Page 53 of Grim
“That and spite,” she says brightly, grabbing her bag. “You coming or what?”
Someone save me.
“Going out in your condition is ill-advised.”
“Trying to stop me is also ill-advised. Do you really want to find out who’s going to win this argument?”
Even though I know this is a terrible idea, I stand and button my jacket. Rue grins victoriously.
She’s dressed like the lead singer of a band that performs in catacombs—black combat boots, ripped fishnets, a short black dress, and a jacket with more silver hardware than seems strictly necessary. Her hair is thrown up in a half-messy bun with bright orange streaks peeking out, and her eyeliner looks like it could cut someone.
She looks absurd.
And I hate to admit that I like it.
Also, Catacombs would make a great name for a band, but I digress.
She looks like a gothic fever dream—defiant yet delicate, like something that shouldn’t belong in the sunlight but roots itself there anyway.
We head into town. She insists on walking instead of getting a ride. I once again advise against it. She reminds me that this may be her last chance to walk to town, and I have no comeback for that, so I fold.
As we walk, I ask about the cat. “Why Esther?”
“What?” Rue asks at the question I volleyed without a preamble.
“The cat. Loathsome little thing. Why did you name it Esther?”
“Oh. Why? Is she growing on you?”
“Absolutely not. I was simply making conversation. Which I am happy to unmake. Forget I asked.”
“I named her after Esther Greenwood. The protagonist of—”
“Sylvia Plath’sThe Bell Jar. Yes, I know. I’ve been around for centuries. I read. A lot.”
“Yes, well, she’s one of my favorite characters from literature, so I named my favorite creature after my literary heroine.”
“Esther’s road was rather bleak. Alienated, isolated, suicidal. And you say I’m the grim one.”
“She was passionate about learning, felt outcast from her peers, and was terrified of what lay ahead in her life. So, yeah, she resonates with me.”
“Maudlin, party of one,” I growl, low in my throat.
“Pompous, party offuck you,” she fires back, much to my satisfaction.
I do seem to love getting a rise out of her.
I snicker softly, which she harmonizes with a grumble. Then we walk for a while in decidedly comfortable silence.
This part of town is small with a historic air. The bricks hold the stories that the old people in rocking chairs no longer tell. Humidity adds a stifling weight to every measured step we take. Rue stands out like a single storm cloud on a clear day. People stare. She doesn’t notice—or pretends not to.
When we arrive at the ice cream shop, she practically vibrates with joy.
“Aha!” she crows. “I can smell the sugar from here.”
“It amazes me you actually consume this willingly,” I mutter, eyeing the pastel-colored chalkboard menu with deep suspicion. “It smells like melted feelings and burned marshmallows in here.”
I take in the vibrant walls decorated with cartoonish representations of medieval battlements and then spy a list of nonsensical flavors. I shudder.
