Sorry it's so short, and sorry it took forever. I have a lot of stuff going on at school. Peace.
It's past midnight when I finally pull into our driveway. Mr. Smith is probably awake, messy and full of straight coffee, watching with me wary eyes cruising down the street. But he doesn't expect the car back until morning. If I manage to get up early enough, I can take the car down to the shop and replace the tires before he knows any different.
As the headlights slice through the yard and shower the front of the house in white, I see two green dots: the eyes of my mom's cat. When I reach the front door, it has disappeared from the window. He'll tell her that I'm home. Levi is the cat's name. It's a vicious, unruly thing that doesn't care much for me. I don't care much for it either. Levi has this weird habit of pulling all the hair off its tail, leaving little tuffs of black in its wake. But my mom, Hanji, likes to have a cat around. She says it's because, like most children, they can see and hear things that are already dead. Definitely a handy trick, when you live with us.
I toe my shoes off and tiredly climb the stairs, two at a time. I'm dying for a shower – I want to get that mossy, rotten feeling off my wrist and shoulder. And I want to check my dad's athame and clean off whatever black stuff might be on the edge.
At the top of the stairs, I trip against a box and say, 'Shit!' a little too loudly. I really should know better. My house is a literal maze of packed boxes. My mom is a scientist, and she likes to bring back these grotesque, alien-like creatures home to study and insists that she keep them safe in a barrage of boxes. In the dark I can see the label; I just tripped over 'Rabbit Skeleton – Acid (2)'.
I pad into the bathroom and pull my knife out of my leather backpack. After I saw off the Hitchhiker, I wrapped it up in a black velvet cloth, but it wasn't neat. I was in a hurry. I didn't want to be on the road anymore, or anywhere near the bridge. Seeing the hitchhiker disintegrate didn't scare me. I've seen worse. But this isn't the kind of thing you get used to.
"Jean?"
I snap my head up, and in the mirror, I can see the reflection of my mom, holding the black cat in her arms. I put my blade down on the counter.
"Hey, mom. Sorry to wake you."
She frowns. "You know I like to be up when you come in anyway. You should always wake me, so I can sleep."
I don't bother telling her how dumb that sounds; I just turn on the tap and run the Athame under the cold water.
"I'll do it," she says, and touches my arm. Then she grabs my wrist, and I know she can see the bruises that are starting to purple up all along my forearm.
I expect her to say something motherly; I expect her to quack around like a worried duck for a few minutes. But this time she doesn't. Maybe it's because it's late, and she's tired. Or maybe because after three years she's finally starting to figure out that I'm not going to quit.
"Give it to me," she says, and I do, because most of the black crap has been cleaned off already. When she takes it, she leaves. I know she's off to do her little ritual, which is to boil the blade and then stab it into a big jar of salt, where it will sit under the moon for three days. When she removes it, she'll wipe it down with cinnamon oil and call it as good as new. But she's a Wiccan, so who am I to tell her off?
I exhale and look in the mirror. There are no marks on my face, or on my dress button-up. I look positively ridiculous. I'm dressed in slacks and sleeves like I'm out on a date, because that's what I told Mr. Smith I needed the car for. When I left the house in the afternoon, my hair was combed back stylishly, but after the kerfuffle in the car, it's hanging across my forehead in strands.
"You should hurry up and get to bed, Jean."
My mom is done with the knife, and Levi is twisting around her ankles like a bored fish around a plastic castle.
"I just want to jump in the shower," I say. She sighs and turns away. As my mom leaves, I drop the bomb. "Hey, can I borrow some cash for a new set of tires?"
"Jean Kirschtein," she moans, and I grimace, but her exhausted sigh tells me I'm good to go in the morning.
