Page 8 of Her Name in Red
I nod, not really listening. Johnson doesn't seem to notice, already turning to drag some poor freshman into the house for another keg stand.
I lean against the porch railing, watching the chaos unfold in the front yard. A group of guys are wrestling on the grass, their costumes tangled and torn. Two girls in matching angel outfits giggle as they try to walk in impossibly high heels, clutching each other for balance. The whole scene is like some fucked up Renaissance painting.
My eyes drift to a circle of freshmen huddled near the bushes. They're passing around a bottle of something that looks suspiciously like bottom-shelf vodka, wincing with each swig. One of them, a scrawny kid in a half-assed werewolf costume, looks up at the house with wide eyes.
“I heard she lived here,” he stage-whispers, loud enough for me to catch. “Before…you know.”
A girl in the group rolls her eyes. “That's bullshit. She never lived in the Greek houses.”
“Well, I heard she partied here all the time,” another chimes in. “Before she went psycho.”
I grip my cup tighter, the cheap plastic creaking under my fingers. These idiots have no fucking clue what they're talking about.
The one kid leans in, his voice dropping even lower. “Hey, you know what we should do? We should call for her. I heard if you say it three times in front of a mirror, she appears.”
A chorus of nervous giggles ripples through the group. One girl shakes her head vehemently. “No way. That's bad luck.”
“Come on,” the kid pushes. “It's just a stupid urban legend. What, are you scared?”
Another guy in the group, this one dressed as some kind of superhero, steps forward. “I'll do it. I'm not afraid of some psycho bitch.”
Before I know what I'm doing, I'm moving towards them, my feet carrying me across the lawn. The group falls silent as I approach, their eyes widening in recognition.
“Hey,” I say, my voice low and dangerous. “What's her name?”
The ballsy kid swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. “W-what?”
I step closer, towering over him. “The girl you're talking about. What's her name?”
They exchange nervous glances, none of them willing to meet my eyes. Finally, the superhero speaks up. “Maren. Maren Marino.”
I nod slowly, my lips curling into a smile that feels more like a snarl.
“Correct,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “So if you want to go inside and walk into the bathroom and turn the light off and speak her damn name three times like she's going to crawl out of the mirror or appear behind you in the tub, go right the fuck ahead. But you sound fucking ridiculous. Grow up.”
The group stares at me, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. I can practically see their alcohol-soaked brains trying to process what just happened.
I turn and stalk back towards the frat house. These fucking idiots.
Bodies press against me, writhing to the music, but I barely notice. My mind is a broken record, replaying their words over and over as I walk past the kitchen.
As I round the corner, I hear voices. Familiar voices. The football team.
“Dude, no one has seen her with a guy since it happened,” I hear Jackson say, his words slightly slurred. “She's like, untouchable now.”
“More like unfuckable,” Thompson chimes in, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. “She's fucked in the head, man. Total psycho bitch.”
I freeze, my hand gripping the doorframe so hard I think I might splinter the wood. My vision narrows, tunneling in on the group of meatheads huddled around the kitchen island.
“I heard she's on all kinds of meds now,” another voice chimes in. “Like, heavy duty shit. Probably drooling half the time.”
They laugh, the sound grating against my ears like nails on a chalkboard.
I swallow hard, rage burning in my throat like acid.
Thompson's voice cuts through the haze of anger clouding my mind. “You know, if you call out her name in a mirror, she appears behind you.” He chuckles, the sound grating on my already frayed nerves.
“Maybe I should try it,” Jackson says, his words slurring together. “Think she'd let me fuck her or she’d stab me first?”
