Siren Spell

by Cidney Swanson

  29

  A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER

  James was better.

  Giselle heard the news whispered a dozen times through the day. In drama class, a reliable story emerged. James had awoken, hungry, the night before at 1:00 in the morning. He was recovering well and the hospital was likely to release him in the next forty-eight hours. Everyone was a little slap-happy with the news, except for Caitlyn, who sobbed just as loudly as she had during the first day’s minute of silence.

  Giselle was too relieved to mind Caitlyn’s tears.

  Relief buoyed Giselle all rehearsal. She felt … well, she felt as if dancing was in order. There was an extra vivacity in her delivery of lines as she dashed through the complex blocking of the second and third acts.

  She’d been wrong about James dying. Wrong about the sirens. She’d been superstitious and foolish and in the end, it had all been nothing more than a couple of bad dreams. The sirens were dangerous only because they were predators, not because they were supernatural beings driven by vengeance. This meant that whatever it was that had befallen James, it had nothing to do with her. She felt the full impact of her relief—relief she hadn’t even known she’d been craving. Instead of James being a jerk who, because of her, was somehow being murdered by willis, he was merely a jerk who had been very sick.

  Unfortunately, she was so preoccupied by her thoughts that Mr. Kinsler had to ask her twice to get her head out of the clouds before rehearsal had ended. She didn’t mind being called out, although she couldn’t wait to get home and tell Katya, who had left early that morning, before Giselle was awake. Tonight, they would drink cup after cup of tea with raspberry jam while Katya laughed at Giselle’s overactive imagination.

  Even her great loss weighed less heavily on Giselle today than it had yesterday. True, she was in a drama rehearsal while her family was at her beloved studio. True, her mom had yet to formally apologize for casting her in a non-dancing role. But today Giselle felt as though she might someday be willing to hear an apology, and this was new. Yesterday she’d been angry; today she felt … magnanimous.

  And virtuous. Yes, someday she might accept her mother’s apology, if it were offered. The thought of her own virtue put a certain spring in her step as she walked home alone. She did some homework, took Sasha for a quick walk, and reheated last night’s pelmeni (it looked as though no one had had much of an appetite last night), all before her family returned from the studio.

  She was just arranging a quartet of late roses from the front rosebushes when she heard her mother chiding Katya as they came inside.

  “You know good and well it is your job to set an example for others,” said Giselle’s mother. “If you don’t get enough sleep to be properly ready for class, what do you think that says to everyone else? I’ve got two willis flirting with eating disorders. I don’t need you sleep-deprived on top of that. Do I make myself clear?”

  Katya nodded, sliding into her seat at the kitchen table. Her cheeks, normally pink from exercise when she arrived home, were pallid, her eyes, drooping.

  Giselle’s cheeks flushed with anger. Her mother’s tirade brought back everything Giselle hated most about her mother: You are Chekhovs. You will be held to a higher standard than other students and you will like it! How could she rant at Katya when Katya looked so exhausted?

  It was a reminder that their mother would always, always put the studio’s needs ahead of anything else. Last night’s revelations had not changed that. The good news about her dreams being mere dreams had not changed that. Her mother was still her mother. Giselle placed the vase of flowers on the kitchen table with more force than was necessary.

  Startling, Katya smiled weakly at her and shrugged. Katya never got angry at their mother, and Giselle knew it distressed Katya when they went head to head, Giselle and Ruslana. She took a deep breath. For Katya’s sake, she wouldn’t engage. Not tonight when Katya looked like she was coming down with something. Giselle pressed a hand to her sister’s forehead.

  “I’m fine,” murmured Katya. “Did you hear about James?”

  “He’s recovering,” said Giselle. “He’ll be okay after all.”

  Katya nodded. Her smile was a fragile-looking thing, like glass blown too thin.

  “So no more late night research, okay?” Giselle pinched her sister’s cheek playfully, restoring a moment of color. “That’s better.” She was stretching the truth rather dreadfully; Katya still looked awful.

  The four Chekhov women ate in silence for most of their meal. Katya, roused by food, made an effort to introduce some conversation.

  “A parent came by today,” Katya began, “And she took pictures of the ikon.”

  Their mother scowled and their grandmother grumbled in inarticulate Russian, although Giselle felt certain the downward inflection carried a downward meaning.

  More in support of her sister than from actual interest, Giselle asked, “Who was it?”

  “Some idiot parent who wants me to remove the priceless work of art my mother brought here from Russia,” Ruslana replied.

  Giselle looked to Katya for elaboration, but Katya merely pushed a lone dumpling round and round the soup bowl, looking like she was falling asleep.

  “I think I might go to bed,” Katya said after a moment.

  “It’s only seven o’clock,” said Giselle.

  Ruslana looked up. “She needs the sleep,” said the girls’ mother, her voice softer.

  Babushka prepared chamomile tea and carried it up to Katya while Giselle and her mother finished the dishes. Ruslana made an effort to engage Giselle in conversation, but everything Ruslana had to say led back to the studio, or rehearsals, or something else ballet-related, and Giselle was afraid that if she answered in anything more than monosyllables, she’d either cry or start an argument so fierce it would awaken Katya. So much for being ready to accept an apology.

  After a few more attempts at conversation, her mother sighed heavily and gave up trying to talk at all.

  Later, when Giselle climbed the stairs to her room for bed, her sister was snoring gently. Katya looked peaceful, and about four years old, lying on top of her covers fully dressed. She had fallen asleep with her shoes on. Giselle considered removing them but decided that might wake her. Digging in the linen closet, Giselle found an afghan and settled it on top of Katya, clothes, shoes, and all.

  After draining the remainder of her sister’s chamomile tea, Giselle slept peacefully, undisturbed by dreams of feckless men or white-pupilled sirens.

  ~ ~ ~

  The following day during drama, Mr. Kinsler allowed the class a few minutes of computer face-time with James, who was already recovering at home.

  “I feel fine,” said James. “I wanted to come to rehearsal today, but Mom said no.”

  Several girls blew him kisses “for luck.” Giselle was not among them.

  She might have been mistaken, but she thought she saw him scanning the crowd looking for her.

  As if.

  Class began formally with Marcus’s presentation describing fey creatures from his Haitian grandmother’s stories. He sent around a picture book containing images strange to most eyes in the classroom, but among the fantastical drawings of wood-spirits and serpent bodied sea creatures, Giselle found one picture with a familiar appearance. She knew a Holy Mother and Child ikon when she saw one. The painting was labeled “The Black Madonna of Czestochowa.”

  She passed the book to the student beside her, returning her attention to Marcus’s description of a water goddess called “Mami Wata,” who was yet another example of a womanly water creature given to attracting the attention of men. Marcus pointed out she was less cruel than the sirens of Homer’s tales or the willis of the ballet Giselle.

  Mr. Kinsler thanked Marcus, remarking, “Some of these tales make Shakespeare’s fairies and imps look well-mannered.”

  Mr. Kinsler then divided the class into their regular groups, stopping by the lovers group to announce James would be rejoining t
hem for the next rehearsal.

  “Oh, joy,” Giselle mumbled under her breath.

  Marcus looked at her, amused, and she felt embarrassed, which he also seemed to notice. Her cheeks heated with color. She walked over to the flats to drag one into place. Marcus joined her.

  “You looked interested in the book I brought,” he said as they moved a flat together. “I think I bored everyone else to death.”

  “I recognized something in your book.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “There was a Russian ikon.”

  “Close,” said Marcus. “The icon is from Poland. Polish soldiers probably brought it with them to Haiti. Haitians liked her because she was black for a change instead of bone-white. Blacker than me, my grandpère used to say.” His white teeth flashed against his caramel coloring and Giselle smiled, too.

  He was handsome when he smiled. And when he didn’t, for that matter. As he squatted to lift a second flat, Giselle noticed his calves again. Really, it would have been inexcusable not to notice them. She kicked a discarded backpack out of Marcus’s way.

  “I can see why you guessed Russian on that Polish icon,” said Marcus, walking the flat backwards. “With your family and all. Are both your parents Russian?”

  “Yes,” she replied without offering any details. “Anyone around here will tell you the Chekhovs are more Russian than vodka.”

  “I’m not from around here,” Marcus said, grinning.

  Giselle smiled back. “Right,” she said.

  Marcus stood and popped his back, his muscular thighs becoming more articulated as he twisted. He was going to look amazing during those final royales in the ballet.

  She tilted her head as he straightened. “Hey, are you taller than you were at ballet auditions?”

  He nodded. “And I’ve got the growing pains to prove it. This knee, especially.” He pointed, indicating his right knee.

  “Are you icing?” asked Giselle.

  “Before and after class,” replied Marcus.

  Giselle didn’t need to ask if he meant ballet when he said “class.” Of course he meant ballet. He was a dancer. “It’s all those royales, I bet.”

  Marcus nodded. “Your mom lets me keep a bag of frozen peas in that mini fridge at the studio.”

  He spoke so freely about the studio. Her studio. This hurt her, but the ache was mediated by the pleasure of having someone who would talk ballet with her in the middle of drama class. And it didn’t hurt that he had great legs and a killer smile.

  Mr. Kinsler approached, ending their conversation. The students rehearsed, still utilizing Lysander’s understudy, who, with occasional prompts from Marcus, had more or less memorized the lines and blocking.

  Rehearsal let out early and Giselle was home before dusk had fallen. Ordinarily, Sasha was to be found sleeping by the heater vent beside Babushka’s chair, but today the white dog paced, head down, wolf-like, back and forth across the wooden floorboards. Click-click-click-click. Pause. Turn. Click-click-click-click. Giselle frowned. Something was off. A change in the weather, maybe? It felt as cold and damp as ever.

  She released the latch on the dog door and Sasha dashed outside, but the dog returned to the strange pacing behavior as soon as she returned inside. Giselle sighed and opened her binder. She worked through her math homework, deciding to consult Katya on a couple of the trickier problems.

  There it was again, another proof of how the sisters shared limited genetics. But the more Giselle adjusted to the idea that their fathers were different, the more she recognized sisterhood was a product of shared lives, not shared genes.

  Giselle’s attempts at scholarly industry were interrupted by the home phone ringing. When she checked, it said private caller, which was what Katya’s cell phone always said. Giselle picked up, expecting her sister to say they’d be home late again.

  “Hey,” said Giselle.

  The voice on the other end was not Katya’s, however.

  “Hello,” said a woman’s voice. “This is Nancy Fitzpatrick. May I speak with … Y-katerina?”

  The woman pronounced the name Why-katerina. Giselle threw her gaze up to the patched ceiling. “This is her granddaughter. Ykaterina is not available,” she said, pronouncing her grandmother’s name correctly. “Can I help you?” she added, feeling guilty over the extent to which the eye-roll might have made it into her tone.

  “Oh, how disappointing to have missed her. I’m only down from Olympia for the day.”

  “Sorry,” said Giselle. “I can take a message.”

  Silence extended for just long enough that Giselle thought the call might have dropped, but then the woman spoke again. “I don’t suppose I could ask you a few questions?”

  “Me?”

  “Although talking over the phone is so impersonal, don’t you find? I prefer face-to-face.”

  “Do you want to leave a message?”

  “No, thank you, dear. I don’t suppose you know of a place for a decent bite to eat? Maybe some coffee?”

  “Um—”said Giselle, but she was interrupted.

  “Normally I’d suggest a Fix-at-the-Fitz Coffee Bar, but the whole point is that you don’t have one here, do you?”

  Giselle frowned. This must be that Fitzpatrick. The Fitzpatrick. The one with the chain of coffee bars. “Carbs has good coffee,” suggested Giselle. “And great food.”

  “Carbs as in … carbohydrates?”

  How was it The Fitzpatrick could make Giselle feel defensive in four words?

  “Yes,” replied Giselle.

  “How very … original,” said the woman. Her voice echoed as it she’d put Giselle on speakerphone. “Oh, yes, I see it on the map. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes, then. Bye!”

  The call ended. Giselle stared at Sasha.

  “Did you hear me tell her I wanted to meet at Carbs?”

  Sasha turned hopefully to stare at her leash.

  Giselle hit the call back button to get out of the meeting and then realized it was marked private caller.

  “Great,” Giselle said. “Now what am I supposed to do? Bike?”

  Sasha’s solemn expression seemed to imply this was the most logical solution.

  “Oh, govno,” said Giselle, employing a word she had every reason to believe was quite bad.

  Sasha did not reprimand her.

  30

  THE BITTER TRUTH

  Giselle biked to Carbs where she found Gabor on the lookout for her. He was dressed in a costume that Giselle suspected was meant to be from Star Trek.

  “Dobriy den’,” said Gabor. “Mrs. Fitzpatrick is awaits you at favorite table,” he said, stumbling over his English. Giselle’s grandmother was not the only one who did this when nervous or preoccupied. Gabor used a stage whisper to add, “She is The Mrs. Fitzpatrick. Of Fix-at-the-Fitz, yes?”

  Giselle nodded yes and joined The Fitzpatrick who appeared to be applying hand sanitizer to the surface of the kidney-shaped table.

  “Hi,” said Giselle, sitting. She wasn’t sure she wanted to sit down, but with Gabor in such a fluster, she hated to walk in and back out again.

  “Nancy Fitzpatrick,” the woman said unnecessarily, holding out a hand.

  The two shook hands.

  “Old habits die hard,” said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, tucking her sanitizer in her purse. “I was in restaurant health and safety before I launched … well, you know.”

  “I don’t have much time, actually,” said Giselle. “And I can’t speak for my grandmother. Especially if this is about … selling the studio. I was going to call you back, but the caller ID didn’t list your number—”

  Mrs. Fitzpatrick placed her very sanitized hand on Giselle’s forearm, interrupting her and smiling, exhibiting twin rows of very white, very perfect teeth which didn’t quite look real. “I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to get a feel for how serious your grandmother is about selling.”

  “It’s not something she would discuss with me,” replied Giselle, her eyes narrowing
.

  Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s eyes had drifted up to a scarf overhead. “I can’t decide if it’s tacky or brilliant,” she said, laughing.

  Giselle felt a frown forming. “Everyone loves Carbs, here in Foulweather.”

  Their waitress Bogdana fluttered over asking in heavily accented English if the two knew what they wanted.

  “How many grams of fat are in your chai?” asked Mrs. Fitzpatrick, examining the menu without looking up.

  It was a question Giselle was certain Bogdana had never before encountered. The waitress ignored everything in the question except one word.

  “Chai? You are wanting chai?”

  Mrs. Fitzpatrick spoke more loudly and crisply. “I want to know how much fat is in your chai. Your menu doesn’t list nutritional information. Do you use nonfat milk?”

  “Milk is not coming in chai,” said Bogdana.

  “Your menu states you offer chai,” said Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

  “Oh,” said Bogdana. “You are meaning Indian chai with spices. We serve only Russian chai. Tea, yes?”

  Giselle caught Bogdana’s eye and tilted her head to Gabor.

  “I want to speak to someone in charge,” said Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

  “Moment, please,” said Bogdana, scurrying away in a red mini dress that Giselle suspected was also Star Trek attire.

  “My God. Could she be dressed in anything more … vulgar?” Mrs. Fitzpatrick shook her head while examining her well-groomed hands.

  “It must be for the new Star Trek,” said Giselle. “She looks sort of like Lieutenant Uhura.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” said Mrs. Fitzpatrick. “What a place.”

  Her glances, thrown about the room like so much damp confetti, left no room for interpretation. Giselle was growing more and more irritated with her companion. And more and more irritated with herself for having come.

  Gabor jogged over to the table, breathing heavily from the exertion. “Ladies, what a pleasure to serve such beautiful guests. I am understanding you have question?”

  Mrs. Fitzpatrick tapped the menu. Raising her voice and speaking slowly, she asked, “Can you make the chai with non-fat half and half? Like a breve?”