breathe, breathe, breathe.She can do this, she can do this, shehasto do this. Coach Rosa won’t be the first person who makes her tell the tale of the banshee slaying; she’s got to get this figured out.
She can do this.Breathe, breathe, breathe.
The bathroom door squeaks outside. Heeled boots click past Winnie’s stall. She doesn’t look up. Her focus is on the tiny hexagonal tiles that cover the bathroom floor. A thousand grout lines for dirt and grime to squeeze into—but where it never does because the Sundays keep this place spotless.
She can do this. She just has to manage to relay the story that the twins told two nights ago. Act like it was somebody else who went into those trees. Act like it was somebody else who met a banshee and killed it—because itwassomebody else in the end. Or somethingelse, rather—
“I know you’re in there.” A voice cleaves through Winnie’s thoughts. Familiar, if sharper than it used to be. Carved by razors into a voice like her mother’s.
Erica Thursday.
She is standing directly outside Winnie’s stall. Her booted toe with its gleaming steel cap is tapping a rhythm on the floor.
“What do you want?” Winnie asks. Shamefully, her voice quavers.
“I need to ask you something.”
“I’m busy.”
“No you’re not.” Erica’s right foot kicks up, and with the perfect poise of a dancer, she lightly kicks the stall door with her toe. The latch falls. The door swings wide. Then Erica herself comes into view.
She is perfectly made up, as always, the shading of her makeup enhancing the natural warmth of her amber skin, while thick burgundy liner brings out the autumnal red shades in her brown eyes. She’s gorgeous, her raven hair in long, sleek lines that reach down to her waist. She wears a leather jacket not so different from Winnie’s, but in black and over a baby blue turtleneck that looks like an angel made it for her out of clouds. Her impossibly long legs hide beneath a long gray skirt that would, on anyone else, look dowdy. But on her, it looks like High Fashion with capital letters and an exorbitant price tag. The only part of her that isn’t perfect is the Band-Aid wrapped around her thumb.
She looks so much like Jenna, her older half sister who died four years ago, that Winnie can’t help but wonder if it’s intentional.
Winnie bolts to her feet. The stall—and Erica—spins. Erica is tallerthan Winnie with her boots on; it’s jarring. Winnie was always the taller of the two. It’s also jarring to see the mascara on Erica’s lashes, the glossy perfection of her lips, the contouring that Winnie wouldn’t even know was there if she weren’t used to the curves of Erica’s natural face.
Four years since she has been this close to her best friend, and it’s like staring at an illustration. This is both the girl she knew… and somehow not her at all.
“What,” Winnie repeats, “do you want?”
Erica lifts her chin, appraising Winnie through half-lowered lashes. First she takes in Winnie’s hair (a mess), then Winnie’s clothes (suddenly not as cool as Winnie had thought they were), and finally Winnie’s collarbone, where the locket from Darian rests.
“Where did you get that necklace?”
Winnie’s hand rises to the locket. A thousand things she might have expected Erica to say, and this certainly isn’t one of them. “My brother gave it to me.”
“When?”
“On Thursday. On my birthday.”
“Where did he get it?”
“I don’t know.” Winnie glares and shoves past Erica, getting a whiff of a musky perfume that literally reeks of money. Being a clan leader’s daughter has its perks. “Why the interrogation?” Winnie stalks to the sink and turns on the faucet. Three pumps of the soap dispenser and Erica sidles up beside her, arms now folded over her chest.
“Because I used to have one like it, Winnie Wednesday, and I want to know where it went.”
“Are you saying Darian stole it from you?” Winnie means it as a joke.
Erica responds as if it isn’t. “Maybe.”
“What?” Winnie spins toward Erica. Soapy water sprays the mirror. “If you’re accusing him of a crime, just say it.”
A splash of suds mars Erica’s sweater. For several seconds, she holds Winnie’s gaze, but there’s uncertainty in it. Maybe even a little embarrassment. She doesn’t blink, though, and neither does Winnie.
Cold water drips to the floor from Winnie’s hands. The faucet still gushes beside her. Until finally, Erica breaks the stare down. “No,” shesays primly. “I don’t think anyone stole it. Just… ask Darian where he got it, okay?” She lifts a single eyebrow, gaze briefly flickering back to Winnie. “And let me know what he says.”
