Eve and Adam. Майкл Грант
she asks. “I’m sorry, that name slipped right out of my brain when I saw Mr Scruffy McMuscles.”
“His name is Solo.”
She grinned a huge, lascivious grin. “Why, of course it is. But he could be in a duo without too much trouble.” She switches on her serious face. “Maddox is out on bail. If he doesn’t screw up again they’ll probably let him go with community service.”
“If,” I say.
I know it’s wrong, but Aislin’s troubles are almost reassuring to me, they’re such a regular feature of our lives.
I first met Aislin in sixth grade. My dad had died over the summer, and she provided much-needed distraction. Even then, she was the glamorous fashionista, and at a point where I was still four years away from noticing that boys existed as something different and apart and interesting, Aislin was already charming them like a cobra mesmerizing prey.
She was also the only one who could make me laugh that horrible year.
“You know Maddox,” Aislin said. She looks down and away, her patented move to ensure I don’t know how much something is bothering her.
When he goes off to prison – and he will, someday – Aislin will probably wait for him. Her loyalty is fierce.
I love her.
“So what are you doing in here for fun?” she asks.
“Help me get into my wheelchair and I’ll show you,” I say.
It takes a while, but we manage to haul my giant leg and bruised body into my wheelchair.
Except, now that I think about it, am I bruised any more?
“Push me over to the mirror,” I say.
It’s a floor-to-ceiling mirror, gilt-framed.
I brace for the worst. I saw myself early on, a reflection in a piece of shiny equipment: it was not good. I had huge raccoon eyes, my nose was red, and there were two visible bumps on my forehead, one of which was about the size of an egg yolk.
Since then, I’ve been avoiding mirrors.
I stare at my reflected image in disbelief.
I’m me.
“Huh,” I say. Where are my bruises? My egg yolk? “Push me closer.”
“It’s kind of hard to believe you almost died,” Aislin says. “It’s only been, like, a few days.”
“It’s nuts,” I say. “I mean, my eyes were all . . .” I wave my hand around my face. “I looked like I’d been hit by a train. With good reason. I shouldn’t be this . . .”
Aislin shrugs. “Yeah, but this isn’t a regular hospital, right?”
“No, you’re right, it isn’t,” I say. “My mother was completely freaked about getting me out of San Fran and into this place. I guess she was on to something.”
While I contemplate my reflection, Aislin pokes around the room. “Giant flat-screen, nice sound system. Maybe I should get run over.”
“I had stitches here,” I murmur, peeling back a strip of surgical tape. “Right here on my cheek. Now there’s nothing.”
“Lucky,” Aislin says. “Would’ve been hard to cover with make-up.” She slides open my closet doors. “Whoa. Primo robes. Can I steal one?”
I glance at the closet. My sketchbook is on the top shelf, barely visible. “Hey, can you get that down for me? My mother probably had someone stash it there.”
“Have I mentioned that your mother’s an ice-cold bitch?”
“I believe you may have mentioned that in passing, yes.” I hold up my cell phone. “At least she finally let me have my phone back. Charged and everything.”
Aislin stands on tiptoe and retrieves the sketchbook. She browses through the pages, holds one up for me to see.
“I love this guy. You’ve been working on him forever.”
“He’s a cartoon. He has no depth. No soul.”
“Screw depth.”
“I can’t get the eyes right.”
“Hmm. Maybe. But he’s got great lips.” She taps her chin with her index finger. “You know, he reminds me a little of what’s-his-name. So-hot.”
“Solo.”
“Needs a body, though. Your drawing, I mean. So-hot’s doing just fine in that department.” She smirks. “If you need suggestions, I can help you finish him. If you know what I mean.”
I ignore her. “Must be genetic. My dad never could do faces, either.”
“But he was a sculptor.”
“Sculpting, drawing. Same problems.” I stare out the window at the undulating hills wreathed in fog. “I remember once he tried to draw my mother. He was using oil pastels, I think. He gave up after a couple tries.”
“Must’ve been tough, capturing Satan on canvas.” Aislin places the sketchbook on my bedside table. “Hey, can you draw, anyway? With your arm all mummied up like that?”
“Nah.” I consider my crushed hand. “Although the way things are going, who knows?”
“So where’s the mini-bar?”
“There’s a fridge in that cabinet with sodas in it.”
Aislin pulls a flask from the back waistband of her shorts. Naturally, security only found the one in her purse: who carries more than one?
She takes a swig and holds the flask out to me. “Cough syrup?”
“You mean vodka?” I ask. I don’t want to show disapproval, I really don’t, because it bothers her when I do and it creates a barrier between us.
“Lemon vodka, cough syrup, who can tell the difference, really?” Aislin asks.
“Tempting,” I say. “But, no.”
“You’re on meds.”
“Plus I don’t really drink.”
“You’ve had beer.”
“Don’t get caught or my mother will ban you. And listen to me, Aislin: I’m all alone in here. I need you.”
She acts tough. But she gets tears in her eyes and gives me a hug. “Don’t worry, no one will keep me away from you,” she says. “Now, let’s go find Mr Bashful. I’ll tell him you like him.”
“I will kill you if you say any such thing!”
“Yeah, right: you’re in a wheelchair. You’re not that scary.”
“There’s something else I want to show you first.”
Aislin steers me toward the door. “What is it?”
“I’m making my own male.”
She frowns. “Mail, like e-mail?”
“Male, like m-a-l-e.”
“You have my full attention, girl.”
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