Incandescence

09: Motive

By Friday, I've managed to convince myself it's all in my head. Alice has simply suffered a severe change of heart, that's all. Rather than taunt lesser prey, she's opting to help them out in their times of need. At least, that's the only explanation I can come up with. Because it's either that or she really has got some messed-up master plan up her sleeves.

            But I'm adamant that's just my paranoia speaking.

            "What d'you think?" I ask Mason, who's lounged out on my rug again, listing answers to my chemistry homework. I'm not quite sure what made him decide to help me cheat on my sciences. He simply made a motion on Monday night for me to hand over the textbook I was having a screaming match at, ordered me to have my pen at the ready, and then began sifting through the questions with such ease that I'm admittedly jealous of.

            "About Malice?" he says, lifting his eyes from the textbook. "She was probably banished from the circle of popularity after cheating with one of her cronies' boyfriends, and had to look for newer, prettier victims to 'befriend.'"

            Alice, a stereotypical mean girl knocked from her pedestal after a venture too many? It's like something you'd expect to find in a typical teen movie, not in reality. Or at least, not in mine.

            "And for Christmas my daddy's gonna send me a Porsche from the grave," I mutter, arms crossed to mask my growing irritation.

            Mason scowls. "Fine, point taken. I'll tone it down with the sarcasm from now on, dearest BFF."

            It's not so much a friendship as a necessary alliance we have going on here; one that benefits Mason as much as me. So I put up with his snide comments, only slamming my foot down every so often when I feel the attitude is overwhelming – like now. I hate to admit it, but this is probably the closest we'll ever come to bonding now that he's . . . well, dead.

            "You know, it might benefit you to remember I'm the one doing you the favour here," I say, slumping down on the bed.

            "Oh, I know, sweetheart." He pauses, brows furrowing in concentration as he studies the chemistry textbook. "Question seven B: two point six cubic centimetres of sodium hydroxide to neutralise one cubic centimetre of sulphuric acid. Are you thick? This is so fuckin' easy, April. I don't get how you can't understand any of it – I mean, it's just basic substitution and formulae."

            I scribble down the answer and then shut my notebook over, tossing it to the side like a piece of worthless junk in a charity shop. "Well, we can't all have the brains of a prodigy, can we? Look, forget about my homework – I have more questions. Not about Alice this time."

            "Oh joy." He covers his face with his hands. "Haven't we been over this?"

            "It's important. Now listen up, okay?"

            He's right, of course. Since Mason requested my help on Monday, we've been over what he remembers from the night of his death a good seven times. Because nothing he says ever seems to be of any relevance. The weather – "Cloudy with a chance of rain, not meatballs" – and the colour of his jacket – "Royal blue, or was it navy?" – are hardly vital details in a murder investigation.

            Tonight proves to be no different. Mason shrugs indifferently through all my questions, comments briefly on the day's activities and then ceases to answer anything else. It's like talking to a brick wall.

            "What part of 'you have to take this seriously' don't you get?" I yell, finally losing my last thread of patience. "I'm trying to help you, Mason, like you asked. But if you won't talk then how the hell am I supposed to figure out where to go from here?"