A shit-eating grin covers her face. “I bet.”

And that’s all it takes. There’s a thrust of misery with a pinch of infuriation, and the venom fills me like a drug. This time, though, it’s the loathing and shame, not the explosive rage: I feel clammy instead of warm, lifeless instead of energized, embarrassed instead of bold. The room grows cold, and I try to burrow into my coat, hoping it’ll take me away from this beautiful girl who knows my most horrible secrets.

The venom loves it. Hope you enjoyed that kiss, buddy, it croaks, ’cause it’s the last. She knows. Two words: damaged goods.

“Hey,” she says. She leans over the Scrabble board and runs a hand along the side of my face, warm to the touch. Its movement is one of comfort, and it works. As her hand glides along my skin, the worry disappears, and the despair blows away. “Bad moment there?”

I force a nod. “Came on kind of quick. Sorry. Really sorry.”

“No apologies,” she says, turning back to the game. “I’ve been friends with Casey since we were ten, and he’s had the black for as long as I’ve known him. I’ve had some bad run-ins with it too. But that’s no reason to be afraid of him. Someone’s issues don’t have to define them as a person, do they?” She puts down the word “GOTH.”

I cross with it, using the O: “LOSER.”

She glances at me and smirks. “I mean, are you defined by this ‘venom’? Does that make you who you are?”

The harder I try to say something, the harder the venom pushes down on me. The room is suffocating, incense and candle smoke choking me. The shadowy decor blurs together into a squirming ocean of black. Eye contact is out of the question. The venom whispers angrily at me, doing everything it can to keep me from divulging its secrets. “It affects everything,” I finally say, running my hands through my hair. And sighing. “It poisons everything. Every time I think I’m better, it comes back, and it laughs at me. I’m losing track of who running the show these days-me or it.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Well, that’s not a good sign.”

“It’s not my choice.”

“I didn’t say that. Just that it’s not okay.”

“I know that. God, how could I not know that?”

She puts down a word in front of me, unconnected to the others. I’m about to tell her that she can’t do that when I read the word: “UHOH.”

“Why’d you-” Before I can finish the sentence, Renée’s flung the Scrabble board aside, bent back on her haunches, and sprung forward onto me like a huge house cat. My trench curls around us like seaweed, tangling and binding me until I’m useless. Pretty soon, she has me in a headlock and is giving me a noogie.

“Say ‘Uncle Fester’!” she yells.

“Buh! Never!”

“Say it!”

“Make me!”

She swiftly stops noogie-ing me and lets me out of the headlock. I’m sitting up, leaning against the side of her bed, and she leaps onto me, straddling me. I don’t know how she moves like that, as though she’s been raised in a jungle. Her face is right up in front of mine, moving as if she’s trying to get my scent. “I could, you know,” she whispers.

“Could what?” I gulp.

“I could make you,” she mumbles, and lowers her lips slowly and softly onto mine, the way Casey did last night, only a lot better. She pulls the trench coat around her like wings, and with each kiss, each push together, we sink deeper into it. Finally, snuggled up together like we’re in a big black cocoon, she wraps her arms around my shoulders and nuzzles her face into my neck, stopping here and there for a little nibble. I pull my arms inside my coat and wrap them around her waist, which feels liquid, agile, but soft and warm. Whatever I did to get this lucky, I’ll never know.

“Mmm,” she says. “This is nice.”

I am inclined to agree with this.

Cuddling becomes resting, and resting becomes napping, and napping becomes most of the day’s activity. Sleep is not an easy thing for me, especially with someone else present, because it means letting my guard down (summer camp sucked). The fact that I can fall asleep with this girl nestled on my chest? Unbelievable. Unheard of. Truly a miracle.

When my eyelids drag their way upward, I notice two things: (a) the clock on the wall says I should be home by now, and (b) there’s someone knocking on the door.

I shake her back and forth. “Renée. Renée, wake up.”

“Murf,” she replies.

I hear the knocking again, louder this time. A woman’s voice on the other side calls, “Renée! Renée, you there?”

She squirms in my lap and yells, “Come in!” in an annoyed whine.

Is this girl out of her mind? Delirious with fatigue? She’s making no effort to get out of my lap, no effort to unbutton the coat containing both of us. What if her mom freaks out? What if I’m chased out of the house by an angry older brother? Or two? Or seven? I imagine using the hall fire extinguisher to smash open the skull of a burly Goth sibling, but shake the thought off quick. Venom talking. This isn’t the time.

The door opens, and in waddles a chubby old lady with curly red hair and itty-bitty spectacles sitting on her huge face. “Oh, I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says politely, with a tinge of French in her voice. “Renée, who is this?”

The monster. The pervert. The evil boy trying to defile your precious daughter.

“This is Locke,” she mumbles. “Locke, this is my aunt Marie.”

“Hiya.” I cough.

“It’s nice to meet you, Locke,” she says warmly. “Locke…that name sounds vaguely French, does it not?”

“Maybe. My last name’s Vinetti, though.”

“That,” she says with a chuckle, “sounds not in the least French. Renée, just remember your brother’s staying with a friend tonight, so you have to do the dishes.”

“Umf,” she says, and nuzzles back into my chest.

“Nice meeting you, Locke,” says Aunt Marie, and closes the door.

“Wow,” I heave. “I was scared she’d flip out.”

“Aunt Marie doesn’t care,” she murmurs, shifting in my lap. “She trusts me. Besides, she’s French. The French are a lot worse than this in public.”

“So you have a brother?”

She nods.

“What’s his name?” Maybe he and Lon could-

“Andrew. You know him.”

Wait. Oh, shit, wait. Andrew. Can’t be.

“Older or younger?”

“Older.”

“Your last name isn’t Tomas, is it?”

She shifts a bit more. She knew this topic of conversation had to come up at some point. “Yeah. I told you, you know him. He goes to your school.”

He does. That’s the problem. The venom writhes on its back, pointing and cackling, sending waves of worry through me. Nothing can be perfect for me. It’s just not allowed.

T HREE DAYS scouring the city, and no luck. The creature seemed to always be around, but it was rarely visible. A roar would sound and I’d turn left, only to hear claws clattering on the pavement to my right. The beast, while horrid, was incredibly intelligent, and it seemed to possess the hunting powers of a wolf. Even though I couldn’t find it, I could feel those glassy eyes boring into me, twitching as it observed my presence.

I glided noiselessly through Central Park, indistinguishable from the shadows. I had been following the lanky junkie in front of me for a few minutes, waiting. Woe came off him in waves; I could smell his guilt, his hatred, from a block away. He was scrambling through the park, clutching a broken bottle, eyes wide, breath ragged, clothes filthy, hair wild. He was dangerous, and I had to be here to stop him.

The junkie came onto a path and approached a hobo lying curled on a bench.

“It was beautiful fabric,” said the junkie sternly.

The bum looked back at him, half-awake. He was young, maybe twenty-five, and blond. “Whazuh?”

“IT WAS BEAUTIFUL FABRIC!” yelled the junkie. “YOU DIDN’T TAKE CARE OF IT RIGHT. NOW IT’S RUINED.”