Author's Note: I know I'm late, and I'm sorry, but this chapter took longer to edit and rewrite than I'd expected. Prepare for a text avalanche.
Chapter Six
Raven hated the rain.
With the rain came memories of her father's big bear hugs and booming laugh. He'd liked the rain, and used to drive her mother crazy by leaving the window of their bedroom open as he watched a passing storm.
Raven could still remember him, and love him, and she hated herself for it. She hated herself for curling up in his favorite chair in the living room, inhaling his familiar smell: sandalwood and cigarette smoke and sweat. She hated herself for missing the photographs of him that used to hang in the entryway of their small apartment; a few months after his desertion, her mother Taranee had removed all of the pictures he'd appeared in, stolidly convinced that the pain would go away if she didn't have to see his face. The wood paneling was not as faded in those spots, and whenever Raven looked at those sad, blank squares, she was cursed with memories of when the apartment felt warm and safe and he would swing her up in his arms and tell her that everything would be alright.
She let herself stroll, her boots nearly soundless on the sidewalk. She'd learned not to hurry—had taught herself not to push, not to rush, but to take things as they came. And in a very real way to embrace every single moment. It would get easier, her mother said, and Raven had to believe that.
She spotted green spears of daffodils in a half whiskey barrel next under the awning of a restaurant. They might have trembled a bit in the chilly breeze, but they made her think spring. Everything was new in spring.
Maybe this spring, she'd be new, too.
Happy with the thought, she shifted her eyes up to the wide front window of the restaurant. More diner than restaurant, she corrected. Counter service, two and four-tops, booths, all in red and white. Pies and cakes on display, and the kitchen open to the counter. A couple of waitresses bustled around with trays and coffeepots.
Lunch crowd, she realized. She'd forgotten lunch. After the auditions were over, she'd headed straight for The Lyric, and had had nothing to eat there save for a small bag of plain popcorn.
She backtracked to the door and pushed inside.
It was also unexpectedly golden inside the bistro. The sun was low in the sky now, and it fell through the restaurant's west-facing windows in long, red-gold beams. The air was a thick and warm, laden with the hot greasy scents of onions and burger patties and powdery-sweet waffles sizzling on an unseen grill. There is a febrile excitement, too, in the oddly hushed crowd that gathered at tables covered with wine-red plastic tablecloths. A giant commercial coffee pot, plated with silver and polished to a dull shine, gurgled contentedly in time to the soft rock that blared from the juke box.
To her surprise, she saw Taranee, polishing off a plate of meat loaf. They locked eyes, and her mother knew she was busted.
Raven slid into the seat beside her mother and stared reproachfully at the plate of food. "I see you're still on the diet you started this morning."
Taranee smiled sheepishly and nervously adjusted her wire-rimmed spectacles. "Eh, well…it's diet soda."
"Oh, that makes it all better then."
"Oh, ha ha, Captain Sarcastic."
Any comeback Raven could've made was interrupted by a pouncing waitress, her auburn hair forced back into an efficient ponytail.
"Morning, ma'am," the waitress said to Raven, her a voice a lazy, Southern drawl. "Meat loaf's the special today. Comes with mashed potatoes and mushrooms and a biscuit."
"No, thanks," Raven said politely. "A glass of water would be great, though."
With the waitress gone, the table lapsed into small talk.
"How was school today?"
"Oh, you know…the usual," Raven said vaguely. She couldn't meet her mother's searching gaze, worried that Taranee would see the weirdness of that afternoon in her eyes. She cleared her throat lightly. "I, um…I tried out for the school play."
"You really tried out for it?" Taranee asked, surprised.
"Yes," Raven said, blushing faintly. "Let's not make a big deal out of it. I'm sure I didn't get the stupid part anyway."
"But if you did…that would be muy impresionante." She shrugged off her daughter's dark stare and sipped from her tube of diet Pepsi.
Just then, the waitress came back with the glass of water and the bill. "Anything else—?" She started to say, but was interrupted by the ding of a bell. "'Scuse," she said, her tone wry, and absently set the glass on the edge of the table. "Duty calls." She slipped away without another word.
"The counselor made me do it," Raven continued. "I thought I'd just give it try, just to get her off my back." Raven noticed the glass teeter on the edge of the table. She glared at it; it made her nervous. She thought about moving it to a safer spot, and had raised her arm to move it when her mother interrupted.
"So, what was the part that you read?" Taranee asked.
"What?" Raven let her hand drop and her eyes shifted to her mother, her mind still on the cola. A strange shiver of heat crawled up her spine. "The usual, I suppose. Romeo and Juliet. I think she remixed it, though—it's modernized. Juliet is the daughter of a mobster boss, and Romeo is the son of a police chief or a politician or some such thing."
"Oh. That's...progressive," Taranee commented with vague derision. She turned to grab the bill, her arm sweeping dangerously close glass that had rested precariously on the table. Raven spoke up.
"Mom, could you move that..."
But Taranee's arm swept safely by. The glass was no longer on the table's edge. In fact, it had moved backward—exactly where Raven had thought it should be.
How did that move...?
"Move what?" Taranee asked her, fishing credits out of her purse.
Raven stared at the glass, her eyes darkening. Something very weird had just happened.
Amaya dreamed of sanctuary. The great house gleamed bride-white in the moonlight, as majestic a force breasting the slope that reigned over eastern dunes and western marsh as a queen upon her throne. The house stood as it had for more than a century, a grand tribute to man's vanity and brilliance, near the dark shadows of the forest of live oaks, where the river flowed in murky silence.
Within the shelter of trees, fireflies blinked gold, and night creatures stirred, braced to hunt or be hunted. Wild things bred there in shadows, in secret.
There were no lights to brighten the tall, narrow windows of Sanctuary. No lights to spread welcome over its graceful porches, its grand doors. Night was deep, and the breath of it moist from the sea. The only sound to disturb it was of wind rustling through the leaves of the great oaks and the dry clicking --- like bony fingers --- of the palm fronds. The white columns stood like soldiers guarding the wide veranda, but no one opened the enormous front door to greet her.
As she walked closer, she could hear the crunch of sand and shells on the road under her feet. Wind chimes tinkled, little notes of song. The porch swing creaked on its chain, but no one lazed upon it to enjoy the moon and the night.
The smell of jasmine and musk roses played on the air, underscored by the salty scent of the sea. She began to hear that too, the low and steady thunder of water spilling over sand and sucking back into its own heart.
The beat of it, that steady and patient pulse, reminded all who inhabited the island of Lost Desire that the sea could reclaim the land and all on it at its whim.
She walked quickly, hurrying up the steps, across the veranda, closing her hand over the big brass handle that glinted like a lost treasure.
The door was locked.
She twisted it right, then left, shoved against the thick mahogany panel. Let me in, she thought as her heart began to thud in her chest. I've come home. I've come back.
But the door remained shut and locked. When she pressed her face against the glass of the tall windows flanking it, she could see nothing but darkness within.
And was afraid.
She ran now, around the side of the house, over the terrace, where flowers streamed out of pots and lilies danced in chorus lines of bright color. The music of the wind chimes became harsh and discordant, the fluttering of fronds was a hiss of warning. She struggled with the next door, weeping as she beat her fists against it.
Please, please, don't shut me out. I want to come home.
She sobbed as she stumbled down the garden path. She would go to the back, in through the screened porch. It was never locked—a kitchen should always be open to company.
But she couldn't find it. The trees sprang up, thick and close, the branches and draping moss barred her way.
She was lost, tripping over roots in her confusion, fighting to see through the dark as the canopy of trees closed out the moon. The wind rose up and howled and slapped at her in flat-handed, punishing blows.
Spears of saw palms struck out like swords. She turned, but where the path had been was now the river, cutting her off from Sanctuary. The high grass along its slippery banks waved madly.
It was then she saw herself, standing alone and weeping on the other bank.
Then she woke, gasping and sobbing.
It was just a dream, she told herself as she drew her knees to her chest and shook off her fear. Just a bad dream. She had no business being spooked by a silly dream, anyway.
Three-fifteen, she noted by the old-fashioned alarm clock on the nightstand. That was becoming typical. There was nothing worse than the three A.M. jitters. She sat there, her oversized T-shirt bunched over her thighs, and ordered herself to get a grip.
She figured any first-year psych student could translate the dream. The house represented comfort, maybe, while the lock doors symbolized…her anxiety?
Amaya wiped a film of sweat off of her brow and reached for her anti-anxiety meds. She dry-swallowed the pill, ignoring the bitterness, and glanced around the bedroom. She kept it simple, practical. Though she'd traveled widely, there were few mementos. Except the photographs. She'd matted and framed the black-and-white prints, choosing the ones among her mother's work that she found the most restful to decorate the walls of the room where she slept.
There, an empty park bench, the black wrought iron all fluid curves. And there, a single willow, its lacy leaves dipping low over a small, glassy pool. A moonlit garden was a study in shadow and texture and contrasting shapes. The lonely beach with the sun just breaking the horizon tempted the viewer to step inside the photo and feel the sand rough underfoot.
How long had she been asleep? She'd meant for only a small nap, to relax herself after such an odd day. The melatonin must've worked, she mused. Otherwise, she couldn't've slept so long.
With a vague thought of decreasing her dosage, she padded out of her room and down the stairs, toward the scent of cooked meat and soy sauce.
The kitchen was a working woman's room, with granite counters and glittering stainless steel. There were three wide windows, framed only by curved and carved wood trim. A banquette in smoky gray was tucked under them for family meals. The floor was creamy white tile, the walls white and unadorned. No fancy work for the Wendelhalls.
Yet there were homey touches in the gleam of copper pots that hung from hooks, the hanks of dried peppers and garlic, the shelf holding antique kitchen tools. The old brick hearth alone, and it brought back reminders of a time when the kitchen had been the core of this house, a place for gathering, for lingering. It was such a warm place, and her mother's second favorite spot in the house.
Her mother was there now, settled into a stool at the breakfast bar and enthusiastically slurping up a bowl of beef stew. Her face was a cheerful oval, the cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.
Hay Lin smiled when she saw her daughter. Her deep-set, almond-shaped eyes winked happily. "'Afternoon, sleepyhead."
Amaya was unimpressed. "W-Why didn't you w-wuh-wake me?" she demanded as petulantly as a child.
"You haven't slept that well in years," Hay Lin said smoothly. "I didn't have the heart to wake you. You hungry?"
Amaya examined the pot bubbling on their small yet serviceable range. "You p-put in too muh-much soy sauce, again," she said reproachfully as she served herself a bowl. "The salt will k-kill me. Do w-we have any leftover rice?"
"All out," Hay Lin said. "I could fry some…?"
Amaya shook her head and slurped some stew, somewhat dejectedly. "I suh-suppose the AutoChef 2.0 br-broke again, huh?"
"Yes…but it's not your fault," Hay Lin rushed to add. "It's, uh…a very unique design. Very innovative. I mean, I'm sure that…it's…you'll fix it, sweetie."
Her daughter refused to be cheered. "Yeah, ah-after I fuh-fix the automatic s-self-cleaning toi-l-let bowl, which I'll guh-get to after I f-fix the holo-dream machine, which of c-cuh-course I'll get to r-right after I fuh-fix the ham-stuh-er subway." She pointed to the ceiling where a set of clear, pneumatic tubes spread across the room and came to a stop on the wall just next to the light switch. A small sign at the end read " Kitchen Street."
"You'll fix those, too," Hay Lin said brightly. She finished her stew, and leaned over to press a kiss on her daughter's cheek.
A flash went through Amaya's brain. Circuits began to fire. It felt as if her mind were actually expanding inside her head. There was a weird, wet feeling that trembled down her neck.
"I…I…"
Hay Lin's brow furrowed worriedly. "Sweetheart? Are you all right?" She stretched out a hand to feel Amaya's forehad.
Panic swam into Amaya's eyes. "Don't…don't touch me!"
She shot out of the room and spiraled through their quiet house, speedily outdistancing her mother. She tore into the basement, ignoring the "No Humans Allowed" sign, and dove into the darkness below.
"Lights on," she bellowed. "Fifty-percent. C'mon. Ev'rything on."
The room came to life with flashing lights and buzzing sounds.
With a not-quite-sane light in her eyes, she sat at her computer. "Computer on. Wendelhall. ID 77414Q. Open sciencegeek file."
Voiceprint and ID recognized, Amaya. Proceed.
"Good, good. Lessee…open subfile sciencesubway. Calculate compression."
Her system whirred, reminding her that it was another one of her appliances that needed to be replaced. Even when she slapped it with the palm of her hand, it was several moments before it settled into a jerky hum.
Compression is level seven. Increase/decrease?
"Abort," Amaya said absently. So the amount of compression wasn't the problem. Maybe it was—
A knock came on the door. "Sweetheart? You're scaring me. Is everything alright?"
"I'm fine, Mother!" Amaya shouted. "Leave me alone for a minute, alrgiht?" Cooly, she activated the soundproofing system so she couldn't hear her mother's aggravated wails. After a moment's thought, she initiated lockdown, as well.
Em, Amaya's hamster, stared at her reproachfully with large, blue eyes.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Amaya said. "I'll make it up to her later."
To the computer, she commanded, "What is the direction of the air flow?"
Insufficient information. Inability to compute.
"Stupid thing," Amaya hissed savagely. "Save and lock on voiceprint, Wendellhall. ID 77414Q. Computer off."
Jerkily, she sprang up from her seat and dug in th mess of scrap metal and experiments. She found a scuba tank from her dad's old army days. Deftly, she disconnected the valve. She found a rubber hose and reconnected the tank to the subway system.
Upstairs, Hay Lin was worriedly stirring her stew around in the bowl. Amaya had never run off like that before, and it was due cause for concern. A voice boomed over the house intercom, interrupting her troubled thoughts.
"Mom? Em wants some carrots, 'kay?"
"I'll bring some down," Hay Lin shouted, relieved Amaya hadn't gone off and hurt herself.
"No, no, no...He's coming up!" said Amaya, as she gently placed Em into the canister, closed the lid and placed it into the end of the tube. The little hamster looked around curiously. Was this the way to food?
"Next stop kitchen, next stop kitchen, no smoking, loud talking or radio playing, next stop kitchen," Marie bellowed over the intercom with her hands over her mouth, trying to imitate a subway train announcer. She slammed her hand down on a large red button and floom!, the canister lifted off and shot up through the tube. Em shot up through the basement ceiling, spun through the den, zoomed through the laundry room and headed for its final destination.
A large, buzzing alarm sounded just before a whoosh of air came shooting into the living room. Above Hay Lin's head, she could see Em—safely in her travel canister—come flying in through the clear tube. The canister turned the corner in the ceiling and slowed down to a stop on the wall. The hamster's journey was complete. Amaya burst into the room.
"I figured it out!" she screamed excitedly.
"That's great!" congratulated Hay Lin, picking carrots out of Amaya's bowl and feeding them to Em. "How'd you figure it out so quickly, though, when you've been working on it for a month now?"
Amaya stopped to think.
"I don't know. It just sort of came to me, all of a sudden."
It was the rain that woke her.
For a moment, Ursula simply lay there. She was drenched with sweat, shivering with cold. Her heart beat too fast, too loud, and she curled around it while the dream faded.
"God," she gasped into her pillow. "Oh, God. Lights, oh, please. One-hundred percent." They flashed on, sun-bright, chasing even a hint of shadow out of the room. Still, she scanned it, every corner, looking for ghosts as the nasty edge of the dream jabbed through her gut.
She forced back the tears. They were useless, and they were weak. Just as it was useless, it was weak, to let herself be frightened by dreams. By ghosts.
But she continued to shake as she hugged the pillow tighter against her stomach. She sat and comforted herself with the pillow as a child might a teddy bear.
Nausea coated her stomach, and she continued to rock, to pray she wouldn't be sick and add one more misery to the night.
As carefully as an old woman she slid off the mattress.
It was a hideous room, she knew. The dark wallpaper in the cramped space was marked with water-stains they weren't glaring, but stealthy and brown, like the phantom thoughts that trouble anxious minds. The threadbare carpet could only be described as shit-colored, and although the narrow table was clean and the lid on the plastic waste-can was shut, there was an odor of sardines and something else—unwashed feet, maybe—which was almost not there. An odor as stealthy as the water-stains on the wallpaper.
Her uncle hadn't wanted her to live up here. That was the main reason she did.
She fished around in the mess for a T-shirt and pullover, and tugged them hurriedly over her head, walking towards the entryway as she did. Before she opened the door, she checked the peep. Satisfied, she slipped out into the rain.
The air tasted misty, like dream about to vanish. She snatched up her airboard rather than the scooter. She often spent her weekends at the boarding park, and she was itching to nail down a trick she'd been working on for the past month, especially before the weather started getting too cold. A little thing like rain wouldn't keep her from the ritual.
Plus, she needed to get out the house before Uncle Daigh woke up. She didn't really feel like explaining why she'd been late three times in one week, and she especially didn't feel like explaining what had happened in the chemistry lab during her detention.
Ursula rounded the corner onto Beck Avenue. She crouched down low and, after shifting her foot to the side, tilted the nose of the board off of the ground, allowing her to manual around the corner. She ollied in the air and tried a double-impossible. It flipped underneath her—once, once and a half...
Crack!
"Fuck," Ursula growled as she landed hard on her feet and her board smacked the ground behind her. After checking her legs for scrapes, she hopped back to pick it up. That was another trick she couldn't seem to get down. She could get the board to flip once in a single impossible, but the double still eluded her.
Ursula reached the park after a few minutes and skidded to a stop just outside of the fence. Closed, a sign in front of the gate said. They'd closed it because of the rain.
With a furrow of her brow, she tried the gate. It was unlocked. She almost laughed at the absurdity of it all before hurrying inside.
She pulled on her battered knee and elbow pads and fastened her helmet. She'd been airboarding long enough to know that every time you stick a trick, there was at least twenty times you bit it. And the kind of trick she was about to try was definitely hard enough to do some serious damage.
She smiled at the thought.
Ursula pushed her board forward, resting just the tail on the lip of the curved concrete. She took a deep breath...and dropped in.
She sped toward the far edge, her legs tensing, and her feet ready to stomp the board into the air. She rolled across the bottom of the bowl, moving ever faster. The opposite lip was quickly approaching, when, suddenly, a strange feeling—a swooping, hot-cold feeling almost like electricity— surged through her limbs. It was weird, but it felt powerful, it felt good.
Her heart thrummed loudly in her ears as she popped the board up, and it soared into the air. Her feet reached for it as she began to come back down...but it was gone.
Ursula skidded along her kneepads, an automatic move she'd learned as a beginner, and kneeled at the bottom of the depression, frustrated. She shook her head dejectedly. She hadn't pulled it off. She turned around to grab the board, but strangely, it wasn't there. She looked all around her. It was gone. Then, she looked up.
High above her, at least fifty feet into the air, Ursula's board flew through the sky. How did I kick it so far up? The board reached its peak and began to plummet back to earth, straight towards Ursula's head, but, to her amazement, she reached above her head and caught it like a wiffle ball.
She stared at the board in her hand and examined it. What was going on? She'd gotten a new paintjob a month before, but it wasn't that good. Ursula climbed back to the top of the bowl and dropped in for another try. Something was seriously wrong here. A crowd huddled around. Skating at top speed, Ursula it the opposite lip—and flipped.
Again, the light-as-air feeling gripped her, only this time, she didn't lose her board. Backward, end over end, she did a complete flip out of the bowl, twisting 360 degrees as she did so, and landed back on the ground.
"Holy fuck."
On Monday morning, David sat at his kitchen table silently shoving cereal and milk into his mouth, his hair its usual rumpled, morning mess. He stared dully at the delicate porcelain houses that his mother collected and arranged in lieu of flowers and paintings. If David stared long enough, they looked like the houses on his street, with teeny tiny mock-Gothic numbers and little nosy people peeking out the windows. The people were very much like the ones who lived in the real houses on his street, just as fake and painted on.
At the head of the table, in a plain black suit and tie—an undertaker's uniform—sat his father, scrolling through the news on the comp unit as he buttered a croissant. To David's left side, his mother, Cornelia Kent, flipped half-heartedly through a copy of Modern Homes of Today, occasionally pausing to look at a recipe or craft idea, her food untouched.
A morning ritual. Even though they didn't speak, the family always ate breakfast together.
"Take it easy on the butter there, honey," his mother said, breaking the silence without looking up from her magazine. "Your cholesterol levels are high."
His father scrolled down on his monitor and grunted. "This is low-fat margarine, as a matter of fact."
The table was silent again.
David deliberately cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair. "Well. I'm leaving."
David's father pulled back the sleeve of his crisp, white shirt and examined his wrist unit. "Already?"
Cornelia closed her magazine and stood up. "It's all right," she hurriedly assured her husband. "I'll 'link Charlie, he can bring the car around a little earlier today. You can finish your breakfast."
David looked at his mother, at that odd light that crept into her eyes whenever she spoke. He could see her being pretty once, though now the angles of her face were too sharp, the hollows of her eyes too deep.
"It's okay," David said as he dropped his cereal bowl in the sink for their in-house aide, Somerset, to wash. "I think I'm going to walk today."
David's parents stared at him, then at each other.
"Walk?" Cornelia said, wrinkling up her nose in confusion. "Are you feeling okay, honey?" She made a move to check his forehead temperature.
David swatted her hand away. "Yeah, Mom, I'm fine." David grabbed his backpack and threw it over his shoulder, then stepped out into the rain.
His neighborhood was a grid of pretty perfect rows of pretty perfect houses. Each and every one of them was structured the same, save for their colors. This one blue. That one white.
David walked slowly pass the cookie-cutter houses. He belonged here, he knew. He belonged with these pretty perfect houses on their curving streets named after famous dead people because he was both pretty and perfect.
He could never say how much he hated being David. It was better to cover his mouth to shut the words in anytime he thought bout them because that was what he was supposed to do. Pretending was easier. Pretending was what everyone wanted from him. Pretending was what it meant to live inside a pretty perfect house, even if it was only pretty and perfect on the outside.
Out the corner of his eye, he could see gawking faces pressed against windows to watch him run. Just ahead of him, grade-schoolers hung out at the street corner, umbrellas poised pompously above their heads, the lot of them giggling and talking and staring at the strange boy who was walking in the rain. David slowed when he saw them, and stared.
Strangely transfixed, he watched a silver bus groan to a stop in front of the kids. Behind it, a stream of impatient drivers who had clearly been following the slow bus through the neighborhood for a while, were not too happy about it. Paying them no mind, the bus driver flipped on his caution lights, and the grade school kids began to shuffle on board.
David had a feeling—a bad feeling that overwhelmed his thoughts and body movement. The feeling that something very terrible was about to happen.
And it did. One of the drivers, a stodgy businessman who'd been yammering on his pocket 'link, got tired of waiting. He pulled out of the line of cars and floored the gas, hoping to get past the bus before it started up again.
Across the street, a chubby grade-schooler ran toward the road, his plastic overcoat glistening in the rain. He was panting and shouting for the bus to wait, though his voice was lost in the wind. He hurried through a neighbor's backyard, right for the street.
Without fully understanding why, David ran. Wind burned in his eyes, and his heart thrummed loudly, painfully, in his chest, but he sped away from the sidewalk, past the bus, across the street just as the little kid as about to step in front of the speeding car.
The driver of the car slammed on his brakes at the sight of David blurring by in front of him. David grabbed the kid, pulling him back to safety on the lawn.
"Oh, shit!" the driver exclaimed as soon as he'd jumped out of his car. "Are you okay?"
The grade-school kid was in shock. Nothing ever happened on those pretty perfect streets, nothing that was never meticulously planned. He nodded stiffly and edged toward the school bus.
"I'm sorry; I didn't see him coming!" The driver looked at David, suspicion clouding his gaze. "How did you...?"
David shook his head and shrugged. He had no idea.
Notice how I made it rain for four days straight? I've got MAD SKILLZ!
...
Seriously, though, I think I just screwed with physics. A wizard did it, I suppose.
Stay tuned for next time!
