Silken Scales

by Alex Hayes

  Doesn’t matter. I stare back.

  “How’d you do that?” Her grip on my shirt tightens. Her breath smells like mouthwash. Wintergreen.

  I hate wintergreen. “Do what?”

  Her features tighten up like a dried plum. “Stop that slap.”

  I smirk. “Oh, thought you were batting the breeze. Maybe you should work out more.”

  Yeah, maybe that wasn’t the best retort, as Angie’s hand clenches into a fist. She fires it at my face, then shouts out in pain. “You bitch! How’re you doing that?”

  Tess steps forward. “I told you she was a weirdo. Come on, Ang. Let’s go.”

  But Angie doesn’t seem to be listening. Her eyes fall to my belly instead.

  “Abs of steel. A thousand sit-ups a day,” I warn. Should’ve figured the comment would provoke her.

  Her fist slams into a psychic wall.

  I scrunch my face and abs as if reacting to the blow.

  She swears and shakes a bruised hand, but she doesn’t show any sign of leaving. Her pupils get bigger and the set of her jaw hardens.

  I’d better nip her flowering rage in the bud, and quickly, before my abilities become obvious to the others. I know they’re obvious to Angie, but no one would believe her. Not any more than the whole world believes in telekinesis.

  A little squeeze. That’s all it would take to make her back off. I’ve never tried telekinesis on a person before. Could be risky. Her risk. While I meet Angie’s gaze, I focus my mind on her belly. A quick push.

  Angie’s eyes widen as she seizes her stomach.

  Tess jumps forward. “What’s wrong, Ang?”

  My intimidator gasps. “Cramps.”

  Her sister grabs her arm. “Here, lie down.”

  I scoot off the bench to make space, allowing Tess to administer her sister, and slip away.

  Christmas at the farmhouse could be a photo-spread right out of Better Homes and Gardens.

  Papa had Dean set up a nine-foot tree in the corner of the living room yesterday, while Mama and I made everyone gift baskets filled with homemade candy, preserves and Mama’s fragrant cottage rose potpourri. Papa invited Matt Thompson, who works full time at the farm, along with Dean and Shri, to help decorate the tree on Christmas Eve.

  School’s done for the holidays. Angie was a no-show at English, so I assume the cramps I gifted her provided a get-out-of-jail-early card. Will she forget what came to pass between us? Not likely. But ten days off might give her time to doubt what really bruised her knuckles.

  Mama appears at my door first thing in the morning, carrying a plum-colored dress. “Do you think this’ll fit you, Cadi?” The dress has short sleeves and a swooped collar with embroidered edges. “Try it on.”

  The dress falls below my knees with a full skirt that swishes around my thighs, and the collar drops just low enough to accentuate my moderate cleavage. I glance down at the mark on my breastbone. No longer a bump. The crystal has disappeared. I take time to prance in front of the mirror in my room. The outfit’s pretty. And wearing it, I’m pretty too.

  I change back into every-day clothes and head downstairs. As soon as breakfast’s eaten, we start baking. I make gingerbread and peppermint brownies, while Mama tackles the stollen, a German loaf cake made with fruit and sweet almond paste. After lunch, we juice apples for cider and add cinnamon, clove and slices of orange.

  Mama sets a plate of brownies on the counter. “Two o’clock. You’d best get ready.”

  I smile. “You too.”

  My short boots don’t look right with the dress, so I pull on a pair of black knit tights I’ve repaired a few times and go shoeless. I check my hair in the bathroom mirror. The waves do look curlier but I wouldn’t call them blonde.

  Dean stands on a ladder. All I can see are his legs, clad in jeans, as I walk down the staircase. Papa hands him lengths of tinsel and pine boughs with red ribbons to hang above the archway into the living room.

  “What’s that?” I ask as Papa hands Dean a green branch with white berries.

  Papa laughs and his sun-browned features tighten up. “Mistletoe.”

  Right. I’ve seen pictures but never the live plant. People smooch under the twig of berries, though I’ve no idea why.

  Papa leans toward me. “Beware, Cadi, you might get kissed.”

  A laugh escapes me. I’m seventeen and have never been kissed. Once, while living with a family in Ohio, I had an older foster brother who cast too many innuendos my way and tried to kiss me once. I told Mr. Scrim and he got me out of there.

  I slip back to the kitchen. Mama’s changed into a red blouse with a silver poinsettia pin on the lapel.

  She hasn’t noticed that I’ve stopped wearing my crystal. Why would she? She must’ve assumed I was free to remove it whenever I wanted.

  When the silvery chain came apart, I studied it up close. The chain’s like nothing I’ve seen anywhere else, an intricate weave that shifts like a snake.

  My name’s Welsh, but I don’t think my parents are. Maybe my people came from somewhere nearby, a hidden island like the one where Wonder Woman grew up. I bite back a giggle. Maybe I’m Diana’s little sister.

  “Oh, Cadi, that dress is perfect on you,” Mama says.

  Shri steps through the back door, wearing a black quilted parka with a silver-gray fake-fur collar.

  Mama calls to her. “Shri, leave your boots by the door, there’s a dear.”

  Shri obliges and hangs up her coat. She’s wearing a knee-length black dress with fishnet stockings. I like her style but couldn’t imagine dressing that way. Anyone discovering my abilities would think I was a witch for sure.

  The three of us load up with snacks and carry them to the living room.

  Matt Thompson arrives and heads down to the basement at Papa’s request. He returns with two cardboard boxes overflowing with tree decorations. “Where do you want these, Mrs. Jacobsen?”

  Mama laughs good-naturedly and pats his arm. “Beside the tree, of course.”

  I pour out apple cider and we all clink glasses and sip. The drink tastes tart and sweet like Christmas.

  Tree decorated and the cookie plate empty, Matt makes his excuses and Dean and Shri follow suit.

  As we file out of the living room to say our goodbyes, Dean catches my wrist and stops me. “Hey, you’re standing under the mistletoe.”

  My cheeks grow hot. “Then I’d better move.”

  Dean gives me an impish smile as he flips his golden-brown hair off his forehead. Blue eyes sparkle as he loops his fingers around mine. “I think it might be too late.”

  My chest tingles. “For you…or me?”

  His smile widens. “We’ll see.” His lips graze mine, then he pulls back.

  He’s cute, I can’t deny, especially when he’s standing this close, mouth slightly parted and eyes shining as they gaze into mine. My heart beats in a flurry of nervousness or excitement. I’m not sure which, maybe both, but something holds me back. “Maybe we should save the next one for another time.”

  He takes a breath. “I don’t think I can wait.” Our lips meet again, passionate but brief. “Merry Christmas, Cadi,” he whispers. A squeeze on my fingers and he’s gone.

  Touching my lips, I tiptoe after him, adding to the trailing goodbyes as our guests leave and the front door closes.

  My first kiss. Guess Shri was right about Dean, though I’m not sure what that kiss meant. To him, or me. But Angie Gilbert’s going to kill me if she ever finds out.

  5

  Idris

  I wake on Christmas morning the way I always do, with a jumble of nervous excitement twisting and turning in my stomach.

  Slipping out of bed, I pad to the window just as the sun peeks out from behind the mountains. Snow fell through the night, leaving a downy cover across the front yard and turning the bushes into snow cones. Icicles, lit by white string lights, hang from the eaves of the house across the street. A perfect winter wonderland.

  I turn on the basking light i
n Jim’s terrarium. Jim’s my pet iguana. He’s lived in my room since I was ten. Slowly, his body turns toward the heat. I reach in and run a finger along his scaly back.

  Unable to delay any longer, I slip downstairs to the living room fireplace and unhook my stocking from the mantle. It’s the same thick woolly one I used to pull over my head like an elf cap when I was a little kid. The stocking’s lumpy with gifts. I grab the misshapen sock, dash upstairs and dive back under the bedcovers.

  This is about the only time of year I wish I had a brother or sister, another kid to share the opening of presents with. Wrapping paper falls away from gifts. A portable charger. A thumb-drive. Guitar picks Mom must have snuck in. My lips part in surprise as I unwrap a smartwatch with a silver-gray wristband. Wow.

  Leaving my bed, I tug on a gray sweatshirt and pull up its sleeve to admire the new smartwatch, then head to the kitchen to see if anyone’s awake.

  Mom looks up from the kitchen table with a sleepy smile. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.” She’s wearing a fluffy pink dressing gown and her black hair is pulled back into a short ponytail, showing off her high cheekbones and light brown complexion. Her hands wrap around a mug of black coffee.

  I hurry over and flash the watch. “Thanks, Mom. Awesome!”

  She opens her arms, and I bend over to hug her.

  As I straighten, I notice her narrowed eyes. “What’s up, Mom?”

  She reaches out to brush my cheek with her fingertips. “Honey, is that a rash coming?”

  A quick rub across my jaw and I shake my head. “Acne, I’ll bet. Happened last year. Too much sugar over the holidays.”

  A brief nod and she takes a sip of coffee.

  No sign of Dad yet, but he’s the night owl in the family. Probably won’t be up for another hour.

  “Can I make you something, honey?” Mom asks, starting to rise.

  “Nah. Today, I get to make you breakfast.” A Christmas tradition. I raid a fruit bowl piled high with clementines to make juice and snag a box of pancake mix from the pantry. My culinary repertoire isn’t great, but I’ve got blueberry pancakes down pat. Top ‘em off with syrup and fresh whipped cream and we’re talking heaven.

  Dad arrives as I’m serving Mom a half stack. He’s showered and clean-shaven already, his trim sideburns showing the first signs of gray. He looks way too fresh for Christmas morning, but then he looks that way pretty much all the time.

  “Hungry?” I ask.

  He eyes Mom’s plate and nods as he pours himself coffee.

  I wave my spatula. “Full stack?”

  “Please.” He drops a kiss on Mom’s forehead. “Merry Christmas, Janie.” Then he glances my way. “You too, sport.”

  I grin and skim four pancakes off the griddle. “Hey, do you like my new watch?” I flash my wrist as I deliver Dad’s plate.

  “Santa must’ve been feeling generous.” Dad shovels a forkful of pancake into his mouth and winks his approval.

  I load up another plate, slather the pancakes in syrup and cream and dig in, eager to wrap up breakfast and move on to unwrapping what’s under the tree.

  After cleaning up, we troop into the living room with refilled coffee mugs. I check our massive tree’s understory. Plenty of boxes, but nothing big enough for an electric guitar.

  Don’t think negative thoughts. Might be hidden in a closet, which means the gift under the tree will be small, like an envelope.

  I think back to yesterday afternoon, when I played Marek the music demo I recorded and asked what he thought.

  “Perfect clarity.” He crossed his arms. “Can’t believe your dad gave all that equipment away. It’s high-end stuff.”

  I nodded. “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Don’t make me beg you, man. What did you think of the song?”

  Marek grinned. “It’ll make the girls weep.”

  I laughed, but all I could think about was recording another demo with my new guitar.

  Focusing on the tree, I rub my palms together like a gambler at the craps table, thinking positive thoughts.

  Mom, Dad and I take turns opening gifts. Mom runs out first because she always buys us too much stuff. The stack growing on my end of the sofa includes jeans, a few band t-shirts, a sweatshirt, some DVDs, an iPad Pro — Wait? What? Seriously? Didn’t ask for one of those, but totally cool. — an Amazon gift card and a killer pair of checkerboard Brain Dead Vans sneakers.

  But, wait. What about the…

  The pile under the tree dwindles until nothing’s left.

  Nada. Nichts. Zilch.

  Dad drops back into his armchair and sighs. “A month-long campaign of gift ordering, shopping and wrapping, and everything’s disseminated in less than half an hour.”

  I can’t pull my eyes from the poinsettia-covered tree skirt beneath the Christmas tree. I scan its creases and the scattering of fallen tinsel, hoping to spot the stray corner of an envelope with my name on it. Something insignificant, seemingly inconsequential. A sheet of paper with a simple message. Look in the hall closet or Take a peek under your bed or I’m hiding in the garage or Search for me in the basement.

  My heart sinks. Stupid, but this feels like total devastation. I take stock of all the gifts I’ve received. Generous. No lie. My parents have always been generous.

  But how did they miss the boat on this one? I thought all the speech competitions — the wins — would send Dad a loud-and-clear message that I deserved that guitar.

  My fingers skim the smartwatch buckled to my wrist, appreciating its smooth face. A great gift. Totally unexpected. Marek will be green when he sees it. But… Shit.

  All I asked for was that damned guitar. Proof that my dad was willing to give me something I really wanted. Something I thought I’d earned.

  Even if he didn’t completely approve. Though god knows why he shouldn’t. It isn’t as if I haven’t handed over a large chunk of my soul. Piece by piece. Speech after effing speech.

  I swallow. Smile. Force out the words I need to say, no matter how monumental my disappointment. “Thanks, Mom, Dad for all this amazing stuff. Wow. What a great Christmas.” I suck in a bitter breath. “Anyone want more coffee?”

  Dad holds out his cup. I take it, grab Mom’s off the chair arm and escape to the kitchen.

  I’m brewing a fresh pot, arms crossed over my chest, staring out the window, and wondering how it’s possible my parents didn’t get how important receiving that guitar was to me. It wasn’t even about the damned guitar.

  Mom walks in. “You forgot your own mug.”

  I smile but can’t bring any happiness to my eyes.

  She sets the cup on the counter and leans a hip against the cabinets. “I’ve one more thing for you,” she says, reaching for the pocket in her dressing gown. She pulls out a folded piece of paper and holds it out to me. A check written out to me from her personal account. “So you can buy what you really wanted for Christmas.”

  I close my eyes and drop my head forward. “I shouldn’t be disappointed. You’ve both been generous.” I swallow and feel stupid. “But that guitar…”

  Mom rubs my arm. “I know, honey. That’s why I’m giving you this.” She presses the check into my hand. “Our little secret.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I whisper, but why do we have to keep secrets?

  She smiles. “Merry Christmas, Idris.”

  I hug her because that’s what today is supposed to be about. She’s given me exactly what I want. Even so, this Christmas feels like the worst one ever.

  To get through the rest of the day, I focus on the iPad and the smartwatch, but I’d rather be playing tunes on my new guitar.

  The smell of roasting meat and stuffing wafts up from the kitchen. I join my parents for dinner and drink sparkling apple cider, while they drink wine. Pie for dessert, and I’m as stuffed as a turkey.

  After helping clear the table, I make my escape.

  Collapsed on the bed, I stare at the ceiling, unable to let go of my disappointment, or
the guilt for feeling this way in the first place. I want to understand what Dad’s problem with me playing music is all about. I just don’t get it.

  Anger flares and my hands tighten into fists. I’m off the bed in a heartbeat.

  I open my laptop and unfold the music competition flier Mrs. Jones gave me. After scanning the requirements, I fill out the online form, attach the music demo file I made at the Thorny Rose and hit send.

  6

  Cadi

  Christmas Day. The employees have the day off, so I rise at five to help Papa milk the goats.

  Mama has breakfast ready when we come in chilled after our early morning chores. When we’re done eating, she calls us into the living room.

  The Christmas lights are on, all red and white, reflecting in the silver tinsel and the glass ornaments. Through the window, a blanket of snow covers the rolling hills, while the holiday lights and orange flames from the fireplace make the living room cozy and festive.

  A small pile of presents sits under the giant tree inside the circular track of a Norman Rockwell train set. Two of the gifts are from me, a woolly sweater for Mama and a new jackknife for Papa.

  Out of habit, I have few expectations. Christmas has always been an event experienced from the outside, with a happy smile on my face that hides what’s missing from my heart. Dre.

  I wish I remembered more than the feel of your hand. What color are your eyes? I imagine you with a wide, generous smile, strong arms that know how to hug just right, and a quiet intelligence that reflects in the way you walk through this world.

  Papa carefully removes an LP from its jacket and lays the disk on his vintage record player. I watch him lift the needle arm and set it on the turntable. The record crackles for a few rotations, then Frank Sinatra kicks off with I’ll be home for Christmas.

  “Here, Cadi. This is for you.” Mama reaches out, offering a hand-sized box wrapped in dark green paper.