Page 24

She pulls a story from me, our blood speaking.

Another time. Another place.

Before the bars and the man. Before the old meat

and the Almost Human.

I tell her of baking sun, faraway plains.

She shows me a blade, the stub of her tail.

I rest, my skull sheltering her body.

Humans, we say.

And together, shudder.

Chapter 21

Felicity

Twenty-two rows. That’s the number I came up with when Tress walked away from me. Twenty-two rows, four bricks in each row, eighty-eight bricks until I’m not Felicity Turnado anymore but just a part of the foundation of the Allan house. A house that’s about to be torn down. I shiver, my bells creating a joyful soundtrack for my fear.

I hear the cellar door, but I don’t bother crying out. I know it’s Tress. I can tell by her footsteps, a tread I memorized as a child from all the overnights at our houses—before I began having seizures. Tress was always the brave one, the one who would sneak downstairs for snacks in the middle of the night, come back up to my room with Skittles and Twizzlers swiped from the cupboard, our mouths multicolored and sticky as the night wore on and we talked and talked and talked.

Words came easily then. We’d chat about parents and pets, whatever show we were watching. We’d reenact the latest memes and take pictures of each other, laughing as Tress tried to do the splits, one foot balanced on my bed, the other on my dresser.

“When did it change?”

I say it aloud, and Tress glances up from her phone, where she’s thumbing through Instagram.

“Seriously? You’re asking me?”

“No . . .” I shake my head, searching for the words. “I mean, I know—okay? I know when it changed. I’m not . . . I’m not stupid.”

I’m defending myself with the last statement a little bit. Enough so that she knows I’m not going to just be a piece of meat hanging here but not enough to piss her off.

“I know you’re not,” Tress says. “You never were.”

I remember leaning over a math book, working out a problem while Tress looked on, brow furrowed in concentration.

“You told me not to pretend I was,” I say quietly. “Remember that?”

“Yep.” She nods. “Story problems.”

“Story problems,” I agree, rolling my eyes, and we both laugh.

It’s a sound I know well, and have missed. My higher giggle mixing with her low tones, the music of my childhood, now accentuated by the rattle of chains.

Tress shakes her head. “I don’t care how many apples Lucy bought at the store and how many people she needs to feed with them, and how much money she has and how much they cost, and how much change she’ll get. The stories were always so stupid, you know?”

She sits on the chair, and I hear her phone buzz in her back pocket.

The average brick is two inches tall. Felicity is five foot five. How many bricks will it take for her former best friend to seal her into a wall?

I shake my head, dispelling the thought. I already know the answer, anyway. “You said I shouldn’t pretend to be stupid, because I never wanted to raise my hand in class.”

“You didn’t want the boys to think you were too smart,” Tress says, making air quotes around the last words.