Furious - By Jill Wolfson Page 0,70

up.”

“Sort of,” I say. I show him the recent messages on my phone.

“So romantic! Costumes and everything.” That really lightens the mood. I can always count on him to make me feel better. I playfully slap at his arm. “So what’s this about Ambrosia having a Halloween party?”

“She put invitations in lockers.”

An exaggerated hurt look blooms on his face. “Guess I didn’t make the A-list.”

“We’re all A-list. She invited everyone. I bet the invitation fell to the bottom of your locker.”

“She must not like me.” A couple of fake sniffs.

“Such delicate nerve endings, Raymond. Don’t be a fragile flower. I’m sure it was an oversight.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Ambrosia and I have different worldviews.”

“Come anyway. It’s a party. Rumors are flying about the delights she has planned.”

He gives me a goofy slug on the shoulder. “Delights! Oh, I will be there. Don’t worry. Nothing could keep me away.”

* * *

All the party rumors are true.

No parents will be here tonight. There’s going to be a real band, not some high school kids who took a few guitar lessons. And alcohol. The invitation said that nobody has to bring a thing. Ambrosia will provide everything that anyone could possibly want, plus stuff that we don’t even know that we want. She told Alix, Stephanie, and me to come in the late afternoon without costumes. She has everything we need.

So here we are at her house. Things start out a little tense because of the whole Brendon episode. I assure them again that I’d never betray their trust by revealing our secret. At Ambrosia’s prompting, Stephanie gives me a quick, tentative hug and Alix mutters a sentence with the word sorry in it. I’m relieved that Ambrosia, too, has come around.

When we enter the living room, Alix lets out a long whistle of appreciation. This is not only about the decorations, which we all agree are beyond fantastic. There are cobwebs that look and feel real and life-sized mummies and gravestones that also seem real. Alix takes Stephanie by the hand, dragging her from table to table, a kid in a candy store, only instead of Sour Patch Kids and Hershey’s Kisses there’s real champagne from France in buckets of ice, premium vodka sold only in Russia, sake from Japan, tequila from Mexico.

“Plants are not the only thing that my family collects in its travels,” Ambrosia explains. “I want my guests to be happy.”

Alix removes the cap of a bottle of something called rakia. “From Albania,” she reads from the label. “Where is Albania again?” She sticks her nose into the opening, but not for long. When she comes up for air, her eyes are watering. “Your guests are going to be very happy.”

Stephanie holds a small bottle of clear liquid up to the light.

“Don’t shake that!” Ambrosia warns.

Stephanie puts it down carefully. “Someone’s definitely going to call the police.”

Ambrosia scoffs, flicks her wrist like she’s shooing away a pesky bug. “Oh, the law. As usual, it is completely useless and ineffectual. The police have been taken care of. Not to worry.”

“No popo! Might as well get started, then.” Alix tilts back her head, takes a sip of the rakia. “It’s awful. But addictive.” She offers the bottle to Stephanie, who says, “Why not?”

“So intemperate,” Ambrosia says. “I like that.”

I have a one-track mind. “My costume?” I ask eagerly.

I don’t think Ambrosia hears me, because she’s pointing with disapproval to a section of cobweb. “Does that look right to you?” She pushes up her sleeves past her elbows and thrusts her bare arms into the mass, stretching it so that the netting thins and expands. It’s like she’s weaving it herself, and when she’s done she steps back to admire her work.

Then a spin to me. “So impatient and self-absorbed! I like that part of you. We don’t get to see it enough. Costumes will come. First some preliminaries.”

We follow her through the corridors and up the stairs, every inch of the house decked out with spiders, lifelike dead rats hanging by their tails, and pumpkins with sinister grins. Even if there weren’t a single decoration, the red walls, dim lighting, and old furniture would be eerie enough. When we enter her bedroom, even with the window closed, I’m hit by the faint odor of rotting meat from that red plant that sits in the center of the all-white garden. It’s still blooming, seems to be getting even bigger. Everything in the room is about the same as on our last