“We will. Love ya, Mom.” George leans up to kiss her mom’s cheek. A knife twists in my gut at their easy companionship. For the first time in a long time, I ached for my parents – for my mother’s kisses and my father’s firm smile when I did something that pleased him. I always thought being alone in the world makes me strong – just the way Daddy taught me. But I’m starting to wonder if loving people gives you something to fight for.
As soon as the door swings shut, George drags me into the living room and lifts the couch cushions to reveal a stack of non-organic, teeth-rotting snackage she stashed there. “My mom’s a health-food nut. But don’t worry – I got supplies. And I have a chocolate mud cake stashed under my bed. I promise it contains absolutely zero buckwheat.”
“You’re hilarious. And also my hero.” I unclip my purse and angle it toward her, showing her the bottle of port I spent way too much time choosing from the cellar. “I raided Daddy’s liquor cupboard. I figured he wouldn’t mind.”
“I’ll get the glasses.” George tosses me the remote. “You choose our movie.”
As George fills rainbow-colored tumblers with Howard Malloy’s forty-year-old port, I scroll through the selection on George’s hard-drive. Her tastes are predictably George – lots of horror films, music documentaries, and weird arthouse films mixed in with the Disney and Japanese anime. I dive into the horror section and choose something with lots of blood and gore. George comes back with drinks and a huge-ass chocolate cake wobbling on a stand, a knife sticking out the top. She sets down her goodies and flops down next to me.
“Excellent choice,” she beams as she sees my selection. “I don’t understand how people have movie nights and watch Titanic or whatever. It’s horror or nothing.”
“I know, right? Horror movies don’t get nearly enough credit. They contain lots of important lessons. Like never run through a creepy forest wearing only your nightgown.”
“And they teach kids the importance of researching arcane shit in libraries,” George adds. “My dad worked on this film, did you know that?”
“No way.”
“It was actually his big break in the industry. After this he hooked up with Damien Scott – you know, the director of Bloody Valentine Massacre – and his career started going places. I grew up watching horror films with Dad – a new one every Friday night. He once said the most unrealistic thing about horror films for millennials is that they always start with someone buying a house.”
I snort. “I started watching them because my real life was such a horror film, they were the only thing that felt real. You should see my room. My parents brought me a porcelain doll every year for my birthday and Christmas. It’s like a real horror film set. I can’t even sleep in that room anymore.”
“Hell yes.” George leans forward. “I want to see your creepy doll room. Did you remember, you and Cleo bloodied up one of your dolls and stuck it in my locker?”
I shake my head. “I don’t remember anything before my parents disappeared.”
“Right, the amnesia.”
“You know about that?”
“Eli said something about it.” She nods vigorously. “At the game.”
“You guys have been hanging out a lot lately.”
“Yeah, he’s great. I’m helping him with a school project.” Her eyes dart away for a moment – an involuntary movement exposing her lie. But I’m way ahead of her – she didn’t go to the Colosseum because of a school project.
I’m dying to ask her more about Eli, but I can’t figure out how. I can’t afford to blow it tonight. I need to build up to confronting her, so I change tack. “George, about me and Cleo…”
“I don’t really want to talk about it.” She trains her eyes on the screen.
“I understand. I’ve had the pleasure of making an enemy of Cleo this year. I can only imagine what the two of us were like when we hunted in a pack. It’s just that… my doctors say hearing about my past might help unlock memories, and I thought if I knew about memories with you in them…” I shrug. I’m a genius. “It’s dumb.”
“It’s not dumb.” But George hugs her knees to her chest, gripping a candy bar so tight the wrapper bursts with a POP. “I guess… I met the two of you in seventh grade. I’d already changed schools twice because