The Furies. Katie Lowe
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crowd on to the last bus, her hand still tight around my wrist. She slid in by the window, guitar pressed against her knees; I sat beside her, pressed close as the bus filled up, packed with pale limbs and stale breath.
‘So,’ she said, turning to me, eyes wide, an exaggeration. ‘Where’d you come from?’
‘Kirkwood,’ I said, again.
‘I know that. Let me rephrase. Tell me everything. Tell me your story.’
I looked at her, my mind empty of all history, memory erased. ‘I … I don’t know.’
‘Interesting,’ she said, grinning, a smudge of mulberry brushed under stained lips. She saw me looking, raised a hand to her mouth. ‘You’re from round here?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Makes sense, then. Boring, boring, boring.’ She paused, narrowed her eyes. ‘Not you, I mean. The town. Is boring.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Yeah,’ she said, leaning back against the seat. ‘Okay, let’s try something else. Pop quiz. Violet’s not talking because a) she’s shy, b) she’s got super interesting things to say but she doesn’t want to tell me, or c), she’s not that interesting after all and I’m sorely misguided. Go.’
‘Not c,’ I said, though I felt the sudden flash of a lie. I’m not that interesting, I thought. She’s right.
‘I guess a) and b) aren’t exactly mutually exclusive. So you are interesting, but you’re shy and you don’t want to tell me your secrets.’ She looked at me, smiled. ‘I guess that’s okay.’
I searched for another way, an easier line of conversation. ‘Let’s try the other way around. Tell me about you.’
‘Oh, me? I’m super interesting. Fascinating. A one-woman Pandora’s box. But I’m also a lot like you. I don’t give it away for free.’ She grinned. ‘We’ll just have to take it slow, huh?’
I smiled. ‘You play guitar?’
‘Horribly,’ she said, squeezing the neck of the case between her fingers. ‘Still, it makes me look cool. That’s a start.’
‘You are cool,’ I said, and blushed. I hadn’t meant to sound so desperate, so eager to please.
She laughed, a bitter snort. ‘Well, I guess that’s sealed then. You’re just about the only person around here that thinks I, Robin Adams, am cool. Which I’m pretty sure makes you my new best friend.’ She extended a hand, and we shook, a comical formality that felt strangely intimate in the crowded space. ‘Come on,’ she said, nudging my arm with her elbow.
The bus shuddered to a halt, and we edged out into the street, where the smell of the sea – something I hadn’t noticed was absent from the grounds of the school – whistled between the buildings. The sky had turned from blue to grey over the course of the afternoon, and tiny beads of rain started to fall, so imperceptibly I didn’t notice until Robin held a discarded paper over her head and gestured to me to follow, saying ‘This rain’s going to ruin my hair,’ as she bounded off.
I followed her into the grandly named International Coffee Company, with its one dilapidated location in a quiet street, in a town the world forgot. ‘Hey, bitches,’ she said, announcing herself to the room as we entered. The barista – all black hair and pillar-box red lips, tanned to the colour and texture of leather – waved and shouted ‘Coffee?’ Robin nodded, held two fingers up, and strolled to the back of the café, where the other girls sat whispering in a patched-up leather booth. ‘This is Violet,’ she said, pushing me towards them, thumbs pressed firmly into my shoulder blades.
The two girls looked up at me, with a bland curiosity, as I stumbled, caught myself, and smiled; they said nothing. After a moment, the shorter of the two – a girl with green eyes and pale, almost translucent skin – smiled and waved her cigarette coyly, gesturing me to sit by her side. The two were sharing a pot of tea clearly designed for one, which steamed lazily beside a thick, leather book on the table.
‘Queen bitch here is Alex,’ said Robin, sliding into the booth beside the other girl and throwing an arm around her, swiftly brushed away. She nodded, coolly, and sat back, weaving her hair into a thick, rope-like braid as she watched me, eyes hooded, almost black.
‘And this little cherub—’ Robin pinched her own cheek between finger and thumb and squeezed it white. ‘This is Grace.’ Grace rolled her eyes, passing her cigarette back to Alex, who took it, smoke curling in the air between them. Robin turned to the girls as I wedged myself in next to Grace, who slid closer to the wall, as though to leave a foot of space between us.
The girls smiled at me, dimly, before turning to Robin. ‘Did you …?’ Alex said, softly.
‘Not yet,’ she replied. ‘But good things come to those who wait, right?’
The waitress set two tall, black coffees down with a clatter, a pool forming around them, rolling down the almost imperceptibly slanted table towards me. She dabbed it with her apron, and I looked up, finding myself greeted by a girl with the same, deep features as the barista, but a good twenty years younger. ‘Hey, Dina,’ Robin said, the words sing-song, mocking. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Fine,’ Dina said, turning away and stalking into a back room behind the bar.
‘Religious nut,’ Robin said, sliding a coffee towards me. ‘I’m surprised she hasn’t come at us with the rosary yet.’
‘Or a stake,’ Alex laughed.
‘The power of Christ compels you, etcetera.’ Robin’s voice drew a swift warning look from the woman at the bar, and the girls went on in a whisper. I sipped the coffee, concealing a wince at the bitter taste, the dry, sickly layer it left on my tongue. This wasn’t the first time I’d tried to at least pretend I liked it – I had read enough to know all the people I admired adored it, and took it black – but then, as before, the taste gave way to a hot, fast-moving nausea, heartbeat racing like that of a rabbit in a trap. Still, I clung tight to the cup, feeling the warmth nip at my fingers, and made plans to jettison it the moment the girls were distracted, though the weary-looking plant at the edge of the booth, I soon realized, was plastic. The frayed leather seats, flickering light-bulbs and dusty, sun-bleached paintings had implied that from the outset.
‘So what else are you studying?’ Grace said, turning to me, Alex and Robin absorbed in some labyrinthine conversation whose thrust I’d long since lost. She peeled open a half-eaten stick of rock, sugary-sweet on her breath.
‘English, and Classics,’ I said.
She looked me up and down briefly, so quickly I might have imagined it. ‘Annabel seemed to like your idea in class, yesterday.’ She paused. ‘I think she—’
‘Hey,’ Robin said, leaning in between us. ‘This is important.’
Grace leaned back in the chair, a counterbalance. ‘What?’
‘Blood or cherry?’ We stared back. ‘Lipstick, dipshits. Jesus. Some help you are.’
Alex elbowed Robin, pulling her bag from under the table. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘But we haven’t decided yet,’ Robin whined, refusing to move.
‘Are you wearing the black dress?’ Alex said.
‘Yeah.’
‘So wear the red. It’ll pop,’ she replied, smacking her lips. ‘Now come on, piss off.’
Robin slid out of the booth and leaned over the table, one leg outstretched behind. Alex kicked her, and she withdrew it, Dina narrowly avoiding a fall. ‘Nice to meet you … Shit,’ Alex laughed. ‘I was going to … What’s your name again?’
‘Violet,’ Robin answered. ‘Her name is Violet.’
‘Alright,’