The Poison Apples (18 page)

Reena said Shanti Shruti had done the same thing: just acted as if nothing was wrong. That way if she, Reena, had thrown some sort of temper tantrum or been anything less than 100 percent friendly, she would have seemed crazy.

The thing was, acting friendly and normal sometimes seemed like the craziest thing of all.

A loud beeping sound interrupted my thoughts. It was the alarm. Reena rolled over in bed and groaned.

“Go ahead without me,” she said.

“But you're the one who invited me.”

“I'll be there in a few minutes.”

I had a feeling she was just going to go back to sleep.

I hauled myself out of bed, slipped on my winter coat over my pajamas, and tiptoed out into the hallway. I had to be careful. Agnes the RA seemed to have the uncanny ability to smell freshman and sophomores who were sneaking out of their rooms at night.

I found my way to the stairwell in the semidarkness and walked up the winding staircase to the roof, wincing whenever I made the old wooden steps creak. I reached the top and stared up at the tiny metal ladder above my head. I'd never been up on the Middleton roof before. Agnes had informed us, time and time again, that it was strictly off-limits.

I stepped onto the ladder, the metal cold against my bare feet, and attempted to wrench open the door. I was sure that some kind of alarm was going to go off. But the door opened, and I didn't hear anything except the wind whistling up above me. I climbed up and hauled myself clumsily over the ledge and onto the slanted, shingled roof. The cold air blew against my face. A million stars shone above my head.

“Hi, Alice,” someone said.

I turned around. Molly Miller was sitting right next to the chimney, wrapped in a blanket and shivering.

“What are you doing here?” I blurted out.

She shot me a resentful glare. “I could ask you the same question.”

“Reena invited me.”

“Good for you, big shot. She invited me, too.”

I felt a gust of wind lift my hair up above my head. “I don't believe you.”

Molly stood up, wobbled a little, and grabbed onto the chimney for balance. “What is that supposed to…,” she spluttered. “What is wrong with you?”

“What is wrong with
you
?” I retorted. “I thought you were my friend!”

“What are you talking about? You were the one who—”

“SILENCE,” a voice boomed out.

Molly and I both froze, then slowly turned around.

Someone was standing behind us.

And it took me a few seconds to realize that someone was Reena Paruchuri.

First of all, she was carrying a huge flashlight (she must have stolen it from the janitor's closet) that she was holding below her chin and shining up into her face. The bluish light made her look absolutely terrifying. Secondly, she was draped in some kind of enormous cloth that made her look floating and shapeless, like a ghost. Thirdly, she seemed to be wearing some sort of … crown.

“Reena?” I whispered.

“SILENCE, MORTAL,” the draped figure shouted. Then she burst into giggles, and her crown fell off. “Sorry, sorry,” she said. She picked it up and put it back on again.

“Is that a Burger King crown?” asked Molly from her perch next to the chimney.

“NO QUESTIONS,” Reena bellowed.

Molly sighed.

“What are we doing here, Reen?” I said.

Reena cleared her throat. “We are attending the first meeting of the Poison Apples.”

“And what's that?”

“Please, please,” Reena said, and held out her hand, palm forward. “Patience. As founder and president of the Poison Apples, I insist that before initiation we—”

“Initiation?”
asked Molly, laughing.

The whites of Reena's eyes gleamed indignantly in the moonlight. “Yes, Molly Miller. Initiation. But I insist that before initiation begins we resolve any existing disputes between members.”

Molly and I stared at her.

Reena sighed. “I believe there is a dispute between the two of you.”

“Me and Alice?” Molly said.

“No,” Reena said, “You and the other blond girl standing on this roof.” There was a long pause, after which she tittered quietly at her own joke.

“Well,” Molly said, “I'll be honest. I'm confused. I wasn't aware that there was a dispute between me and Ms. Bingley-Beckerman until this afternoon when she started totally ignoring me and acting like a jerk.”

“And I wasn't aware until Friday evening,” I added, “that Ms. Miller is only interested in being friends with me because my father is her favorite writer.”

“Excuse me?” shrieked Molly.

Reena clapped her shawl-covered hands. “Good, good. Get it all out in the open.”

Molly stood up and walked over to me, stepping carefully around the shingles. She faced me and put her hands on her hips. The moon reflected in big white circles off her glasses.

“I was never interested in being friends with you because of your father,” she said, her voice trembling. “What made you think that?”

“Because,” I said, trying hard to make sure that my own voice didn't tremble, “you basically ignored me and only talked to him. And then you made a big deal about my mom being famous, like that even matters…” (Oh, no. It was happening. My voice was shaking and tears were starting to well up in my throat. I continued anyway.) “… like that even matters … when she's dead.”

There was a long silence. The wind blew a high-pitched song above our heads.

“Oh, Alice,” Molly said.

“That's good,” whispered Reena from behind us. “‘Oh, Alice' is good. That's what I imagined you'd say.”

“Shut up, Reen,” I said, turning around.

Reena nodded obediently.

Molly and I looked at each other.

“I'm sorry,” Molly said. “You have to believe me … that's not why I became friends with you. I became friends with you because you're smart and funny and weird.”

“I'm not weird,” I said, slightly offended.

“Yes, you are,” Molly said. “In the best way. You're extremely weird. And I acted dumb around your dad because he
is
my favorite writer. But that has nothing to do with me liking you for the wrong reasons. And…” Molly hesitated.

“Don't hold back!” piped up Reena.

“I was hurt that you didn't let me spend more time with you guys. Because even though you have a crazy family, at least they
came
. I didn't have anyone to complain about, because no one was even
around
.”

She took off her tear-streaked glasses and wiped them with the edge of her shirt.

“I'm sorry, Mol,” I said. “I was really hurt.”

There was a long silence.

“This,” announced Reena, “is exactly what I was talking about. Resolving existing disputes. Not as hard as it sounds.”

Molly and I looked over at Reena. Her paper crown was sitting crookedly on top of her head, and the flashlight, now tucked under her arm, was illuminating her left earlobe. She looked thrilled.

“Reena,” I asked, “why are we here?”

“Okay,” she said. “Good question. Now that the existing dispute has been resolved…” She paused for a second. “Wait. It's been resolved, right? Do you guys agree that it's been resolved?”

Molly and I looked at each other.

“Yeah,” I said finally.

“Yeah,” said Molly.

My stomach flooded with unexpected relief.

“Okay. Good. Now we can begin. Please be seated.”

Molly and I sat down on the cold shingles. We crossed our legs and looked up at Reena. She cleared her throat ceremoniously.

“Welcome,” she said.

We nodded impatiently.

Reena reached underneath her enormous shawl and removed something. “Please step back,” she said.

Since we were already sitting, we scooted back on our butts.

“Behold,” she said, and held out her hand. “The Poison Apple.”

It was pretty dark, but it looked like Reena was just holding a regular red apple.

“Is that a Red Delicious from the cafeteria?” asked Molly.

“No,” Reena snapped. “It's a Honey Crisp. I bought it at the fruit stand next to the highway. It's much … crisper. And more expensive.”

Molly and I giggled until Reena gave us both the evil eye.

“So why is it a
poison
apple?” I asked.

“This apple,” said Reena, “is symbolic. Don't you guys remember Snow White?”

Molly gasped. “Oh, my God.
The Poison Apple
. I'd forgotten.”

“What about it?” I asked. “I don't remember a poison apple.”

Molly turned to me, excited puffs of fog coming out of her mouth. “Yes, you do. You have to. Snow White is hiding out with the Seven Dwarfs and then her, um, her evil stepmother…”

Reena nodded encouragingly.

“… Her evil stepmother dresses up as an old woman and comes to the house and, like, offers Snow White an apple. But it's poisoned, and Snow White falls asleep, or, like, dies or something, until the Prince comes along and kisses her and she wakes up.”

Just the mention of kissing made Jamal flash through my mind. I blushed. Luckily, neither of them could tell in the dark.

“So…” Molly stopped and frowned. “Wait, I'm confused.”

“We're the Poison Apples!” Reena declared. “We're a society of mistreated stepdaughters! And we're coming together to take revenge!”

Revenge.

The word sent shivers down my spine.

But I didn't know if they were bad shivers or good shivers.

“But it's the evil queen who gives the apple to Snow White,” Molly pointed out. “Not the other way around.”

“Okay, Miss English Lit,” Reena said. “But think about symbolism. Hasn't Newman taught you anything? The apple represents our unlucky fates. It represents our stepmothers' plots to ruin our lives. So we're reclaiming the apple. It's
ours
now. Two can play that game.”

“What game?” I asked.

“The game of…” she trailed off for a second.

“The game of power,” Molly finished for her.

Reena nodded. “Exactly. If they can be our evil stepmothers, we can be their evil stepdaughters. Right?”

“Right!” shouted Molly.

“Do we really want to be
evil
…?” I started to ask, but Reena had already taken a chomp out of the apple and was handing it to Molly.

“We'll each take a bite,” Reena said, “as a gesture of our loyalty and camaraderie. We are a group of unlucky heroines. And we are going to take action. We are going to take our lives back.”

Molly sunk her teeth into the apple and then chewed on her piece. “Mm,” she said. “You're right. This
is
better than the cafeteria apples.”

“Your turn, Alice,” Reena said. Molly held out the apple.

I stared at it. It gleamed red and yellow in the moonlight. Okay. Reena had just said that the apple symbolized our fates. But, if I understood the fairy tale correctly, it also symbolized evil. And deceit. And trickery.

On the other hand, a society of mistreated stepdaughters sounded pretty great. It sounded kind of like a … family.

“Take a bite!” barked Reena. “We don't have all night!”

“That rhymed,” said Molly, and giggled.

“Fine,” I said. I took the apple out of her hands and bit into it. I let the sweet, slightly sour juice sit in my mouth for a minute, and then I swallowed and handed the apple back to Reena. She held it aloft.

“They cannot poison us!” Reena yelled. “We will fight back!”

She drew her arm back and pitched the apple out into the night sky. I watched it sail past the stars for a few glorious seconds, and then it fell, invisibly, down to the dark earth below.

PART TWO

ONE

Reena

David Newman was looking at me.

I mean, he was looking at everyone. But he was looking at me just a little
more
. His eyes would move around the classroom, come to rest on my face, flicker a little, and then move on again.

He is so cute,
I scrawled on a piece of scrap paper. I passed it to Molly, who was sitting at the desk to my right. She read it and rolled her eyes.

I guess she wasn't mature enough to recognize real love when she saw it.

It was the middle of November. Everyone at Putnam Mount McKinsey was waiting for the first big snowfall. A few days before, a few lonely flakes had drifted down out of the white sky while Pradeep and I were taking a walk, and the two of us had whooped and leapt around and shouted at the clouds to give us MORE, MORE, but nothing happened.

Now it was the Wednesday before Mount McKinsey Weekend, and the bored-sounding man on the radio that morning had predicted that we'd be in the middle of a full-fledged snowstorm by nighttime. David Newman's entire Humanities class was fidgeting excitedly in their seats and turning around every five seconds to look out the window. I was pretty much the only person in the room who wasn't interested in looking at anything but the seemingly endless depths of Newman's eyes.

Halfway through his lecture about the “culture of rebellion” surrounding the characters in
Zen Ventura
(which, by the way, although I wasn't going to admit it to Alice, I thought was totally boring), Newman pushed back his chair, stepped out from behind his desk, and howled in frustration.

Everyone snapped to attention.

“What is this about?” he demanded. “Why is everyone except Reena Paruchuri staring out the window?”

I blushed.

“There's going to be a snowstorm,” Judah Lipston the Third announced sulkily from his desk.

“Ah,” said Newman. “I should have realized.” He stepped forward and stood in front of my desk. “And Ms. Paruchuri—why are you superhumanly able to focus on your class work when your fellow students are thinking about sledding?”