Oculus

“All extremes of feeling are allied with madness.”

— Virginia Woolf, Orlando

On the night of the winter formal I go to Jane’s house. She is going as Cameron’s date, but for the two hours before he had to pick us up, I can pretend that she isn’t.

Jane’s mother opens the door for me. I’ve shot up in height this past year and Mrs. Tham, already petite, hardly reaches my sternum, but she still manages to make me feel eight years old again, standing in this doorway for the first time. Her eyes go soft as she smiles at me. “Abby, you look beautiful. Jane’s in her room.” Then she turns to shout down the hallway: “Janey! Abby’s here!”

Jane throws her arms around my shoulders when she sees me in the entryway, already in her dress: a coral-pink color that makes her skin glow bronze, with sheer sleeves that flutter around her slender biceps like rose petals. As she pulls back she makes a choked little squeal and puts her hands on my cheeks, patting me like she’s trying to get me to blush. “Abby, you look so pretty! Literally gorgeous!”

She is smiling so earnestly that I knew she means it—the thought makes my stomach bottom out like I’ve missed a step down the stairs—but I know that even in my dress I pale next to Jane. It took months of coaxing from my own mother, a former sophomore duchess, to even get me to come to the formal at all; I only relented when she threatened to drive me there herself. Still, the idea of tagging along with Jane and Cameron makes me want to punch a wall.

I hardly register that Jane is pulling me by the wrist until my feet nearly slip out from under me on the hardwood, and I scramble to keep up with her as she leads me down the hall. She spins me around at arm’s length, beaming, and then pushes me into her bedroom. I turn to look at Jane as she smooths her floaty skirt primly and sinks into the carpet to sit cross-legged amidst an avalanche of makeup and hair products. “Holy crap. Is that all yours?”

“Some of it’s Ma’s.” She gives me a mischievous grin and I can’t help but smile back. “She went crazy at Sephora.”

I sit down facing her, careful not to crush the baby-blue taffeta of my dress underneath me. “I don’t know what half this stuff does.”

“Me either.” Jane is picking up tubes at random, unscrewing, pressing buttons, popping off lids. She rolls up a lipstick bullet and sniffs it, then makes a face. “Gross.”

“Cameron’s gonna hate it if you get that all over his face.” I regret saying his name the second it leaves my lips; Jane’s smile widens and sort of warms, and I want to hit myself. I feel myself slump as she continues amusing herself with her pile of makeup products, uncapping, unsnapping, testing colors on the back of her hand and smiling to herself all the while. Sulking, I check my phone—it’s almost 7. Cameron will be here in fifteen minutes to pick us up in his stupid Prius he got for his sixteenth. What an ass, I think. A sophomore, only a year older than Jane and me, but tall and broad for his age and with a strong, stern brow and dull gray eyes that I think liken him somewhat to a redheaded Frankenstein’s monster. Jane is obsessed with him. I am not.

“Mascara. Finishing touches.” Jane looks up at me, batting long, dark eyelashes, and then her eyes widen like she’s had an epiphany. “Abby! Please let me put mascara on you. You’re gonna look insane.”

“Insane?” I shake my head, swallow a laugh. “Okay. I guess. I mean, go ahead.”

Jane makes a little yes gesture with her fist, beaming, and picks a jet-black tube from her spread. Shimmying forward, she uncaps the tube and says, “Don’t close your eyes. I’ll tell you when to blink.”

I open my eyes as wide as they will go. Like this, I have no choice but to look at Jane: biting her lower lip in concentration as she leans in, eyes dropping to pull the little brush out of its tube and raising it to my lashes, her own eyelids glowing with golden shimmer. “Blink,” she murmurs. I do.

My stomach is curling up on itself, my fingertips jangling with nerves. Jane’s mouth hangs slightly open and I can see the glint of tongue behind her small, straight teeth. I close my own mouth instinctively; the roof of my mouth is rough and dry.

“Blink,” Jane whispers again. I do.

She puts one cool hand on my cheek and a wild thrill hits my gut—for a second, I think she might kiss me. She is so close, swiping her thumb under my eye. I swallow hard.

Jane sits back on her heels, leaving a cold spot on my cheek where her hand was. I feel stunned, like I’ve run into an electric fence. She surveys me for a second, appraising her handiwork, and then her face splits into a smile. “Oh my God, I told you. Look at your eyes, Abby!”

I take the hand mirror she offers and blink at my reflection: my eyelashes, left untampered with, are fine and blonde and barely visible in most light, but now they look like Jane’s, sooty and impossibly long. My mouth opens and I look back up to her. “You’re magic.”

Her smile widens and she mimes a curtsy. “Thank you! Thank you. I know. No need to thank me.”

I do anyway. “I appreciate it,” I say, as sincerely as I could manage with her handprint still cooling on my cheek. She glows again, and then the doorbell rings.

Jane’s smile changes again like it did when I mentioned Cameron the first time, going warm and soft around the edges like she’s been waiting for this for years, and she jumps to her feet, nearly tripping over the hem of her skirt in her haste to get to the door. I hardly even have time to react before she’s out of the room, leaving only a small indent in the plush carpet and a cloud of her candy-sweet special-occasion perfume high in my sinuses. For a minute I hate myself, hate Jane, hate Cameron— what did I expect, really? My cheek burns like Jane slapped me. I want— I don’t know what I want. I want Jane’s hand on me again. I want her head pounding like mine is now. I want Cameron’s Prius crumpled against a brick wall and I want his head bashed in. Pressure is building inside my skull, hot tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. I blink, hard, not remembering the mascara, not caring either way.

When I force myself to meet them in the entryway, Jane’s practically hanging off Cameron’s arm as he clumsily fixes a tea-rose corsage to her slender wrist. His eyes are trained on the plunging neckline of Jane’s dress. My stomach turns over.

I clear my throat and Cameron straightens, flashing a grin. I want him dead.

“Let’s bounce,” he says.

I stay silent most of the car ride. Jane and Cameron prattle on in the front seat about her dress and his mom’s job and their AP Geography class. I watch them from the backseat; Cameron keeps swerving because he turns to look at Jane instead of the potholed road ahead, and every time I catch a glimpse of his profile his right eye glints like a razor’s edge. Jane is oblivious, but I feel his gaze every time it hits her, making the hairs prickle on the back of my neck. I know what he wants from her—what boys always want from her, have wanted from her since she turned twelve and started growing a chest—and just because he’s the first one to get her on his arm doesn’t mean he’s any different, doesn’t mean he’s not going to devour her the second she lets her guard down. The hooks sink deeper with every glance—I don’t know how Jane keeps smiling.

Something clunks unsettlingly as Cameron pulls clumsily into a parking space, one of just a few left. We’re a little late—got stuck at an intersection and Cameron forgot his turn signal, but now we’re here. I feel sick, but I can’t tell if it’s from Cameron’s driving or just his presence.

Jane is giggling at something Cameron’s showing her—on his phone maybe. “What’s up,” I say, and Jane turns to look at me, eyes dark and mischievous. “Show her, Cam.”

Cameron turns around in his seat and flashes a grin and then a flask. It says EXTRA STRENGTH WHOOP-ASS, which coming from anyone else would be funny but from Cameron just makes me want to hit him. Heat is bubbling up my throat. I force a smile. He holds eye contact with me as he drinks, then hands the flask to Jane.

The gymnasium has been converted into a sea of plastic snow and ice: iridescent shavings work their way into my strappy sandals—silver, a size too small for me, borrowed from Jane’s closet—and slice into the skin between my toes as I duck to avoid taking my eye out on a row of glittering plastic icicles. Jane and Cameron are a few feet ahead of me, tipsy now, arm in arm, and I watch through my eyelashes as Cameron whispers something that makes her bark a loose, uncensored laugh—the kind of laugh I can never coax out of her. The strobe lights flash blue, silver, blue, silver. The DJ is playing Top 40. I want to go home.

I detach myself from Jane and Cameron and work my way to the snack bar instead, pushing a path through the mass of glitter and tulle and Axe body spray. They’re serving cupcakes with little silvery pearls in lieu of sprinkles. I take one, but don’t eat it.

I’m tall enough that from here I can pick out Jane and Cameron in the crowd—they’re in the middle, doing a weird swaying dance that ends with them chest to chest. Something almost protective flares up in my chest—I feel my teeth grinding. Someone’s perfume is far too strong and they’re wearing far too much of it. It might be mine. Vaguely, I’m aware of the easy give of the cupcake liner as my fingers tighten around it.

Jane is whispering something to Cameron. He puts his arms around her, hands flat against the small of her back as they dance, and I feel my pulse quicken in my ears. Even here I can see the strobe reflecting in Cameron’s eyes, trained on Jane like crosshairs. I feel restless, trapped, like a spring stretched too far. My hand, the one holding the cupcake, is wet—I’ve crushed it. I can’t find it in me to care.

A new song starts: something slower, syrupier, by an ex-boyband-member from a few years ago. I try to relax. I try to breathe, but it sticks in my throat. I can’t tear my eyes from Jane—she’s swaying again, the thin, floaty material of her dress swishing with her. Cameron ducks his head down and it looks like he says something to her, whispering with his mouth close to her ear. Even in the flashing silver light I can see the dull red fever spots on Jane’s cheeks, a heavy, drunk flush. Cameron looks similarly affected, pushing up against her as they dance in a way that makes my own face flood with heat, but I still can’t look away—there’s this pressure burning behind my eyes. Not like I’m going to cry—deeper somehow, like something is writhing inside my head, aching to get out.

Someone bumps into me; I sway in place, my gaze still fixed on Jane and Cameron. I watch her laugh as if in slow motion, head thrown back in a waterfall of dark hair. His head ducks and I know he’s looking down her dress again, I just know. My skin is prickling like I need to crawl out of it, hot blood beating in my temples. My destroyed cupcake, now long forgotten, falls wetly onto my sandaled foot. I hardly notice it.

I can practically smell the liquor rolling off their clothing in waves, even from here; Jane especially has gone unsteady on her feet now, mouth hanging open as she totters in Cameron’s arms. They’re so close. Too close, I think, as I watch Jane’s eyelids flutter, as she stumbles into Cameron’s chest. She doesn’t see him like I do—she can’t feel him tearing her apart, feel him sinking his claws deeper with every glance. No, she’s smiling at him now, reaching up to touch his face, and I feel her hand on my own cheek again like a brand as she rises on her toes and presses her mouth to his.

It’s like a shot of stimulant, ice in my veins, steepening my pulse until I feel it behind my eyes like a kick drum. I’m going to throw up. I’m going to scream. My vision has narrowed to Jane and Cameron as they part, as Cameron’s face breaks into a smile and the strobes flare, lighting his pale eyes ghostly white and hungry, so hungry. I feel myself heave, feel myself push people aside—I can’t think of anything but Jane, of her lip gloss on Cameron’s mouth in the shape of her smile, of how she’s peering right into the lion’s maw and she doesn’t even know it. He's going to eat her alive—he’s already leaning in again. Jane. I have to get to her. Someone yelps as I step on their feet, as the sharp heel of my sandal digs into their skin. I’m reaching blindly for loose fabric, loose limbs, anything to propel me forward—and then I myself am loosed headfirst into Cameron’s side like a human cannonball. The edge of my vision is black; my line of sight is narrowed to his fever-red face, lazy, laughing gray eyes. Those eyes. I think I scream, or maybe it’s someone else. The scream doesn’t stop as I reach blindly for him, my eyes rolling like a rabid animal’s, as someone grabs a handful of my skirt and I hear it rrrrrrrrrrip up the center, layers of tulle and taffeta torn away from my now-bare leg, but I don’t care, I don’t care—someone pulls Jane away and I think, yes, thank you, I need her away from him, need her safe. I get my hands around his skull and now he’s screaming, oh yes, now he screams, and there are hands on my arms but I’m kicking and I’m strong, I’m getting away, the blood beating inside my skull carries me away from their grasp. Cameron’s eyes are not laughing now; they’ve gone huge and I can see the veins around the edges, and he’s saying Abby what the hell Abby Jesus fuck what the fuck are you doing get away from me you crazy bitch, and then I press my thumbs into his irises and he can’t say anything anymore. He just screams.

When he’s still, whimpering, trapped under my weight on the ground, I look up into the ring of people that have gathered. Someone is throwing up. The air smells acidic and dirty, sweaty, like a slaughterhouse. My thumbs are smeared with blood and vitreous humour. This is what matters, though: Jane is near the front, her face bleached white, her jaw slack. Safe, untouched.

Everyone else is looking at me, so the only eyes on Jane are mine.