Furious - By Jill Wolfson Page 0,21

nor her wronged daughter Iphigenia, nor Cassandra whose woeful story echoes so perfectly with mine. Why Aeschylus didn’t jot down my tale for all eternity is a mystery to me. But his literary snub hasn’t stopped my need for revenge. That remains endless, enduring, immortal.

So given my longevity, who is better suited to make sure you understand how the plot is congealing and thickening?

I’ve called them and they’ve done their first experiment. It’s written down in my book. So for now, I let them sleep. But not for long. Too much rest and they will not feel enough rage for what I’ve endured. Sleep can suck the strength of the serpent.

Awake, awake, awake, you artists of pain. Ugly and beautiful, that potent and combustible mix.

FIRST STASIMON, THE BOOK OF FURIOUS

9

I couldn’t have been asleep for long, maybe only ten minutes, but when I wake I feel refreshed, like after a full night’s sleep. We laugh a little about my revenge fantasy. It was so much fun. After that, Stephanie takes off on her bike. Alix gives me a lift down the hill in her old car, and even though the drizzle has turned to steady rain, I ask to be dropped a couple of blocks away from the Leech’s house. I want to walk the rest of the way. I wish I could walk forever and avoid the reality of what’s waiting for me. I know that what we said and did in Ambrosia’s bedroom was just a silly game, but I’m still pumped and not ready to give up the feeling.

I turn the corner and there’s my living nightmare waiting for me: Lottie Leach in one of her old flowered muumuus on the front doorstep. This is not a good sign. As I tentatively approach the house, her eyes narrow hard in my direction. I know that look. She’s going to kill me for being late.

Gone is any hope of an apology. Gone is any hope of my life ever changing.

I hang back, trying to forestall the inevitable. She shifts her weight, moves one foot down a step and brings the other to meet it, another right foot, another left. For her, this qualifies as a rush toward me. I have plenty of time to run in the other direction, but my usual feelings of helplessness whoosh back and take over. Where am I going to run? Whom can I run to?

Her features look contorted. She’s yelling. She flings open her arms, and I flinch in memory of the last time those arms came in my direction.

Only this time she doesn’t slap me. She’s not screaming at me. Something drops from her arms, a black puddle that lands at my feet.

“Worthless!” she says to it, and then as an afterthought to me: “Both of you!”

He-Cat takes off running down the street.

What was that about? I’m not going to ask any questions and tick her off even more. I rush past the Leech into the house and close my bedroom door behind me.

* * *

Raymond! I forgot! I promised to call him as soon as I left Ambrosia’s house.

I check my cell and find a series of increasingly urgent texts from him.

First message:?

Second message:????????????????

Third message: You’re not still harboring ill feelings, are you???????????????????

Fourth message: Meg, did you get my messages of rapidly multiplying question marks that reflect my atypical lack of patience?

He picks up on the first ring and says something that takes a while to decipher: “About time!”

“What’s wrong with your voice?”

“A cold. So, what happened? Spill all.”

“She hates the cat.”

“Ambrosia? What cat?”

“No! The Leech. He-Cat. I came home and she was going ape on him.”

“Ape on a cat?”

“I don’t get it.” I hold up my phone in the direction of the locked bedroom door. “Hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“She’s stomping around the living room complaining about how the cat is eating her out of house and home. It’s weird. She’s treating He-Cat just like…” They come to me, my own words: I want to be treated the way she treats her cat. I laugh aloud.

“Meg, what’s so funny?”

There’s no doubt about it. “She’s treating the cat just like she treats me. And vice versa, I guess.”

Raymond blows his nose. “That qualifies as hilarious?”

“Not ha-ha funny, bizarre funny. You had to be there.”

“Be where?”

“Ambrosia’s house.”

Another nose blow. “Finally! We’re getting to the heart of the tale. Tell me all about it. Spare no detail.”

I prop myself up in bed, comforter around me, and let the particulars flow out in no special