Furious - By Jill Wolfson Page 0,75

three-headed cobra with ruby, sapphire, and emerald eyes. When I tilt my head to my chest to admire it, there’s a hiss and three darting tongues. It’s over so fast that I wonder if it really happened.

Ambrosia disappears into her room and returns with a tray that holds four shot glasses filled to the brim with a clear liquid. We follow her lead and each raise a glass to toast. The drink has an unusual and strong odor—definitely alcohol, but also hints of cinnamon, cloves, and other spices that make me think of pumpkin pie.

“Opa! Party!” Ambrosia shouts. “This drink will turn a colorless world very vibrant.”

I imitate the others and chug it down, only I’m the one who chokes because I’m not used to drinking. Alix pounds me on the back. After the burn in my throat fades, I decide that I like it. It’s so cold and sweet that it makes my teeth tingle, and it tastes like licorice.

From our position at the top of the stairs, we hear the band warming up in the living room. There’s feedback from the speakers, a jarring, painful electronic screech. The doorbell rings. The front door opens. Voices. Laughs. Squeals of recognition. A guitar plays a familiar nine-note riff. A boy’s voice yells: “Hell, yeah!”

“Don’t make your entrance too early,” Ambrosia advises. “But not too late, either. Timing is everything.”

The doorbell again. And again. Sounds merging together. We wait unseen, the three of us fussing with each other, making little costume adjustments and offering compliments.

Ambrosia nods.

It’s time.

I remind myself: Every desire. Don’t hold back.

We put on our masks, which are small, simple, and black, with holes for our eyes. I link arms with Alix and Stephanie. I feel their power and I know they feel mine. We walk down the stairs. Ambrosia throws an electrical switch. The entire house, inside and out, glows and pulses with thousands of orange lights.

24

One step and then another. We’re almost into view.

All my confidence disappears. Total terror. I can’t go through with this. I hate parties. Social stuff makes me break out in hives. The costume that a minute ago was elegant and irresistible feels silly. Worse than silly. I’m basically naked.

I consider fleeing back up the stairs. But Stephanie reaches over and takes my hand, presses it tight against her side. The rough, satiny fabric of her wings rubs against my bare arm, and that is the exact sensation I need right now. There’s strength and comfort in it. Alix takes my other hand. We need each other. We have each other. What am I afraid of? I encourage myself with Ambrosia’s instructions: Accept it. Flaunt it. Embrace it.

As one unit, the three of us override any hesitation. We are the Furies. We are powerful. Together we can deal with a teenage party. Of course we can!

Another step and another.

Alix’s feet laced in leather, Stephanie’s vine-covered ankles and my purple-painted toes land at the bottom of the stairs in perfect rhythm. And when they do, it’s like we flipped an attention-getting switch. There’s a final cymbal crash and the band goes silent. People stop talking and flirting.

At every party there’s one group that all the energy orbits around. Obviously I’ve never been that center. I’m lucky if one nerd even talks to me one time. But now we are that center. I hear all the spoken and unspoken questions: Is that who I think it is? Where did they get such great costumes? When did she get such fantastic hair?

I never realized how starved for this kind of attention I am. I love it. But it’s also freaking me out. Being noticed comes with its own pressure. Whom should I talk to? What should I do with my hands? What about Brendon? Where is he? Was the whole romantic cave scene just a fluke? I’m supposed to be irresistible tonight, but I’m sure that I am going to blurt out stupid, lame things.

There’s another cymbal crash that signals the start of a new song, and the void fills at once with guitar licks, drum rolls, talking, singing, laughing, eating, dancing. I need some space to get my bearings. I look for a quiet corner to duck into. Perfect. It’s a corner with a table full of alcohol. I need alcohol desperately. I find a bottle of the licorice drink and take another shot to steady my nerves. This time I’m ready for the kick, and it burns only a little going down. Warmth spreads