Page 36 of House of Hearts
“Pass the pepper, Bird,” Amber says before volleying a puzzled look between the two of us.
Birdie pushes it to Amber, and Amber pushes it to me, and it feels like we’re in the middle of a divorce proceeding, fighting over who gets to keep the house.
“Can I get some salt, too, Birdie?” I ask, fighting the impulse to sayYou can keep the kids, too, I don’t care.
Birdie says absolutely nothing in response to that. She swirls a spoon in her Mediterranean couscous in lieu of looking at me. Amber opens her mouth to play mediator again, but finally Birdie groans and sends the salt skidding across the table.
“Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?”
Oliver shrugs from behind his open copy ofClandestine Communication: The Art of Breaking Ciphers. “Something petty, I presume.” He flips a page absently.
“Here I was, happy that you guys didn’t ditch me for the Cards table,” Amber huffs, the type of anger I’m used to. She pushes her tray forward with a stubborn pout. “But now it feels like I’m sitting in the middle of a second Cold War.”
“Which one of us is Russia?” I ask at the same time Birdie blurts, “We would never leave you, Amber.”
Birdie throws me a dark look, but at least she’s looking at me. “You’re right, this whole thing is childish. Give us a second to sort things out, okay?” Then, to me: “Violet, do you mind?”
That’s all the indication I get to grab my things as she storms out into the hallway. My rubber soles scuff the linoleum as I chase after, and this time, I know it’s not my imagination when I feel eyes on my skin. Calvin cranes his neck to follow me as I leave, and his stare burns long after I’ve closed the door.
“Do you know how much I blamed myself for her death?” She whirls on me after a tense moment, her eyes wet with runny mascara. “When she transferred here, it wasmyjob to take her under my wing and…and, God. I spent this whole summer thinking if I had been a better roommate, a better friend, that I could’ve saved her. No one even invited me to the funeral.”
I open my mouth, but she shakes her head. “When you came, I wanted things to be different. I promised myself I’d be the best roommate I could, that I’d always be by your side and be a shoulder for you to cry on…and…and…I want us to be honest with each other.”
I lower myself to the tile and cradle my knees to my chest.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I hope she knows I mean it. “I wanted to tell you, I really did, but I was scared. I thought if I said the wrong thing to the wrong person, I’d be kicked out and I’d never learn what really happened to her.” I paw at my own eyes now to stubbornly keep the tears from trickling down.
“She was like a sister to me, but near the end, there were times when she called and I would sit and let it go to voicemail because I was so stupidly jealous of her new life. If anyone should’ve been there for her, it’s me. So, don’t blame yourself.”
Birdie wrings her hands, and her shoulders deflate with a sigh. “I get why you lied,” she whispers, “but can you promise me you won’t keep things from me again? I really do want to be friends, but I really can’t handle a repeat of last year.”
“Promise,” I whisper, and her pinkie locks with mine.
And this time, I hope I can keep it.
“Am I interrupting a human sacrifice or something?”
The “or something” moment tonight involves Calvin splayed out on the meeting-room floor like a half-naked art model, his bare chest littered with strange sigils, and Oliver looming above him with an uncapped red Sharpie.
“Yeah, you’ll want to come back later when I’m either levitating ordead,” Calvin drawls. His composure disappears as soon as Oliver starts drawing on his chest, and he squirms like he’s auditioning for anotherExorcistmovie.
“Why not both?” Ash deadpans from behind a monstrous stack of books. The texts range from Greek binding spells to Elizabethan-era magic.
“Good call, Ash. You’re right, come back when I’m levitatinganddead. That’ll be more interesting.”
“You’ll only be dead if you don’t stop moving,” Oliver grunts, pressing his knee down on Calvin’s chest to keep him from wiggling around. “You’re making me draw squiggles.”
“Sue me. I’m ticklish.”
I bury my hands in my pockets. “I’m relatively new to the woo-woo scene, so would someone like to fill me in on what’s happening here?”
“I’m testing out countercurse sigils,” Oliver tells me, like it’s really that simple. “It wouldn’t take immediate effect since Calvin isn’t the eldest child, but it doesn’t hurt to try things out.”
“And you think a Sharpie doodle will do anything?” I ask, wincing afterward at my own attitude. It’s only day one on not being a naysayer, and old habits die hard.
“I was trying to tell you earlier,” he says, adopting a lecturing tone like a weary professor. “I don’t believe that science and magic are separate entities. I believe they run parallel. I mean, hell, look at math, for example. Irrational numbers were discovered by a Pythagorean cult—an entire group who believed the secrets of divinity lie within mathematics. I’m not saying we doodle a2+b2=c2on him, but maybe there is some stock in the belief that the supernatural world is more connected to reality than you think.”
I peek down at his handiwork. “So, if that’s not the Pythagorean theorem on his chest, what is it, exactly?”
