chapter 11

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BUT WHAT ABOUT Pink?

This was a question that Pink found himself asking constantly as

Suraya watched movies and ate meals and spent hours talking and

giggling with Jing. What about me? What about me, Suraya, what

about me?

No longer did they spend their time idling in the sunshine, or lying

on the cold kitchen floor to escape the heat, or nestled in the crook

of tree branches, Suraya's feet swinging in the air as they talked.

She turned to him less and less as he lay curled up in the pocket of

her school shirt, listening to the rhythm and music of her day. She

often dozed off on the long bus ride back home from Jing's house,

leaving Pink to stare out of the window as streaks of orange and

rose wove themselves through the darkening sky, and at home,

between dinner and bed, there was barely any time to talk at all.

"G'night, Pink," she'd say sleepily as they curled up together the way

they had for years, but even as she slept peacefully in his arms, Pink

could feel that he was losing her. They were bound together by

blood, as they always were—but she'd never been so far from him.

Do you not think you are spending too much time with this girl?

he'd asked her one day, trying to mask his anxiety, the fretful note that crept into his voice.

"No, I don't think so," she'd answered, with a puzzled smile. "At

least, I haven't heard her complain about it. Why?"

It doesn't leave much time for other people. By for other people,

Pink really meant for me. But he was hoping she'd understand that

on her own; it felt vaguely embarrassing to have to talk about his

emotions like this.

"There's really nobody else I'd want to spend that time with

anyway," Suraya had said, and the way she laughed as she said the

words, so careless, so lighthearted, tore right through his chest.

And he didn't know what to do about it. What was this feeling, this

sense of loss? Loneliness? Fear? Resentment? The ghost didn't

know. All he knew was he didn't like it, not one bit. Ghosts, he told

himself sternly, were not meant to feel things. Therefore, he couldn't

possibly be feeling those things, yes? Yes.

The only way he knew how to cope with this mysterious new sea

of emotions he found himself navigating was by hanging on to the

one thing he did recognize: anger.

Anger was good. Anger was familiar. Anger was nourishment to a

dark spirit like himself. He could work with anger.

But how?

The source of his anger, Pink knew, was Jing Wei. Jing Wei, with

her smug little grin and her irritating giggles and her whispered

confidences. Jing Wei, who had waltzed into school with her offer of

friendship and stolen his Suraya away, the way the witch used to lure

children with those perfect, mouth-watering jambu.

And so it was to Jing Wei that he directed his anger.

His magics were small at first. A lost storybook, one of her

favorites. A scratch on her favorite Star Wars DVD (The Empire

Strikes Back, a movie far superior, she insisted to Suraya, than all

the others), rendering it unplayable. A smack to the face during a

game of netball, shattering her glasses into three pieces and bruising

her cheek. An ink blot blossoming on the pages of her English essay,

eating up the neatly written words until only a third could be seen,

earning her a sharp rap on the knuckles from Miss Low's heavy

wooden ruler—Miss Low never could tolerate any carelessness in

homework. A hole in the pocket of her pinafore, so that her pocket money worked its way out and she had to go without the new

Millennium Falcon figurine she'd been saving up for. "I don't know

how it happened," she told Suraya, blinking back tears of

disappointment as they frantically retraced her steps. "It's never

happened before."

It was never anything that couldn't be blamed on bad luck or

carelessness, never anything big enough like the last time, for

Suraya to glance suspiciously at Pink and his antennae.

Or so he thought.

It was a perfect Saturday afternoon, the kind with blue skies dotted

with fluffy white clouds, the kind sunny enough to bathe everything in

a warm glow, but breezy enough to make venturing outside for more

than five minutes actually doable.

Are you not spending today with . . . your friend? Pink asked as

Suraya made her bed, her hair still damp from the shower. He

couldn't bring himself to say her name.

"Not today, Pink," she said, smoothing the sheets down neatly,

folding her blanket into a perfect rectangle. "I thought it could just be

you and me today."

Just you and me? He felt light suddenly, as though someone had

lifted an invisible stone from his back.

"Like old times." Suraya smiled down at him, and he smiled back,

nodding.

All right then, he said. What shall we do?

"What we always do," she said, grabbing her sketchbook and

clipping her favorite pen to the loop that held it shut. "Head to the

river."

The river was a small one, just barely big enough to avoid being

called a stream, and its appearance was governed by its moods.

Sometimes it was calm and flowed at a sedate pace between its

grassy banks; sometimes it grew swollen with the rains and flowed

fast and furious, sweeping up everything that crossed its path and

swallowing it whole.

But there was no danger where Suraya and Pink sat, on a rocky

overhang that jutted out a little over the water, perfectly shaded by

the trees overhead. Sunlight streamed through the leaves and dappled the water in pretty patterns of light and shadow. Suraya sat

cross-legged and bent over her sketchbook, her pen flying busily

over the page, and Pink curled up in a warm patch and dreamily

watched the dragonflies play over the water. That's how he would

have been content to stay all day, until Suraya opened her mouth to

speak.

"Pink."

Hmm? He looked over at her, still feeling warm and altogether too

comfortable; he was about to fall asleep.

"I want to talk to you about something." She set her pen down

now and looked right at him. The page was covered in trees; a

pathway leading into a forest, the branches closely woven so no light

could get through, each leaf meticulously inked into place.

Oh? He sat up then, shaking himself awake. What about?

"It's about Jing."

Pink's ears prickled at the mention of her name. Even the sound

of it was enough to set off tiny sparks of anger in his chest. Oh? She

sounded serious, and for a moment he thought she might say she

didn't want to be friends with Jing Wei anymore, and he felt almost

giddy with delight at the idea.

There was a long pause before she continued, as though she

was trying to find the exact right words. "I know what you've been

doing to her, Pink."

He frowned. I don't know what you mean.

"Yes, you do." She looked steadily at him, holding his gaze until

he had to turn away from her big brown eyes. "You do, Pink. You

know exactly what I'm talking about."

He fiddled with a blade of grass, not saying anything, not meeting

her eyes.

"You have to stop, Pink. She's my friend and you have to stop."

I used to be your friend, he said sullenly. Your only friend. He

knew that last bit was nasty, but he couldn't stop himself.

"I know. And you are still my friend. But Jing is too, and what

you're doing isn't nice." She sat back and sighed, sweeping her hair

off her neck and tying it into a messy ponytail. "I tried to let it slide,

those first few times. But losing the money—that made her so sad.

She was really looking forward to buying that figurine, you know.

She's been saving forever."

Pink said nothing, crossing his grasshopper arms tight.

"Will you stop?"

If she expected an answer, she certainly wasn't getting one.

She sighed again. "Come on, Pink. Don't make me do it."

Still he refused to answer, or even look at her.

"Fine," she said, standing up and brushing the dirt from the

bottom of her jeans. "Fine. You forced me into it." She towered over

him, her eyes glinting with anger, and he couldn't help shrinking

slightly. "I am your master," she told him, her voice hard and cold.

"And I command you to stop playing your tricks on Jing Wei. Do you

understand?"

There was no disobeying her when she used that tone, and Pink

nodded. "I understand," he muttered.

"Good. Then that's settled." She picked up her sketchbook and

turned to go. "Come on. I'm getting hungry."

Pink hopped along slowly in the grass behind her, and with every

minute that passed, his anger grew and grew until he thought he

might burst in a brilliant explosion of fire and rage.

Jing was a poison, a virus that had worked herself into Suraya's

life and taken root. It was only his duty, he told himself, to cut her out

before she did any real damage. No matter what he'd told Suraya.

No matter what he promised.

A pelesit protects his master. And that girl would get her due. He

would see to that.