Wrath

Miranda was grounded for two weeks.

And she’d never been happier.

When she’d strolled-more like floated-in the door at half past ten, her mother was waiting. Miranda had forgotten to pick her sister up after dance class, had skipped dinner, had disappeared without a word, had apparently worried everyone half to death.

She’d just smiled through her mother’s tirade, and her father’s gloomy silence. She’d ignored her sister’s pestering questions, waiting impatiently for the moment she could flee upstairs, shut herself in her bedroom, and relive the day, minute by minute.

She climbed into bed without changing out of her clothes, at first not wanting to admit that the day had officially ended. But then, thinking better of it, she wriggled out of her shirt and jeans and kicked them onto the floor, relishing the feel of the comforter against her bare skin. It reminded her of Kane’s hands.

She could still remember everywhere he had touched her. When she closed her eyes, she imagined the pressure of his fingers on her hip and the light, tickling touch of his nail tracing its way up her back, down her collarbone. She lay in bed replaying it, lightly touching her own lips, as if to evoke a shadow of how it had felt.

She imagined what it might be like to have Kane lying in the bed with her, his strong arms wrapped around her and his chest pressed against her naked back. Would she lie on top of his arm, she wondered. Or would that cut off his circulation? Would he instead tuck one arm under the pillow beneath her head, use the other one to pull her close, and twine his fingers through hers as they both drifted off to sleep?

Miranda had never shared a bed with anyone, unless you counted family vacations when she and her sister squeezed together on the lumpy cot next to their parents’ bed. So she was unsure of the logistics.

But now, finally, she could at least be sure of what it felt like to have her body come alive at someone else’s touch.

They had left the casino and wandered away on foot into the desert, where they had explored each other. After years of worship from afar, Miranda had been certain she’d known every inch of Kane, but she’d been wrong.

They had done little more than kiss before Miranda had gotten nervous and pulled away. She was fearful that would be the end of it, but not fearful enough to push forward in spite of herself. Kane had only smiled, nodded, stopped what he was doing, or about to do, and went back to the kissing-it seemed to go on for hours.

Suddenly, more than anything, she wanted to call Harper. In her dream scenarios, the romantic night always ended with a triumphant call to Harper, who would shriek and then listen in disbelief as Miranda described every moment.

Even as they’d kissed, Miranda had at times found herself silently narrating, as if preparing herself to tell the story.

I couldn’t believe he was touching me, she had thought, as Kane’s tongue explored her mouth and her hands brushed his silky hair away from his face. And I couldn’t believe how natural it felt. Isn’t that weird?

She hadn’t admitted it to herself, but she’d been talking to Harper that whole time. She had spent so many hours listening to Harper bleed details of her own innumerable conquests-and always, Miranda had listened, waiting for the day when she would have her own story to tell.

Miranda considered it. She even lifted the phone, touched each of the familiar numbers in turn, lightly, as if rehearsing. She needed to tell someone what had happened. Somehow saying it out loud would make it real and save her from the fear that when she woke up in the morning, all this would prove to have been a dream.

But too much had gone wrong between them.

So Miranda put the phone back down and rolled over on her side, throwing her arm around a pillow and pretending it was Kane. Like a warm blanket, she tucked the memory of him around her-the laughing look in his eyes, the current between them when he first put his hands on her chin, when she knew for certain that everything was about to change.

Then kiss me already, she whispered to herself. She didn’t need a witness. She remembered. Her body remembered. It really did happen.

It was their space.

It was sacred.

So what was he doing out there without Harper?

What was he doing out there with not just another girl-but two?

Harper pressed herself against the window of her dark bedroom, hating to watch yet unable to turn away, as Adam guided the girls to the large, flat rock-their rock-and lay down between them.

These weren’t just any girls.

They were the sad, worshipful sophomores who wanted to have everything that Harper had-and now they were one big step closer to accomplishing their goal.

Harper could barely breathe as Adam took one of their hands. Her own hand made a fist, as if trying to clutch something that was no longer there.

The figures lay flat on their backs, side by side, and Harper wondered what they could be talking about, and whether Adam could be thinking about anyone but her. It seemed impossible; and yet, if he thought about her at all anymore, how could he bear to involve himself in something so sordid, in their place? How could he ruin the final thing they had between them and expect her to bear it?

Adam turned over to face Mini-Me, propping himself up on his elbow, and their heads moved toward each other. Mini-She rubbed his back, one of her legs crossing over and entwining itself with his. Harper thought she might throw up or pass out. But, instead, she just kept watching.

The scene unfolded in slow motion. Adam’s face drew closer and closer to Mini-Me. And then, just before their lips touched, Adam froze and turned his head away, up, toward Harper’s window.

He knows I’m watching, she realized. He wants me to see.

It was too dark to make out his face, but Harper imagined him to be sneering. He couldn’t possibly see her, a dark figure in a dark window, but even so, it felt like their eyes were locked, and Harper willed him to see the person he needed her to be.

But he saw nothing but the darkened window, and after a moment, he looked away, back down to Mini-Me, and then he kissed her.

It was the perfect plan. But Beth didn’t know if she had the nerve. It would humiliate Harper, dealing a crushing blow to that reputation she was oh so fond of. It would be the picture-perfect revenge for the way she had gone after Beth, systematically destroying everything that was important to her.

Beth held the small box in her hand and wondered: Did she have it in her? And could she do it right?

The old Beth had no experience with this kind of thing. She lacked the strategic-planning skills, the devious imagination. But the last few weeks had taught her a few things. She’d done a lot wrong, but this time, perhaps she’d finally get it right.

No one would be hurt. No property would be destroyed. And certainly no one would ever think to trace it back to kind, appeasing Beth, pure as the driven snow.

She hated the person she had been-the weak, meek girl who’d let anyone hurt her. But she missed her old self, as well, particularly her assumption that life was, despite what they say, fair. She had always believed that if she worked hard enough and long enough, she’d get what she wanted.

She’d been weaned on platitudes:

Early to bed, early to rise…

A bird in the hand…

Revenge is a gift best served cold.

That one was just as wrong as the rest of them-she didn’t have the patience to wait for the perfect moment to arrive. She’d have to create it. It would, of course, have been preferable not to adopt the tactics of her enemies. It would be nice if turning the other cheek would get you anywhere in life. But it wouldn’t. Harper had proven that.

Beth put the box in the outer pocket of her backpack. She wished that something would happen the next day that would allow her to forget it was there, and that the need for revenge would magically disappear.