Malice Page 2

  Voices don’t randomly appear in people’s heads. They just don’t.

  Except…this one keeps talking.

  “Well? I’m not sure how much more you can take, but I’m willing to find out.”

  I’m not. I may not know what’s real anymore, but apparently I’m going to confess my infatuation to a stranger.

  Coming out from behind the oak tree, I put one foot in front of the other. Bandit’s blue hair glistens under the sunlight, and he’s passing the basketball from one hand to the other, his movements quick, his hands nimble. His rudeness notwithstanding, he’s certainly…attractive.

  Not that it matters. He could be the best-looking guy in the world, and he still wouldn’t be my type. I have very few rules, and this is one of them: no romantic entanglements in high school. My parents were high school sweethearts and look what happened to them.

  I take a deep breath. This is going to be harder than I thought. My heart is racing at the idea of telling this guy anything. Bandit’s an unusual blend of jock and genius, making him one of the most popular kids at our school. Both girls and guys swarm his locker in between classes, and his ego must be through the stratosphere. It’s got to be, ’cause only a boy with supreme confidence could pull off that blue hair. He’s pretty much everything that I’m not. Entitled. Self-assured. Accepted.

  This is a guy who’s never had to question his parents’ love or his classmates’ approval.

  I hate that part of me is jealous. For me. For Archie. I hate that another part feels less than. And for those feelings… I kinda, sorta hate him, too.

  Before I know it, I’m a foot away from the basketball court. The players are taking a break, and Bandit stands at the edge of the concrete, taking long pulls from a water bottle. Up close, his brilliant hair looks almost purple, and his T-shirt sticks to his back in sweaty patches, hinting at his solid muscles.

  Now what? Do I clear my throat? Tap his shoulder? Going for broke, I do both at the same time.

  He turns and lifts his eyebrows, as though wondering how a mere mortal such as myself dares to approach him. He’s tall—really tall. Almost a head above my five feet five. His jaw is chiseled, his shoulders broad. I’m so close that I can feel the heat rising off his body.

  My brain scrambles. I forgot to check if I had any food in my teeth! Did I brush my hair this morning? Put on clothes?

  Okay, so clearly I’m not naked, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what I’m wearing. Please don’t let it be the navy T-shirt with the faded splotches on the shoulder, from when I accidentally added bleach instead of detergent to the laundry.

  I glance down. Jeans and a white tank top—my favorite shirt because it has Lin-Manuel Miranda’s autograph. More than passable.

  “I, uh…” My entire vocabulary chooses that moment to flee.

  His lids lower, and he looks at me, decidedly bored. “Yes? Can I help you?”

  Three, four, five of his basketball friends angle their towering bodies toward us, probably wondering what the interruption is about.

  Sweat gathers at the nape of my neck, and electricity hums along my skin. The Voice is about to zap me again. I just know it.

  “Running out of time,” the Voice pipes up, as if on cue. “Tell him.”

  Say the words and be done with it. Say the words. Say. The. Words.

  “I love you,” I blurt. “That is all. Goodbye.”

  I wheel around, ready to sprint, when a hand snags my arm. His hand.

  “Wait a minute,” Bandit says, his eyes 2 percent less bored. “Are we in third grade? Do you want to give me a note asking if I love you back, so I can circle yes or no?”

  My cheeks burn hotter than the sun assaulting my skin. Hotter, even, than the flames that got me into this mess.

  I could really use that alien abduction right about now.

  The object of my supposed affection smirks. “We can skip the note. Can’t say I blame you for falling for me. I mean, I’m a lovable guy. But have we actually met?” He lowers his voice. “Outside of your wildest dreams, that is.”

  I gape. Is he kidding me right now? How does a person live with this much arrogance?

  An earsplitting whistle slices through the air, returning me to my senses. I jerk back, away from Bandit. Away from my disgrace. Without looking at him, I crash through the crowd. There couldn’t have been more than half of these students here before. Where did they come from? The seams in the concrete?

  Worse, they’re all smirking and laughing. At me.

  Nobody else was supposed to have heard. I was willing to embarrass myself, but only in front of a guy who couldn’t care less what I say to him.

  The double doors of the school swing shut behind me, taking with them the excited laughs, the wild chatter, the indistinct whir of speculation.

  “Don’t tell anybody about me, Malice,” the Voice warns.

  Malice? Did the voice just call me Malice? That can’t be right. The evilest thing Alice Sherman has done all year is make sure her brother’s fed.

  “And whatever you do, don’t fall for that boy,” she says. “It’ll only make what you have to do later harder.”

  My mouth drops open. What will I have to do later? As in, this voice thing is going to happen again? More to the point… “Of course I’m not going to fall for him,” I snap. “He’s the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met.”

  But the Voice doesn’t respond. Instead, there’s a popping sound in my head, like a shoe escaping the mud, and the space inside my brain is still and quiet.

  As though she was never here at all.

  Maybe…she wasn’t.

  Chapter 2

  My cell phone pings with an incoming text message. Again. For only the hundredth time this hour. From acquaintances I haven’t spoken to in months, from classmates I didn’t even know had my number. All pumping me for details: What did I say, how did he look, why did I do it?

  I had no idea the junior class was so preoccupied with Bandit Sakda. I’d welcome the infatuation, as it draws the attention off me. Except the texts are accompanied by snarky comments like, “You poor thing! Just how long have you been crushing on Bandit?” and “Too bad he doesn’t feel the same way about you.”

  Which kinda makes me want to sink into the quicksand at Mont Saint-Michel. At least then I’d be in France.

  Gritting my teeth, I transfer the beef and broccoli that Dad picked up from the takeout cartons to a serving platter. The whispers followed me from period to period, as faithful as a watchdog. Add to that, you know, the alien in my skull, and this day can’t be over soon enough.

  I refuse to think about the Voice. Because it either means I’m slowly but surely losing my grip on reality…or someone really did hack into my brain and can now force me do anything she wants. Both options make me feel nauseated.

  “Aren’t you going to see who sent the text?” Lalana asks from where she’s sitting at my kitchen table.

  “No need. They’re all the same.” I focus as hard as I can on distributing the broccoli evenly among the beef so that nice pops of green show up against the rich brown. I then press jasmine rice into small bowls and overturn them onto the plates so that the scoops come out domed and pretty. Perfect for a photo for my foodie account.

  Idly, Lalana picks up my phone and glances at the screen. “It’s from Bandit.”

  I drop my tongs with a clatter and snatch up the phone. “Give me that.”

  124.087.3562: Tell me. How does a person fall in love w someone they’ve never met? Is it my good looks? My rock-hard body? Or my big, big...brain?

  My mouth drops. His sheer arrogance takes my breath away. “This is Bandit’s phone number?”

  “Yep.” Lalana drums her fingers on the table. “He’s had the same number since he was thirteen.”

  As luck would have it, my best friend actually knows
Bandit. Lalana is also Thai, and their parents have been friends since she was a little girl peeling layers off her kahnom chun and eating it piece by piece. Most of their interactions are during family events, however, which is why I’ve never hung out with him.

  “Tell him the truth,” Lalana says. “I don’t mind.”

  I gnaw on my cheek. Marching up to Bandit was completely out of character for me. Lalana would know. I mean, she knows that I once accidentally killed my goldfish because I fed it freshly baked cookies. Of course she’s going to figure out when I’m confessing to a nonexistent crush.

  Fortunately, she automatically assumed I was looking out for her. Right before my confession, she’d spilled water on herself—in the exact spot that made it look like she had wet her pants. She thought I made a scene just to distract our classmates so that she could slip away unseen.

  “Announcing that you’re crushing on Bandit is a little over-the-top,” she said, her eyes shining. “But I love you for it.”

  “It’s what we do,” I responded faintly. “What we always do.”

  And it’s true. From the day we met, Lalana and I have been covering for each other—literally. On the first day of my brand-new middle school, I ripped my jeans, revealing my Sonic the Hedgehog underwear. Even though we’d never spoken, Lalana took off her sweater and handed it to me. We’ve been inseparable ever since.

  I hate lying to my best friend. Hate it. But the Voice said not to tell anyone, and until I find out more about who—or what—she is, I’m not sure I should disobey.

  “Are you going to respond to him?” Lalana asks.

  My fingers are already scrambling across the screen. I’m not going to sell her out, though, even if she did give me permission. I would never do that.

  Me: The only thing big about you is your head! Listen. I don’t know you. I don’t like you. I was dared to tell a stranger that I loved him. End of story.

  Most Obnoxious Boy Alive: Even if that’s true...which it’s probably not...u picked me. How come?

  Me: Because you happened to be there?

  Most Obnoxious Boy Alive: Nice try. The lawn was filled w people. U could’ve picked anybody. But u chose me. & I know why

  Me: Really? Well, enlighten me, O Wise One. (This ought to be good.)

  Most Obnoxious Boy Alive: Cuz of my big, big...toe

  I stare at the screen in disbelief. And then I let out a bark of laughter.

  “What is it?” Lalana asks.

  “Nothing.” I shake my head, resolutely tucking the phone in my back pocket. “He’s just being…”

  She lifts her eyebrows knowingly. “Cute?”

  “Definitely not,” I say quickly. “Annoying. Obnoxious. Full of himself. Did I say annoying?”

  A small smile crosses her lips, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Listen,” she says. “I know he can be charming or whatever, but I don’t think you should get to know Bandit any more. Trust me—striking up a relationship with him will only make things harder.”

  My breath lodges in my throat. That’s almost…exactly what the Voice said. Wasn’t it?

  No. I’m not thinking about what happened, remember? And I’m certainly not going to draw parallels where none exist. Voice who?

  “I promise I’ll never speak to him again.” It’s a small concession for the girl who gets up an hour early on the weekends to make pastries people will actually eat for me to photograph. “Happy?”

  Her lips twitch. “Drama queen.”

  “Enough about me,” I say, vowing to forget that I ever knew a boy named Bandit. I peer at my best friend. There’s a dullness to her expression. A sheen of…sadness overlaying her features. “Lalana, are you okay? You seem a little down. Is this about Reggie?”

  She straightens, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Nah. Just some family stuff I can’t really talk about.”

  “O-kay,” I say slowly. “But I’m here for you. You know that, right? Any time at all.”

  She smirks. “Even two thirty in the morning?”

  I grin. “Even then.” In eighth grade, I snuck out my window at two thirty a.m. with a box of mochi under my arm because Lalana was convinced she couldn’t survive the night without the green-tea ice cream. Made perfect sense to me. Unfortunately, I slipped and broke my arm in two places. It did not make sense to my father.

  “I made something for you,” I continue.

  She wrinkles her nose. “Please tell me you didn’t bake.”

  “Ugh, no.” I shudder. I measure ingredients by, you know, scooping up a bunch of flour and dumping it into a bowl. Who knew that in baking, a cup isn’t really a cup? Instead, it’s this precisely measured amount that involves scraping a knife across the top to get rid of the two excess grains. Who has that kind of time?

  I cross to the drawer and pull out the masterpiece I created this afternoon. “Ta-da!”

  A printout of Chris Hemsworth’s face is taped to the end of a chopstick, with a cartoon bubble coming out of his mouth that says, “Will you go to prom with me?”

  Lalana cracks up. “Oh, Alice,” she gasps, holding onto her belly. “I can’t even.”

  I smile like a proud parent. “Who needs to go to prom with Reggie when you’ve got Thor?”

  “Who’s going to prom with whom?” A male voice drifts into the room. Lalana and I both freeze.

  Before we can recover, a tall African-American boy with a disarming smile strolls into the room. Zeke, a prodigy whose genius rivals my brother’s—and my brother’s only friend outside of me.

  “Nobody,” I say. I didn’t know Zeke was here, even though I’m secretly glad he is. Archie needed this. “We were just goofing around.”

  Lalana picks up the Chris Hemsworth replica and strokes his cheeks possessively.

  For a few moments, he blinks confusedly at Lalana. She proceeds to plant a kiss on the two-dimensional face.

  “Well, that’s disturbing,” he says, his eyes bright. Although, let’s face it. Everything about him is bright, from the light reflecting off his cheeks to the glow that radiates from inside him. What’s more, as smart as he is, he’s not arrogant in the slightest. Unlike other people I know. Other people I’ve forgotten.

  Now, if Zeke asked me to prom, I would actually consider it. Maybe. Probably.

  Archie walks into the room, still in his Marie Curie shirt and khaki shorts. Contrary to popular belief, my brother’s not actually dirty. Instead, he bought a dozen of the same T-shirt and shorts after reading an article about decision fatigue and highly effective people.

  “Barack Obama and Michael Kors wear the same outfit every day,” he’d explained to me. “It’s one less decision they have to make so that they can focus on more important things.”

  I gaped at him. “But President Obama wears power suits. And Michael Kors wears all black. Not…” I gestured helplessly at his decidedly unfashionable getup.

  He pushed the glasses up his nose. “Are you seriously asking me to wear tight pants when I sit in the basement all night?”

  I guess not. But his insistence on comfort does make him the target of hushed and not-so-hushed snickers at our school.

  “Hi, Lalana,” he says now, oblivious to my scrutiny. “Nice cutout.” My best friend is currently dancing Thor over the tabletop. We all stare at his bobbing head, transfixed.

  Damn. Chris manages to look hot even on a stick.

  “At the risk of interrupting…” Archie says drily, as though he expects nothing less from my friends or me, “do you mind if Zeke and I grab some food? I know I said I would have dinner with you, but we’re in the middle of a project. Besides—” He glances slyly at the acrobatic Thor head. “It doesn’t look like you need any more company.”

  “Oh, sure.” I shove the perfectly arranged beef and broccoli platter at him. “Here, take this. I’ll eat the tofu. It’s my fave
anyhow.”

  Oops. I haven’t taken any photos of the beef and broccoli yet. But the foodie account can wait. Zeke and Archie’s friendship is way more important, and I’m thrilled they’re hanging out again.

  With one last smile from Zeke, the boys leave.

  Lalana and I take one look at each other and dissolve into laughter.

  “Did you”—she wheezes—“see the look…on Zeke’s face…when I was fondling Thor?”

  “And Archie!” I gasp. “I think he was wondering if I was somehow switched at the hospital!”

  We laugh until we’re doubled over, panting for air, tears running down both our faces. Which, in my opinion, is the best kind of laughter. The kind I like to indulge in at least once a week. The kind I have only with Lalana.

  When we’re sufficiently recovered, she rises to her feet in one boneless motion. “I have to take off,” she says regretfully. “I promised the Wat Thai I’d update their website tonight. Thanks for my prom date, though.” She winks. “I’ll keep him close by my side, where he belongs.”

  She tucks Chris’s face into her purse, kisses me on both cheeks, and floats out of the house. I look at her retreating figure. After the recent hilarity, the empty room feels…quiet. Almost too quiet. Otherworldly quiet.

  Shaking off the sensation, I begin arranging the ma-po tofu on a plate, humming to myself. This is going to be a challenge. Despite the fiery red sauce, tofu does not photograph as well as beef.

  I’m repositioning some of the cubes when a streak of electricity flashes across my brain. A very familiar streak of electricity.

  My eyes open wide, and every residual ounce of amusement drains from my body.

  The Voice is back.

  Chapter 3

  My breath comes in quick, shallow pants. I brace myself, preparing for the pain that’s about to follow.

  But it doesn’t come. The zap doesn’t return, the electricity doesn’t intensify, and my brains don’t feel like they’re being boiled. What’s going on?

  “Move away from the sink,” the Voice says evenly. It’s the same one as before, but she’s not impatient and angry this time. Instead, she sounds quite calm.