The Poison Apples (28 page)

The door flew open.

“YOU ARE SUCH AN IDIOT, REEN,” someone yelled.

I looked up. My older brother was standing in the doorway in a pair of basketball shorts, staring at me with utter disgust.

We looked at each other for a long time.

“Hi,” I finally managed to whisper.

“I repeat,” he said. “You. Are. Such. An. Idiot.”

“How did you find me?” I asked in a small voice.

But before he could even answer, I'd already thrown my arms around his legs and was sobbing hysterically onto his stained Adidas sneakers.

Apparently my tear ducts weren't frozen after all.

EIGHT

Molly

We all sat in silence
for a while, stunned.

“Kristen?” asked Alice. “It was
Kristen
?”

Reena nodded and passed me the thermos of hot cocoa. “Yup. She was taking her own personal revenge, I guess. I must have really hurt her feelings on top of Mount McKinsey.”

“What I don't understand,” I said, “is why she thought Pradeep would rat you out.”

Reena shrugged. “I think the girl doesn't understand the concept of loyalty.”

“So, she was hiding in the room the whole time while we were coming up with the Revenge Plan?”

“Yup.”

I shivered. It was the last day of November, and we'd just gotten back from vacation. It had made sense to call a meeting immediately, but the roof of Middleton was
freezing.

“That girl is truly pathetic,” said Alice, shaking her head.

“You know what's even more pathetic?” I said. “The fact that I have to spend all of Christmas vacation taking care of Sandie and Randie and Spencer all by myself. My dad and Candy are going to Aruba. Can you believe it?”

Reena's jaw dropped. “You're kidding me. When did they break the news to you?”

“The second I was back inside the house in dry clothes. And they're not paying me a cent for the whole three weeks. Apparently, Candy wants to go on one last vacation before it's too late in her pregnancy. And she started bringing up how much help she could use around the house again.”

“Wow,” said Alice. “So, Candy was nice to you for—”

“All of three minutes,” I finished.

“Yeah. R. was nice to me for like three
seconds
that afternoon.”

We sighed.

“So, I guess this is the end,” Reena said quietly. “No more Poison Apples.”

“That's it?” I asked. “We're disbanding?”

“Wait a second,” said Alice. “Just because our revenge plots failed? That doesn't mean the Poison Apples have to disband.”

“Yeah, but then what good are we?” asked Reena.

“I thought the point of the apple is that we want to reclaim it,” Alice said. “I mean, why do the Poison Apples have to be about getting back at people?”

“Well, we are called the
Poison
Apples,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, but it's the evil stepmother who gives Snow White the apple, not the other way around. Maybe we can just be about reinventing the apple. Making it ours. We don't have to be evil in return. After all, two wrongs don't make a—”

“DON'T SAY IT!” I shrieked.

She grinned. “Fine. Sorry.”

Reena stared pensively out at the night sky. “Yeah, I guess we do have a lot to be thankful for,” she said. “I mean, we live in this beautiful place. We have each other. We—”

“Have to spend all of Christmas vacation taking care of our stepsisters,” I moaned.

Reena looked at me, confused. “
That's
what you're upset about? I thought you'd be…” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

I lowered my head. I knew what she was going to say. The problem was, I was just in denial when it came to thinking about my mom. No one had heard anything from her. Occasionally, I wondered if she were dead. Then the thought was too much to take and I just forced myself to focus on other things.

Alice came up to me and put her arm around my shoulder. “I have an idea,” she whispered in my ear. “I
definitely
don't want to stay with my dad and R. for Christmas. Why don't I come back to North Forest with you and help out?”

I looked at her, amazed. “You would do that for me? What about Jamal? Weren't you guys gonna hang out over Christmas?”

“Well, you're just as important to me as he is. And he can come visit us, anyway.”

I buried her face in her shoulder. “You're the best, Bingley-Beckerman.”

“Hey,” Reena barked. “What about me?”

We looked at her.

“You,” I said finally, “are the world's worst penguin-napper.”

She started laughing. “Well,” she admitted, “even if the door hadn't locked behind me, that little sucker was much, much tougher than I expected.”

Alice stepped back and frowned. “Wait a second. I just thought of something. If Kristen was listening to that whole conversation on top of Mount McKinsey, then doesn't she know that we meet on the—”

Suddenly, the little door that opened onto the roof flew open.

We all gasped.

A few seconds later, Agnes's pale, tired-looking face peeked over the edge.

“Unbelievable,” she drawled monotonously.

“Please, Agnes,” Reena begged, “don't report us to Headmaster Oates.”

Agnes rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. You think I would do that? Then I would get in trouble for not knowing about this sooner.”

“Thank you, Agnes,” I said. “You're the best. You're—”

“Not so fast,” she told me. “Don't think you guys are going to get off scot-free. All three of you are going to be doing my laundry for the next month.”

We groaned.

“And,” she added, grinning maliciously, “every night I expect someone to bring dinner up to my room.”

“Oh, God,” whispered Alice.

“Sweet dreams,” Agnes said. “Be in your rooms in the next five minutes or I will personally murder you.”

And she disappeared back down into stairwell.

“Well,” said Reena finally. “Goes to show. There are evil stepmothers everywhere.”

*   *   *

A few minutes later,
I was tiptoeing through the darkness of my dorm room back to my bed. I groped around, then felt something on my pillow, where Kristen usually left my mail (when I got any at all). I held it in my hands. It felt like some kind of card.

I reached under my covers and pulled out my little flashlight. I crawled under my covers, pulled them over my head, and turned the flashlight on, squinting until my eyes adjusted.

It was a postcard.

And the handwriting was unmistakable.

It was from my mother.

My dear Molly
, she'd scrawled.
I'm writing to let you know I'm okay. Don't tell anyone you got this. I am finding a new life. You and I will see each other at some point. Much love, Mom

On the front of the postcard was a picture of the Grand Canyon. The word
Arizona
was printed across it in big red letters.

At first I felt incredible relief. My mom was alive. She was okay.

But a few seconds later, I was infuriated. We would see each other at “some point”? Didn't I have anyone I could rely on?

And then I realized I did.

I had two best friends.

My life was definitely a mess. But I wasn't alone.

It was a funny thing. I'd fantasized about Putnam Mount McKinsey for years, but it was always somehow related to boys in pink shirts reading Emily Dickinson. I definitely hadn't met any of them in the past three months. (Except for Pradeep Paruchuri, who was about as interested in me as Candy Lamb was in dictionaries.)

What had I gotten from boarding school was entirely unexpected: a new family.

Feeling a kind of bittersweet contentment, I pulled my blanket over my head and tried to focus on falling asleep.

And that's when I heard Kristen crying.

At first I couldn't believe it. It actually seemed … impossible. But then I listened harder. There were definitely muffled sobs coming from her bed.

Good,
I thought triumphantly.
Whatever she's crying about, she probably deserves it.

But a few minutes later, I found myself whispering: “Kristen?”

The crying stopped for a few seconds, then continued.

“Kristen.”

She barely choked out her reply. “What?”

“What's wrong?”

A huge, honking sniffle. “Why do
you
care?”

“Um…” Why
did
I care? “I'm curious, that's all. You don't have to tell me.”

“You hate me,” she cried.

“I don't hate you.” That was true. I didn't like her, but I didn't hate her. She'd made my first month at PMM hell, but that was the least of my problems.

There was a long silence, and then, from underneath her covers, I could hear her, just barely audible: “My parents are getting divorced.”

I shot up in bed. “You're kidding.”

A fresh round of sobs. “No,” she wailed. “I'm not.”

“Oh, my God. Kristen. I'm so sorry.”

I was stunned. If there was anyone who seemed like she had a perfect life, it was Kristen Diamond. The wall above her bed was covered in glossy pictures of her and her father and mother, all of them unbelievably good-looking, leaning against Porsches and playing tennis and canoeing down rivers and waving from the windows of villas in Tuscany.

Her crying started to peter out. “I just can't believe it,” she whispered. “They told me on Thanksgiving. On
Thanksgiving Day
. And my mom is … oh, God. My mom is already dating her
golf
instructor. And they're acting like they're in love or something. Can you believe that?”

“Yes,” I said. “I can. Family dysfunction never fails to shock me with how dysfunctional it is.”

I held my breath. After a long pause, Kristen giggled.

Thank God.

The two of us lay there in the dark. After a few seconds she asked, “Molly?”

“Yeah?”

“Um … I'm sorry.”

I wasn't exactly sure what she was apologizing for. It could've been about a million different things.

“I've, um, had a really hard semester,” Kristen said quietly.

“Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”

“I know.”

“Well,” I said after a while, “thanks for apologizing.”

She laughed, still sniffling a little. “You're welcome.”

I pulled the covers over my head.

It was the weirdest thing.

Nobody was ever who she seemed to be. There was something very beautiful about that.

I pulled the covers off my head.

“Kristen,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“Can I give you one piece of advice? For whatever happens with your parents during and after the divorce?”

“Sure.”

“You are not them.”

There was a long pause.

“I think I understand,” she said.

“Just for the future,” I said. “Remember it. It'll make you a lot happier. Your life is your life. Your fate is your fate.”

“Okay,” she said. “Thanks.”

“You are not them,” I repeated.

Then, a few minutes later, just as my eyes were starting to close, something occurred to me.

“
Four apples instead of three,” I muttered. “Would it work?”

“Did you say something?” asked Kristen.

And did evil
stepfathers
count? I would have to consult with Alice and Reena about that at the next meeting.

“Forget it, Kristen,” I said. “I'll tell you later.”

And I dropped off to sleep.

Acknowledgments

Many, many thanks to:

Jean Feiwel, who continues to surprise me with her intelligence, good humor, and uncanny knack for story and character.

Rich Deas, creative director/genius.

Melissa Flashman, phenomenal agent and dear friend.

RR, without whom my lifestyle is not bearable.

And B, my teammate and oldest friend. I hope we have meltdowns in front of each other for many, many years to come.

A F
EIWEL AND
F
RIENDS
B
OOK

An Imprint of Holtzbrinck Publishers

THE POISON APPLES.
Copyright © 2007 by Lily Archer. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Feiwel and Friends, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected]

ISBN-13: 978-0-312-36762-6

ISBN-10: 0-312-36762-7

First Edition: September 2007

www.feiwelandfriends.com

eISBN 9781466883628

First eBook edition: September 2014