Furious - By Jill Wolfson Page 0,12

right down from the sky, a god who takes care of the problem. Stops a flood, drowns an army, rescues a baby—”

Ambrosia interrupts. “Kills off who needs to be killed off.” She pops the pearl into her mouth, runs it around her gums and cheeks, lets it fall back out like the dark pit of a fruit. “The best plays—those by Aeschylus, for example—are about revenge.”

Raymond nods. “True. What the ancients lacked in a fair and impartial justice system, they made up for in bloodthirsty feuds that decimated entire families for generations.”

“Huh?” Alix asks.

I translate: “Revenge is a big theme in the plays.”

Ambrosia presses her hands together by her chin, like she’s praying, and starts tapping the fingers in an increasingly fast rhythm. “Retribution. Payback. Getting even. Tit for tat. Eye for an eye. Tooth for a tooth. Settling a score.”

“A major theme!” I jolt at the voice from behind me. I hadn’t heard Ms. Pallas come up. She has this way of sneaking up on you that unnerves me. I twist around. She puts one hand on her hip; the other makes a fast sweep across the arc of her braided crown. “However, the plays also grapple with mankind’s glorious struggle for a moral and just civilization in the face of its darker, revengeful instincts.”

This interpretation immediately appeals to Stephanie. She nods enthusiastically, her head reminding me of a bell. Her long, dangling earrings make a clanging sound. “We must fight for justice. That topic is still important today. Look what the forces of darkness are doing to our planet.”

“Exactly!” Ms. Pallas says. There’s triumph in her voice.

“And I, too, agree.” Ambrosia directs this next statement to our teacher. “The past is definitely not old, dead business.”

This gives me an idea. I know it’s a good one, but my throat goes dry like it always does when I have to give my opinion in a group. “I have an…”

“Go on,” Ambrosia encourages.

“I have an idea. How about this as our topic: ‘Bad Blood in Great Theater.’”

Alix is chewing on her lower lip. “Topic after my own heart.”

Ambrosia rises. She passes in front of Ms. Pallas, a little too closely, close enough to bump her a little with her shoulder, close enough for me to know that it wasn’t an accident, even though she does offer the teacher a smile. Only it’s not a smile that’s an apology, but more of a sneer with challenge etched into it. I see that clearly. There is something going on between them. Does everyone else notice?

I try to catch Raymond’s eye, but Ambrosia positions herself in front of me, blocking the view, offering her full radiance. She takes both of my hands in hers and I feel myself sinking into the texture of her skin. It’s soft, but not like a baby’s, more soft and strong like well-worn leather. Her eyes lock onto mine and hold them there. No one has ever looked at me so deeply. I feel her presence in my knees, up my legs, my chest, my throat, at the point between my eyes. Her perfume isn’t a brand I recognize. I pick up hints of roses, mint, and damp, rich soil. It makes my head spin.

“You, Meg,” she says, “are a treasure. You are exactly what we need.”

6

After school it’s raining again, a sudden storm that wasn’t in the forecast. I tell Raymond that I want to skip the bus despite the weather and walk home. That’s one of the ways we definitely aren’t alike. He doesn’t get why I like the rain and fog so much, how bad weather makes me feel in tune with the world as I know it. Raymond’s more of a sunshine and clear skies person, but he’s willing to humor me. We zip our jackets. His face peers out of his hood. He’s stuck on the same subject that’s obsessed him from third period on. Can’t blame him. I’m right there with him.

“You have to go there,” he says again.

“As if I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t know anyone who’s been inside. Sneak photos with your cell phone, okay? Take notes with your elegant handwriting. Promise? You can’t say no. Tell me exactly how Ambrosia invited you.”

“Again?”

“Every detail. Let me relive the thrilling moment with you.”

“Like I said before, she was holding my hands. You saw that. Weird, night? Then she leaned in and whispered, ‘You’ll come to my house. Tomorrow after school.’”

“That’s so Ambrosia. She didn’t ask. She ordered. Nobody ever says no to her.