Breakfast at Baratie's
by Memphis Lupine
(memphis_lupine@hotmail.com)
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Story One: Concrete Angel
II
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She woke to find herself wet with the peculiar humid stickiness of sweat that creeps into the pores, her eyes stinging and wet. Breathing deeply, hard, she brushed her hands over her eyes hard, rubbing steadily at the softer glue of tears trickling down clammy cheeks, and put the heels of her palms across her eyelids. A heavy breath out helped calm her nerves, grounding her in the small darkness of the room claimed as hers in the smallest townhouse along the street. Turning to the side, she fumbled with the twisting switch of her bedside lamp and finally forced it to spread golden light through the shade screwed onto the white beams over the electric bulb.
Deep breaths, relax, she instructed herself firmly, balling her hands in the slick pale sheets and flexing her fingers back out. She fisted her hands and then spread them open once more repeatedly, the steady actions soothing her quietly. There's nothing here to hurt me. We're safe here; he can't follow us. He won't follow us. Safe, we're safe.
The sudden constriction of a growing sob cut her thoughts off, startling her as she felt the tears tumble haphazardly from her dark eyes in silver ribbons, and she flung the covers away from her bare legs, pushing feet clad in socks to the carpeted floor. Threading slender fingers through her fiery hair, she curled over, wrinkling her toes under her feet, and gasped the thin, hiccupping moans of someone crying, air catching in her throat every few seconds. The sound of footsteps, light and cautious in the hallway, interrupted her briefly and she glanced up between strands of copper-tinted silk and curved palms to see her sister standing indecisively in the doorway. A noisy hiccup slipped free of her mouth and she started laughing amidst her tears, the situation striking her as absurd for the moment.
"Hey, N-Nolia," she giggled sadly, lowering her hands to rest them in her lap, the creased face of Sylvester lining her oversized white t-shirt. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"Oh, Natalie," her sister murmured, and there was a soft creak in the protesting bedsprings as she sat gracefully beside the smaller of the two, pulling her into a loose hug. "It's okay, I was up anyway," she continued, patting her shoulder comfortingly, "and I needed to check on you." Pulling back a little, sweeping a clump of dyed hair behind her ear, she asked, urgently, "Are you having nightmares again? Would you like to tell me about it?"
Natalie shook her head, sniffling and shrinking her arms into her baggy sleeves, wiping at the sticky fluid coating her face and smiling lopsidedly. Tattooed arms gradually left her sleeves, fingers clasping together in her lap and hanging between her legs as a makeshift pendulum, and she tossed her head from one side to the other. "No," she said slowly, fixing her gaze on a spot in the wall opposite her, "not a nightmare. I don't think it was a nightmare, because I don't remember anything. I just…woke up like this." She gestured helplessly at her untidy appearance: eyes rimmed crimson and short hair twirled into small knots, strands resting on end at spots.
Nolia rubbed her hands over her younger sister's arms, taking on the motherly influence in spite of her own youthful appearance, and she offered gently, "You can stay home today, if you want to. I'll be working all day in the office, and you're more than welcome to stay home and watch t.v. if you don't feel like going to school." She touched a loose strand of red hair and smiled encouragingly, sparking a tentative reply in the like from the redhead. "I don't want you to feel pressured here."
She was more than willing to accept that offer, wanting to take advantage of an opportunity to be lazy, but she also knew she would refuse it. "No thanks, big sis," she replied, startling her older sister. "I made a friend at school yesterday and I'd really like to see 'em again."
A look of unacknowledged relief passed over Nolia's features, sagging her shoulder and turning her lips into a more relaxed smile at that most desired of things. "Really?" she questioned almost eagerly, leaning forward and creating a sillier air in the room. "What's her name?"
"Oh, it's a guy," Natalie corrected her, "Ulan Harris." At her sister's immediate expression of restrained concern, she quickly added, "Don't worry, he's completely safe. He has this huge crush on some popular chick who doesn't know he exists."
Nolia sighed, rubbing her hand over the other girl's strawberry locks and standing, and asked, "Would you like me to fix you breakfast?"
"Oh, well, since you offered," Natalie smiled tremulously, to her sister's lovingly rude face, "I'd like French toast, three sunny-side-up eggs, and five strips of bacon. With orange juice."
Nolia laughed and pressed a swift kiss to the side of Natalie's clammy head, giving her one more firm, soothing hug before pacing into the narrow hallway of the townhouse's second floor. Rhythmic thumping signaled her descent down the stairs in the predawn morn, and the smile on her face quivered, then fell. Shivering to herself, Natalie pulled her knees up to her breasts and squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as she could manage, trying to bring back the levity of the day before instead of the darkness of years gone.
Quiet, and he won't hear, the old mantra lilted in a listless manner in her head. Freeze, and he won't see. The room was cold.
--
"You smell deliciously fruity this morning," Ulan said by way of greeting, his legs stuck firmly in the empty seat before his newly adopted desk. He was scribbling in his binder again, cartoon doodles of the few various students also in the room, waiting the three minutes until the bell rang and Mrs. Walston grudgingly recognized their collective existence. The bandana was gone, replaced by a fluorescent green hair-tie that kept his abundantly curled hair out of his face and near the base of his skull, sleek black curls glinting under the quivering white lights above. She was not able to determine if she was relieved that the bright hair-tie matched his uncoordinated clothing of a brilliant orange t-shirt and camouflage jogging pants.
"Tangerine perfume, and I hope you aren't coming on to me, think of how poor mademoiselle Eastwind would feel," she replied in turn, dropping her scarlet crochet knapsack to the floor and her single-subject notebook on her desk. "Speaking of which, are you aware I share the same home economics class with the lady popular?" She grinned at his feigned disinterest and gradual sinking in his seat, his face distorted by embarrassment and anxious desire for no one else to hear. "Did I say something?"
He sheltered his face from view with his slowly dying binder and grumbled, "I should've never told anyone about that, and now I know why." His binder dipped a little, exposing his narrowed dark eyes and an unhappy frown, and he glared weak daggers at Natalie. "Please put your mocking on hold."
"Sor-ry," she laughed, moving forward to rest her elbow on her desk and settle her chin in her hand as she smirked. "I've never seen a guy look so mortified before," she confessed happily, and he moaned in despair, letting his binder fall flatly on his face as he dropped his arms limply by his sides. Behind its protective grey shielding, he muttered things that were distorted into a low rumbling and she laughed. "Don't tell me you haven't told her yet," she teased, watching him pull himself back into a proper sitting position as the bell shook with its annoying scream.
"I haven't," he spoke in a near-whisper, grabbing up his pencil and drawing formless shapes on the cover paper's margin nervously.
She arched an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her buttoned jacket, and leaned over the metal bar connecting her chair to her platform desk, staring at him. "With your annoyingly loud and creepy nature?" she jested. "Good God, reality has just shifted."
"I haven't even known you a day," he said defensively. "Nobody thinks I'm creepy after only a day. A week, maybe, but never just a day."
"I'm gifted," she retorted in lazy rebuttal, quickly undoing the buttons lining her shirt as the surly teacher began listing off names. "But, really, why haven't you told her? You never know until you try and all that shit teachers tell you until you develop a personality."
He snorted, dotting the end of something that might have been a squid had it not been for the large square decorating its head, and slipped the pencil into the thin plastic pouch posted onto the inside of the binder's flap. "Gee, Natalie, if only we all were half as brave," began Ulan pleasantly, and he rotated his head to look at her, "as--oh, God! My eyes!" He threw his hands over his face, nearly overturning his desk as he lurched away. "I-I'm going blind," and he made a dramatized show of it.
Blushing, she glared at her low-cut shirt, a tight affair of spaghetti straps and a bad mix of tie-dye, and she shrugged her jacket back on, overlapping the sides of cloth. "It's all I had clean to wear," she explained huffily, turning her chin snobbily up to the glimmering light in the ceiling.
"The bleeding," he moaned in reply, "oh, the agonizing pain and foulness of what mine eyes hath seen..."
"Mister Ulan, Miss Natalie," interjected the rasping creak of Mrs. Walston, and both looked up, one miffed, the other peeking between obscuring fingers. "While I'm quite sure your lives are simultaneously riveting and thought-provoking, this assignment is far more important to your scholastic career than whether or not Miss Natalie's attire fits within the realm of school dress code." A few ill-timed snickers passed through the class and a deadly glare sent via Natalie's dark brown eyes caused more than one to fall instantly silent, suddenly finding their neglected work far more intriguing.
"Sorry," he whispered after a few minutes of steady writing, taking care to see that they were not being watched by the teacher striking off papers at her desk. "About doing that whole routine in front of the class." He flipped a completed page, the paper indented by his forceful script, and started the stately work of logging down the words scrolling through his head.
"Whatever," she replied in an equally low voice, giving him a disparaging expression that warned it would not be forgotten as quickly as her slang implied. "You never answered my question though: why not tell her and get it over with?"
"Okay, one," he ticked off the accompanying finger on his free hand, noting a few fleeting ideas in the margin so he might refer to them later, "I'm really bad at confrontation. I hate it, which is part of the reason I'm socially inept, and I'd prefer to not be disemboweled by Joel 'look at me, I'm a dickhead' Underwood before I graduate. As if he knows what disemboweled means anyway. Two," a second finger flipped up as he continued talking, his voice unperturbed and sarcastically monotone, "what safer love is there than love from afar? I'd rather have an unrequited love known by few if any," he glowered at her comically, "than a mocked love known by all."
She contemplated his words, writing a great deal more carefully than his hasty, loping pace; when he wrote, it seemed like he could find no way to write fast enough, and she preferred to advance slowly, writing after spending time on her words and phrasing. "Did you see 'Can't Hardly Wait,' that Jennifer Love Hewitt movie?" she asked rhetorically, frowning as the lead in her number-two pencil snapped with a clean break. "The nerd got the popular girl in that movie."
"It's a feel-good teen flick that focuses on one night in a budding relationship," he replied. "As if it's inspiration for every loser who manages to fall for the rich girl."
"Billy Joel," was her airy response as she stood, twirling her dulled pencil in her fingers while she walked the few paces to get near the one pencil sharpener in the room. "'Uptown Girl.'" Jamming the pencil's point into place, she swirled the handle around perfunctorily, listening for the sound of the blades passing cleanly over wood smoothed too far for them to cut any further.
"Reminds me, today's Chickflick Tuesday at the Wallerbee," Ulan all but mouthed after she reclaimed her seat, avoiding Mrs. Walston's prying look deftly. "Y'know, that movie theatre near Baratie's? They used to have plays there, too, but I think someone got killed and they had to stop letting the emotionally unbalanced high school kids perform there, imagine that. Skeletons in the closet, indeed," he snorted, waving his pencil loftily and in twirling motions with little purpose or aim. "In any case, they're supposed to be showing 'One Fine Day' tonight. Nothing stimulates the brain like an exploited, hurried movie that appeals to middle-aged housewives."
"Mmm, George Clooney," was Natalie's dreamy response.
"Mister Ulan, I am most serious when I ask you to be quiet." Mrs. Walston's voice carried a note of warning that was clear, and he grinned widely.
"Mrs. Walston, did you know that Australia has a breed of cow known as the Helomis rapidae?" he demanded in a cheerful tone, a mild undercurrent of cheekiness lining it. "It's a peculiar kind of bovine that grazes on the remains of the wild Aborigine chipmunk, Felonious daleius, and it's been known to attack the occasional moose with intent to mousse."
Natalie rolled her eyes and pressed the point of her pencil to the paper of her notebook as Ulan proceeded to invent things no one in their right mind could conceivably fall for. Their teacher appeared to be of the same opinion, but she merely nodded congenially and smiled her withered, affectionate smile at the star pupil. Five minutes came and went, and he finally wound down from the imaginative lecture he had apparently grown a little too passionate about, nearly convinced himself of the Australian cow's endangered position. Several of their classmates clapped, those sleeping snored in quiet cacophony, and she found her mind stuck in an unfortunate groove, frowning as she struggled to figure out what next to write. What the hell, she thought in awed sarcasm, made me think I could write a story set in Gaul? God, like I know anything about history, especially about what the hell the Celtics were like.
"And behold," Ulan was muttering, "there was light!" He stabbed his pencil to the paper in a practiced ending mark, dotting in bold, smeared black the last period bringing to a conclusion his thirteen-page opus. She stared at him, feeling a sense of foreboding doom in her chest at his seemingly endless supply of insane creativity, and he flashed a toothy smile at her that verged suspiciously on smirk. "I'm done," he said sweetly.
"I hate you," she informed him, and he stuck his tongue out. "Gross. If you're trying to offend me beyond reasonable comprehension," continued she in a polite manner, "you're doing quite well."
"Right, okay, fine, I'm an idiot, blah-blah, blah-blah," he waved his hand dismissively, shifting in his seat so he was in it sideways. "Try to get your sister's permission to go to the theatre tonight, okay? It's no fun flicking popcorn immaturely at a big screen without someone punching you in the arm and telling you to stop it, what do the people in front of you think?" The closest look he had to a pathetic I'm a poor puppy dog, aren't my eyes adorably weepy? look adorned his face expressively.
She studied his words thoughtfully, wrinkling her nose as she considered her options. On the one hand, she and Nolia had only been living in Winchester for not quite a week yet, and she knew it would worry her beloved elder sister to no end if she stayed out to all hours. The other hand included a surprisingly close friendship developed in the past twenty-four hours and a George Clooney film, which in and of itself deserved her whole and undivided rapturous attention. We're free, now, and we'll do whatever the hell we want to, she had told Nolia fiercely those four years ago when they first escaped.
"I'll call her and ask to go," Natalie conceded with a weary sigh she did not mean, laughing at his satisfied grin, that wide twist of his pouty lips exposing gleaming rows of teeth. "But I'm warning you," and she shook her finger in teasing alarm, "if you ruin my capability to drool over the male lead, I'll be forced to beat you senseless with a stick."
The bell rang, interrupting her without preamble or concession, and all eyes turned to the front of the room, staring perplexedly at the innocent red square placed directly over the center of the chalkboard. "I've only been coming here since yesterday," she began slowly, "but I'm pretty sure that kind of rang early." She turned to look at Ulan, fingers toying with the edge of the second page in her notebook, nails scraping in soft ruffles across the tightly stacked paper, and noticed with some trepidation his sheer look of horror.
"Aw, damn," he wailed. "It's assembly schedule!" The rest of the class shared approving moans of disgusted acceptance, three or four slinking up and grabbing their gear in clumsy arms to vanish into the gradually filling hallway. He scooped up his loose backpack, flipping open the unzipped main pocket and letting the faded brown reveal the plastic-lined interior of relative darkness. One arm gently shoved the disorganized piles of paper, writing utensils, and a few books into the creased opening, and he flicked the zipper shut. Tossing his backpack over his shoulder resignedly, Ulan grouchily clambered to his feet and gave her a sorrowful look.
"I'll bet second period'll be shortened, too," she surmised, and he nodded in apathetic recognition as they made their reluctant way to the thin doorway. Sparing a farewell wave to the mind-numbingly bored Mrs. Walston, who looked as if she could not possibly be happier that her first period class was over sooner than normal, she split from Ulan, headed in a different direction. "Thank you, God," she prayed softly, "for letting home economics be shortened today. Bless You in everything I aim to do, and may the rest of the day go as swiftly."
"Oh cruelest of ironies," she heard Ulan faux-sobbing down the opposite end of the hallway, and she laughed to herself, placing a hand on the bulky door leading into the fluorescent ivory of her second period class. She pushed it open, one hand wrapped tightly over the lacy strap of her crochet knapsack and the other clutching her beloved notebook, and stepped into the brightness. Blinking rapidly to dissuade the sunspots lining her vision, she picked a path to the chair centered at one of the nine small, round tables she distantly recalled as being her assigned seat.
"You're the new girl!" a loud voice declared, startling her nearly witless while she dumped her knapsack unceremoniously to the floor, and Natalie collapsed into her plastic chair. "Crap, I'm sorry," the same voice interjected in hasty, embarrassed apology, and on the opposite side of the table two girls of identical appearance seated themselves in twin chairs. They both had hair dyed a midnight blue that faded into a slightly unattractive pastel shade at the curled ends, where the dye had not been as tenacious, and builds that matched one another perfectly. "I'm Tanya Wagner," the girl who had startled her said sheepishly, offering a calloused hand as a token of her esteem. Eyes of a darker brown than her own gleamed behind oversized glasses.
"And I'm Katya Wagner," her twin added, dipping her head in greeting and folding her hands on the table. She had dark blue eyes in opposition with her mirror image's black chocolate, and she radiated an aura of more or less peace, while the just-introduced Tanya all but screamed excitability. "We've been moved by Mister Hall to share your table, since you're all alone over here and the table we were at previously was overcrowded."
Tanya turned to Katya, a thoughtful expression crossing her cherubic features. "Think we can convince Mister Hall to let Cham sit with us?" she questioned, and the quieter of the two frowned, considering this idea.
Natalie looked at them both as if they could only be weirder by spitting frogs out their collective ears.
"I don't know," Katya answered, ignoring Natalie's questionable welcoming. "Let's ask Mister Hall, shall we?"
"Mister Hall!" Tanya promptly bellowed, and Natalie dropped her face into her hands, already convinced she would never be happy in the apparent hell of home economics. "Mister Hall, sir, halloo!" She waved her hand in frantic beckoning as the bell rang, loudly signifying the end of the four-minute break and the beginning of the second-class period. The several students accompanying them in class, the majority female, save for male seniors who had pushed it off until the final semester in fear, all glanced as one at the table in the back, closest to the stoves. Chamomile Eastwind, silver blonde hair tied expertly into a stylishly braided knot at the top of her head, decorative wisps lining her delicate face, winked at her friends, aware of their chosen ploy. Natalie saw the unforgettable mug that was Joel Underwood peering around the tiny blonde's slender shoulder with an expression that could only be read as openly, inexplicably hostile.
"Tanya," Katya groaned in long-accepting exasperation, used to her sister's blunt methods and somewhat insensitive actions, before adding her own voice to the cry. "Mister Hall, would Chamomile please be allowed to sit with us and," her voice drifted as she looked at the redhead for assistance.
"Natalie Tartan," she deadpanned, and she lifted her knapsack into her lap, working it open and sliding her notebook into its depths.
"Natalie Tartan!" echoed Tanya triumphantly.
The bald man in the front, dressed in an impeccable suit that fairly declared him an embittered ex-professor, gave her the sort of look that suggested he could care less. "Eastwind, shove," he finally spoke, his tone only adding to his rudely sardonic aura. Joel began protesting in a deep voice, and Mr. Hall slowly switched a pointedly cold gaze to the jock until he stumbled in his insistent speech and fell to a surly silence. "Thank you, Underwood, for sharing your opinion with me."
Chamomile stood swiftly, picking up into her reed-slender arms the small rippled green binder she had set before her, an expensive leather purse colored into a pale shade of clover usually only seen around Easter cast over her arm. "Hey," she greeted softly, scooting out the one empty seat at the table once carrying Natalie alone as a guest. She wiggled her binder onto the flat surface and tucked her purse under the table, knocking it carefully between her heeled feet, and she smiled a beatific smile at Natalie. "I'm Chamomile Eastwind," she continued in the same quiet voice, shivering her chair closer to Natalie as the twins, casting haphazard glances at the insensitive instructor writing out the day's objectives on the board, did so as well.
"So I've heard," Natalie whispered right back, feeling her mild bias against the small senior fade in spite of her stubborn belief that anyone who could treat her newly claimed best friend rudely was undeserving of kindness. A curious thought, one devious and a typically underhanded ploy, developed nearly instantly in her mind, and she smiled charmingly. Encouraged, Chamomile tilted her head to the side and maintained her smile whilst the twins started hurriedly noting what was being writ on the board. Motioning to the disgruntled and sulking figure of Joel, she asked in a purposefully non-sneaky voice, "He your boyfriend?"
"Oh, yes," Chamomile smiled, her dark violet eyes glimmering with pride, and Natalie, prone to making snap judgments, decided to take back her charitable thoughts. "We've been dating since the junior prom, you know, and we get along famously." She glanced at her perfect nails, sprinkled with glitter over the baby pink paint on each curved swell, and the faintest hint of hesitation crossed her angelic features.
Natalie grinned.
Katya commented innocently, "Say, aren't you friends with Ulan Harris?" At Tanya's blank look, she prodded her sister in the ribs, earning an oof and a returned jab around or near her digestive tract, and shared a brief, conspirator's wink with Natalie. It was unnoticed by both Tanya and Chamomile, the former being too busy rubbing irritatedly at her ribcage and the latter twisting a strand of hair between her fingers in a sudden interest with the details of her appearance. Natalie's grin, if possible, widened even further, and she masked it with a poised hand, the corners of her mouth twisting slyly. "He's always struck me as unbelievably weird and," she gave Natalie a quick, apologizing twitch of her lips, evidence of an old goal showing on her face as she spoke, "he's such a nerd. How can you be friends with him?"
"He's not all that weird," Chamomile interrupted anxiously, her wide eyes flickering up for the quickest of moments before she adopted a more self-controlled air and picked at a nonexistent hangnail. "We've, um, gone to the same summer camp and all for the past few years."
"Two years," Katya corrected gently, to Natalie's immense amusement.
"No, Katya, three years," Tanya corrected, in turn, her tone bored, though she, too, winked sneakily at Natalie. It would take little effort to determine the Wagner girls had long thought Chamomile was dancing around a subject that needed far less dancing, and even Natalie, who had only just become acquainted with this example of the dainty social structures each high school had individually, could see it.
"He's really sweet," defended Chamomile in a muffled voice, having dug out a powder-case from her purse and flipped it open, nervously reapplying blush to her pale cheeks. "And I'd like to think we're friends."
"Friends, Tanya," scolded Katya.
"Oh, but of course, Katya," responded Tanya in wide-eyed approval.
"Not likely," Natalie snorted into her still-poised hand, and a trio of heads, long since ignoring Mr. Hall's repeated instructions to not play with the matches in the back when baking, whipped around to face her. Both Katya and Tanya had skeptical, but knowing glints to their eyes, having already come to the conclusion that the school's new addition would be a co-conspirator, and Chamomile had a worried, albeit confused look.
"Excuse me?" Chamomile asked politely, her face working against her efforts for mildly concerned nonchalance. "By what do you mean?"
Natalie expelled a breath, the familiar frustration welling deep inside at the knowing bad things happened to people she cared about, be it someone she had known her entire life or an odd boy who had to have been her soul's brother or something, and I can't do anything about it, she thought furiously. She dragged that anger to the surface of her consciousness and let it line her otherwise calmly accusing words. "Ulan and I talked, and he informed me," she started in a placating tone, crossing her fingers over one another bit by bit, "that while you're at camp together, you get along just fine, you're nearly inseparable. But, and here's the funny part, as soon as you get back to school, it's like you don't even remember he exists."
A memory, then, tracing through her mind in a blurring quickness that arrived and dissipated in mere seconds though it turned her blood to ice and her thoughts to sludge: -king bitch, don't you try and pretend I don't exist. Stop crying! I hate it when you cry; you're just trying to play me for a fool. I'm your only friend, and you know that, you've always known that. Don't I buy you dresses, pretty things to look at? You keep trying to use me, and if you think crying will help you--! Deceiver, that's what you are, and if you don't stop that damn weeping, I'll break your perfect little no--
"That's not true," and Chamomile's broken whisper broke through the hated recollection, helping Natalie, caught off-balance, shove away the remembrance. The fairy girl looked up, her face almost helpless in its countenance, and she swallowed thickly, her fingernails pinching into her palms. "It's not like that at all, Natalie," she swallowed a second time, lowering her eyes to her hands once more. "He never tries to talk to me in the halls, either, you know, and it…it isn't as simple as everyone makes it seem. There's so much social stigma if you talk to the wrong people, and my father only wants me to have the best. If you spend time with a certain group, it's more impressive in interviews and so forth." She was a china doll with a chiming voice gradually winding down as the seconds ticked by, the drone of Mr. Hall fading into the background along with the wall and the chalkboard's dusty imprints. "I have to avoid him."
"Bullshit," Natalie snapped back, and she was surprised at her own aggression just as the twins were.
A wildly startled expression flickered as a glorious lightbulb might on Chamomile's perfect face, and then, noiselessly, a faint trickle of crimson tipped out of her Roman nose. The bead was fascinatingly out of place, forming a wavering line of equal width as it tumbled down the inner curve of her cheek toward the partly opened corner of her mouth. "Oh," she said in muted understatement. Grasping at the lapels of her purse, she fumbled it open, touching fingers momentarily to her nose and clotting to the best of her ability the bleeding.
Oh, God, what did I do, screamed through Natalie's head, the sound of a child she once was upon being discovered with a shattered vase.
Chamomile peeled a tissue out of a package of fresh Kleenex, balling it into a thin wad and clamping it firmly with alarming expertise to the growing stem of blood. "Headache," she murmured in weak explanation to Natalie and the twins, each face frightened, though Natalie's was understandably more so. "Mister Hall, I need to go to the nurse's," she called, keeping her face low in shame and clutching her purse tightly in her thin grip as she hurried out the closed door. Her binder was left on the table, a silent reminder of her abandonment, and the guilt nearly tore Natalie apart.
It's my fault.
"Don't think it's your fault," Katya said urgently while the class about the sudden trio grew back into its original ordered chaos. It seemed an accepted, normal part of life for each of the teenagers, and Natalie wondered how the bleeding could ever be thought normal. "Chamomile has some minor healthy problems."
"Minor my ass," snorted Tanya discouragingly and Katya glared, and finally nodded in grudging agreement. She leaned forward over the table, making sure to fix her brown eyes steadily on Natalie's lighter ones in a way that told her you did not do it. It's horrible, but it isn't your fault. These things happen. "We've known Cham since the third grade, when her family moved here," she began, lowering her voice out of either respect or a fear of the teacher's currently irked nature. "And she's always gotten sick really easily."
"It usually only happens," Katya interjected, her voice pitched in low speech as she tacked on her words to Tanya's, her twin subsiding in respectful wait, "when she gets too emotional. If she gets too sad or angry or even happy, we can't make her laugh too hard, because it," she gestured with vague helplessness in the general direction of the door. "Well," Katya sighed, "what just happened happens. Nosebleeds, headaches, and sometimes she gets sick."
"But we aren't supposed to tell anybody, though," said Tanya quickly, her tone clearly impressing the thought that she did not want to speak anymore. "She doesn't like to tell people," came the abrupt continuation, and she gently sidled the binder to herself, pinning it with her own textbooks. Into an unzipped duffel she ducked the various books, shuffling them into a loose resemblance of order and pattern that was thrust into whispered shadows by the glint of light overhead passing over the plastic fibers. The soft zz-shhhhh of the zipper twining closed along its clasping rails cut through the murmuring chatter preceding the bell's cued ring, a sharp explosion of sound that dusted through the thought and quiet fallen over the trio of girls.
"See you later," smiled Katya thinly, tossing her own half-filled duffel's wide strap over her leanly muscled shoulder. She found her footing quickly, effortlessly, and Natalie stood a great deal slower, her face twisting in peculiar thought as Tanya echoed her twin's motions. "And don't worry about it," she added again, her smile changing into a truthfully kind curl of her lips. "Cham'll be fine, and she'll be back tomorrow."
"Hell," Tanya grinned lasciviously, pointing her thumb at Joel, "if he has anything to do with it, she'll be at the Wallerbee tonight, cozy in his rippling arms." She pushed her duffel behind her hip, letting it rest against the back of her rounded, jean-covered thigh, and she rolled her eyes in distaste. She stuck her tongue out at Joel as he strolled out the door, amidst a group of adoring seniors and a few tiny freshmen, and winked another hinting wink at Natalie. "Joel," she announced in an obnoxious voice as they trailed out of the room, leaving a darkly muttering Mr. Hall to erasing the board free of the words none had observed, "is the definition of bastard: mean, stupid, and probably unarguable living proof of the existence of monkey-men."
"But we're jocks, too," Katya sighed regretfully, grabbing her twin's arm as they began to move away from Natalie, needing to enter their chemistry class, "so we have to pretend we like him for the school's p.r. department."
"And what an actor I am!" cheered Tanya. "Come, ho, third period awaits." Katya smacked her arm playfully.
They left Natalie, who laughed to no one in particular once more, charmed by the abundance of relatively fun people she seemed to meet now, and she shook her head in amusement. Waves of glittering red framed her peach face as she walked, striding toward the far wall in order to avoid the crush of people anxiously milling through the incredibly narrow halls, until she was forced to a standstill by several boys pinning each other in the way with empty threats and moronic boasts. "Damn," she muttered, shifting her woven bag to a more comfortable position on her shoulder and waiting for them to move. Her foot tapped the ground with impatient calmness that belied her schooled expression of uncaring if she got to her next class. Gradually, whether or not she wished to be, she grew aware of the voices around her, focusing innately on the stylized voices of two perky-looking sophomores wearing clothing their mothers undoubtedly were not informed they owned.
"--lly, and I was all, get off me, Brian, 'cause we were in my dad's car and he would flip out of his mind," the stately brunette was saying loudly in her low soprano voice, clutching her books flat against her chest, "if he even thought I'd, you know, had sex with him."
"Ooo," squealed her friend in unenviable pitch, "what happened? Tell, tell, tell!"
"Well," and the brunette relished every word as well as her audience's full attention, not knowing Natalie was listening, too, "he wouldn't move. I kept telling him to get off, but, him being a guy, he wouldn't for a while, and when he grabbed my," she made a low noise somewhat like uhimmimm, expressing in a non-word the anatomy offended, "I smacked him. He let go then." She shrugged. "No big deal."
"Oh, wow," sighed the second girl.
Natalie shoved her way through the boys now pacing around one another in narrowed, hesitant anger, her bag swinging from her shoulder to her elbow with the force and direction of her movement. She ignored the cries of hey! and what the hell was that? as she all but ran through the hall, ducking into the small alcove that led to the separated bathrooms on this side of the school. Elbowing the door open, she danced past the startled girl preparing to exit, letting her bag plummet to the floor with little decorum or care as she thrust her arms through one of the stall doors, smashing it open with a noisy bang! The stall door still open at her back, she collapsed to her knees and leaned over the toilet, purging her roiling stomach of the food suddenly unwanted there.
"Oh, God," she whimpered to herself, tears stinging her eyes like tiny blazing daggers. "Oh, God, oh, God," and it was her litany. Leaning over a second time, she heaved forcefully, expelling the remnants, and she spat quietly out the undesirable bits that clung to her tongue, fingers tightened around the cold white bowl. Natalie grasped at the toiler paper, ripping three squares off in a row and padding them together to wipe her lower face, cleaning her lips. "Nolia," she said to the clouded bowl, clasping the handle and sending the water spiraling down in a momentary whirlpool of nauseating brown.
She staggered to her feet and wiped her hands along the familiar wrinkles of her jacket, turning to her bag and skidding over the tiled floor to it. Fingernails pried the opening wide enough for her to stick her hand within, pushing beyond the few notebooks and newly adopted texts to encircle the contenting, smooth rectangle that was her cell-phone. So we'll be connected no matter what, Nolia had explained the month before, as they prepared for the move from Miami to Winchester as her elder sister's job demanded. I bought one for me, too, and all you need to do is hit the speed dial at 'one' and I'll pick up my own cell. See? She clipped at the power, twitching it on as she thumbed the soft rubber digit, transparent against her patterned cell-phone cover of oranges and apples. Holding it to her ear, she glowered at the two girls applying make-up who were currently staring at her, jaws agape.
"Piss off," she snapped, folding her knees loosely up and wiping at the remaining wetness of a tear pressing against her eyelashes.
--
"Miss Tartan, I need you to leave a message for this client," her boss, a somewhat prominent lawyer in the varied culture that was New York City, asked in a harried voice, handing her a manila folder that she took swiftly, placing it on the peak of her stack of paper. "Tell him the meeting has been rescheduled to next Friday, at the same time, same location, but that I really will not be able to meet him as of Friday this week. Will that be well?" He studied her with his critical eyes, lined by age and stress, over the peeked glimmer of his glasses, and she smiled brightly.
"I'm on it, Mister Johnson, sir," she chirruped and he relaxed visibly, a massive man in an equally massive leather chair that glinted in laminated dark brown under the lights above. Hurrying out of the main office and into the smaller one separated from the secretary, as she was the assistant, she topped the papers carefully onto her clean desk, obscuring the upper half of the large paper calendar taped to the desk's gleaming surface. "Here I go," she exhaled under her breath, sliding into her swiveling, arched chair and smoothly lifting the phone from its cradle. The twisting cord swept idly over the calendar, brushing past the fifteenth and coming to rest on the sixteenth. She consulted the manila folder, flipping it open and scanning the first few sheets, rustling them with her manicured fingernails and smiling in satisfaction when she found the neatly written digits.
A pre-recorded message, via home phone of the man, greeted her and she waited patiently for the monotone, automated voice to finish its speech. The adjoining click began her speaking. "Hello, Mister Sebastian Arnolds, this is the office of Johnson Law Firm," she started smoothly, her voice lilting in a pleasing harmony, "and unfortunately, Mister Johnson has been forced to reschedule your appointment at the Chandelier. The new meeting will take place at seven o'clock p.m. a week from Friday, at the same location. Reservations have been made and all you need to do is arrive, sir." With a cherubic smile, she punched the lever that cut off the phone, letting it drift back into the waiting slot that held it.
Almost simultaneously, the cell-phone adapted theme song to Three's Company erupted into being and she started, blinking reflexively before she realized her cell-phone, lodged in the recesses of her desk's main drawer, had begun the tedious process of ringing. She grabbed the silver bit of metal that was the key, inserting it into the small lock and twisting sharply, and she yanked the desk drawer out. The contents inside shimmied for the brief moment, pencils and paper rattling alongside shallow plastic containers and boxes of paper clips and such. Grabbing her cell-phone, she picked at the power button with her index finger and held the phone to her cheek after checking the identity of her caller: Natalie.
"Nattie, what's wrong?" she demanded instantly, the lump of anxiety constantly present in her gut making itself loudly known as it grew. "Are you okay? Did something happen? Do you want to go home? It's only," a glance at the fashionable clock posted onto the wall, "ten in the morning! Are you still at school?" The questions came out rapidfire, one after another, and she could not stop even if she had wanted to, and there was a moment of stunned silence before her little sister began laughing.
"I'm fine, Nolia, and, yes, I'm still at school," she giggled in a rasping voice, and therein followed a brief sound of gulping and deep exhaling. "I just overheard some girls talking in the hall and it made me think of him, the Asshole." Even over the phone line, she could hear the disgust and the capitalized word, not done so out of respect or fear so much as a sheer need to express how very much he was one. "So, I'm fine, as I've already stated, but since I've got you on the phone..." Her voice trailed off, ending in a cutely hopeful note, and Nolia was willing to bet money her younger sister was smiling sweetly and batting her eyelashes in a girlish manner.
"What do you want and who do I have to kill for it?" Nolia sighed.
Immediately, Natalie entered deep negotiations mode, asking in a forward manner, "Could I go to the movie theatre tonight?"
"Who with?" was the instant response, a knee-jerk reflex to the words that could have an innocent meaning or a darker context.
A heavy sigh, made dramatic with teenage angst and a woe-is-me attitude, ensued, and then Natalie's voice again, drawling, "U-lan Har-ris." Nolia frowned and, as if sensing the coming doom, she hastened to plead shamelessly, "Please, please let me go, Nollie, I swear I'll be good and I won't blackmail anyone I don't know personally, and I'll be home by ten, because I was thinking we'd go by Baratie's after it, and he's like my best friend in the world, except for you, and it's a George Clooney film!" Her voice took on a note of desperation. "George Clooney, Nolia! You can't deny me the right to see an overpaid actor with gray hair!"
Though she could very nearly feel a tangible sense of foreboding, the type brought about by too many years spent glancing over her shoulder, Nolia muttered, "You can go."
Natalie's happy shriek came close to deafening her.
--
Notes: Yes, I know it's contrived, predictable, and so forth, and yet I cannot stop. 0o; Plot points have been given under the guise of casual conversation and serious speeches (alliteration intended), but don't worry. There's no test…yet. To be honest, there are actually three more relatively lengthy scenes I wanted to write in the second part of 'concrete angel,' but at nine 'story' pages, I think this is long enough. Do note that 'concrete angel' is an expository story: it sets up the main cast for the next several stories and gives back history for each. Trust me: it'll get better. ;]
Names: Katya and Tanya Wagner are none other than Kuina and Tashigi. O-ho! *grins* AH, and I forgot this the first time around (*sweatdrops*), but Nolia is Nojiko. Insert random happy noises!
Pop Culture References: A name related to X-Men, and the chickflick One Fine Day, as well as Mister Billy Joel. Three's Company: almost, but not quite, as funny as Wings. Can't Hardly Wait, fun movie, too.
Disclaimer: Just be glad I don't own 'em. The melodrama would be horrendous.
Feedback: Yum! ;]
Written: April 2-3, 2003.
Revised: April 4-5, 2003. (Continuity error, spelling mistake, and two instances of forgetfulness.)
Thanks: Big Jew (I'm glad you liked it, and I'm very glad you liked the song thing – I was afraid people wouldn't) and Kaze no beru (oh, dear, I hope this chapter lived up to your expectations…I'm not too sure if I succeeded at writing it very well, but, eh, who knows? *winks*). Huggles to all!
Next: The scenes I wanted to put in here, with maybe another for fun. A movie and dinner, Natalie meets The Sandman (or, rather, Nami meets Sanji), a nightmare, and a trip to NYC. Melodrama in copious amounts? But of course.