Furious - By Jill Wolfson Page 0,28

small and tight. “If you feel your mind softening or taking pity, don’t listen to it. Don’t sympathize.”

“Why wouldn’t you listen to your own mind? What’s wrong with sympathy? Why would…” Another sneeze.

Another flash of irritation. I shouldn’t have to explain this to Raymond. A best friend should understand without me needing to spell it out. “I shouldn’t listen because my mind keeps telling me to put up with being treated mean and unfairly.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Because if people do something wrong, they should feel guilty about it. They should be punished.”

“Of course! But—”

“But not by me? That’s what you’re saying! You don’t think I have any special power.”

“You think you do? You actually believe what Ambrosia says?”

I hate Raymond’s tone. I don’t like it at all. He can be such a know-it-all. That’s why he gets on everyone’s nerves. And his sarcasm! He’s making fun of me. He’s putting me down. When I don’t answer right away, he changes the question: “Do you want to believe what she says?” Pause. “’Cause Meg, if you do, I want to believe her, too.”

And just like that, the anger drains out of me. It’s gone. My pulse settles down. I move from the bench to a swing, wondering why I got so pissed off at him. How did that happen? It came on so fast, flared up, and I felt so right and justified. But then he said the right thing in the right way, and it all evaporated. I’m so glad. I don’t want to be mad at Raymond, not ever. He’s my best friend. He’s there for me. He wants what I want.

“You still there?” he asks.

“I understand why you’re skeptical,” I say, my voice softer. “I’m skeptical, too. I’m not a total fool.”

“Of course not!”

“We’re not supposed to take Ambrosia’s word for anything. She did her part by calling us together, but now it’s up to us. We need to play with our power on our own, test it, figure it out.”

“She said that?”

I nod even though he can’t see me. “She said that’s the only way we’ll really accept who we are and what we’re capable of doing.”

We talk a little more, and then after saying good-bye I inch my toes behind me on the swing. I let the momentum take me, just like a ball in the Newton’s cradle on Mr. H’s desk. Only I don’t bang into anything, except gravity. My energy is all mine. It carries me forward, and at the highest point I pump my legs to go even higher. I tilt backward, practically hanging upside down. The ground whooshes up to meet me.

* * *

Luck is with me tonight. I get into the house without a Leech attack, sneak into the bedroom, and lock the door. She hates locked doors and will probably come pounding on mine soon, but right now I don’t care what she hates. He-Cat is curled up on my pillow. Poor thing. Mistreated little guy. I bet he hid out here all day to avoid her nasty temper. It’s so unfair. When I sit on the bed, the cat snuggles closer and turns into a purr machine.

I eat some peanut-butter crackers, brush the orange-colored crumbs off my lap, and boot up my computer. I’ve never been this excited about homework. I’ve never had homework that has so much to do with my life.

Internet search: The Furies.

Definition: In Greek mythology, the Furies are female earth deities of vengeance and supernatural personifications of the anger of the dead. From one website, I learn that they are also called the Erinyes, which translates as “the angry ones” or “the avengers.” Avengers! From another website, I discover that they are sometimes referred to as “infernal goddesses” who pursue, persecute, and represent regeneration and creation. In the Iliad, they are described as “those who beneath the earth punish whosoever has sworn a false oath.”

The pictures I find are especially awesome. It turns out that the Furies are all over classical art. On some statues, their heads are wreathed with snakes and their eyes drip with blood. On one old vase in a museum, they have the wings of bats or maybe it’s birds; on a piece of pottery, the artist portrays them with the bodies of dogs.

There are so many cultural references to the Furies.

They are major characters in the final part of the Oresteia, a trilogy of Greek tragedies written by Aeschylus, which concerns the end of the curse on the House of