Silken Scales

by Alex Hayes

  I retrieve my backpack from the hall upstairs and head into the bathroom. The place is compact but outfitted with fancy tiles and fixtures. Noticing a stack of towels on a shelf in the corner, I decide to sneak in a quick shower to make up for the one I didn’t take yesterday. The water’s hot and pounds the tension of the past few days out of my neck and shoulders.

  I emerge from the steamy room, clean and slightly damp, to the sound of guitar music coming from the doorway through which Idris disappeared. So he’s a musician, and… I detect something more. Something different. Something special.

  Curious, I lay a hand on the door, and I feel a beat — almost a language — separate from the guitar music. As I listen, I start to understand what it’s asking for…

  An emptiness to be filled. A wound to be healed. Bonds to be mended. Misunderstandings to be resolved.

  He’s grieving.

  Well, perhaps we all are in some way or other, but his way of dealing with it is through sound.

  And my heart responds. Or the crystal does. I’m not sure which. Somehow, I need to tell him about these crystals. I just wish I knew how to explain in a way that doesn’t make me sound insane. I mean, who’d believe that a crystal sunk into my chest and talks to me?

  23

  Idris

  I escape into the office while Cadi’s in the bathroom.

  The space feels small, mostly because it’s filled with oversized furniture: a carved oak desk, gray couch and wall-to-wall bookshelves.

  I grab my guitar from where it leans against the couch and settle onto squishy velvet. My frustration with Dad over the electric guitar Santa didn’t deliver rears its grumpy head, but I stuff the feeling back under the seat cushions.

  Classics like Stairway to Heaven and Hotel California are my warm-ups — no guitar pick required due to my pointy lizard fingernails — then I mess with some of my older compositions until I’m in the zone.

  I pick through the rhythms and refrains that have plagued me the past few days, and realize there’ve been a lot. No surprise, given the pile of crap I’ve had to deal with.

  Turning green and having to hide out like a fugitive, dealing with Dad’s crushing disappointment, and getting dumped by Rebecca.

  The perfect shit storm.

  I need to do something with this anger, let the feelings trembling under my fingertips express themselves. So I play. And I play hard. Tapping, rapping and slapping my guitar like it’s besieged by a hurricane.

  The storm abates and tension lifts. My mind drifts in rolling waves and spiraling eddies, leading me to Cadi and her story about how she saved her dad.

  Her telekinetic abilities are cool. Even if she did use them to throw me across the parking lot into a snowbank. You gotta admire a girl who can whoop-ass. The fact using them knocked her out for hours is kind of inconvenient, but hey, all she needs is someone to watch her back.

  What would it be like to have superpowers?

  The way Cadi describes it, not so great. As soon as someone catches her doing her thing, she has to move on. How stupid is that?

  She’s forced to hide when she could be helping people. Assuming she wants to help people. Something about that soft sad look in her eyes tells me she does. Tells me she wants to be understood and accepted.

  I get that.

  After spending my whole life fitting in, setting the bar even, I’ve been reduced to reject status. Like John Sellers. A literal outcast.

  Seemed like a nice guy, too. Even if he was drunk.

  I stop playing and consider my life, everything I had before I changed into a lizard.

  Getting mad over an electric guitar is stupid. Mom and Dad have given me all the things I’ve ever needed. Dad’s problem with me wanting to be a musician seems trivial, especially as Mom’s always done her best to counter his prejudice by letting me play and sing all I want when he’s away.

  Our little secret.

  I shake my head. Now I’m one big green mess of a secret for both of them. The kind anyone would want to hide in his closet and forget about.

  Can I blame Dad for being upset? He’s got a public image to uphold with a revenue stream attached. Life would totally suck if his income dried up. Maybe he’s right to be glad this little tadpole didn’t come swimming out of his family gene pool.

  I start playing again, my strumming turns deep and thunky, like a new storm brewing. Finally, I lift my fingers from the strings and still their vibrations with my palm.

  In the silence that follows, my bubbling emotions flee, leaving me deflated. A tired sigh slips out. People talk about karma and how it comes around for all of us sooner or later. Is this my sooner or later?

  If so, where’d I go wrong?

  I did what my parents told me, have always tried to be a likable guy. I spent hours under Dad’s tutelage, rehearsing speeches, honing my voice, refining my expressions and body language, when I had no interest in motivational anything.

  All the while, my musical talents have been contained, the same way Cadi has had to hide her abilities.

  Maybe it’s like she said, we’re more similar than we realized. Two social misfits everyone wants to sweep under the metaphorical rug.

  And I said she wasn’t my type. I’m such a prick.

  Emerging from the office, I’m surprised to find Cadi freshly showered. Not quite what I’d expected when she said she wanted to freshen up. She’s changed, too, into a snug sweater and a tight pair of jeans that show off the curvy hips I didn’t realize she had. Her hair’s damp and looks darker. I like this color better than the indecisive brown-blonde.

  She turns from the back counter, sees me and her face lightens with a smile. A fuzzy warm feeling fills my chest, but I push it away. There’s business to discuss.

  “Your music’s wonderful,” she says. “Though, I’m kind of stupid when it comes to songs…but I could feel it. Right here.” She taps her chest.

  “Um…thanks.” What else should I say? I mean, I like that she likes my stuff, but I’m not sure if she’s just being polite. And I doubt she wants a long-winded explanation about how music comes to me without trying, just flows into my fingertips when my mind is distracted by something else. Like my hands have been taken over by an outside influence, a touch of the divine muse or whatever… Did I say long-winded?

  “Yeah,” she says to my silence. “Anyway, if you want me to cook something for tonight, I’ll need to get more food.”

  Right. Business at hand.

  “Unless you’d prefer peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, gourmet style.”

  Damn Marek.

  I run a hand over my head the way I did when I had hair and wonder if I should take a shower. My scaly form doesn’t smell much. Not of human sweat, anyway. But that doesn’t mean I’m not giving off some other kind of offensive odor.

  Wait. Why am I worrying about whether I smell? I shake my head. “Sure. How much do you need?”

  She looks confused. Probably because I just shook my head, then offered her money. If she doesn’t think me crazy already, I’m doing a stellar job of working her toward that conclusion.

  “The grocery store’s about a mile away,” I add. “A couple of grocery bags is all you’ll want to carry. Wish I could go with you and help out, but…”

  “Well…” she begins, then reels off a bunch of ingredients she needs for fresh pasta and sauce, more items than I can store in my brain, or want to.

  “Will twenty bucks do?” I dig in my pocket for the wad Marek withdrew from my account and pull out a twenty.

  She looks awkward, but nods and takes the cash, then digs in her backpack and pulls out a couple of reusable shopping bags. “Anything else you need?” she asks, when she reaches the bottom of the stairs.

  I could think of a bunch. Cover-up. A wig. Fake eyelashes. And eyebrows. A full body makeover… “Uh, nothing, thanks.” I follow her up the steps ready to bolt the door after she leaves.

  “See you in about an hour.” She waves, then shifts her att
ention to the ice patches on the tarmac.

  “Bye,” I call.

  As she rounds the corner, she flashes me this smile that loops around my heart and wants to tug me along with her.

  24

  Cadi

  Leaving Al’s Supermarket, I wonder if I have time to hit Lance’s Trading Post and check whether Mama called about the hundred dollars for my phone. My bags swing as I step out into the cold. I glance across the packed parking lot, and my eyes land on that weird-eyed lady I saw outside the pawnshop.

  She’s hunched over and covered in layers of drab clothing that make her eye-stabbing neon sneakers all the more shocking.

  I dodge for cover behind a buff guy with a full shopping cart and tattoos that creep up his neck and over his shiny head. As he turns to cross the parking lot, I slip around the side of the store, hoping the old lady didn’t spot me.

  After counting to ten, I sneak a look around the corner. She’s hobbling my way.

  Crud.

  My crystal goes haywire, sending out spastic vibrations that translate to Run!

  No idea which side streets are cul-de-sacs and which go through, so I trot down the main road, shopping bags swinging, until I hit the first traffic light, then head left toward the center of town.

  One good thing about my day spent wandering the streets, I learned the geography. My best bet is to put some solid space between us by taking the backstreets, be sure I’ve lost the old woman, then hop a tramcar back down the main drag.

  I weave a zigzag route along short streets and wend my way back to the wide thoroughfare. I’m waiting in a sheltered spot under a tree for the next tramcar when a taxi pulls up across the street and the old lady struggles out.

  If she’s a dumpster diver, how’d she afford a taxi? I’d figured she was homeless.

  A tram slides between us before she spots me. I run across two lanes of traffic, dodging a couple of motorbikes and jump aboard.

  The driver answers my disoriented gaze with, “Two dollars in the slot.” She points to a ticket machine.

  I feed in the money and slide onto a seat. Scanning the opposite side of the street, I exhale with relief. The old lady’s caught up in a conversation with the taxi driver. Maybe she couldn’t afford a taxi, after all.

  Just before the tramcar reaches its turn-about, I get off. Seeing no sign of the old lady, I hurry on my way.

  As I turn into the Thorny Rose’s street, a taxi comes racing up the main road through the industrial district. I whip behind a fence, heart racing, and sandwich myself between the barrier and a peeling aspen tree.

  The taxi slows as it passes me, then rolls to a stop.

  25

  Idris

  Where the hell is she?

  It’s been two hours since Cadi left for the grocery store, and I’ve been pacing the nightclub floor for the past twenty minutes.

  Twilight has settled a deep plum shade over the world outdoors. Not dark enough for me to go out and look for her yet.

  Tension presses into my chest. Has she bailed? Taken my money and blown me off?

  No. Her backpack’s still here.

  Is she in trouble? I should have given her my phone.

  Argh. What the hell am I thinking? We can’t both have it.

  I’m staring at the black screen of the device, inches away from texting Marek to ask him to go look for her, when three quick knocks come at the back door.

  I don’t even check it’s her, just slam back the bolt and wrench the door open.

  Cadi stands before me, chest heaving. Her eyes look huge and flood with relief the moment she sees me. She scoots inside and topples against the passage wall. I slam the door shut and secure it.

  As I reach for the light switch, so I can see her face, she cries, “Don’t! She’ll see.”

  I abort and rescue the grocery bags hanging from her limp arms before they crash to the floor. “What happened?”

  “Someone followed me.” Her voice is hoarse from the cold. “I came out of the store and this creepy old lady stared at me. She followed me to the center of town. Thought I’d given her the slip, but this taxi pulled up. I managed to sneak through a hole in the fence and cut across a couple of parking lots before circling back here.”

  “Did the old lady have weird eyes?”

  Cadi frowns. “Yeah, they glowed.”

  I nod. “She came knocking here the same night you did. Got pretty close to her once before and…let’s just say she needed a shower.”

  Cadi’s eyes meet mine. “Do you think we’re safe here?”

  “Remember the gangster I told you about? That door’s steel-clad and every window in this place is barred. I don’t see an old lady getting in here without some pretty serious equipment. But I’d like to know who she is and what she wants.”

  We head downstairs and unpack the shopping bags. Cadi arranges the items she needs on the counter. I take a seat at the conference table, out of the way but close enough to watch her work. She’s efficient and knows how to wield a knife.

  Something to bear in mind if I ever piss her off.

  Before long, tomatoes, garlic and olive oil are bubbling in one pan, and water’s heating in another, while she rolls pasta dough across the countertop with an empty glass bottle.

  “Where’d you learn to cook like this?” I’ve made a habit of staying out of the kitchen until it’s time to eat, but watching her work, I can see how the process might be fun.

  “I always try to be helpful,” Cadi answers, pausing her rolling to toss a pinch more salt in the sauce. “But I learned most of what I know from Mama.” She glances in my direction. “She’s three-quarters Italian and taught me to make fresh pasta and sauce the traditional way.”

  She rubs her forehead with a palm and leaves behind a floury mark.

  “How long have you been with her?”

  When Cadi talked about how often she’d moved between foster homes, it seemed like she’d rarely lasted in one place for more than a few months.

  “About a year.” She leans harder into her rolling. “The Jacobsens are the best family I’ve lived with, an older couple with no kids of their own. I think Mama wanted someone to pass on what she knows. She taught me how to can fruit, harvest honey, and make soap and potpourri.” Cadi looks over at me. “Mama knew about my abilities before I moved the tractor. She caught me in my room floating Christmas tree ornaments.” A grin sneaks across her features.

  “What did she say?”

  Cadi’s head tilts to one side. “That I had a god-given gift, but most people wouldn’t understand it.”

  I set two water glasses on the table. “She sounds like a nice lady.”

  “Yeah.” Cadi sighs. “Tell me about your family.”

  How do I begin to describe my parents? I go with the easy answer. “Mom’s a massage therapist and Dad’s a motivational speaker.”

  She starts cutting the pasta dough into thin strips. “What kind of motivational speaking?”

  “The get-off-your-ass-and-turn-your-life-around kind. He’s got a series of books and online talks called To the Power of I. Maybe you’ve heard of them.”

  Cadi grins. “Yeah. I have. Brandon Williams, right?”

  Thinking of Dad makes me feel like crap. “That’s the guy. And until a few days ago, he was trying to motivate me into following in his footsteps.”

  She pauses in her pasta cutting to look over her shoulder. “I guess being green complicates those plans.”

  “No kidding. But to be honest, it’s not something I want to do.”

  Her eyes flash in my direction. “So what do you want to do?”

  “Make music.”

  “That makes sense.” Her head bends lower as she focuses on what she’s doing. “Surely your dad must think that too.”

  My body deflates like one of those outdoor blow-up Santas come morning. “He doesn’t know how much I play.”

  She looks at me, eyes filled with surprise.

  “Yeah, I know. Crazy, huh? He�
�s got kind of a one-track mind when it comes to me. He’s never liked the music thing though. Guess he thinks it’s girly or something. Anyway, he saw me as his up-and-coming replacement and entered me in every speech competition he could, to demonstrate the fact. And given I kept winning them, I guess he proved his point.”

  “Because you’re good at anything that has to do with sound,” she says.

  My hands slide over my head, and I wish I had hair to dig my fingers into and yank. “Yeah, well… Dad’s kind of SOL now.”

  “But doesn’t that mean you can pursue your own dream to play music?”

  “Maybe, but that leaves Dad with no one to shoehorn into following his dream.”

  She glances at the clock on the wall and lowers a strip of pasta into the hot water with a fork. “You’re their only child then?”

  I hesitate, which makes her look over. “Yeah. They adopted me when I was three.”

  Her eyes and mouth go round, and a single word slips out. “Oh.”

  “I was lucky,” I add, acknowledging her foster experience.

  “Well, I guess we’ve something else in common.” She pulls her test strip out of the water and cuts it with the fork, then checks the clock again and tosses in the rest.

  When the pasta’s done, we settle next to each other at the conference table, plates piled high. I taste the sauce. Incredible.

  She watches me lick the fork. “And?”

  “The best sauce. Ever.”

  “Yes!” Her face glows with satisfaction, and I reach out and wipe the smudge of flour off her forehead. Her skin is soft. My eyes stray to her lips, then away again.

  We’re silent for a time, eating, then she asks, “Do you have any memory of your life before your parents adopted you?”

  I swallow my mouthful of pasta. “I must’ve had a sister because I remember us being separated.” Cadi’s watching me intently. “One of those traumatic events that sticks with you.”