Possess

hate him, I hate him, I hate him.’ What I hear: ‘I want to stick my tongue down his throat.’”
    Bridget wrinkled her nose. “I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.”
    “Sure you did,” Hector said, returning to the clothes rack.
    She moved to the last rack, praying she found something decent for this stupid dance. Winter Formal. Blech. Was she supposed to get him a flower thingie for his jacket? Or was that only for prom? Was he going to show up with a corsage she’d have to wear, flapping around on her wrist all night? Would there be, like, official photos at the dance? Bridget’s hands went cold. Sweet cartwheeling Jesus! Why was this so complicated? Why couldn’t they just go for coffee for a first date or something?
    Bridget froze.
    First date. Try as she might to pretend otherwise, the truth of it was she and Matt were going on a date. But did he think of it that way? Or was Matt just doing what he thought he was supposed to: keeping an eye on her. Bridget shook her head. That had to be it. The only way a guy like Matt Quinn would invite himself to her Winter Formal was because his dad and her mom had told him to keep an eye on her.
    Bridget sighed. Stop thinking it’s something it’s not, Bridge. Matt wouldn’t want to date a spaz like you. He’s not your boyfriend, he’s your babysitter.
    Somehow that was even more pathetic.
    Bridget pulled a plum-colored dress off the rack and held it up in front of her before the mirror. It was simple—just an empire bodice with spaghetti straps and a flow-y skirt to the knee—but the shimmery, purple fabric made her normally blue eyes look a deep shade of aquamarine that was kind of cool.
    “That’s it,” Hector said, coming up behind her. “That’s the one.”
    “You think?”
    “Look at your eyes,” Hector said, rolling his. “They’re, like, all magical.”
    She gave him a light elbow to the gut. “Don’t be stupid.”
    “Whatever. Just try the damn thing on so we can get the hell out of here, okay? Girl departments make me feel . . .”
    “Jealous?” Bridget smirked.
    Hector narrowed his eyes. “Nauseous.”
    Bridget headed for the dressing room while Hector wandered around, checking out the accessories wall in the teen department. She stood before the mirror in her little changing cubicle and stared. That pinched look about her temples was still there, making her narrow Asian eyes droop at the corners. She didn’t used to have it. It made her look sad and old.
    Bridget lowered herself onto the little bench seat and sank her head in her hands. What was she going to do? Fallen angels, warring demons—this wasn’t her life. It was like a comic book. If she hadn’t heard the voices in the walls, experienced the old lady’s possession, witnessed the dolls in the shop, she wouldn’t have believed it herself.
    Bad enough she was a freak, but having no one other than two priests to talk to about it was really starting to grate on her nerves. She thought of Hector digging through teen-girl belts outside the dressing room. She’d known him since they were in the seventh grade, when Mr. and Mrs. Gutierrez had yanked their only son out of public school. It had royally sucked for Hector, since he knew even then that (a) he was gay and (b) his parents wouldn’t be accepting.
    But he’d dealt with it, hadn’t he? Not having anyone to talk to about what was going on? He’d opened up to Bridget. They’d bonded over a love of old nineties mod music like the Smiths and the Cure, and eventually he felt comfortable enough to tell her he had a crush on a boy in their class. He’d trusted Bridget with his secret. Maybe she could do the same?
    “Bridget!” Hector whined from the dressing room doorway. “Hurry up. I’m hungry.”
    Bridget rolled her eyes. He was always hungry. “Coming!”
    She left her jeans on and just pulled the dress up. Fit her hips? Check. Zippered up past her boobs? Check. Under fifty bucks? It looked like she had found her Winter Formal dress.
    She hurried back into her Union Jack T-shirt and bomber jacket, paid for the dress, and collected Hector.
    “Panda?” she asked as they exited the department store into the mall.
    “You’re the only Asian person I know who likes crappy Chinese food.”
    “It’s the Irish half that craves it,” she said, linking her arm through his. “Come on. My treat.”
    As much as Hector might bitch about it, Bridget knew he fostered a secret, eternal longing for