The Cursed Series, Parts 3 & 4 (Cursed #3-4) - Rebecca Donovan Page 0,85

me in a dryer and kept me in there for a day.”

“That would be very uncomfortable,” Arden ponders, her eyes angled toward the ceiling like she’s picturing it. “But it could be fun for a few minutes.”

Maybe it wasn’t my best analogy.

I lower onto the couch next to her and accept the cup of tea. In my gut, I trust Arden. And that’s all I have to go on most of the time anyway. Besides, it smells like a flower garden. I bring it up to my nose and inhale. But when I take a sip, I nearly gag. It doesn’t taste like it smells. It’s earthy and pungent, the stems and roots of the flowers rather than the buds. Maybe my intuition sucks.

“Sorry, but this is terrible,” I say, unable to relax my puckered face.

“Of course it is. It’s medicinal. But it will help, so drink it.”

With a finger on the bottom of the cup, she tips it back toward my lips. I comply but not happily.

Once I’ve forced the rest of it down, she takes the delicate china cup from me and places it on the tray. Then she stands, sets a salve on the table and picks up the tray. “Rub this on anything that hurts, and I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Lana.”

“Uh, goodnight, Arden,” I reply, perplexed by her sudden departure. I know I’m not the best company right now, but she was here maybe two minutes. “Thank you.”

I change and prepare for bed before inspecting the small container of ointment. “Might as well,” I declare in defeat, dabbing the clear petroleum-looking substance onto my aches. I’m yawning as I crawl under the covers, the throbbing in my head and the soreness in my muscles already subsiding. I have no idea what was in that tea or ointment, but I’d rather not touch the bottle of pills Brendan set on my desk.

I really don’t suspect him of tampering with my mother’s medicine. But I have no idea what he’s capable of or how he’s involved with Vic. He’s supposed to be on my side. But that’s naive. I’ve known since the second I met him, Brendan’s only on one side … his.

Before I leave for class the next morning, Arden leaves another cup of tea on the countertop. This one doesn’t taste like I’m swallowing lawn clippings, but it’s not much better. It has a spicy licorice flavor that clears out my sinuses. I have no idea why I’m trusting her. She could be giving me psychotropics for all I know. Except … I already notice a difference. The pain isn’t as intense, and I’m a little less edgy. So instead of feeling like I could burn the entire campus down in a single breath of fury, my anger smolders in my gut.

I get my meal to go and sit in a weird garden I discover by the languages building. It’s made up of large, spongy beds shaped like mushrooms. But to reach the top of them, you’re supposed to bounce on a trampoline pod—which I can’t. So I sit on the trampoline instead and use the mushroom as an umbrella. I think whoever designed this garden was on psychotropics.

I can easily imagine Ashton jumping around, landing with a plop on top of each colorful mushroom in their various shades of neon. I wonder if she’s found it yet. There’s this childlike wonder about her most of the time. She observes the world around her as if she’s in awe of it. But I know she’s also witnessed and experienced too much of its ugliness.

The smolder ignites into a flame at the thought of what she’s been through, and I’m an inferno again. My fist ricochets off the trampoline when I punch it. I have no control of my anger; it controls me. Feeding off the frustration, knowing Brendan’s playing with me. The homicidal rage I feel toward Vic. The disappointment and hurt that keeps my mother at arm’s length. Just sprinkle the betrayal of my best friends on top, and I’m an all-consuming fiery ball of fury.

So how can I be anyone’s best friend, especially Ashton’s, when I feel like incinerating everything in my path?

When I leave for class Wednesday morning, I tape a sign on my door that reads Need More Time, kind of like Ashton did when she wanted to be left alone to sleep when she was hurting. I’m hoping this will let her know that I’m not gone, just in a