The Poison Apples (17 page)

“Terrible,” Reena said, and sighed. “I hate my stepmother.”

My mouth dropped open. “
You
have a stepmother?”

“Yeah. An evil one. Alice and I have totally bonded over our mutual bad luck.”

“I have one, too!” I exclaimed.

Reena suddenly looked at me with interest. “Really?”

Alice cleared her throat and stood up. “Reen, let's get back to our room. I want to show you something.”

“But Molly was saying—”

“But I really,
really
want to show you something.”

“What?”

“Just…” Alice shot Reena an imploring look that I probably wasn't supposed to notice. “Please.”

“Okay, okay.” Reena hauled herself to her feet. “See ya later, Molly.”

Alice grabbed Reena's arm and yanked her away. Stunned, I watched the two of them walk together across the green and back across the road toward Middleton.

I couldn't believe it.

What had gone wrong?

I suddenly felt myself turn into Molly Miller at Age Eight again, standing on the playground at North Forest Elementary and watching my (I thought at the time) best friend Suzanne get beckoned over to the crowd of “popular kids” standing next to the jungle gym.
“I'll just be gone a minute,”
she'd whispered to me.

But Suzanne had never come back. Not that day, or the next one, or the one after that. Years later, I would still see her huddled in some impenetrable corner of the North Forest Junior High School parking lot, smoking cigarettes, laughing, and pretending not to recognize me while I trudged by with my oversized backpack.

Now it was happening all over again.

But somehow it made even less sense this time.

Alice was smart. Alice and I had genuinely liked each other.

Was the attraction of someone like Reena Paruchuri—beautiful, fashionable, witty, friends with Jamie Vanderheep—really that strong?

I shook my head and tried to fight back tears. I'd thought better of Alice. I really had. But, I reminded myself, the world was a cruel, stupid place. My short-lived friendship with Alice Bingley-Beckerman had just made me momentarily forget that. Now I was in touch with reality again.

Suddenly I felt something thwack against my right shoulder. A shooting pain made its way down through my entire arm. A Frisbee thudded off my body and crashed onto the ground.

“Sorry!” I heard a guy call out.

That did it. Hot tears started dripping down my cheeks. Dizzy with anger, I picked up the Frisbee and hurled it off into the distance, far away from the green and toward the road.

“Hey!”
I heard the same person say.

I turned around and realized, to my utter dismay, that it was Pradeep Paruchuri, looking confused and standing with another boy in a golden patch of sunlight.

A sob rose out of my stomach. Bending my head down in shame, praying he wouldn't recognize me, I ran away as fast as I could, back toward the familiar loneliness—and relative safety—of my little overheated dorm room.

*   *   *

But I had forgotten that
Kristen was coming back.

Her absence had been the one nice thing about Parents Weekend. It was unclear why she'd gone back to Connecticut, instead of having her parents come to Putnam Mount McKinsey, but I, for one, certainly wasn't going to ask. I'd just felt relieved to have forty-eight hours away from her. Now it was Sunday evening and the time of her inevitable return.

I smelled Kristen even before I saw her. Her signature scent washed over me the second I opened the door to our room: a combination of artificial berry lip gloss, artificial berry shampoo, and artificial berry perfume.

Then I heard the muffled thumping of dance music coming out of the tiny speakers on her desktop computer.

Luckily, all these signs of Kristen gave me time to wipe the tears from my eyes and clear my throat before she actually saw me.

Then I stepped inside the room and took a deep breath. Kristen was unpacking her little leather suitcase and hanging her clothes back up in the closet. Her red ponytail swung back and forth as she bopped her head to her music.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” she said, barely glancing in my direction.

I held my breath. No snide comment? No underhanded insult?

Kristen hummed cheerfully under her breath as she unfolded a pink silk skirt and smoothed it out with her hand.

Apparently not.

I was almost disappointed.

I plopped down on my bed, stared at the ceiling for a little while, and then reached into my bag and took out
Zen Ventura.
I stared at the cover. It had been my favorite novel since I was in sixth grade. So rereading should have made me feel better.

But now I kept flipping it over and looking at the author's photo on the back cover. There he was. Nelson Bingley. Alice had his clear, blue eyes, and long, straight nose. Her lips were different, though, and her cheekbones—

I shook my head. I didn't want to be thinking about Alice. Or her family. After all, she'd totally just rejected me. Maybe Nelson and R. thought I was stupid and uneducated. Maybe they could tell I wasn't from New York or some other snooty city. I began to stew in my own anger. I was just as smart as anyone! Smarter, in fact! I was
years
ahead of everyone else in Newman's humanities class, even though all the other students had attended snooty private schools their entire lives. Newman himself had said in our one-on-one conference that I was reading and writing at a college level. So who did the Bingleys think they were? Just because I wasn't a Beverly Hills fashionista like Reena or a New York intellectual like—

There was a knock on the door.

“I'll get it,” said Kristen.

She delicately tiptoed her way toward the door through the mass of clothing strewn across our floor. I opened
Zen Ventura
and pretended to be deeply involved in it.

“Hey!” I heard Kristen exclaim.

My heart sank. A part of me had been hoping it was Alice, coming over to make peace.
Don't be so naïve,
I chided myself, and I went back to pretend-reading.

“What?” I heard Kristen ask. “You do?”

I peeked around the pages of my book. Reena Paruchuri was standing in the doorway, talking softly to Kristen. Just the sight of her made me angry, so I quickly turned on my side and faced the wall. A few seconds later, I heard the door shut, and Kristen stepped back inside the room.

“Molly,” Kristen said.

“What?” I replied, not moving.

“Um … I have no idea why, but Reena wants you to come talk to her.”

I sat up, shocked. “What? Where?”

“She said to tell you that she'll be waiting for you in the third-floor lounge.” Kristen looked annoyed. She folded her arms, pursed her perfect pink lips, and stared out of our window.

“What I don't understand,” she said finally, “is why she wants to hang out with you before she even asked me about…” her voice trailed off, and she seemed to space out for a few seconds before whirling around and staring at me accusatorily. “Well, aren't you going to go talk to her?”

“Uh … yeah. I guess so.” I stood up, pushed my glasses up with one finger, and started walking toward the door.

“I mean, did you guys, like, become best friends over the weekend or something?” Kristen suddenly asked, just as I was about to step into the hallway.

I turned around and looked at her.

“No,” I said slowly, “not at all.”

Kristen's violet eyes widened in relief, and then, within seconds—it was almost miraculous—shifted back to their normal condescending glare. “I didn't think so,” she said, and then turned around and started folding her clothes again.

When I got to the third-floor lounge, I found Reena, sitting cross-legged on an old beat-up beige couch and eating a bag of microwave popcorn.

I stood on the stained gray carpet and eyed her warily.

“Want some?” she asked, and held out the still-steaming, grease-stained bag.

I shook my head.

“It's so weird,” she said, “I eat more microwave popcorn in a week here than I did during, like, five years in LA.”

I didn't respond. I actually felt the same way—in fact, I felt like our entire dorm had permanently absorbed the smell of Orville Redenbacher and emitted its fumes even when no one was actually making popcorn—
but now,
I thought to myself,
is not the time to be agreeing with Reena Paruchuri.

After all, she'd just stolen my best friend.

“Sit down,” Reena said, and patted the saggy couch cushion next to her.

I sat.

We looked at each other.

“You and I are very different, Molly,” Reena said.

I nodded. What was she getting at?

“But,” she said, pressing a well-manicured fingertip thoughtfully against her chin, “I think we also have a lot in common.”

I stared at her.

“Don't you think so?” asked Reena.

“Um,” I said, “I don't think I understand what you're talking about.”

She smiled. “You will.” Then she reached into her pocket, pulled out a small white envelope, and gave it to me. Written across it in calligraphy was

Molly

I stared at it. “What is this?”

“It's an invitation. Don't open it yet. Just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“You won't tell Alice about it.”

I stared at her. “Reena. For reasons that are beyond me, Alice is not, like, even speaking to me anymore. So I don't think you have to worry.”

She nodded. “Okay. Yeah. Good. Just … don't tell her.”

I hesitated, then swallowed. “Do you happen to know why she's not talking to me?”

Reena suddenly stood up. “I gotta go, Molly.”

“Wait. I…”

“Seriously. I, uh, I have a lot of homework.” She tossed the popcorn bag in a trash can and made a beeline for the door. Then she stopped and turned around. “Just remember: Don't tell Alice. Or anybody, for that matter.”

“I don't even … tell anybody what?”

She grinned. “You'll see.”

And then she was gone.

I sighed and sank back on the dingy couch. Alone again. I could hear sounds of kids talking and laughing from down the hall. I looked down at the little white envelope in my hands. I wondered if it was some kind of practical joke. Then I ripped it open. Inside was a small blue card, and written across it in the same calligraphic script was the following:

You are invited to the first meeting of

The Poison Apples

To Be Held on the Roof of

Middleton Dorm,

October 17th, Midnight

Invitation Only

RSVP Unnecessary

I read the card about five times, trying to decipher its meaning. But I couldn't. Reena Paruchuri was definitely a lot weirder than I'd given her credit for.

Who were the Poison Apples?

And why couldn't I tell Alice?

I stood up and stuffed the card in my pocket. Maybe it was some kind of practical joke, concocted by Reena and her horrible popular friends. Maybe Kristen was involved.
I should probably forget about it and not show up at all
, I told myself.

But somewhere inside of me I knew that I was going to find a way to sneak out of my room, climb out onto the roof, and see what Reena Paruchuri was all about. After all, today was October 17th, and midnight was only five hours away. Despite the risk of humiliating myself at the hands of the evil and more popular, I had to admit it: I was intrigued.

THIRTEEN

Alice

“I don't get it,”
I said. “Who else is gonna be there?”

“No asking questions,” Reena said. She stepped onto her bed, her high heels sinking into the mattress. One of the many pictures of steroidal male models on her wall was starting to sag, and—with her tongue sticking out between her teeth in concentration—she was reaffixing it with a roll of Scotch Tape.

“What does ‘Poison Apple' even mean?” I asked.

She turned around and mock frowned at me. “Just shut up,” she said affectionately. “Okay?”

I couldn't help but smile back. My life had completely turned around in the past twenty-four hours.

Reena Paruchuri and I were friends.

Our friendship had started as quickly as our enmity had. Two nights before, after we'd bumped into each other in our room with our respective parents and stepparents, everything had changed. After Dad and R. left for their bed-and-breakfast, I walked back to the room and found Reena standing in the middle of room, her arms folded, grinning.

“Hi,” I said.

“You didn't tell me,” she said, her grin getting even bigger.

“Tell you what?”

“About your stepmother.”

Then it was my turn to grin. “Well, you didn't tell me about yours.”

And we'd both burst out laughing.

Because it was like the big balloon of tension that had filled up the room since the first day we moved had suddenly … popped.

Now it was Sunday evening, and Reena (my roommate! my friend!) was handing me some kind of strange invitation with the words
Poison Apples
on it and insisting that I show up on the roof of Middleton at midnight.

She refused to go into any more specifics, and I eventually gave up asking.

I set the alarm for 11:50, went to bed at 10:30, and tried to sleep as much as I could in the time between. But Reena was snoring in the bed next to me, and some kind of weird owl was hooting in the elm tree outside our window. I also couldn't stop mulling the weekend over—how Dad had changed even more in the month I'd been gone than in the whole two years that passed after Mom's death. And how R. acted as if there was nothing weird about me being three hundred miles away at boarding school. As if it was perfectly natural. As if she'd had nothing to do with it.