Authors: Unknown
Julie
disentangled herself from him.
A
motorcycle flashed around the corner. It was a blur of black metal and curling
exhaust that skidded to a halt next to them.
There
were two riders. The one on back dismounted and removed her helmet. Fiona shook
out her hair, looking like a wild creature. Dark circles were under her eyes.
But it was Fiona. She had her book bag bulging with the box of chocolates she
thought was so hidden, and she still wore her silly rubber-band bracelet.
Fiona
shot Julie an annoyed glance, then softened. “Sorry. I didn’t know how late it
was getting.”
“It’s
cool, honey.” Julie blushed but did not look away. “There were only a few
customers. Nothing Linda and I couldn’t handle.”
Fiona
looked at Eliot. She was curious, but didn’t ask what Julie was doing walking
him home . . . or why they both looked so obviously guilty.
“I’m
Robert,” Robert said to Julie. He tipped his skullcap helmet.
“Julie
Marks.” She gave him a charming half curtsy.
Something
weird passed between Robert and Julie—a tension that made the air itchy with
static. Or maybe Eliot just imagined that.
Still,
the way they held each other’s gaze a bit longer than normal seemed odd to him.
As if they knew one another, or more accurately, they thought they should know
each other.
“We
have to get home,” Eliot said, “but maybe you both want to come up with us?”
Robert
straightened. “No,” he said quickly. “I mean thanks, but Mr. Mimes probably
needs me.”
Of
course. Eliot had (as impossible as it seemed) actually forgotten about
Grandmother and her effect on their “houseguests.”
Julie
shook her head so vigorously that a mass of her half-tangled curls fell into
her face. She blew them off her forehead. “I have to get home. I’ve got family
stuff, too. Maybe next time?”
She
smiled, and it seemed to hold more light and promise than sunshine. She nodded
at Eliot, Fiona, then her smile faded as she nodded to Robert. “You’ll all
excuse me?” She trod past them down Midway Avenue.
“I’ll
be in touch.” Robert moved toward Fiona, but then saw Eliot . . . and just
smiled at her. Fiona smiled, too, and gave him a little wave. He revved his
bike and peeled out the opposite way down Midway.
In
a moment both Robert and Julie were gone. Eliot and Fiona stood alone on the
sidewalk—walking home as usual from Ringo’s as if this had been another boring
day.
“So,”
Eliot asked, “good ride?”
Fiona
shrugged. “Sure, I guess. Hard day at work?” It was a fair question, but the
way she asked it was laced with venom.
“What
do you have against Julie?” Eliot asked. “She’s nice to you.”
Fiona
started walking. “Nice to you, too. Don’t you think it’s odd her showing up
just like Uncle Henry and the others have?”
“So
you think she’s—what? Like a cousin?”
Fiona
shook her head. “No, just something. I get a funny feeling when I look at her.”
The
real problem was that Fiona was jealous. Like when Louis had given him the
violin. She hadn’t liked that, either.
And
he hadn’t said one word about her stupid chocolates. Even now, she dipped into
her pack and grabbed another one of the things—popped it into her mouth while
trying to keep it hidden.
“Shouldn’t
you be rolling those on the ground, Scarabaeus sacer?”
Scarabaeus
was the scientific name for the scarab, or the dung beetle, which rolled its
excremental prizes along the ground to their nests.
Fiona
reddened, but couldn’t immediately reply as she had to chew the gooey
confection.
Eliot
knew she knew that word. No points in vocabulary insult for that one. But
seeing her struggle and not get any enjoyment from the chocolate was almost as
good as winning.
On
Midway Avenue the peach trees in their planters shuddered in the warm breeze.
Blossoms fell, took to the air, and it looked as if it were snowing in the hot
California afternoon.
That
shouldn’t be, though.
Those
peach trees had already flowered months ago, and their tiny, rotten fruit had
been spattered on the street like abstract art.
Fiona
finally managed to swallow. “I see you’re intimately familiar with the food
source of Scarabaeus, being an ampulla varices.45
Eliot
knew what she meant, but his mind was no longer in the game. Something weird
was happening on Midway Avenue.
45.
Ampulla refers to a dilated tubular (anatomical) structure, and varice refers
to a distended submucosal vein. In this context, a hemorrhoid.—Editor.
“Did
they replace these trees?” he asked.
Fiona
stared ahead, but not at the trees. Her attention riveted on the old Volkswagen
Beetle parked in front of their apartment.
It
didn’t belong there. Eliot knew every battered car that parked on Midway. It
really stuck out because of the rainbow tie-dye paint that swirled into a peace
sign on the hood. A bumper sticker proclaimed LOVE YOUR MOTHER and had a
picture of the planet Earth.
“Uncle
Henry’s?” Fiona whispered.
They
looked at each other—then raced for the side door of the apartment building.
Maybe the second trial had started. Or maybe Grandmother had spoken to the
Council and got them to bend on the next two tests.
Either
way, Eliot would be the first one upstairs.
He
pushed past Fiona. He wasn’t faster, but her book bag got hung up on the
railing. Once ahead, he didn’t let her pass—blocking her way with his elbows.
He
shouldn’t have done it. It was a dirty trick. But as he tore down the hallway
and for once got to their door first, he felt good.
Fiona
caught up an instant later.
They
took a moment to straighten their clothing, and Fiona slipped her rubber-band
bracelet into her pocket.
Eliot
reached for the doorknob, but halted. Someone was laughing inside.
Laughter
wasn’t something they heard in their home. This was a woman’s laugh, but not
from Grandmother or Cee (not that Eliot had ever actually heard Grandmother
even chuckle). This laugh was full of life.
“That’s
not Uncle Henry.” Fiona nodded at the door. “Go already.”
He
pursed his lips and opened the door.
Eliot
blinked at the sunlight streaming through the dining room window. Three figures
sat at the table. It was just like yesterday when Robert had been there,
Grandmother on one end, Cee sitting on the other . . . but this time, sitting
in between them was a girl.
She
looked perfectly at ease. In fact, she sat close to Grandmother, her hand
resting next to hers. If anything, Grandmother was the one who looked
uncomfortable.
The
girl was older than Julie, but not by much. She was maybe eighteen. Her hair
was honey blond and the same color as the intense sunlight.
Grandmother
wore her customary mask of stone and regarded them in the doorway.
“Children,
come in,” Grandmother said. “I would like to introduce your aunt Claudia.”
The
girl perked up and smiled at them. Her features were like Aunt Lucia’s or
Grandmother’s: smooth skin, wide eyes, and the high, expressive forehead. Only
on this girl they were full of animation, whereas on Grandmother they had
solidified.
She
crossed the room. She wore a tight tie-dyed blouse, a miniskirt, and slender
sandals.
“Call
me Dallas.” Her voice was musical and she had an accent: Italian or Russian,
something exotic. “‘Aunt Claudia’ is so”—she rolled her eyes—“ancient, you
know?”
Dallas
took their hands and drew them into an awkward embrace. She smelled of peach
blossoms.
She
stepped back and looked them over. She ran a hand through Fiona’s hair.
“Lovely. You and I have to talk later. Girl stuff, okay?”
Fiona,
usually adverse to anyone touching her, grinned. “That would be great.”
“And
dashing Eliot!” Dallas placed one hand over her chest. “I’m sure all the ladies
chase you. So many hearts you’re going to break.”
Eliot
found himself smiling, too.
As
when he’d first met Uncle Henry, something instinctively told Eliot that he
could trust her with his innermost secrets, but also that given a good reason,
she could be a formidable enemy.
“Come.”
Dallas dragged them toward the table. “So many things to show you.” She looked
about the apartment. “Don’t you have a couch, Audrey? Something comfortable?”
Grandmother’s
frown deepened. “We have what we have. If you do not like the accommodations,
you are free to leave.”
“Are
you really our aunt?” Fiona asked. “It’s hard to get a straight answer from
anyone in this family. You were actually our mother’s sister?”
Dallas
laughed again, and it sent goose bumps down Eliot’s arms.
“Perfectly
put. The family is not known for answers, only questions. But, yes, I am your
mother’s youngest sister. Shall I tell you about her?”
How
old was she? She looked young, but if Robert had told them the truth, then
these people didn’t age normally. Dallas could be eighteen or one hundred and
eighteen.
“The
children have no time for such fairy tales,” Grandmother said.
The
perpetual smirk on Dallas’s face faded. “As you wish, ‘Grandma.’ Business
first, it shall be.”
She
took Eliot and Fiona by the hand and beckoned them to sit on the floor in the
square of sunlight. “I’m going to teach you something,” she whispered
conspiratorially. “It might help you pass your trials.”
“Direct
help is forbidden,” Grandmother said, half rising from her chair.
“I
think it’s up to the Council to decide that,” Dallas told her. “And since I’m a
member of the Council and you’re not—shush.”
Grandmother
sat, but looked extremely irritated.
“Besides,”
Dallas said, “I’m just showing them what they should already know. If they are
my sister’s children, this is as much a part of them as their bones or blood.”
“Semantics,”
Grandmother grumbled.
Dallas
ignored her and turned back to Fiona and Eliot. “This is just a simple, silly
trick, but comes in handy more times than you’d think.”
She
pulled the thread from the frayed hem of her miniskirt.
“What
are you going to do with that?” Fiona asked, looking a little scared.
Dallas
twined the thread about her pinkies. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just the future.”
Eliot
felt movement in his stomach as he gazed at the string—a vibration that set his
teeth on edge.
Dallas
patted his hand. “Relax,” she cooed. “This is like sleight of hand. Stage
magic. Like any fortune-telling it’s just a way to talk with a primitive part
of your brain that never learned how to speak.”
Eliot
tried to relax, but so many strange things had happened, he wasn’t sure if this
string would turn into a snake, a balloon animal, or become a lit stick of
dynamite.