31: is cartography actually magic?

The living room's super crowded when Jamie and I reach it again. Not nightclub crowded, but more crowded than I would like. Midge is pacing across the floor, and Safi's watching her from the couch. River, on the other hand, is just sitting there with tented hands, this weird expression on his face like he's trying not to look as afraid as he really is. When Jamie and I stumble in, the look on his face deepens.

At this point I'm just waiting for it. He's gonna say something, and I'm just waiting for it.

Midge catches my eye, lets out an exasperated breath, and stomps forward. Snatching the bag from me, she snaps, "Took you long enough. Rocco could be dead by now for all we know."

My face twists into a scowl. "I'd prefer you not to use Rocco and dead in the same sentence, thanks."

"And I'd prefer you to be a bit more efficient!"

"Whatever, Midge," I say with what's probably a bit too much salt, because Midge looks at me like she's going to slap me. Regardless, she just huffs, plopping herself down on the carpet and slowly unfurling all the wrapped herbs we've brought her. She's so focused, her mouth pouted just a bit and her eyebrows drawn towards each other, that I don't wanna disturb her, so I don't say anything.

Then, into the silence, River says, "Is there anything we can help you with?"

"I need a piece of paper," she says, "and a needle. That's it."

"A needle?" I say. "Where am I supposed to find one of those?"

"A needle?" Midge repeats, glaring at me over her shoulder. "Like the one you sew with?"

"Oh," I reply, itching at the back of my neck, searching for any way to validate myself. "Well, I guess—I don't sew."

"Clearly not."

I'm assuming all of this snark is coming from the stress we're all feeling about the Rocco situation, because I don't know how to deal with it if it's not. She can't be mad at me, right? I mean, what did I do? I don't think I did anything. But like I've said before, I don't know how girls work. Maybe I've totally screwed everything up somehow and I don't even know it.

Rubbing my temples, I go in search of a needle. When I come back with a sewing kit, Midge has already got the incense going, and she's now in the process of grinding up roots and stems into fine powders. A wrinkled piece of paper is laid out in front of her, and everyone's watching with her with clear apprehension.

I hand the needle to Midge, just as Safiya asks, "Midge told me about a tape, or something. What did it say?"

"Not enough," I answer. "Someone's doing something bad, and they're holding Rocco captive. That's all we know right now. He said—he said the attacks are just the start of it."

Kid you not, I hear Safi swallow, but when I look at her, she's as composed as ever. God. I don't know how she does it. Ever since hearing that tape, I've been on edge, like something's gnawing within me. Something tells me it's not going to stop gnawing until I know where Rocco is, either.

"Just the start? That sounds ominous," comments Safiya.

"Agreed."

"Everyone shut up," Midge bursts out all of a sudden, causing all of us to jump. Safiya and I share a dubious look before sitting down on the floor along with Midge, River, and Jamie, the five of us forming a small circle around the parchment paper River found in a kitchen drawer. It's a weird setup, if you're not accustomed to the whole magic thing, I guess. Incense burns beside Midge's leg. Ground blackberry leaves sprinkle the parchment paper, specks of dark green against off-white. Echinacea powder dusts Midge's hand like sand.

Midge heaves a long breath, then lifts her eyes to me. "Grey, I need the tape."

"How—"

"His voice," she explains briskly. "His voice is going to lead us to him. Just give me the tape."

Biting my lip, I dig the tape from out of my pocket and hand it to her. As cautiously as if she's performing surgery, Midge plucks the headphones from out of their jack and sets the Walkman upon her thigh. The tape whirs as it rewinds, clicks as it begins to play.

Rocco's fuzzy, muted voice escapes the tape recorder. Midge sets the needle into her skin.

I cringe as a crimson drop of blood blooms upon the pad of her finger; she sets the slitted skin to the paper, closes her eyes, and mutters a spell as quietly as she would a prayer.

The incense is burdening, an exhaustingly thick scent of overripe apricots. I try to calm my breathing, but it's pretty much impossible. It's not just the incense. It's the worry that this won't work. That Rocco's dead. That it's my fault.

The tape resolves to static; Rocco stops talking. Midge removes her finger from the parchment, cleaning the blood from it with a baby wipe.

I glance from her to the paper, waiting for something. It's just a red smear. It doesn't look like anything.

God. Maybe it didn't work. Maybe it—

"Big deal," says Safiya with a scoff. "You smeared your blood on a piece of paper and said some weird witchy stuff. But none of this is helping us find the human dude—"

"It takes a second, Safiya," Midge says. Her tone's careful, too careful, like her patience is at its edge. "The map needs at least half an hour to develop."

"So?" I say.

Midge raises a pink eyebrow. "So, we wait."

I collapse backwards, lying on my back. "Great! Because we just have all the time in the world!"

"Unless you have any better ideas," Midge fires back, "we're gonna have to stick with this for now, alright? Everyone stay close. We're getting Rocco back, and we're getting him back tonight. You just...you just have to trust me."

"Trust you. Sure," Safiya mutters in reply. I'm not looking at her, but I can hear the roll of her eyes. I also hear the clack of her heels as she gets to her feet and stalks off somewhere. Typical Safiya—always waiting for the right moment to make a dramatic exit.

I push myself back up to a sitting position. "Midge?"

She finishes twisting her hair back into a ponytail and glances up at me, crossing her legs. There's still that level of suppressed annoyance in her expression, but when she meets my eyes, I catch this flicker of fondness that somehow makes everything okay. "Yeah?"

"While that's...developing," I say, then glance hesitantly back at the screened-in porch behind me, "can I...talk to you?"

"You can't talk to me here?"

In turn, I glimpse River and Jamie. "No. Not really."

She screws her mouth to the side a bit, but hops up, striding past me and towards the porch. Both Jamie and River give me weird looks, but I just blow a raspberry at each of them, silently following Midge outside.

As soon as the door has thudded shut behind me, Midge says, "I'm not mad at you."

She's sitting there on the couch with her arms crossed and her legs crossed, framed between two indoor palm trees, and the stars twitch like broken flashlights in her eyes. It's dark out here. I just realized that.

My hand's still on the doorknob, and I grip it harder to keep from trembling. "That sounds like something a mad person would say."

"What reason would I have to be mad at you?"

I wait a second. "That's—that's what I'm supposed to be asking you."

"Well, you didn't. Ask me, I mean."

"I just did."

"Grey." She says my name like it's a warning. Probably because it is.

My grip loosens on the doorknob; I step down into the porch, leaning half my weight on a bookshelf that rests at its edge. It's a strange place for a bookshelf, but after living at Midge's place for a few days, I don't think it's the strangest thing about this little townhouse.

The night air, cool yet temperate at once, sweeps in through the screens. I shudder a little, tuning out the chirping crickets. "Ever since we came back from dinner," I start, "you've been...I don't know, snappy. Is it something I said? Is it something Sybil said? Dad said? Mom said—"

"Why'd you tell them we were friends?"

I've never had a heart attack before, but I have something that feels a little bit like it, because afterwards there's this hollow feeling in my chest that makes me wonder if anything's beating anymore. I just stare at her, at the downturn to her mouth and the narrowness of her eyes, until I realize it's a question and that means I have to reply.

I stammer, "Are we not? Are we not friends?"

"We're not just friends."

I tap the bookshelf with my knuckles, averting my eyes. "H-How do you know?"

"Friends don't kiss each other on the mouth. God, it wasn't even just a kiss. I made out with you, Grey! Friends don't just do that!"

"Shh!" I yelp, casting a wary glance back into the house. If her mom hears a word of this, she'll probably shish kabob me. I would prefer not to be shish kabobbed. "Keep your voice down!"

"Like it's not obvious? You're anything but subtle, Grey! Anything!"

"Oh, certainly. Because I just carry around a sign on my chest that says, Hello, stranger, I really, really like Midge Osborne a lot. I've made out with her a few times. Haha. God, Midge!" I exclaim, pushing away from the bookshelf and approaching the couch, where she perches herself like a cat preparing to pounce."What do you want me to say?"

"I—" She stops and hides her face in her hands, grumbling under her breath. She speaks again, and her voice is softer, like she's given up. "I don't know, Grey. I'm just confused."

"Yelling at me is not going to give you clarity!"

She chuckles bitterly, rising to her feet. "How do you know! Maybe I like yelling!"

"Yeah, well some people like drugs, but that doesn't mean it's healthy!"

"What the hell, Grey," she says. "Just shut up already!"

"Oh yeah? Make me."

I know as soon I say it that it's a mistake and I know as soon as I say it that it's the best thing I could have said in that situation, because it's at that moment that both of us realize there's literally only a centimeter of space between us. Before I have time to process it, Midge makes this annoyed little grunt and kisses me, grabbing my shirt collar and yanking me towards her. My lips meet hers sloppily, sliding together and away again. The embrace is anything but careful. It's reckless and feverish, it's hands grabbing clothes and twisting hair, it's bodies pressing closer until there is no closer anymore. And it's also the best thing in the world.

Midge slides her hand underneath my shirt, but I shove her away. "Stop it."

She's so pissed off. It's all over her adorable little face. "Stop what?"

"Doing that!"

"Doing what?"

"Making me kiss you!"

It's too late. God, it's too late. I've already taken her in my arms and I've already pressed my chest against hers until we're breathing the same air. And Midge looks up at me and she exhales and she says, "You can't stop. Even if you wanted to."

I glare at her because she's right. "I know," I say, and any other words dissolve when I kiss her again. The two of us are one dysfunctional body, moving, stumbling, knocking plants over and nearly falling to the concrete. Our hands are the only thing holding each other up. Midge's back meets the screened wall, and it catches her like a net, her peach-colored hair fraying out like a blanket beneath her head. She's the only bright thing against a perpetually dark night, and here I am, cherishing her.

I finally have to breathe again.

"I'm sorry," I say.

She blinks, her mascara smeared across one eye. "You're sorry?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry, Midge. You were right," I tell her. "I'm not your friend. I can't be your friend. We—can't be friends."

She pauses a second, and I almost think I've said the wrong thing.

But then she just lets out a breathy laugh.

"Thank God," she exhales. "You'd be an awful friend."