Sloth

Chapter 1

“I’m in heaven,” Harper moaned as the masseur kneaded his supple fingers into the small of her back. “You were right, this is exactly what we needed.”

Kaia shooed away her own masseur and turned over onto her back, almost purring with pleasure as the sun warmed her face. “I’m always right.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Harper snarked, but there was no venom in her tone. The afternoon sun had leached away most of her will to wound-and a half hour under Henri’s magic fingers had taken care of the rest. “Mmmmm, could life get any better?”

“Zhoo are steeel verreee tense,” Henri told her in his heavy French accent.

“And zhoo are steeel verreee sexeeeee,” Kaia murmured, in an impeccable accent of her own. The girls exchanged a glance as the hunky but clueless Henri smoothed a palmful of warm lotion across Harper’s back.

“This weeel help you reeelax,” he assured her. As if anyone could relax with a voice like that purring in her ear. “I leave you ladies now. Au revoir, mes chéries.”

”Arrivederci, Henri!” Harper cried, giggling at the rhyme.

“That’s Italian,” Kaia sneered. “Idiot.”

“Who cares?” Harper countered. “Snob.”

“Loser.”

“Bitch.” Harper narrowly held back a grin.

“Slut.” Kaia’s eyes twinkled.

“Damn right!” Harper pulled herself upright and raised her mojito in the air. Kaia did the same, and they clinked the plastic cocktail glasses together. “To us. Good thing we found each other-”

“-since no one else could stand us,” Kaia finished, and they burst into laughter.

It was the kind of day where the clouds look painted onto the sky. The scene was straight out of a travel brochure-five star all the way, of course. Storybook blue sky, turquoise ocean lapping away at the nearby shore, gleaming white sand beach, and a warm tropical breeze rustling through their hair, carrying the distant strains of a reggae band. The girls stretched out along on their deck chairs, their every need attended to by a flotilla of servants.

“I could stay here forever.” Harper sighed. She let her leg slip off the chair and dug her bare toe into the sand, burrowing it deeper and deeper into the cool, dark ground. “I wish we never had to go back.”

“I don’t know about you,” Kaia drawled, “but I don’t have to do anything.”

“Right,” Harper snorted. “The great and powerful Kaia Sellers, with the world at her fingertips. As if you can ditch real life and just stay here in paradise.”

“I can do anything I want. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

Harper rolled her eyes.

“Why not?” Kaia continued. “What do I have to go back for? What do you? Isn’t that why we came out here in the first place, to leave all that shit behind?”

Harper sighed. “You’re right. And it worked. I can barely even remember what we were escaping from, and-” Her eyes widened. “You’re bleeding.” A small trail of blood trickled down Kaia’s temple; Harper raised her hand to her own face, as if expecting to feel a similar wound.

Kaia frowned for a moment, dabbing her head with a napkin. “Just a mosquito bite,” she said with a shrug. She took a closer look at Harper, whose face had gone pale. “You were totally freaked, weren’t you?”

“No,” Harper lied. “It’s just gross. All these bugs…” She swatted at a mosquito that had just landed on her bare leg, then another whizzing past her nose. “They’re everywhere.”

“Easy way to fix that.” Kaia stood up, her bronze Dolce bikini blending seamlessly into her deep tan. “Come on.” Without waiting to see if her orders were followed-after all, they always were-she bounded toward the shoreline, kicking up a spray of sand in her wake.

Harper raced after her, and they reached the ocean’s edge at the same moment. Harper stopped short as a wave of icy water splashed against her ankles, but Kaia didn’t even hesitate. She waded out, the water rising above her calves, her knees, her thighs, and then, submerged to her waist, she turned and flashed Harper a smile. It was the eager, mischievous grin of a little kid sneaking into the deep end even though she’s not quite sure how to swim. Harper waved, frozen in place, unable to force herself to go any deeper into the churning water, unwilling to go back.

Kaia took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and dove under the surface, her arms slicing through the water, pulling her into the deep. She resurfaced, gasping for air, and leaned back into an easy float, the salt water buoying her body, the gentle waves bouncing her up and down. Harper’s shouts, dim and incoherent, blew past with the wind, but Kaia dipped her head back and the roaring water in her ears drowned out the noise.

Harper stood in the same spot, the tide carving deep rivulets around her feet as the waves washed in and back out again. The wind picked up, but the sky remained clear and blue. Harper stood, and Harper watched, and Kaia floated farther and farther out to sea-

And then she woke up.

She’d hoped the dreams would stop once she weaned herself off the Percodan. They hadn’t. Just like the phantom pains that still tore through her legs when she tried to sleep, they’d outstayed their welcome.

For a long time, the pain had kept her awake.

Ambien had helped with that, the little pink pills that carried her mind away. But when sleep came, so did the dreams. They weren’t always nightmares. Sometimes they were nice, carrying her away to somewhere warm and safe. Those were the worst. Because always, in the end, she woke up.

It was better just not to sleep.

But she needed her strength, they were always telling her. For what? she wanted to ask. For tolerating her disgustingly bubbly physical therapist? For avoiding phone calls and turning away visitors? For limping from her bedroom to the kitchen and back again? For zoning out through a Little House on the Prairie marathon because she was too lazy to change the channel? For turning two weeks of recuperation into four, inventing excuse after excuse until she no longer knew how much of the pain was real and how much was just expedient?

Maybe they were right. Because her strength had finally given out. She’d run out of imagined excuses, and the big day had arrived: back to school.

She’d already picked out the perfect outfit: an eggplant-colored peasant top with a tight bodice and sufficiently low neckline, a tan ruffled skirt that flared out at the bottom, and, just for added panache, a thin, gauzy black scarf woven through with sparkly silver.

After a long, too hot shower she slipped into the outfit, certain it made the right statement: I’ m back. She brushed out her hair and mechanically applied her eye shadow, mascara, a touch of gloss, barely looking in the mirror; it was as if she went through the routine every morning, and this weren’t the first time she’d dispensed with her cozy gray sweats since-

Since the accident. Since what had happened.

It still hurt her to say the words. It hurt to think them. And that was unacceptable. She couldn’t afford to indulge in that kind of frailty, especially not today, when everyone would surely be staring at her, the walking wounded, waiting for a sign of weakness.

So she’d been practicing. Every day, she forced herself to think the unthinkable, to speak the hateful words aloud. She whispered them to herself before she drifted off to sleep, in hopes of forestalling the dreams. She murmured them while watching TV, while waiting for the doctor, while pushing her untouched food around on the plate- she had once shouted them at top volume, her stereo turned up loud enough to drown out her voice.

Speaking the truth didn’t make it seem any more real. In fact, it sounded just as strange, just as surreal, each time it trickled off her tongue. And it always hurt. But she was hurting herself, and that gave her power. It made her feel strong, reminding her that there was nothing left to be afraid of.

She said them to herself now, as she hovered in the doorway, gathering her strength to face the day. The first day. She ran a hand through her hair, willing it not to shake. She zipped up the new boots that rose just high enough to cover the bandage on her left calf. She applied a final layer of Tarte gloss, then practiced her smile. It had to look perfect. Everything had to look perfect.

She took a deep breath and held herself very still. And then, softly but firmly, she said it:

“Kaia is dead.”

And with that, Harper Grace was ready to go.

“Haven High!

Haven High!

Haven High!”

Beth Manning did her best to hold back a sigh at the roars of the crowd. When she’d volunteered to organize Senior Spirit Week, she hadn’t taken into account the fact that it would require so much… spirit. That meant mustering up some kind of enthusiasm for the place she was most desperate to leave.

But that was her penance, right?

She forced herself to smile as she handed out the carefully crafted info packets to the rest of the Senior Spirit team. Too many tasks and not enough people meant Beth had been up for two days straight pulling things together; despite a morning espresso and a late-morning Red Bull, her energy level was still in the toilet.

“Lets hear it for the senior class!” she shouted now into the microphone, tossing back her long blond hair and aiming a blazing smile out at the crowd. She pumped her fist in the air, trying to ignore the embarrassment creeping over her. So she sounded like a cheerleader. So what? “Are you ready for an awesome end to an awesome year?” she cried.

College apps were in. Decisions were pending. Grades were irrelevant. And, as tradition dictated, the senior class was treated to a whirlwind of activity: a senior auction, a community service day, a school spirit day, student-teacher sports challenges-day after day of celebration, kicked off by this inane afternoon rally. An official Haven High welcome to the beginning of the end, capped off by a very unofficial blow-out party.

There’d be a lot of hangovers in the next couple weeks.

And a lot of girls weeping and guys manfully slapping one another on the back as the realization began to sink in: High school came with an expiration date.

It couldn’t arrive soon enough, Beth thought, as she announced the schedule of upcoming activities in the perkiest voice she could muster.

Once, she would have enjoyed all of this. Even the marching band’s off-key rendition of the school song. Even the cheerleaders firing up the crowd and the jocks preening under the spotlight. Especially the jocks-one of them in particular. Beth had been eager for college; she’d spent half her life preparing-studying, working, saving, dreaming-but she hadn’t been eager to leave behind everything and everyone she knew. She would have mourned and celebrated with the rest of them, cheered and shouted and wept and hugged until it was all over.

But that was before.

As she stepped away from the microphone to let the student council president make his speech, Beth’s gaze skimmed across the crowd-until, without meaning to, she locked eyes with Harper. Only for a second. Then a lock of curly auburn hair fell across Harper’s face, hiding it from view, and Beth looked away.

One glance had been enough to confirm it: The queen was back. Her lady-in-waiting Miranda hovered dutifully by her side, and in the row behind them, fallen courtier Adam, angling to get back into his lady’s good graces. It was as if nothing had ever happened, and from the self-assured smile on Harper’s face, Beth could tell that was just the way she liked it. Surely it would only be a matter of time before Harper and Adam picked up where they left off-

Stop, she reminded herself. She was done with all that bitterness, anger, and-she could admit it now-jealousy. She was better than that. And she owed Harper the benefit of the doubt, even if her former rival could never know why. She owed everyone the benefit of the doubt; that’s what she had decided on that day last month. When you’ve screwed up everything, not just stepped over but set fire to the line, you needed all the good karma you could get. When you can’t apologize for what you’ve done, and you can’t fix it, all you can do is forgive others, and try to make everything better. And Beth was trying, starting with herself.

Even when it was hard; even when it seemed impossible.

After the accident, things are strange for days. Silent, still, as if a loud voice could break through the fragile frame of reality that they were slowly trying to rebuild. Eyes are rimmed with red, hands tremble, empty spaces sprinkle the classroom-absent faces who couldn’t bear to stare at the chair that will stay empty forever.

Beth wants to stare at the chair in French class, but she sits in the front. So all she can do is tune out the substitute and imagine it behind her. And in her imagination, the seat is filled.

I’m not responsible, Beth tells herself. It has become her mantra. Not my fault. Not my fault.

But that feels like a lie. A comforting lie, supported by cool logic and endless rationales, but a lie nonetheless. There are too many what-ifs. What if Harper had been in the school, rather than in the car? What if Kaia had gone inside, rather than drive away? What if Harper hadn’t had such a reason to escape?

Step one to being a better person: Forgive. She sees Adam every day at her locker, and on the fourth day, she talks to him.

”I’m not angry anymore,” she says, wishing that it were true. “I don’t hate you. Life’s too short.”

And it is. But when she looks at him, all she can think about is his bare body on top of Kaia’s, the things they must have done together. And when he beams and hugs her, she can’t forget that he pledged his love, then betrayed her. He slept with Kaia. She can’t forgive that, not really.

Of course, she forgives Kaia, she reminds herself Of course. Next up is Kane.

”Apology accepted,” she says, although he never apologized. He wrecked her life-tricked Adam into dumping her, fooled her into turning to Kane for comfort, trashing her reputation when the truth came out-and he walked away unscathed. Kaia helped. Not because there was anything in it for her; just for the fun of it. Just to see what would happen.

”I hope we can be friends,” Beth says, hoping she never has to speak to him again.

Kane nods and walks away. He knows a lie when he sees it.

Beth smiles as she closes her locker. She smiles as she waves at someone across the hall.

She should start smiling more, she decides. Being a better person is supposed to feel good; she should look the part.

A round of applause snapped Beth back to the present, and she realized it was time to step up to the mic and wrap things up. “Welcome to senior spring,” she announced, her voice nearly lost amid the cheers. “Let s get ready for the best time of our lives!”

“Is everything okay?” Miranda asked again.

Harper nodded, shifting her position on the narrow metal bench. The bleachers couldn’t be very comfortable for her, Miranda suddenly realized, feeling like an idiot. Her leg was still healing, and with a sore neck and back…

“Do you want to take off?” Miranda asked. “We don’t have to stay if you don’t-”

“I’m fine,” Harper said quietly. She stared straight ahead, as if mesmerized by Beth’s ridiculous speech. A few months ago, the two of them would have been soaking up every absurd word, adding ammunition to their anti-Beth arsenal. Later Miranda would have them both cracking up over her Beth impersonation, complete with bright smile and frequent hair toss.

Or more likely, they would have skipped the rally altogether, snuck off campus to gossip and complain, then drunk a toast to their high school days drawing to a party-filled close.

Instead, Harper had insisted on attending. It was her first day back, and maybe she’d been looking forward to the crowds and excitement, or maybe she’d just wanted to get it over with; Miranda didn’t know. She hadn’t asked.

“Do you need anything?” she asked instead. “I could get us something to drink, or-”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Miranda, I’m fine” Harper snapped. “Can you give it a rest?”

“I’m sorry, I-”

“No, I’m sorry.” Harper shifted in her seat again, rubbing her lower back. Miranda successfully resisted the urge to comment. “Really.” Harper smiled-and maybe someone who hadn’t been her best friend for almost a decade would have bought it. “I’m just… can we talk about something else? Please.” It wasn’t a request. It was an order.

No problem; Miranda was used to talking about something else. It’s all they’d been doing since that first day, when Harper had finally agreed to visitors. Miranda had been on her best behavior; and she’d stayed that way.

Among the questions she knew better than to ask:

How do you feel?

What’s it like?

Do you miss her?

What were you on, and why, when you humiliated yourself in front of the whole school?

Why did you get into the car? Where were you going? What really happened?

It had been a long month of unspoken rules, and Miranda was almost grateful for them, as if they were bright flags dotting a minefield, warning her where not to step.

They never spoke Kaia’s name.

They never talked about the fight, the betrayal that Miranda had forgiven the moment her phone rang with the news.

It made things easier. Like now-Miranda knew better than to mention the last time she’d been in this auditorium, shivering in an upper row of the bleachers while student after student somberly spoke of Kaia’s grace and fortitude. Her beauty, her wit, her style-they never mentioned her cruelty or her penchant for causing misery, the way she thrived on other people’s pain. They never mentioned the rumors swirling around her relationship with a certain former French teacher, lying in a hospital bed of his own, Kaia’s fingerprints found at the scene of the apparent crime.

A wreath of flowers had lain at the center of the court, right where the Haven High mascot was currently doing cartwheels to rally the crowd. An enormous photograph of Kaia, bundled up in cashmere with windblown hair and rosy cheeks, had stood behind the podium, where Beth now raised her hands and clasped them in triumph. Kaia’s father had already left town, maybe for good; Harper was still in the hospital. Miranda had sat alone, trying to force her mind to appreciate the tragedy of wasted youth, to force herself to weep or shake like all those girls who’d never even spoken to Kaia, who knew her only as the newish girl with the Marc Jacobs bag-unlike Miranda, who’d shared drinks with Kaia, shared a limo with Kaia, shared a best friend with Kaia.

Kaia, who was now dead.

That should mean something. It should be a turning point, one of those moments that make you see the world in a new way.

But everything had seemed pretty much the same to Miranda, except that now the second-tier girls had a new strategy for sneaking onto the A-list; they’d been unable to befriend Kaia in life, but now there was nothing to stop them. It was still the same game, and it didn’t interest her.

She’d thought instead about Harper, who, she’d been told, was in stable condition and recovering well. No visitors allowed, patient’s orders.

She’d thought about how strange it was to see her math teacher cry.

She’d thought about whether her chem test that day would be cancelled.

And that was about it.

“So I’ve decided I hate all my clothes,” Miranda said now, plucking at her pale blue T-shirt that had been washed so many times, she could no longer tell when it was inside out. “We’re talking serious fashion emergency-and you know what that means…”

Harper didn’t say anything.

“Shopping spree,” Miranda chirped. “You, me, Grace’s finest clothing stores, and, of course”-she patted her purse-”mom’s gold card.”

A faint smile crept across Harpers face. “I could use some new…”

“Everything?” Miranda prompted.

“You know it.” She rolled her eyes. “Not that anything in this town would be worth buying-you know Grace.”

“It s a total fashion-” Miranda cut herself off just in time. Train wreck, she’d been about to say. “Wreck” was too close to “collision.” Accident. And that was another thing on the list of what they couldn’t discuss. “Wasteland,” she said instead. “I guess if you want, we could drive down Route 53 and pick up some swank duds at Wal-Mart…”

Harper laughed, and it actually sounded real. “I’ll pass, thanks. Hopefully Classic Rags will have some good stuff, and we can check out-oh.”

“What?”

“It’s nothing.” Harper glanced off to the side. “It s just, I’m supposed to go to physical therapy this afternoon… but it’s totally stupid. I can just blow it off.”

“No!”

Harper’s eyes widened, and Miranda softened her tone. “I just mean, no, you should go. We can shop anytime. You have to take care of yourself.”

“It’s really no big deal,” Harper argued. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the bleacher seat.

“But you really should-”

“I guess, maybe…”

“Unless there’s some reason you actually want to-”

“Forget it.” Harper stood up, wincing a bit as she put weight on her left leg. “You’re right, we can shop another time. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Where are you going?” Miranda jumped up from her seat. “I’ll come with you.”

“I’ve got some stuff to do,” Harper said, already walking away. “You should stick around here.”

Once again, it wasn’t a request. It was an order.

“Where are you taking me?” the redhead giggled as Kane Geary led her, blindfolded, down the empty hallway.

“That’s for me to know”-he kissed the back of her neck, then ran his fingers lightly down her spine, relishing the burst of shivers it caused-”and you to find out. Come on”-Sarah? Stella? Susan?-”babe. Time to make your dreams come true.”

He pulled her along faster, but she tugged back, slowing them down. “I can’t see anything,” she reminded him, squeezing his hand. “I’m going to trip.”

“I’d never let you fall,” he assured her. “Don’t you trust me?”

She laughed. “I’m not that stupid.”

Kane begged to differ. But not out loud.

“How about you take off the blindfold and just tell me where you’re taking me?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Kane shook his head. “I’ve got a better idea.” He hoisted her over his shoulder. Once she stopped wriggling and giggling, she lay pressed against him, her arms wrapped around his waist and her lips nuzzling the small of his back.

“All the blood’s rushing to my head, Kane,” she complained, “so you’d better hurry.”

But he stopped.

A month ago, Kaia’s locker had been transformed into a makeshift shrine, with a rainbow of cards and angel pictures adorning the front, above an ever-growing pile of flowers and teddy bears. There were notes, bracelets, magazine cutouts, candles-an endless supply of sentimental crap-but no photos. None of the mourners had any pictures of Kaia; none of them even knew her.

Even Kane had no pictures. Back in the fall, he, Kaia, and Harper had staged an illicit photo shoot, a faux hookup between Harper and Kane captured on film-and later doctored to make it appear that Beth was the one in his arms. Kane still had the original images stored away for a rainy day; but Kaia had stayed behind the lens. And Kane’s mental picture was blurry. He remembered the way she’d felt, the one night they spent together-he remembered her lips, her skin, her sighs. But the room had been dark, and she’d been gone by morning.

For the first few days, there had been a strange zone of silence around her locker-you dropped your voice when you passed by, or you avoided it altogether. But then it faded into the background, just one of those things you barely noticed as you hurried down the hall.

Even Kane, who noticed everything, had successfully blocked it out after a few days of cringing and sneering. He’d almost forgotten it was there.

And now it really wasn’t.

The collage of cards and pictures had disappeared, with only a few stray, peeling strips of tape to remember them by. The pile of junk was gone-only a single teddy bear and a couple of votive candles remained, and as Kane watched, they too were swept up by the janitor, deposited in a large bin, and wheeled away

Now it was just any other locker. Reduce, reuse, recycle.

“Kane, what is it?” the redhead asked, tickling his side. “Are we here? Wherever we are?”

“No, we’re not here,” he said, still staring at the locker. “We’re nowhere.”

It’s just a locker, he told himself. She doesn’t need it anymore.

He put the redhead back on her feet, tipped her blindfolded head toward his, and gave her a long kiss. Then he put his arm around her shoulder and guided her away from the locker, down the hall, toward the empty boiler room, where he’d prepared his standard romantic spread.

“We’re two of a kind,” Kaia had once told him. Meaning: icy, detached, heartless. Winners, who didn’t need anyone else’s approval to be happy, who sought out what they wanted and took it. Who didn’t look back.

Wouldn’t it be a fitting tribute to prove her right?