Authors: Artist Arthur
Krystal
and I came up with nothing yesterday afternoon. Actually, I think the afternoon was hampered by Krystal’s pre-occupation with where Franklin was and the Alyssa incident. She was at my house for close to an hour before leaving.
That actually turned out to be a good thing since, around a half hour after she left, my mother came home. If I thought my parents were going to flip over me hanging with Antoine, they’d have had just a mild coronary at seeing Krystal. Even though Krystal’s stepdad has some money, my parents aren’t impressed. Krystal’s family doesn’t live in Sea Point, so they can’t possibly be elite. It’s that social class thing again. It makes me sick to even acknowledge that’s the way my parents are. I mean, really, not liking someone because they chose a different occupation in life and hence makes less money is totally insane. I wish I could make my parents understand that.
Besides, I’m still grounded, so having company was probably a breach of those rules some kind of way. My mother came to my room to check on me but I just lay in my bed pretending to be asleep. I didn’t want to talk to her at all.
This morning, Casietta’s in the kitchen, and she’s acting kind of strange. I try to ignore it because she gets this way sometimes when she wants to go home to visit her family. But I think today might be different.
Our kitchen is huge, with granite tiled floors and granite counters. All the appliances are stainless steel and built for a kitchen that caters to more than just three people on a daily basis. Well, I guess I should count Mouse and Casietta and Fritz, my dad’s driver and the part-time gardener. Still, I think it’s too big.
I usually have breakfast sitting at the island while Casietta goes about her morning ritual of scrubbing the already clean counters and taking stock of what’s in the always full cabinets. She has my bowl of oatmeal, half grapefruit and glass of milk ready when I come down. I don’t want it. That cereal in the back of the cabinet with the fruity marshmallows in it seems much more appealing. But I know Casietta gets her orders regarding my diet straight from my mother.
I eat the grapefruit first because the bittersweet taste buffers the milk that I absolutely do not like. The plan is that by the time I finish the grapefruit and half the glass of milk the oatmeal will be cold. A good excuse not to eat it.
“You be careful at school today,” Casietta warns just before slamming another cabinet shut.
“It’s just school,” I say, scooping up another piece of grape fruit. To mask the tart taste, Casietta uses a packet of sugar substitute. I love Casietta.
“You never know. Danger is all around you. Be careful.”
Her voice sounds dire. I look up at her. She’s a short, stout woman who gives the best, warmest hugs ever. Her dark hair is just graying around the temples and she keeps it pulled back in a tight bun. Her skin is the same complexion as mine and my mother’s, an olive tone that makes us look exotic. Although she’s wrinkling a bit at the neck and the creases of her eyes, Casietta looks exactly the same to me that she has forever.
On second glance, I take those words back. Her eyes look
a little darker this morning as she’s staring at me so intently. “Mouse will stick closer to the building today. He won’t be far from you.”
“Why?” I ask, suddenly very concerned with what Casietta isn’t saying.
“Because I want you safe.”
“I’m usually safe when I’m at school. Casietta, what’s going on?”
She stops at another cabinet, her back turned to me. Then, taking a deep breath and releasing it, she picks up a cloth and moves to the sink to wet it. Once the cloth is wet to her specifications, Casietta picks up the bottle of cleaning fluid, sprays it and starts to scrub the counter. The one that’s already so clean I could probably apply my makeup by looking into it.
Through all this, she doesn’t answer me. I slip from the stool and go over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Is there something wrong, Casietta?”
She turns to me and begins speaking rapid Spanish. Of course, I know the language but can’t keep up with her hysterical ranting. By the time she’s finished, tears are flooding her eyes and my heart’s thumping in my chest.
Then she looks at me, covers her mouth as if she’s said something she shouldn’t and begins to shake her head. “Be careful. Be careful,” she says and drops the cloth before walking hastily out of the kitchen.
I bend to pick up the cloth, her rantings in Spanish running back through my head.
Luna llena.
Full moon.
Oscura contra la luz.
Dark versus light.
Muy pronto.
Coming soon.
Those are the snatches of her conversation I remember.
And they’re enough to make me wonder about what Casietta knows and to also make me think I should probably heed her warnings.
Alyssa doesn’t meet me at my locker this morning. I’m not upset about that at all. What does worry me is that when I do see Krystal in the hall, instead of her waving or even walking in my direction, she looks me right in the eye, turns and walks away.
I don’t have time to follow her and figure out what’s going on because the first bell rings. Just before I make it to my class, Antoine grabs my arm.
“Hey, pretty girl.”
“Hi,” I say a bit breathlessly.
“What are you doing this evening, say around six?”
Uh, being unfairly grounded for yet another day. “Nothing.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
I should say no. I should tell him I’m grounded or make up some other excuse. I should do something other than allow him to come to my house. “Why don’t I just meet you someplace?”
He pauses, cocks his head to the side and gives me that half smile he’s famous for. “Can you just come to my house?”
Oh no. I can’t. I shouldn’t. I already know the answer to this question. Why don’t I just say it? “Sure. Text me your address.”
Then I have to go or risk detention for being late. He kisses me quick on the lips right in front of everybody that’s in the hallway. I don’t have time to react, I just head into English Lit and take my seat.
Before starting today’s lesson, Mrs. Powell says in a real somber voice, “I was told by the principal this morning that
we were to make this announcement. We’re not making it to fuel any gossip or to start any confusion. We, the administrators, as well as the local authorities, just think it’s best that everyone in town know exactly what’s going on.”
Wow, this seems serious. The whole class is quiet, and she didn’t even have to ask them to get that way.
“Another teenager’s body was found this morning. This one was behind some office building on Main Street.” She clears her throat. “It was in the same condition as the teenager they found last Friday.”
And just as she says that, the room gets darker. The sun was out when I stepped out of the car and came into the building. But now it’s covered by clouds so dark they almost look black. This makes the classroom dim and solicits a few murmurs from the other kids.
I feel a sense of dread coming over me and start to drum my fingers on the desk. It’s an annoying sound. I know because I hated when Krystal kept doing it the other day. Now, I’m doing it and I don’t know why.
“It’s not a coincidence,” Jake says when we’re all at the lunch table.
All morning all anybody could talk about was the two boys, the two dead boys found with no eyes. David Sutherby was the first boy. The one we saw at the lake. The one Krystal’s ghost identified. And Jack Daily was the second one found last night behind the news station building in town. They were both sixteen years old, both from the Pennsylvania tour bus that was coming from the religious retreat.
“Why would he bother them?” Krystal asks. “Why were they targeted?”
We all sort of agree this has to be connected to the Darkness although we never really say it.
“What else do you know about this retreat they were on?” I ask Lindsey, who so far had the most details about the bodies.
“It was a youth retreat focused on washing away sin, purifying the soul, stuff like that.”
“So were they doing some rituals? You know something that may have backfired,” Jake asks.
Lindsey looks at him like his words are somehow a curse to her. “What do you mean, like voodoo or witchcraft?” Lindsey asks.
“Like something that would take their eyes out,” he replies.
“I think it’s some form of punishment,” Krystal says.
“Or a message,” I add.
Jake frowns. “A message to us? For us?”
I think of Casietta’s words this morning and the female voice the first time I ventured to the other plane. “A warning,” I whisper.
Our table goes quiet for a minute only to be interrupted by an uninvited guest.
“Well, looks like the gang’s all here,” Alyssa says with a smirk.
But today she’s not alone. Franklin’s standing right beside her. Krystal looks confused as she opens her mouth to speak.
“Franklin? Where have you been?” Krystal asks, totally ignoring Alyssa whose arms are crossed over her chest, cherry gloss covered lips upturned at the corners.
“He’s been with me,” Alyssa answers first.
Krystal rolls her eyes at Alyssa, then looks back at Franklin expecting an answer from him. What she gets is a shrug of his shoulders and a noncommittal, “I’ve been around.”
Franklin looks a little different today. Then again, I haven’t seen him since last Friday when Antoine and Jake dragged him out of the lake. Today he’s wearing dark-colored jeans, tennis shoes and a tight fitting black T-shirt. That’s what’s different. Franklin usually wears polo shirts, in all different colors, and his tennis shoes usually match the colors of his shirts. His honey complexion looks a little darker, too, like he’s gotten a little sun in the days he’s been incommunicado.
Krystal doesn’t look too happy with his answer. “Have you gotten my messages?” she asks.
Franklin looks at Alyssa, who throws her head back and laughs. He smiles as he looks back at Krystal. “I lost my phone.”
“Yeah, right,” Jake mumbles.
“Did you say something, Tracker?” Franklin looks past Krystal and asks Jake.
Jake immediately strikes back. “That’s not my name.”
“I’m feeling lots of tension here. It’s strange,” Lindsey is saying from beside me. Her voice isn’t that loud, like she’s thinking out loud instead of really talking to us.
“They’re all jokes,” Alyssa says, putting a hand on Franklin’s arm.
That’s when I notice that Franklin’s been holding this carton of milk in his hand the whole time. I’m not sure what’s going on. This whole episode is strange, just like Lindsey said. But I think I should do something, say something. But what? Nothing has been directed at me, so maybe I should just keep my mouth out of it.
“Yeah, you’re right,” Franklin says and begins tossing the carton of milk up and down in his hand. It’s not open, so I guess it’s no big deal.
Krystal looks crushed at Franklin’s words or his weird behavior—which one hurts her most I’m not sure.
“Let’s get out of here before the losers rub off on us,” Alyssa says.
Then, just when I think we can all breathe a sigh of relief that she’s leaving, she looks at me. “You coming, Sasha? I was thinking we could start making some plans for that little project we’re working on.”
I open my mouth to speak because now I know exactly what Alyssa’s trying to do. But it’s too late.
Franklin’s carton of milk goes up in the air, but his hand neglects to catch it this time. It falls onto the table right in front of Krystal. I could swear the impact isn’t that hard, still the carton bursts open, splattering chocolate milk all over Krystal.
Lindsey squeals, and Jake immediately jumps up, a curse already on his lips. Alyssa and Franklin both break out into elaborate fits of laughter.
“See you tonight, Sasha,” Alyssa manages to say just a second before the bell rings and she and Franklin walk off arm in arm.
I want to smack her. No, I really wanted to punch Franklin in his stupid weather-boy face. Instead, I find some napkins on the other end of the table and move around to help Krystal clean up.
She’s wearing a white shirt today and white capris, so the chocolate milk makes thick brown marks all over her. It’s dripping from her hair, sliding in murky rivulets down her cheeks. Lindsey’s already helping her and so is Jake. But when I try…
“I don’t need your help,” she says in a tone she’s never used with me before.
I brush it off. “Let’s just get to the bathroom and we can use some water to get it out of your hair.”
“No!” Krystal yells. “Just…” She hesitates like she wants to say more but then just sighs. “Just get away. Go plan something with her.”
“Her” is spoken on a broken whimper. Krystal is trying not to cry. She’s embarrassed and hurt over Franklin’s betrayal. But why is she taking it out on me?
“I’m only trying to help,” I say.
Jake interrupts. “Maybe you should just go, Sasha. We can handle this.”
Okay, now it’s two against one. I look to Lindsey for some bit of help. She just looks confused, shrugging as she dabs already soaked napkins over Krystal’s books.
Fine! I think to myself and drop the napkins I’m holding on the table. If they don’t want me around, I won’t stay around. It’s time to go back to class anyway.
By
five after six I’m a bundle of nerves. I came right home from school still stressed about what happened in the cafeteria.
I can’t believe Krystal took that attitude with me. Nor can I believe that Jake, who was actually my friend first, sided with her. I guess it’s because he has a crush on her. But then there’s Lindsey. Well, I can’t really say she took their side. She actually just looked stuck in the middle.
And what was up with Franklin?
It’s all just too strange, and the more I try to figure it out, the weirder it seems. So after I sit in my room stewing about that for about an hour, I finally decide to do some homework.
Reading more of the
Iliad
is giving me a better understanding of the Greeks and their beliefs and how parallel their world seems to mine. Like, I know there’s always good and evil and governments put into place to secure the safety of the people. The Olympians and the Titans tried to do just that. Only they, the gods I mean, were just as warped and deceitful as the enemies they were supposed to protect the mortals from. Just like our government.
Around six-thirty Casietta comes into my room with a glass of milk. I know it’s just her way of checking on me, so I make sure to smile a lot and appear as cheerful as possible until she
leaves. She looks at me funny the entire time, and for a split second, just as she’s leaving, I think I see something eerie in her eyes. Like a shift in color or shape. Just a subtle change, yet I notice it.
I’m going crazy. I know this. Everything around me is going totally whacky.
The one sane person I know is Antoine. And he’s waiting for me to come over to his house.
I know I can’t ask Mouse to take me—that’d be just like telling my parents where I’m going. So instead, I boot up my laptop and, sitting cross-legged on my bed, begin to surf the internet for bus routes and schedules in Lincoln. We’re a small town, so public transportation information is printed on the town’s bare-bones website. After figuring out the route and the bus fare, I change into a jean skirt, a pink lace cami and my matching jean jacket. My hair is still straight from this morning when I’d flat-ironed it, so I only have to run the brush through it a couple of times for it to look decent. A little mascara and a lot of pink gloss and I’m set.
Now to figure out how I’m going to get out of the house.
I have to sneak out, that’s simple enough. So as I’m creeping through the hallway, I keep telling myself that this is worth it. Once downstairs, I go straight to the kitchen and to the side door. Punching in the code to the alarm system, I wait impatiently for it to beep, then I open the door and slip out. Casietta’s bedroom is on the same floor as mine, but all the way on the other side of the house. Tonight’s Tuesday so she’s probably already propped up in her bed with a bag of Skittles, watching one of her favorite medical dramas on television.
The air outside is still warm, and I look back and forth down the little path that splits off to wrap around the back of the house toward the gazebo—the place that would now and
forever belong to me and Antoine. Heading straight, I cut through Casietta’s vegetable garden to get to the line of trees that surround the house. The trees are all more than six feet tall since my father had them installed specifically for privacy. Coming to a stop in front of them, I take a deep breath and focus.
By visualizing where I want to be, I can disappear from one spot and appear in the one I visualized. At least that used to be the way my teleportation worked. But with the other change in my power, I don’t know what’ll happen this time.
What I do know is that each of my powers revolves around me, what I’m feeling, how I’m able to focus, to become one with the power. I have to open myself up to the power within, embrace it totally, even though I don’t know why I have it or really what I’m supposed to be doing with it. So as I stand there, I’m aware of every part of my body in magnification. My arms seem stronger, my hearing more acute, my fingertips tingling. Energy, that’s what it feels like, a burst of energy, moving through my veins, down my legs, to my feet that instantly feel like they’re lifting off the ground.
Teleportation is quick, not like when I go through that other plane. I stumble just a little as my feet hit solid ground again, and I’m looking at the light post on the corner at the end of the stretch of houses where I live. My house is at the top of that stretch, a good distance from where I am now.
Turning, I walk quickly the next two blocks to the bus stop, and just in time, the bus pulls up. The ride across town isn’t long, probably because Lincoln isn’t that big. Anyway, I see the sign that says Bolten Street, and I stand up and move toward the door to get off.
Today has been a seasonably warm spring day. But as I take the first couple of steps on the sidewalk, a chilly breeze begins to blow. Strange weather seems to be the norm in Lincoln
and never really bothered me before. But now that I know my power’s connected to excess energy in weather events, every difference in temperature has me on alert.
Antoine’s house, according to the directions I configured between MapQuest and the bus route, should be about two blocks down the street, on the left-hand side. I’m on the right-hand side, so I cross and keep walking. The breeze kind of picks up, blowing my hair around so that I’m probably going to look like a plucked Chihuahua when I get to his house. I lift one hand, trying to smooth it down, but it’s useless because the other side just flies up. Groaning in frustration, I step off the curb to cross over to the next block.
My next step is halted when something steps out in front of me. I don’t scream immediately because my hair’s in my eyes and I can’t really see who it is. But then I hear laughter, the same dark, husky laughter I know I’ve heard before. And I look up. It’s him, or it. The Darkness.
Taller than the lamppost on the corner and so wide he’s blocking my path. I keep saying
he
because the voice and laughter sound male. But there’s no face, no eyes, no nothing, but blackness.
Hearts aren’t meant to pump as fast as mine is, so I know that getting away from him is the best possible action to keep my health intact. I try to skirt around him, but he just laughs some more. I back up, but there feels like there’s a wall or something behind me, holding me in place. I could scream, but who would hear me? There’s a row of houses down the next block, but I’m not sure my voice will travel that far.
I’m trapped.
I hate that feeling. Like I’m helpless to do anything to stop this entity from taunting me, from taunting us. It won’t tell us what it wants, and we don’t really know how to fight against it. Yet that’s exactly what I want to do. Fight.
Rage is building inside me, swirling in thick ugly waves. I’ve never felt this way before, and my entire body shakes with it. Somewhere in the distance, though, there’s this calm trying to take hold of me, trying to get its grasp on me. But how can I stay calm when this thing is so persistent, so insistent on getting to us?
The shaking stops. He’s still there. Standing. Waiting. I think he knows what I’m feeling. Probably even what I’m thinking. He’s feeding off the rage—I can tell because as long as I’m angry he’s not laughing. I’m doing exactly what he wants.
Calm grows, moving inside me until my fingers are tingling again, the sensation touching me everywhere. And just when he starts to say something to me, I teleport.
My feet hit the ground so hard I lose my balance and fall backward. When I should have fallen, Antoine catches me instead.
“Hey, be careful,” he says as both his arms hold me, pushing me back upright. “I texted you a while ago. You didn’t respond, so I was going to meet you at the bus stop.”
“What?” I’m still a little fuzzy after my hasty getaway. Looking around, I see I’m on a small porch.
It’s big enough to fit two plastic chairs and one huge plant that looks like it’s about to bust right out of the ceramic pot it’s planted in. Antoine is standing in front of me. Behind him is a screened door and a window with the yellow glow of light behind it.
“I was coming to meet you,” he repeats.
Forcing my mind to get rid of the spooky darkness that keeps following me, I clear my throat. “Um, how did you know I’d be on the bus?”
He just laughs. “I know you weren’t having your driver bring you to my house. Come on inside.”
I follow him through the screened door and into the warm house. I do not respond to his comment because that will just start a conversation I don’t want to have right now.
Antoine’s house reminds me of Jake’s, even though Jake lives east, toward the creek and the railroad tracks. But the house is narrow and long like Jake’s. It’s warm like Jake’s, too, and I wonder if one of Antoine’s grandparents lives here.
“We can sit here and watch television,” Antoine says, pointing to a couch that looks like it’s seen a lot of years.
That’s not a bad thing, I think as I sit down, because it’s really comfortable. The white couch in our living room, the one we’ve had for about three years, I think, I’ve sat in that one maybe two times. It’s hard, not welcoming at all. But this one is. It’s a dark brown color, with like a corduroy feel to it. There are red pillows on each end. Across the room is an entertainment stand with a bunch of pictures and knickknacks on it. It also holds the TV, nineteen inch, I believe. There’s a VCR and a DVD player on top of it and a small library of movies on the two shelves beneath it.
“You want something to drink?” Antoine asks.
He doesn’t sit down with me, just sort of stands in front of me looking more than a little nervous.
“No. Thanks,” I say rubbing my hands down my thighs. I’m a little nervous, too. And I’m still shaky from teleporting twice in the last hour.
“Wanna watch a movie?” he asks, taking a seat beside me.
I shrug. “I can’t stay long.”
He nods while picking up the remote control. “I figured that.”
Again there’s that tone, like there’s something else he wants to say. Or maybe it’s a preamble to a conversation we’ve sort
of had before that I want to steer clear of. So I just ignore it and stare at the screen.
Halfway through the movie,
Bad Boys II
, Antoine’s pick but one I’ve seen before and enjoyed, a woman comes into the room. She’s carrying a small tray with two glasses and two saucers with slices of cake on them.
“Thanks, Aunt Pearl,” Antoine says and immediately stands up to help the woman with the tray.
I slide to the edge of the couch and nervously smile at her. The smile she gives me in return is warm and genuine, her high cheekbones lifting even higher. She’s about my height, I guess, with dark brown skin and dark eyes. Her hair is up in some sort of twist, black, no signs of gray.
“This is Sasha. Sasha, this is my aunt Pearl.” Antoine makes the introductions.
I figure I should stand, extend my hand, open my mouth and say something. Wow, I’m acting like such a goof.
“Ah, hi. It’s nice to meet you.”
She takes my hand, shakes it heartily. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Sasha. You can call me Aunt Pearl, too. That’s what everybody calls me.”
The nervous jitters I was feeling sort of melt beneath her gaze and her words. She’s looking at me like she’s really happy to meet me.
“Okay, Aunt Pearl.”
“You like cake?”
Does a cow make milk? “Yes, ma’am.” My mother would have a fit if she saw me. But she’s not here, so I sit back down and take the plate Antoine’s offering to me.
“Aunt Pearl makes the best red velvet cake in the world,” he says, foregoing the fork on the platter and picking his cake up before taking a huge bite out of it.
I take my fork, even though I’m really tempted to follow
Antoine’s lead. Cutting a reasonably sized piece, I put it in my mouth and chew. It’s sooooo good. I smile. “It’s the best I’ve ever tasted.”
I hope that doesn’t sound phony, because I’m being really honest. The cake is moist and the icing’s sweet. And for a moment I feel like I’m at home. In a real home, with real people who actually talk to each other and love each other. Not like the chilly atmosphere in the fortress I live in.
For the rest of the movie, Aunt Pearl joins us, laughing at Will Smith and Martin Lawrence as if this is the first time she’s seen this movie—although she told me she’s watched it several times before. When the credits begin to roll, I notice its almost ten o’clock.
“I have to go,” I say to Antoine.
“She’s right,” Aunt Pearl says. “It’s a school night. Don’t keep her out too late. Take her home, Antoine.”
While he’s taking the DVD out of the machine and turning everything off, Aunt Pearl comes over to me as I stand up.
“Don’t be a stranger now, Sasha. You come back and visit me real soon.”
“I sure will,” I say, meaning every word. “I really had a good time tonight.”
“Well, I’m glad. But the next time I’ll cook you a meal. Get some meat on your bones.” She chuckles and tweaks my chin.
I smile just as Antoine comes up and takes my hand. “Let’s get you home.”
The ride back to my house is quiet. I’m thinking of all the things I’ve been thinking since first meeting Antoine. We have such different backgrounds, and yet, I really like him.
Getting out of the car after he parks at the end of my street instead of in the driveway, we walk in silence until we arrive at the gazebo. It’s risky, I know, since I’m not technically
supposed to be outside, but we sit down right next to each other.
“You still act like you’re scared that we’re together,” Antoine says.
I shrug. “We’re just different,” I say in a voice real hushlike since I’m sneaking around out here.
He turns my face to his and takes my hand in his. Our foreheads rest together. His touch warms me, his presence completes me. This whole thing between us is confusing, but I think the answer is becoming clearer.
“You’re a girl and I’m a boy,” he says, and his voice is hushed, too.
It’s like we’re in our own private world, right here, sitting in the center of my, no,
our
gazebo.
“You know what I mean.”