Enthralled: Paranormal Diversions (Wicked Lovely 5.50)

We walk up to the gallery side by side.

“Can they see you?” I murmur.

She pauses, like she’s thinking. “Now they can.”

“Right.” I raise my hand to the gallery door, push it open. The scent of wine and clay swoops over us. I think everyone in the theater department was invited, but the artist, a guy named Sampson who works in set design, sent me an invite himself. He said he was worried no one would come, and he wanted to see one friendly face in the room. I was surprised—I wouldn’t call us friends. We barely know each other. But it was a good opportunity to keep my promise to Juliet.

The art gallery is an old antebellum house on campus. All the walls of the house have been painted black, and in each room are a few tables with sculptures in the center. It’s all weird stuff—animals with houses growing out of their backs, their faces twisted into looks of agony. It makes it hard to stare at any one sculpture for too long.

“Lawrence,” a warm, quiet voice says, and I see Jeffrey coming toward me. He’s smiling, his eyes are flickering.

“Hey,” I answer, reach forward, and shake his hands. They’re soft but strong, and he smells like dryer sheets. The scent makes me want to step closer to him, makes me wonder if this is what his bedroom smells like.

“Hi, I’m Jeffrey,” he says, leaving my hand to reach for Juliet’s. She grins widely and takes it, shaking it a little awkwardly.

“I haven’t seen you around before, Juliet,” Jeffrey says curiously, glancing at me.

“She’s a friend,” I say. “Visiting from Virginia.”

“Right,” Jeffrey says, nodding at both of us. “I don’t really know anyone here,” he admits, looking at the crowd. “I’m glad you showed up.”

I try not to smile too big, not to look too ridiculously eager. The three of us meander around the room, toward the first in the rows of sculptures.

JULIET

Everyone is staring. I think, anyhow—their eyes slide on and off me, but it still feels like staring. I cling to Lawrence like he’s anchoring me; he gives me a strange look but then touches my forearm gently, leads me along behind Jeffrey. I see wishes filtering around Jeffrey’s face, but I’m too distracted by the onslaught of eyes to tell exact

ly what they are. Even though I can’t read Lawrence’s mind, it’s very clear what he’s wishing for. They’re obvious in the way he watches Jeffrey’s movements. It’s like a broken, shattered version of the way Jinn watches Viola.

“I don’t get it,” Jeffrey says as we arrive at the first piece. He shakes his head. It’s a miserable-looking ceramic dog with a two-story cottage growing out of its back. He looks at Lawrence, who is staring at the piece, analyzing it.

“I think,” Lawrence says, frowning, “maybe it’s about how things that are normal, things that most people want, can be painful?”

I stare at the piece, baffled. But Jeffrey nods at Lawrence, says that maybe that’s what they’re all about, and that they should ask Sampson later if they can find him. They talk easily, fluidly. I understand why someone might love Lawrence, even why someone might love Jeffrey, with their kind voices and soft smiles. We move on to another piece, this one a rabbit looking even more miserable than the dog. I just don’t understand mortal artwork, I guess.

“What do you think, Juliet?” Jeffrey says, glancing toward me as we come to a statue of a bear with an armchair lashed to his back.

“I . . .” I shake my head and glance toward Lawrence. I have no idea what to say. He comes to my rescue.

“I think I look old enough to scam a glass of wine off the bartender,” Lawrence says, nodding to the guy manning the bar—he can barely be twenty-one himself. “Either of you want one?”

“Yes,” I say quickly, just so I can get away from the conversation for a moment.

Jeffrey shakes his head. “I don’t drink, but thanks.”

Lawrence seems surprised, but nods. Together we walk toward the bar.

“Anyone you want to kiss yet?” Lawrence asks as we grow closer.

“I don’t know.” I shrug. He sighs and introduces me to a few other people from the theater department. We approach the bar. Lawrence was right—the bored bartender doesn’t think twice before filling two glasses of red wine.

“Will you . . . um . . . Jeffrey . . .” Lawrence struggles for words as he takes the glasses from the bartender. It’s a moment before I understand what he’s asking. What he doesn’t want to say.

“You want to know what Jeffrey is wishing for?” I ask, forgetting the bartender can hear me. He gives both Lawrence and me strange looks. I respond by sipping my wine, but cringe at the taste. We turn our backs to the bar and look at Jeffrey, who has wandered into the main hallway.

Focus, Juliet. I study him, wait for him to glance this way. It’s easiest to tell wishes if you can see their eyes. . . .

“Never mind,” Lawrence says loudly, stepping in front of me, breaking my line of sight. “I never should have asked anyway, to be honest.”