Poison Princess

trust me.”

A breeze blew, ruffling my cane. “And what about the farm? What happens if we don’t get rain?”

“What happens is that your mother will figure something out. You don’t worry about anything except school.”

School. Studying. The idea of cracking a book left me nauseated. “But, Mom—”

“I will figure something out.” Her shoulders went back, chin up, eyes bright with determination—a force of nature. Frau Badass.

I could almost feel sorry for the drought.

A family friend had once told me that when my dad disappeared during a fishing trip in the Basin, Mom had taken up the search herself. She’d journeyed deep into the million-acre swamp, determined to scour every inch for her husband, a kindhearted, jovial man she’d adored.

To no avail. He’d vanished without a trace. I’d been only two years old.

Though Karen Greene had a genteel facade, with her flawless hair and manners, I could easily imagine her in waders steering a johnboat, staring down alligators.

And to think I’d once shown signs of being just like her. I’d wanted so badly to make her proud. Until my platform-dive fall from grace.

Now I was just the latest crazy girl to live in Haven House.

7

DAY 1 B.F.

As Mel ushered me into a seat in front of my mirror, I demanded, “This is how I’m supposed to compete with Clotile?”

With borrowed clothes—a shimmery red Versace halter, black micromini, knee-high Italian boots—and flashy makeup?

Lipstick color: Harlot Letter.

Mel was over at my house, prepping me for date night because she felt the need to sluttify my outfit so I could stand a chance against Clotile’s “free-balling lady lumps.”

The girl had shown up at the game last night in a tube top and skintight boy shorts.

I told myself Brand would’ve missed those plays anyway. Hey, we’d still managed to eke out a win.

But even Grace Anne had trotted up to me on the sidelines and said, “You’re going to have to sleep with Brandon to keep him.”

As if that weren’t enough to worry about, I’d had another vision. In the middle of a routine, I’d experienced that shivery feeling in my head. At the very top of the bleachers, I’d spotted a strange girl, sitting in profile, her face too blurry to discern features.

She held a longbow and quiver in her lap and she’d seemed to glow even under the stadium lights. Her hair had been like backlit silver—not gray, but shimmery.

When she’d nocked an arrow to her bow and set her sights on some target in the distance, my skin had crawled. I’d almost missed a step. Forcing a smile, I’d ignored her, bounding along the sideline, cheering, “Go Stars!” Going crazy!

Visions coming so quickly meant I was escalating. As two out of five Atlanta shrinks had predicted.

Might as well enjoy my few remaining days at Sterling. The way things were going, they were numbered.

Now I told Mel, “Shouldn’t I wear whatever makes me feel most comfortable? Instead of this . . .” I motioned to my top—a bright swath of clinging material that tied at the neck and across the open back.

Mel scoffed. “Eves, on the scale from wholesome to whoresome, you’re practically Amish.”

I glared.

“You have two choices, grasshopper. Out-slut Clotile—or go Springer on her ass. I’m down for the assist in both scenarios.”

The idea of competing with Clotile left a bad taste in my mouth. And yet I’d gone along with Mel as she chose my wardrobe and designated accessories: black chandelier earrings and a wide scarlet ribbon to work as a headband—because she’d decreed big hair for me.

As she began diffusing it, turning waves into wanton curls, I asked, “Mel, is this really necessary?” Though I’d never admit it, the lipstick was kind of fun.

“Stow it, Greene. You’re lucky I’m not brandishing Aqua Net. ’Cause I could’ve gone there.”

“When are you going to get ready?”

“Please. It takes me five minutes. You can’t improve on perfection.” Then she began chattering, outlining her plot to seduce Spencer.

Though we were curfew-free—I’d told Mom I was spending the night at Mel’s after our double date, and Mel had told Mrs. Warren that she’d be home “whenever my happy ass walks through the door”—I was nervous about tonight.

As I tried to pin down the source of my unease, I only vaguely responded to Mel’s plan. Yeah, sounds good, maybe.

“Seriously, Evie. What is wrong with you?” She laid down the diffuser. “You’ve been acting weird all week. Is there something up with me and you?”

“No! You’re my best friend.”

“Duh. But something’s up. You’re acting all Girl, Interrupted.” She studied my expression in the mirror, having no idea how close that was to the truth. “You don’t text with me. You missed ANTM, which is required viewing. You blow me off after practice.”

She hoisted herself up on my delicate dresser. It groaned in protest. “And what happened this summer? You couldn’t spare one call? All I got was lame letters from you. Who the hell writes letters? Why didn’t you just send smoke signals, or pigeons with little furled messages?”

I burned to tell her everything. But even as I imagined how I’d explain it, I remembered that another word for delusional was . . . psychotic. “Look, my mom is freaked over the drought. Brand is pressuring me. School is going to be impossible this year. I’ve already gotten two Fs! I’m a shit show!”

Let’s take a week’s tally, shall we? Hallucinations: two confirmed, perhaps more. Nightmares: countless. Homework assignments completed: zero.

New superhuman/possibly imaginary powers: I’d sprouted thorn claws, controlled plants, and spontaneously regenerated my skin from injury.

Maybe.

Mel waved away my concerns. “Ignore your mom, put out for Brandon, tank your grades. If you fail, I’ll flunk with you. Su fail-a, mi fail-a. Case dismissed.”

I wished it were so easy. “What if I don’t want to give it up to Brand yet? Huh? I don’t respond well to pressure!” Exhibit A: my wild-eyed look in the mirror. I took a calming breath. “I just feel like everything’s slipping away. I’m constantly scared of losing him, losing all my friends.”

“Losing your popularity, you mean?” Mel asked with a shrewd look, and I grudgingly shrugged. “Is it that important to you—” She stopped herself. “If popularity is your My-Little-Pony gumdrop-forest of a dream, then so be it. Who am I to piss on your dreams? But know this: The school would freaking shut down without you, and that isn’t going to change just because you’re slow on the uptake and doing drugs without your bestie.”

“I walked past people all week without saying hi! I blew through the hall like a zombie.”

“Everyone will just figure this week was Evie’s red-light at the Y. When I’m OTR, I scourge the halls like Godzilla. Your little la-la-land thing is cute compared to the breathing of actual fire.”