Marianne by Elizabeth Hammer (best books to read in life TXT) 📕

Patrick gawked at her. “And here I thought I was the uneducated one. I have so many problems with that statement that I don’t know where to start.”

Marianne turned away. “Start at the beginning, smartass.”

“Well, I’ll just pass by the fact that you’re trusting the internet with your life—”

“I’m not going to die from fake bulimia!”

“I know.” Patrick picked up his coffee and swirled it around. “You’re going to die from real anorexia.”

Marianne rolled her eyes. “Oh, geez... that’s what Sally said, too. You guys are so far off.”

Patrick’s mouth fell open. “You talked to Sally about this?”

Uh-oh. “She brought it up.” Way to cast blame, Marianne.

Patrick shifted in his seat. “So have I.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“I asked you specifically about this at the beach. Remember?”

Marianne felt super guilty then. He was right to look at her the way he was. Marianne nodded at her coffee. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” She looked up at him. “But... there was nothing to tell you. There’s still nothing.”

He just looked back at her. Try again.

“What do you want from me, Patrick?” She shoved her coffee into the cup holder, sloshing it out of the spout. “I don’t know what you want if you won’t believe me.”

“I want you to knock it off.”

“Fine!” Marianne threw her hands up. “I said it was stupid, and that I didn’t have to do it. I won’t puke, anymore. I promise.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” he said evenly. “I mean all of it.” He meant the diets. He meant the weight loss. He meant the scale obsession. He meant the drinking diet soda instead of eating lunch. He meant all the things she didn’t even realize he’d known about.

No.

She looked at him but didn’t say anything. He looked angry. He looked like he seriously meant it. Like it was a deal-breaker. He wasn’t going to budge.

No.

Her eyes started stinging. She was so mad. He couldn’t do this to her. She looked away, toward the passenger door. Should she throw a tantrum and storm out of the truck, or should she lie? She could lie. She could promise to knock it off; they were just words. “Okay,” she whispered.

That hurt. And it wasn’t lying to Patrick that hurt; it was lying against her love of the thing. She felt like she’d just turned traitor on her soul. “Okay,” she choked out again.

23

Weeping and Gnashing of Teeth

Well, that night sucked.

This night was going to suck, too. No doubt about it.

Marianne sat in the backseat of Ben’s two-door Pinto station wagon, wedged in beside Sally, Todd, and Andrew, on the way to the big Gothy soiree at Huntington Beach. Apparently, Goths didn’t turn to charcoal in direct sunlight like they claimed. Still, she couldn’t believe what she’d gotten herself into. Decked out in blood-red velvet like Scarlett O’Hara—intentional mascara lines running down her face to create an illusion of wretched grief—and a rolled-up baggy of Todd’s best weed in the pocket of her backpack. Hey, can you hold this for me, kid?—Sure. Why not? Marianne shook her head at herself as they pulled into the parking lot. There were no words.

She hadn’t had to work very hard to lie to Patrick and get away from him for the night. He was very considerately giving her space. She clenched her teeth. She didn’t want space from him personally, just space from his brooding, mistrustful hawk eyes. By two o’clock, she could have stabbed him in the neck with a spork and enjoyed it. A lot.

“Hey,” said Ben. “Anybody got money for parking?”

All he got back were a bunch of apologetic humms and inhales through clenched teeth. “For Pete’s sake,” spat Marianne under breath. She dug around in her bag and pulled out the required twelve dollars. If she’d known that the Devil charged admission to Hell, she’d have brought more money. Ben took the cash and told her he’d pay her back later. She told him not to worry about it.

Well, no... she actually told him to shove it up his rear, but he just shrugged it off. It’d been clear from the get-go how cranky she was tonight, so he didn’t take it personally.

They parked in the back of one of the lots, facing PCH. Cool. They were only about seventeen miles away from the fire pit where the death party was. Marianne unstuck herself from the vinyl, clawed her way over the pile of Taco Bell trash, and almost hanged herself on the sweat-encrusted passenger seatbelt on her way out of the deathtrap. “Sweet ride, Ben,” she said.

He smiled at her good-naturedly and tried to hand her a bundle of firewood to carry.

She stared at him with enough hatred that he stepped back and left her alone. That’s right. Marianne shouldered her bag of dope and trudged across the sandy asphalt to find the fire pit.

For the first hour, Marianne just sat on the edge of the cold concrete pit and bared her teeth at anyone who came too close. She probably would have been a little more social, except that the first greeting she received when she walked up went something like, “The Blackness bids you welcome and well met.”

Marianne had stared at the boy for a moment, focusing briefly on the fingernails sharpened to nasty little points, and said, “Are you the blackness?”

“Nay, but I have walked the path of the Shadow. I know its ilk and speak its flowered verses of soft death.”

“Right. You know, I think you should speak normally. It... it’s better.”

“How can the Void bequeath that which it does not have?”

“Yeah, I don’t know. I guess it can’t... but maybe you should try.”

“Your vanity and lust ask for more, but I am unwhole. I am empty. I am the pit that has no end. I have nothing to give and take everything I am offered. I consume—”

Marianne cut him off. “It’s pretty hot. Why are you wearing that trench coat?”

“We who dwell