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Fox looks at Jefferson awkwardly and Jefferson says, “Yeah, Fox, did you meet someone?”
Fox blows out his cheeks. “Yeah. Actually, I did.”
Jefferson’s mother rests her chin on her steepled hands and widens her eyes at him. “Spill.”
“Yeah, Fox,” says Jefferson. “Spill.”
“Just a girl, you know.”
“British?” asks Jefferson’s mom.
“Uh-huh.”
“What’s she like?”
“She’s, like, well…she’s the perfect girl.”
“Perfect how?”
“Just…perfect as in perfect.”
“What?” says Jefferson. “Like, Margot Robbie perfect?”
“No. More perfect than her. Perfect-perfect.”
Jefferson rolls his eyes. “What’s her name?”
“Belle.”
“Age?”
“Sixteen.”
“Photos…?”
“Oh, erm, yeah. Hold on.” He feels his pockets for his phone and then says, “Shit, I left my phone at home.”
“You left your…What? Who the hell leaves their phone at home?”
Fox tips his head back and stares into the air above his head. “Me, I guess,” he says. And then he suddenly gets to his feet. “I have to go to the bathroom. Excuse me, won’t you.”
Fox bunches up his linen napkin and places it on the table, then heads to the left.
Jessica gets quickly to her feet and follows him.
The bathrooms are up a flight of stairs toward the side of the restaurant. Fox walks slowly, his arms by his sides, looking up as he goes. When he gets to the top of the stairs he stops. Then he holds his hands together, palms touching, and his head drops before suddenly rolling back, and as it does so a chilling cracking sound echoes around the landing, another crack, then another, like the crunch of a beetle’s carapace. As Jessica absorbs the otherworldly sound, Fox’s eyes rest on the ceiling a moment, and then a word comes from his mouth, barely intelligible. Reminder? My random? Then the boy clears his throat, lets his hands fall back by his sides, and carries on toward the bathroom door.
Jessica blinks and returns to her table, where her veloot-whatever is delivered to her a moment later alongside another basket of steaming hot bread.
Fox returns to the party after a few minutes, and Jessica tracks him closely. She thinks of the words he said when he thought nobody was watching. The way he crackled like tracing paper. She thinks of his flawless skin, the overuse of the word perfect, the way he stares upward. She thinks of the perfect girl in England named Belle.
She thinks, Okay, Amber Randall, I hear you. I’m in.
Twelve years ago
Portsmouth, Hampshire, UK
In a gloomy kiosk on the pier, Ophelia sits behind a small table. The table is covered by a fringed shawl, on top of which is a silk-shaded lamp whose base is shaped like an angel. A modern lamp plugged into the wall casts moving patterns of color over the red-painted walls as whooshy, nondescript music plays quietly in the background.
