would go.
Tracy took the letters and put them in her bag, a cheap version of a Dutch schoolbag. Then she went and flopped on the bed. She looked at Joe Strummer.
I looked at the postcards on the far wall. Sid Vicious, scowling at the camera. Iggy Pop, blood dripping from his chest.
“Sid Vicious,” I said. “Iggy Pop. CC.”
Tracy looked at me. I held up my right hand and used it to cut my left wrist.
“They all cut themselves,” she said.
Tracy sat up and looked around. She slipped her hand in the narrow space between the bed and the wall. I came over to help her look. We pulled and pushed the futon to look in its cracks and crevices.
“Got it,” Tracy said after a minute.
“Got it?” I said. I was holding the mattress up and couldn’t see what she was looking at.
“Got it.” She took whatever she was holding and I let the corner of the mattress go.
We looked at what Tracy found. Just what we expected: a razorblade wrapped in a dirty paper towel.
Cutter
, I wrote in my notebook. Girls like that weren’t rare—when the pressure mounted, they took little nips at themselves to let it out. Neither me or Tracy did it, but we understood it well enough.
Still, though. Chloe? A cutter?
“The truth holds no prisoners,” Silette wrote. “It takes no hostages. And if you don’t want to meet with the same terrible fate, better not to approach at all. Stay on the other side of town, outside of the woods, and do not enter, not at any cost.”
I looked at the floor and shivered. A feeling came over me, a black feeling like I’d fallen into a pool of dirty water. Like I’d stepped into the woods and didn’t know my way back.
Tracy lay back on the bed and looked at Joe Strummer. I lay next to her. The sun came in at its sideways December angle.
“It’s like he was watching her,” Tracy said.
“But was he helping?” I asked. “Or was he, I don’t know, judging? Like, looking down on her?”
“Good question,” Tracy said.
We looked at Joe.
“Helping,” Tracy said, gazing at the poster, falling under Strummer’s spell. “I think he would definitely help.”
On our way out we saw a photo-booth picture of Chloe and Reena that Chloe had stuck in her mirror. There were four pictures on the strip: two of both of them, one of Reena alone, and one of Chloe.
Tracy took the strip and ripped the picture of Chloe off and stuck the rest back in the mirror.
“Let’s go,” she said.
That night I had a dream about Chloe. We were near the edge of a woods, on the border of a dark clearing lit by thin moonlight. I’d never seen a woods before, not bigger than Central or Prospect Parks’, but in my mind it was clear and vivid. Enormous trees rose up hundreds of feet into the air, thick dark red bark wrapped around them. Green piney needles covered the forest floor, and new shoots clustered around the base of the trees. In the clearing, little yellow flowers shot up around giant clovers.
Chloe and I sat next to each other on big mossy rocks at the edge of the clearing. We were dressed as we would be for a typical day in the city: boots, vintage dresses, leather jackets. We were talking softly, trading secrets and whispers.
Then, suddenly, Chloe was naked. Her ribs and hips stuck out painfully through her skin. Her face was turned to the ground. When she looked up, her face started to turn black—or rather, little holes of blackness appeared where her face fell apart. One bit at a time her face collapsed into itself, leaving a black emptiness in its place.
I woke up talking, twisting and turning in bed, not sure if I was trying to get closer to Chloe or run away.
14
San Francisco
N INETEEN DAYS AFTER Paul died, I got a phone call from an EMT in New Orleans. When you answer the phone at three in the morning and someone says “Is this Miss Clara DeMitt?” you know it isn’t good news.
“Yes,” I said. “This is, I mean, I am. Claire. Clara. Clara DeMitt.”
“I have some bad
Tracy took the letters and put them in her bag, a cheap version of a Dutch schoolbag. Then she went and flopped on the bed. She looked at Joe Strummer.
I looked at the postcards on the far wall. Sid Vicious, scowling at the camera. Iggy Pop, blood dripping from his chest.
“Sid Vicious,” I said. “Iggy Pop. CC.”
Tracy looked at me. I held up my right hand and used it to cut my left wrist.
“They all cut themselves,” she said.
Tracy sat up and looked around. She slipped her hand in the narrow space between the bed and the wall. I came over to help her look. We pulled and pushed the futon to look in its cracks and crevices.
“Got it,” Tracy said after a minute.
“Got it?” I said. I was holding the mattress up and couldn’t see what she was looking at.
“Got it.” She took whatever she was holding and I let the corner of the mattress go.
We looked at what Tracy found. Just what we expected: a razorblade wrapped in a dirty paper towel.
Cutter
, I wrote in my notebook. Girls like that weren’t rare—when the pressure mounted, they took little nips at themselves to let it out. Neither me or Tracy did it, but we understood it well enough.
Still, though. Chloe? A cutter?
“The truth holds no prisoners,” Silette wrote. “It takes no hostages. And if you don’t want to meet with the same terrible fate, better not to approach at all. Stay on the other side of town, outside of the woods, and do not enter, not at any cost.”
I looked at the floor and shivered. A feeling came over me, a black feeling like I’d fallen into a pool of dirty water. Like I’d stepped into the woods and didn’t know my way back.
Tracy lay back on the bed and looked at Joe Strummer. I lay next to her. The sun came in at its sideways December angle.
“It’s like he was watching her,” Tracy said.
“But was he helping?” I asked. “Or was he, I don’t know, judging? Like, looking down on her?”
“Good question,” Tracy said.
We looked at Joe.
“Helping,” Tracy said, gazing at the poster, falling under Strummer’s spell. “I think he would definitely help.”
On our way out we saw a photo-booth picture of Chloe and Reena that Chloe had stuck in her mirror. There were four pictures on the strip: two of both of them, one of Reena alone, and one of Chloe.
Tracy took the strip and ripped the picture of Chloe off and stuck the rest back in the mirror.
“Let’s go,” she said.
That night I had a dream about Chloe. We were near the edge of a woods, on the border of a dark clearing lit by thin moonlight. I’d never seen a woods before, not bigger than Central or Prospect Parks’, but in my mind it was clear and vivid. Enormous trees rose up hundreds of feet into the air, thick dark red bark wrapped around them. Green piney needles covered the forest floor, and new shoots clustered around the base of the trees. In the clearing, little yellow flowers shot up around giant clovers.
Chloe and I sat next to each other on big mossy rocks at the edge of the clearing. We were dressed as we would be for a typical day in the city: boots, vintage dresses, leather jackets. We were talking softly, trading secrets and whispers.
Then, suddenly, Chloe was naked. Her ribs and hips stuck out painfully through her skin. Her face was turned to the ground. When she looked up, her face started to turn black—or rather, little holes of blackness appeared where her face fell apart. One bit at a time her face collapsed into itself, leaving a black emptiness in its place.
I woke up talking, twisting and turning in bed, not sure if I was trying to get closer to Chloe or run away.
14
San Francisco
N INETEEN DAYS AFTER Paul died, I got a phone call from an EMT in New Orleans. When you answer the phone at three in the morning and someone says “Is this Miss Clara DeMitt?” you know it isn’t good news.
“Yes,” I said. “This is, I mean, I am. Claire. Clara. Clara DeMitt.”
“I have some bad
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