Mermaid shoves the chair at the counselor and runs out the door. She stops there, confident that Darling is not going to act on her threats in full view of everybody.
“Why?” she says. “Why me, and not Ginger? She goes over to the other side much more often, and she’s only a month older. But you never say anything to her. Because with me it’s easy. Because you despise me, don’t you?”
Darling, still hemmed in by the chair, looks at her furiously, like a horse raring to bolt out of the stable.
“You bonehead,” she says in a loud whisper. “Get out! Go, do whatever you want with whomever you want. I was just trying to care.”
“You were trying to admire yourself!” Mermaid shouts back as she runs away. “That’s the only thing you really care about!”
She flees down the corridor, feeling the counselor’s fury as something hot and fiery, a wave lashing across her back. Someone greets her from the nearest mattress hut. She doesn’t stop.
On the top landing, the merry gang of Logs in black leather race an electric toy car. Needle is with them. Round-faced Bubble sees Mermaid and cracks a smile.
“Hey!” he shouts. “Are you happy?”
“You mean right now?”
“I mean in general. Are you lucky or unlucky? That is, which happens more often?”
“I don’t know,” Mermaid says, downcast. “I’d like to find out myself.”
“I doubt she would work as a lucky charm,” Needle says, crouching on the floor with the rest, “if she doesn’t know herself. Those who are happy are usually more or less aware of it.”
“Maybe, but they would also never tell. Or it can get jinxed,” Bubble argues, defeated but still hopeful.
Needle has on a leather jacket now, like all other Logs. Except instead of jeans she’s wearing a cotton print dress, exposing her matchstick legs. She must have gotten over her hang-ups about them. She also looks loads happier than before, and Mermaid wonders why would counselors be so against girls being friends with boys. Look at Needle, turning into something reasonably cute and worry free.
Logs look away from Mermaid and turn their attention to the beat-up toy, whirring across the landing. Mermaid looks at it too. Short of the wall, the car veers into the railing, hits it, and overturns. Logs bolt up, shouting and whistling.
“Whose wager was that? And who was the dolt that aimed it? Termite, how about using your hands once in a while?”
Mermaid quietly leaves them to it.
She treads the boys’ hallway, very slowly. Now she’s level with the Fourth. She’s going all the way to the Crossroads. There she’ll sit on the sofa for a while and then go back. Pass by the Fourth again. Then maybe do the whole trip over. Or not. She needs to be sure that no one sees her when she goes inside, that she has enough time to replace the stolen amulet and sneak out undetected. Otherwise she may as well forget the whole thing. She is walking, becoming more and more flushed and beautiful with each step. The little bells woven into her hair tinkle softly. She is going to find out soon if she could work as a lucky charm.
BASILISKS
Rat is curled up in a gorgeous armchair. It looks like a hippo with glistening black skin. It’s so cozy that she is able to relax completely in its embrace, almost dozing off. Only her leg, draped over the armrest, is in continuous motion, swinging back and forth. The foot is clad in a splendid black-leather boot, built like a tank, in perfect harmony with both the chair and Rat’s cut-off jacket—shiny leather everywhere, exactly the way Nature intended.
The boot is infuriating to PRIP for some reason. He can’t seem to look away from it.
During his previous visits, PRIP kept ogling her tattoo the same way. You’d think he’d get used to it after all this time. The tattoo is more than two years old. Rat hadn’t worn long sleeves ever since she got it, because how can you hide
So now every time PRIP directs his full-of-loathing stare at his daughter he meets Fleabag’s rictus instead. Which is only fair, since Rat herself never looks at him directly. Only through her badges, the little round mirrors slung around her neck. She’s been seeing him in small fragments for so long now she can’t even imagine him in any way other than a series of reflections. She can’t perceive him as a whole. Not that she’d wish to.
“I am sick and tired of your continuous absenteeism,” PRIP enunciates. “Your constant tardiness. Are you trying to get yourself expelled?”
Rat takes a sideways glance in the badges. She sees the jiggling pink spots of his cheeks and the piggy snout between them. Nothing else shows up anywhere. Then PRIP jumps up, freeing himself of the badges’ attention, and proceeds to stomp and wail like an insane banshee.
