Torn Read Free

she wants.”
    â€œMaybe we just shouldn’t tell her,” Shirley suggested.
    â€œA capital idea,” Daphne said with a laugh. “So, you’re in?”
    Shirley let a smile creep over her tear-stained face. “Why? Are you writing a book?”
    The girls laughed. Quickly Daphne pulled awayand spun one of the desk chairs to face Shirley’s. Mary turned and gently brought another chair forward until the three desks formed a blunt triangle. She set the Clutch on the desk before her and waited. The familiar excitement of playing the game flooded her.
    â€œShall I?” Mary asked, indicating the vermillion bag.
    â€œWell, Anne opened it last,” Daphne said, “so it is your turn.”
    â€œBut we won’t tell Anne,” Shirley insisted.
    â€œWe won’t say a word,” Mary promised.
    With trembling fingers, Mary touched the smooth fabric. She stroked the velvet material, let her fingertips pause on the hard lumps made by the bones. She parted its mouth and upturned the Clutch. Bones, coppery with age, spilled into her palm. She felt the smooth side of the skull and the sharp points of claws. They tingled, as if eager to be rolled.
    With a gentle shake she let the bones fall on the desk, and knew instantly that she had not won.
    â€œMy turn,” Daphne said. But she too failed to roll the winning combination.
    And so it went, one turn after another. Mary. Daphne. Shirley. Then Mary again. Excitement anddisappointment mixed in the girls as each turn produced no winner.
    â€œMaybe we can’t play with just three,” Shirley said, dejected after her last failed roll. “Maybe it has to be all four of us.”
    â€œWe’ve rolled a lot longer than this with no winner,” Daphne said. “Let’s keep at it. Mary?”
    And again the bones were in her hand: at turns soft and smooth, jagged and rough. Mary studied the tiny symbols etched into the bones. She concentrated on the one symbol that meant the most: the symbol that must appear on three of the bones for her to succeed.
    She rolled.
    â€œYou did it,” Shirley gasped, as if it were a genuine miracle.
    The room around her grew very quiet, and Mary held her breath, waiting for the story. No sound of rain or thunder touched her now. Something was coming.
    A great whooshing, like a hurricane wind, filled her head. There were faces and voices and odd machines…
    Then there was music.

1
    The band’s intro by club owner Allen Bates was short and sweet. The thirtysomething entrepreneur grabbed the mike at the center of the small stage, brought it to his lips, and screamed “Torn!” like it was four syllables long. Then he stepped back, slamming his hands together wildly, nodding for the crowd to do the same. As the applause rose, blue lights came up on the five figures on Tunnel Vision’s stage. Showtime.
    Devin slammed an easy E on his refurbished Fender. Cheryl ripped along the drum kit, her hair flailing back and forth across her face like a long blond whip. Ben doubled Devin on the keyboard, and even the bassist, Karston, came inalmost on time for a change. The sound rode the cheering, revving the crowd.
    As the tempo built, square-jawed Cody, his bed-head spiky hair bleached white, leaped into a spotlight with a spanking new Les Paul hanging from his neck. His insanely deep, raspy voice flooded the room:
    Wind up
    Going down
    I won’t be your dancing clown!
    Eat this
    In your face
    Or disappear without a trace!
    It was an easy number, Devin thought as he watched and played. He could sleepwalk through the changes.
    Aching brain coming out my skull,
    Looking back at the hole in my eyes.
    Just don’t know who I am today—
    The mirror breaks and I die.
    Cheryl, her strong but feminine arms flashingfrom her sleeves as she confidently crashed out the beat, stopped swinging her head long enough to give Devin a wide, sexy smile. “Face” was his song, the one