“Because I knew you’d say no,” Nico says, not looking at me. He brandishes the file folder in his hand. “I was looking for your final essay from when you had Nichols for English in your sophomore year.”
Pop’s brows were already low, but they drop even farther at hearing that. Nico looks like he wants to crawl under my bed and hide. “Why would you want her final essay?” Pop asks. I can’t imagine that he actually doesn’t know—maybe he’s just trying to give Nico an opportunity to defend himself.
“He was going to copy from it,” I answer. Nico’s still holding the bag with the heart in it, and I’m trying to figure out how I can make sure he doesn’t get so distracted by being in trouble that he takes it with him. I reach for it again, but as I do, he turns to me with a look of shock and betrayal.
“I wasn’t,” he says, but it’s for Pop’s benefit. “I just know how you save all that old crap, and I wanted to see what approach you took—”
“Oh please,” I start to say. Pop cuts me off.
“Nico,” he says in a level voice that’s trying very hard not to be lawyerish, “isn’t that essay due tomorrow?”
Nico looks miserable. “Yes. That’s why I wanted help.”
“I see. Let’s go talk about this somewhere else.” Pop gestures to Nico, who turns to trudge out of the room. They walk toward Nico’s bedroom to talk about how much trouble Nico’s in, and I hear Pop saying, “We both know that copying and ‘getting help’ aren’t the same thing, young man,” as he half closes the door to my bedroom behind him. As the door swings shut, I catch a last glimpse of the bag still dangling from Nico’s hand.
“No no no no no no no,” I moan, falling onto my bed and pulling a pillow over my head. Nico has Josh’s heart. He’s holding it. He’s going to forget that he took that bag out of my bedroom, and then he’s going to notice it and remember that he’s pissed at me, and then he’s going to decide to snoop. He’ll open it and see what’s inside, and how am I going to explain why there’s a heart that isn’t bleeding in there?
What am I supposed to say?
Sorry to leave you out of the loop, Nico, but your big sister is actually some kind of magical freak who accidentally killed a guy she barely knew because she was about to sleep with him for all the wrong reasons. Oh, and she keeps hurting people when she gets freaked out and she’s pretty sure she would have hurt you if Pop hadn’t interrupted that fight. Please don’t tell anyone?
And then I realize that if I can’t get the heart back from him, I’ll probably hurt people even more. That’s what Iris said: the tension of the spell is what’s making me accidentally hurt people, including myself. What if I can’t get the heart back from Nico and then I lose control and kill someone else?
What if I hurt him? Or Dad, or Pop? I know I should feel just as bad about hurting anyone, because hurting anyone at all is awful, but … what if it’s one of them? I’m already a murderer. What if I can’t stop killing people?
What if I’m a monster?
I scream into the pillow.
I’ve never screamed into a pillow before. It always kind of seemed like a cliché. But now that I’m doing it … it’s pretty satisfying. I scream into it again, so hard that my throat burns, and then again, and I’m just gearing up for another scream when I hear the door to my bedroom open.
“Did you impale an eyeball on something?” Pop asks, pulling the pillow off my face. “You know this thing doesn’t actually muffle you that much, right?”
“Oh, um. Sorry,” I mumble. “I didn’t realize. Hey, that was fast.” I scramble up to a sitting position and sit with my back against the wall, my legs stretched across the mattress. “Is Nico off the hook?”
“Far from it,” Pop says with a wry shake of his head. “But Dad took over so I could come talk to you. Once we heard the wailing, we figured we should probably divide our efforts. And I thought you might want this back.” He lifts his arm, and I realize for the first time that he’s got my bag.
“Thanks.” I grab the bag and drop it on the pillows next to me, trying to get that exposed J facedown. I want to shove the whole thing back under the bed, but that would look suspicious. Or maybe not doing it looks suspicious? I don’t know what to do with my hands.
“So, we need to talk.” Pop leans against the wall next to the doorframe with his hands in his pockets. He ducks his head, giving himself a little double chin. He’s staring at the bag. I resist the urge to push it behind the pillows. “You’re not in any trouble,” he says quickly, probably seeing the blood drain from my face. “But Dad and I are worried about you.”
“What? Why?” My palms tingle with a bloom of sweat. Worried is way worse than mad. “What’s going on?”
“You’re not yourself lately. Skipping classes was one thing, but shouting at your brother? What’s that about?” He shakes his head. “You know we’re not—”
“—not a shouting family, I know.” I can’t keep the annoyance out of my voice. Maybe I’m not trying very hard. Pop’s eyebrows unify at the interruption, but he doesn’t stop me. “You didn’t see what he was doing, though, Pop. He was under my bed.”
“It’s not just about yelling, bug,” he says gently. “You’ve been giving everyone a whole lot of bad attitude lately. Not just Nico. Me and Dad, too. What’s that about?”
Oh, great. So this is a you’re-a-huge-jerk-and-nobody-likes-you talk. I clench my jaw. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m not trying to beat up on you here.”
“Could have fooled me,” I mutter.
“I just want to know what’s going on with you. This behavior isn’t like you at all—”
“Well, maybe you just think that because you don’t know me.” I let my hands drop to my sides, and one of them lands on the bag with the heart in it. “You think I’m not being myself because you have no idea who I am!” Pop takes a deep calming breath of his own, and for some reason, it infuriates me. The words pour out before I can stop them, my volume creeping up with every word. “You think I’m still some little kid that you can control, but I’m not, and I haven’t been for a long time! And I’m dealing with all of this shit on my own and you have no idea what it’s like, okay?! You have no idea.”
My cheeks and palms are both burning. When I touch my face, my fingers come away wet. I tuck my hands under my thighs just in case they’re glowing. They feel like they are, and for the hundredth time, I wish that I could see my own magic. I dig my fingernails into my palms hard.
I’m losing control.
Shit.
“I’m sorry I yelled,” I whisper.
“Oh, sweetie,” he says, and then he’s sitting next to me with his arm around my shoulder. He’s soft, and his ratty old sweater feels the same way it did when I was little. “I can’t understand what’s going on if you don’t tell me. But I want to understand. I really do.”
I want to lean on him and cry like a kid. I want to. But it just doesn’t feel right. I shake my head, sitting up stiffly, and he takes his arm off my shoulder. I wonder if I hurt his feelings by not wanting the hug. I wonder if I’m just destined to hurt everyone around me. I clench my fists even harder, and try to focus on the pain so I don’t lose control and ruin everything.