Jack’s room is dim. The walls are painted dark blue, and dark blue curtains hang over the massive windows. The carpet is black, and the bed is king-sized and done neatly in all blue, too. But the blueness isn’t what weirds me out – it’s how clean it is. There’s not a single piece of dirty laundry lying around. His desk is organized neatly – pencils in a cup. His bookshelf isn’t alphabetical, but there are tons of impressive books on it; classics, some manga, and a small section of books fitted with paper-bag book covers. I pull the cover off one and snigger. Romance. He’s got a little section dedicated to it, and probably covered them so his mother wouldn’t see them. They must be Sophia’s favorites. There’s a TV and a Playstation 4 in the corner, and an Xbox. His computer is a laptop, and it’s sitting on his bed as if he just closed it to leave.
And the smell of him is everywhere.
It’s the smell of sleeping and studying and reading, of skin cells and rumpled clothes, of being a teenage boy but being a weird, clean one, who bathes with a particular type of soap and uses a particular cologne made of mint and honey that overlays his sweat. I don’t even know if it is cologne, anymore. It might just be how he smells, naturally. But it’s everywhere, and it’s intoxicating. My hands are sweating more and more with every inhale. It’s toying with my nerves – I feel like any second I’ll turn around and he’ll be standing there, glowering and plotting my ultimate demise.
I wonder if his mom knows what he does for a job? And why does he need to be an escort at all when his Mom is this loaded? It doesn’t make sense. Even if he wanted to have his own savings, which I respect, he could just get a normal part-time job like the rest of us. He didn’t have to go straight to escorting. With his looks, anybody would hire him. He could model! He could act! He could sell chicken wings and rake in the dough as ladies flocked to the counter daily just to see his face. Why escorting?
I shove the confusion into the time-out corner of my brain. You are being incredibly risky, Isis. You are asking big huge why questions while in the heart of enemy territory and last time I checked that gets people shot and killed. You’re the general! The war depends entirely on you! If you’re captured, it’s over!
Determined, I clench my fist and look around the room. Avery said it would be somewhere obvious, but still hidden. Thanks, Ave. That is basically extremely useful advice. I check under the bed, in the desk drawers, in his closet. Nothing. I’m running out of time. If I don’t get back downstairs quick, Mrs. Hunter will know something’s up and come looking for me. There’s only one place left – his dresser. I inch the drawers open and rummage through all of them. Except the underwear drawer. That thing can go to hell. At least he doesn’t fold his clothes precisely, because frankly the serial killer level of this room doesn’t need any further reason to go up.
And that’s when I find it. Mashed behind a bunch of shirts is a hard wooden box. I pull it out, the sweet smell of tobacco wafting up from the intricately carved Cuban cigar box. It was his father’s, or so Avery said. I briefly wonder how she knows so much about Jack when they don’t speak at all. They obviously knew each other in the past, but how well? Probably very well.
Whatever he did must have been unforgiveable, if Avery and Wren are so afraid of him, now.
I shake that thought out for the millionth time and open the box. Inside is a stack of carefully-arranged letters, each on the same pink stationary with clouds around the edges. I take the topmost; open it slightly to check the date to make sure it’s the most recent. It is. I shove the box back behind the shirts and hesitate before closing the drawer. Who even writes letters in this day and age? It’s so old fashioned and, as much as I hate to admit it, romantic. Finally, I have something from Sophia in my hands. The illusive, mysterious Sophia is right here, waiting for me to read her words. It would be so easy to just pry the letter open a little. Just one sentence. One sentence never killed anybody. Except it has, probably, somewhere down the line of thousands of years of human existence, but like hell that’s gonna stop me.
The handwriting is curly, elegant, and very girly.
Dear Jack,
Can you believe it’s October already? I put up a string of orange Christmas lights and paper bats over my bed. You’ll see it when you come next time – it’s really getting me into the spooky vibe. The nurses are saying we’ll carve a pumpkin and put it on my windowsill. I’m going to give it a fu manchu mustache and call it Mr. Miyagi. Or I’ll make it Hello Kitty. Which do you think would scare more people on the street below?
I’m doing well! Dr. Fenwall thinks I’ll be well enough for a day out after my next round of treatments. We should go somewhere you want to go, this time. And don’t argue! I dragged you to the carnival last time and I know you hate it so you can drag me wherever you want and I won’t complain at all! Promise. Okay, maybe a little whining. But only when my feet start to hurt or I see something cute I want. ;)
She really is sick. But she sounds so cheerful and sweet, I can’t help but like her already. And Jack at a carnival? I can only imagine the intensity of his glares whenever someone would try to offer him cotton candy or pull him into a game of ring toss. And on the ferris wheel? I scoff. He’d be bored the whole way through. He’s a party pooper like that. But even still, Sophia seems to really like him. She sees beyond it, somehow.
I know you’ve been feeling down lately and working extra hard for me, but don’t worry. Dr. Fenwall says he’s talked with the billing department, and they’ve got a grant just for people like me. So, it’s okay if you don’t work for a while. I’ll apply to it, and I know I’ll get it. That way you can just relax and have fun instead of worrying all the time.
I munch my bottom lip. Working? Is that why…is that why he works as an escort? To pay her hospital bills? Can’t her parents pay them? Does she have parents at all?
Anyway, I’m so happy to hear about the new girl. Isis, you said her name was? I know, I know, you hate her and you can’t see why hearing about her makes me so happy, but I am!
My heart jigs around in my chest. She’s talking about me!
But Jack, really. When was the last time someone affected you like this? You never talk about your classmates. She’s the first one you’ve mentioned to me. She must have made quite the impact on you. She sounds like so much fun. I’m so, so happy you’ve met your match. Yes, you heard me. Match. She’s kicking your butt, and you better step up if you want to win!
That’s why I’m happy. You have someone to fight against, and I know how happy that makes you, in a weird, competitive, perverse way. You always used to complain about how everyone at your school was so stupid and boring. You don’t have many friends. And I prayed everyday you’d find someone who’d give you a run for your money, who’d make you feel alive again, who might pique your interest enough for you to become friends. Well! There she is! You can thank me later. You’ll let me meet her, won’t you? I’d really like that.
Anyway, I better finish this and send it off. Nurse Brown poked her head into my room and caught me writing this at four in the morning. Heehee.
I love you like a brother, Jack. You know that. I miss you every day. You know that too.
Yours,
Sophia
I close the letter and wince. I feel like I’ve violated some sacred barrier by reading it now that I’ve finished it. I have to get back downstairs and leave. Holding this thing in my hand is making a sick guilty feeling pool in my stomach with every passing second.
I whirl around and collide with someone’s hard chest. Frigid blue eyes blaze with the coldest fire I have ever seen, the face they belong to carved in shadow and rage.