Deviant (9 page)

B
ECKY DIDN
’
T FOLLOW HER
, thankfully.

Abigail closed the door and leaned against it, shutting her eyes for a moment. When she glanced around, she saw a huge king-sized bed with way too many pillows. She also saw her very own bathroom. And a double window with sumptuous floral curtains overlooking the back garden, complete with a kidney-shaped swimming pool like the ones she’d seen through the windows of travel agencies. Well, of course there was a pool: it was so hot, at least thirty degrees Celsius. She’d never experienced temperatures above twenty-five. She took her leather jacket off and gazed at the pool. She was dying to cool down in it.

She guessed it was Melanie who had put an awful lot of effort into the room. Melanie was a willing servant of Grahame. And that was fine. The bedside table was stacked with lotions and potions. Melanie had placed a soft pink dressing gown on the bed and hung three prints of Scottish landscapes on the walls, probably to make her new stepdaughter feel at home.

Before she even knew what she was doing, Abigail took the prints down and slipped them under the bed. The last thing she wanted was to be reminded of that dump.

She ran her fingers over the soft covers and looked at herself in the mirror of the oak dresser. A pale, haggard girl stared back. But the girl was giddy, too. Forget the smiling reflection; what about that pristine glass? It was polished to an unreal shine. Abigail stifled a squeal. So what if her mother had secrets she
didn’t want her father to know about? People with money were strange, her mother included, clearly. She’d learn to adjust.

Wrapping herself in the thick feather duvet on the bed, she laughed and drifted off.

Knock knock
.

What was that?

Knock knock
.

Where was she?

“I’m coming in!” a voice said. Abigail rubbed her eyes and looked around. Fluffy duvet. Pillows. Private bathroom. Floral curtains, still open. Dark outside.
That’s right
, she remembered.
I’m on a different planet now
. She smiled groggily.

“Dinner time.” The voice was Becky’s, who was in the bathroom turning on the shower. “Jump in, get dressed. Do you need some clothes?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

The shower (like everything else) was the Priciest Mother-Shower brought down from Priciest Planet-Shower to hurt fair-skinned Scots who’d only ever experienced a feeble dribbling. Blimey, Americans did things properly.

“Clothes on the bed!” Becky yelled. “See ya down there!”

When Abigail had dried herself with the impossibly fluffy
towels, she put on the high-waisted denim shorts Becky had left for her, and then braved another glance in the mirror. She’d never worn shorts before. Her legs were blindingly white. The T-shirt was black, with a painting on the front of a bunch of faceless teenagers who looked like zombies. At the bottom of the painting was the letter “G.” The initial of the brand, or artist, she supposed.
Whatever
.

The formal dining room was adjacent to the large dining kitchen at the back of the house. Her new family sat waiting for her, sipping red wine from round glasses so large that each could take a full bottle. Melanie and Grahame had changed into suave evening outfits. Becky had swapped her crop top for the same T-shirt Abigail now wore. Somehow, it looked much better on Becky. A wave of embarrassment overwhelmed her as she walked toward them with wet hair, bare legs and no shoes. “Sorry, I fell asleep and I only have these big boots.”

“Don’t apologize.” Grahame opened his linen napkin and flattened it on his lap. “Jet lag’s a killer.”

Melanie had made chicken tikka masala “to make you feel at home!”

“Isn’t that Indian?” Becky gasped. The chili caught in her throat.

“It is, but it’s the most popular dish in the country. Big Indian/Pakistani community.” Abigail stifled a cough as she shoved the food in her mouth. Melanie must have put at least a dozen of the burny beasts in the curry. She took a breath, wiped the sweat from her forehead and swallowed a large piece of leathery chicken. “That was right thoughtful, thanks Melanie.”

“Sorry, what was that?”

Abigail blinked nervously. Had she said something wrong? “I said that was right thoughtful of you, the curry and all.”

Melanie patted her hand against her chest and laughed. “It’s your accent! God willing it’ll soften after a while. I’ll catch every lovely little thing you say.”

Abigail made a mental note to practice an American accent. The quicker she got rid of her rough brogue, the better. After the ordeal of the main course came burnt caramel shortbread which Melanie had baked “to make you feel at home!” Conversation was polite, and all about the party. Melanie had spent the day making arrangements. It would be tomorrow night. Everything would be Scotch.

Scottish!

“I’ll get you a dress for the party and some other clothes in the morning.” Melanie shot a hard glare at Abigail’s T-shirt. “I see Becky gave you one of
those
. Do we know if it even means anything yet?”

“Pardon?” Abigail asked, lost.

Grahame took it upon himself to explain. “I’m sure you don’t know anything about this, Abigail, coming from a more civilized continent.” (She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.) “For the past month, there’s been a graffiti campaign here in LA. The images are the same as those on your T-shirts. Rumor has it there’s one letter to go. It’s become a kind of cult. Sad to say, the more susceptible teens of LA, like Becky here, have subscribed to it.” He cast a sidelong glance at his daughter. “The press has called it ‘The Graffiti Tease.’ To me,
it looks like an advertising campaign—probably building up to launch some kid’s amateur homemade zombie movie or something. In my honest opinion, though, it’s just vandalism, pure and simple.”

For the first time, Abigail saw some passion in her father’s eyes. The subject of graffiti had eroded his guard. She liked that something upset him. It made him more real.

“It’s freedom of expression,” Becky said, staring back at him.

Abigail suddenly wished she’d worn her
STUFF THE MONARCHY
T-shirt instead. She wanted to remain invisible here. Political protest in the UK seemed to be a less contentious issue than vandalism in LA. Fine by her. She had no political allegiances whatsoever.

“I’ll get you some new clothes tomorrow,” Melanie said, ever the peacemaker.

“I have plenty of clothes for Abigail,” Becky said. “We’re sisters, you know. They’ll probably fit.” Her tone was flat.

Grahame and Melanie glanced at each other.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Grahame said. He wiped his mouth with his serviette, folded it neatly, and placed it beside his empty dessert bowl. “We have drinks tonight with our good friends, the Howards. Planned it ages ago. We’d take you, but—”

“You’d be bored out of your brain,” Becky finished.

He smirked. “Well, yes, frankly. Becky will look after you.”

“But I’m going out, too.
I
planned it ages ago,” Becky protested.

“Take Abigail. I’m sure she’d love to go.”

“It won’t be fun for her.”

Abigail swallowed. They were suddenly talking about her as if she weren’t in the room. Bad sign. It was the same thing social workers always did whenever she was about to be moved.

“Becky, it’s your sister’s first night here.” Grahame’s voice hardened. “Either don’t go out or take her with you.”

“It’s your
daughter’s
first night here,” Becky snarled, grabbing her dishes in a huff and storming off to the kitchen.

A
BIGAIL COULDN
’
T CARE LESS
about going out. She didn’t want to tag along with Becky. Mostly she wanted to snoop around the house, alone. But she did hate the fact that she was already a nuisance. It was clear Becky resented her. Who wouldn’t? A brand-new sister: a crazy street punk with a stupid accent who had stormed into Becky’s cozy existence without warning. All her life, Abigail had worked hard at not getting in people’s way, at not
needing
people, and here she was on the very first day, already a needy pain in the ass.

The moment Melanie and Grahame left the two of them alone—not before hugging Abigail again (she hoped all this demonstrativeness would peter out)—Becky dashed upstairs. Abigail followed to find her in the hall, pulling down a ladder from a trapdoor in the ceiling.

“Listen, I’ll stay here,” Abigail told her. “I’ll be fine.”

“No. I’ve been told.” Becky climbed up the ladder and disappeared into the attic space.

The curt martyr-tone was too much. “I don’t want to come,” Abigail snapped.

Her sister appeared at the trapdoor. “Come up and grab the bottom of this.”

Abigail knew she couldn’t argue. It was too soon. And judging from Becky’s smile, Becky also knew that she was in total control of the situation. Abigail climbed to the top, where her new sister was gripping the edge of a large chest, ready to descend.

“Grab the other end. Can you slide it down? It’s not heavy.”

“No problem,” Abigail muttered.

The chest felt empty. Nothing rattled inside. It bumped against each rung of the ladder as she backed herself down and slid it onto the floor.

“I found it up there last week,” Becky said when she reached the hall floor. “Might break it open and use it for storage.”

“What’s up there?”

“Just a bunch of old junk. Sentimental stuff he’s hidden away.”

“Is he very sentimental?”

“Okay, wrong word. I’d describe Dad as … misguided. Ha! That’s what he says about me.” Becky slid the ladder back into place. “About tonight. Can you keep your mouth shut?”

“Depends.”

“You have to promise me you will.”

Abigail felt herself slump. Would this involve pissing off her dad and Melanie? Or something illegal that could send her back to Glasgow? “Like I said, I’d actually prefer to stay here. I’ll stay in my room and tell them you took me.”

“No. Come on.” Becky sighed. “Look, I’m sorry I got bitchy. But you have to promise to keep your mouth shut.”

“Not if your secret involves hurting anyone.”

Becky’s eyes flickered, as if she were offended. “Really?”

“Yeah,
really
.”

“It won’t hurt anyone.”

“Or get me in trouble?”

“You’ll be fine.” Becky hesitated. “Abigail, I’m glad you’re here. I mean it. I want you to do this with me.”

Abigail thought for a moment. “Okay then.” To be honest, she was dying to know what on earth her sister was up to that required strict codes of secrecy and this empty chest. She helped her sister carry it downstairs, stopping to rest in the hall.

“What’s in there?” Abigail pointed to a closed door, wondering what the rules were in a family home like this. Did door closed mean never go in; or knock first, then go in? (Becky had entered her room with just a preliminary knock.) It struck Abigail as she looked around that this was the first time she’d ever had an
exact
address. If someone wrote to her, they’d address the letter to this exact place, not “C/O Peace Camp” or “C/O Glasgow City Council.” It wasn’t a van. And it wasn’t a shared shitehole. In the former, there was only one door, always unlocked, and she couldn’t recall ever knocking on it. In the latter, all the doors were fire resistant, with rectangles of reinforced glass. Entering them always required permission and was always done with a certain amount of trepidation. Here, there were dozens of them, all safe and open and welcoming and
hers
. Except for two: Becky’s bedroom and this one off the hall.

“It’s his den,” Becky finally said. “The torture chamber! Let’s get out of here.”

After some more grunting and groaning, Abigail managed to load the trunk into the back of her sister’s van, amidst piles of things (who knows what?) that were covered in blankets. She shut the passenger door as Becky jammed the keys into the ignition. A billboard-shaped cardboard cut-out dangled from the rearview mirror.
GRAFFTI TEASE: WHAT DOES IT MEAN?
The van stank from the overflowing ashtray.

“Where are we going?” Abigail asked.