The Wake Up (The Seers Book 1)

by Angela Panayotopulos

  “I wouldn’t…”

  Yang’s tail twitched as he sniffed Zach’s hand. He turned back to Lexi and rested his snout in her lap. He kept his amber eyes on the man. His tail thumped against the ground in dog-like approval.

  “It’s a mirror-making manual,” she said.

  “Fascinating.” Zach pointed at a drawing at the bottom of the page. “Is this your sketch? Shouldn’t that angle be smaller? Twenty-five degrees, maybe?”

  “How do you know that?” Lexi’s eyes darted between Zach and the paper. “Are you really a regular here?”

  He grinned. “Are you really an accountant?”

  The waitress brought green tea. Zach thanked her and asked to borrow her pen; he jotted something on his napkin before handing the pen back to her. Once the waitress had left, he slid the napkin across the table towards Lexi.

  “I have a boyfriend,” she stammered. A pang of regret jabbed at her as she spoke, startling her. “I’m flattered but I can’t accept that.”

  “I’m flattered in turn by your misunderstanding.” Zach leaned forward and blew on his tea, causing the wisps of steam to undulate as if bellydancing. Lexi blushed and glanced back down at the phone number written on the napkin. “This is business,” he said. “Actually, this is the future. One never knows. How did you get involved in mirror-making?”

  Her heart beat faster at the words. Business. Future. Mirror-making. Someone cared. The past still mattered. If she could just create something out of this, really show Dom what a legacy they were all throwing away, wouldn’t he listen? And if Zach still believed in these truths, still upheld mirror-making, how many more people here in the Tzami would stand by them, rebels among rebels? “It’s a long story.”

  Zach cupped his hands around his mug. He raised it to his lips, wincing as the liquid burned his tongue. His smile reached his eyes.

  “That’s my favorite kind,” he said.

  20 / The Break Up

  “And now I know that the birds don’t sing,

  they only cry because they can’t find their

  way out of the wood, have lost their flesh when they were dipped in the corrosive pools of his regard

  and now must live in cages.”

  –Angela Carter

  It happened on a dark December night. In a crowded restaurant. On her birthday.

  Of course.

  “We’re just headed in different directions,” Dominic said, cutting through his steak. “I need someone different at my side. You know, someone at my level, who understands me. Preferably with less crooked legs. And maybe a straighter nose.”

  Lexi stared at him. He stared straight back at her.

  She didn’t realize she was crying until the tears started to drip from her jawline to the floor. They tickled in a sickening but-I-don’t-feel-like-laughing sort of way. Dominic’s face betrayed no reaction to her tears.

  “Time to see other people,” he concluded.

  Time to see the color of today’s lunch, she decided.

  Dominic followed her to the restrooms. There were people there—women; at least Lexi had the presence of mind to go to the women’s bathroom, not that it seemed to deter him—but they exited after one glance at Dominic’s face.

  Lexi clutched the toilet bowl, fighting to breathe. She realized it was not a good idea to study her vomit too carefully. Dominic stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the open stall door. He didn’t hold back her hair. He didn’t hold her purse. His face was smooth, mask-like, as he watched.

  “You always overreact.” His voice was cold enough to freeze her eggs, let along her tongue.

  I haven’t vomited since I was twelve. She staggered over to the sink, rinsing out her mouth. Dry-heaving now. And that was food poisoning. Preferable to this. She tried to get the image out of her head—a photograph of him kissing that blonde who rode the Harley, the photograph she’d stumbled on before he’d removed it from the internet. Just one more theatrical act in a play that forever revolved around him. Always the victim, always the victor.

  But the winner stands alone, doesn’t he?

  “When were you going to tell me about her?” Lexi rasped. She raised her head and stared at the wall above the faucet, her trembling hands barely supporting her against the sink. There were no mirrors in this bathroom. The reflective surfaces had been replaced by paintings of mindless abstract art. It didn’t matter. It didn’t change what Lexi knew she would have seen, had there been a mirror. “You couldn’t have the decency to end this before you started seeing someone else?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Wipe your mouth. You look disgusting.”

  There were many things she could have said, but we forget to forge armor against the knife-thrusts of our loved ones. So she said nothing. Grow some balls, she should have said. Or: Go throw yourself off a cliff. Or even: I feel sorry for the next girl.

  Get the fuck out would have worked nicely too.

  21 / The Problem With Werewolves

  “‘Hey,’ said Shadow. ‘Huginn or Mununn, or whoever you are.’

  The bird turned, head tipped suspiciously on one side, and it stared at him with bright eyes.

  ‘Say Nevermore,’ said Shadow.

  ‘Fuck you,’ said the raven.”

  –Neil Gaiman, American Gods

  After Dominic left, Lexi tried to pay the bill. The other patrons had seen her crying. She felt humiliated. The worried-eyed waitress took one look at Lexi’s face and tried to give her a 20% discount. Lexi nearly threw the money on the floor in self-righteous fury.

  She needed to get drunk.

  Bar-hopping was a thing, she remembered. Something she hadn’t tried since freshman year, an adventure she’d promised herself to undertake again in the future, something she’d never done alone. Well. Lexi set off towards the louder, darker district of town, walking quickly. No time like the present.

  It didn’t go quite as she expected.

  The winking, for one thing, was ridiculous. It made her more and more uncomfortable, as if everyone was secretly jeering and saluting her with a wink that meant we know what you’ve been up to, you worthless minx. She raised her middle finger to their smiles. She downed vodkas and cocktails and stumbled through the crowds and the streets, occasionally stretching up to touch a star in the black ice cap of the sky, shaking her hand and blowing on her fingers when it burnt her.

  A couple of men followed her out of a club and she hailed a taxi, spending the remainder of her money to get as far away as the taxi-driver would take her. The man dropped her off a few blocks away. Lexi stumbled out and began to walk, chilled. She huddled into a payphone booth to escape the wind.

  The heat of the alcohol wore off so quickly.

  Her phone wasn’t in her pockets. Her purse—yes, ok, she had her purse. Her phone wasn’t in her purse either. She recalled something floating in some bar bathroom toilet.

  Yeah. That might have been it.

  Lexi thrust her hands back into her coat pockets, desperate. Her fingers brushed against something soft, papery. She fished a napkin out of her pocket. There were numbers on it. To add? To multiply? It took her a moment to remember.

  She found a quarter and dialed the number.

  . . .

  “Look, all I wanna know is why. Is a bad question?—Why?”

  “Excuse me? Who is this?”

  “It’s me. So I’m confused. No, no—I’m so confused.”

  “Lexi? Is that you? It’s 4 a.m.”

  “Always 4 a.m. somewhere, baby.” Lexi giggled and supported herself against the plastic booth until the world slowed its spinning. Her fingers tightened around the payphone. “I’ve always had a soft spot for werewolves…”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “No.” Lexi held the phone away from her face and hiccupped. She brought the receiver back to her mouth. “Imagine. Cursed with the empathy of a human and a dog.” She closed her eyes. “Sick, yeah?”

  “Lexi, where are you cal
ling me from?”

  She giggled again. “Unlisted.”

  “Are you okay? Where the hell is your boyfriend?”

  “Remember back to a time when you felt you were drowning? Disappointment or guilt… like it was cracking your windpipe… ya know? Don’t tell me you haven’t felt that, because I’m going to feel weird.” She hiccupped, this time forgetting to cover the receiver. “Okay—so that. That. Take that. And multiply that by ten. Or times infinity. Because werewolves live—I don’t know, a long time.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I like you.” Lexi tapped her finger against the phone. Well, like was an understatement. She literally loved this phone. A piece of plastic that listens and talks back, she mused. It’s like something out of a sci-fi movie. “You understand me. You don’t ask stupid questions.”

  “You were taking Dominic out for your birthday, right?” asked the phone. “Can I guess? Georgetown, at that restaurant you mentioned last week? Are you still there? I’m coming to get you.”

  Now it was getting a little weird. “How d’ you know so much?” Lexi asked the nosy phone. She heard running water at the other end of the line. Like someone was washing his face in the sink before work. But work wasn’t for hours. Why was that person getting ready? And why did the phone sound so worried?

  “Then they wonder why those guys go on a suicidal rampage every time they’ve got a nervous breakdown.” Lexi sighed. “Full moon my ass.”

  . . .

  By the time Zach found her huddled on a park bench, Lexi had sobered from the cold and was shivering like an abandoned wolf pup. When he crouched next to her, she threw up on his shoes. She smelled of vodka and vanilla.

  His car heater wasn’t working. Home was too far away. Zach tucked Lexi into the backseat and stripped off his clothes. He wrapped them both in a blanket that he’d thrown into the trunk of his car. His body radiated heat more quickly than anything else could. Lexi nuzzled against him, her shivering growing less violent.

  Zach held her until she fell asleep.

  22 / Pancakes & Pink Elephants

  “The average dog is a nicer person

  than the average person.”

  –Andy Rooney

  Lexi woke to the feeling of something soft pressed against her cheek. It smelled a bit musty, as if it wasn’t often used, with undertones of cotton and lavender. She opened her eyes to find herself on a creamy futon covered by a thick burgundy blanket. She didn’t recognize the earthy-hued walls peppered with paintings of the golden-grassed Italian countryside. She didn’t recognize the small bookcase in the room across from her, illuminated by the streaks of sun peeking through the window blinds. She sat up and didn’t recognize the long-sleeve gray shirt she wore—that she’d been dressed in—as a pajama top.

  But that, perched two feet away from her on a low coffee table, was definitely a mug of steaming coffee. And this was a plate of pancakes and next to it was a bottle of maple syrup. Over there were her clothes from last night, folded neatly at the foot of the futon. And here was a handwritten note posing as a napkin.

  Off to work but I’ll find an excuse to bail early–grab anything you need from the fridge and kick back. Towels for you in the bathroom. Stay hydrated. See you soon.

  Lexi flipped Zach’s note over on the table, shame scalding her blood and her cheeks, and scribbled thank you. She left the pancakes and towels untouched. She did drink the coffee.

  She dressed herself and called Khalil—one of the few numbers she remembered by heart—from Zach’s home phone. She asked her friend for a ride, no questions asked. He came and drove her home, no answers demanded.

  . . .

  The text message arrived two weeks later.

  Strange, given that she’d replaced her phone a few days after her birthday shenanigans. She informed her family, friends, and boss of the new number. Two people, naturally, remained uninformed. Avoiding Zach the Pancake Maker meant avoiding the Tzami; she did so. She avoided the hospital, too, partially to avoid Dominic and partially because she could not face her mother. Lexi felt she would be compelled to tell Anastasia what had happened—despite no one asking her to, despite the likelihood that no one would even be listening—and she wasn’t ready to do that.

  So she kept herself busy. Work and home and the occasional grocery run. She walled herself away from those whom she loved on the semblance of busyness.

  One snowy Saturday afternoon, minutes before the text message arrived, Lexi emerged from the shower, her tear-streaks erased by the water. She avoided the mirror in her apartment bathroom and toweled her hair, the long tresses coiling and clinging to her skin like slick black serpents. Yang howled along with the blow-dryer. When Lexi finished drying up, she made herself a cup of coffee and paced the floor between the radiator and the laptop. She finally took a deep breath and plopped herself into her chair in front of her desk. Procrastinating on life trumped procrastinating on work.

  Lexi took her time to drudge through a marshland of unread emails, shooting off answers as needed, the dull material and the dreadful numbers appearing all the more dull and dreadful through the haze of her headache. She’d never wanted this job, she realized. Her Pappou wanted her to want this job. Why did she always have to follow a path planned for her by other people?

  That thought, however unpleasant, was an excellent nuisance that helped her avoid other thoughts. It didn’t, though. The pink elephant barged into the room and started trumpeting so loud Lexi thought the ceiling might collapse. Memories erupted from its trunk. She snatched them up helplessly, holding them up to the light, studying their colors and pixels of pain.

  Here was one of how Zach had taken care of her. Like how he’d made her breakfast. A damn nice one, too.

  Don’t think about the pancakes.

  She had woken up in his cozy minimalist apartment. She had no recollection of how she’d gotten there. She had no notion of how he’d undressed her.

  Don’t think about the phone call.

  Vomiting on Zach’s shoes—now that she could remember. Deep down, below his layer of social courtesy, Zach should be glad she ghosted him. Why would he ever again want to see D.C.’s greatest laughingstock?

  Don’t think about the dinner.

  And vomiting earlier in the restaurant’s toilet bowl. A mess of regurgitated food and emotions. Who could forget such fun?

  Don’t think about Dominic.

  A guy you’d known for a year that felt like a lifetime, who came along and patched up all your holes and then ripped those patches away, tearing the seams, taking chunks of your flesh along with him.

  How is it possible to hate and miss someone at once? Does that make you as bipolar as the creature you yearn for?

  It was her fault, she knew, because she’d conformed. He’d told her to jump. Instead of walking away, she’d asked him how high. Like in her dream—the dream she’d had last night, of clouds and puppets and doors and decisions. She shook her head, willing the memory of the dream away.

  Inches from her hand, Lexi’s phone chirped.

  Part Four

  It was my fault, in part, because I conformed. He said: Jump.

  I asked: Shall I bark while I’m at it?

  I projected a vision to mirror the one I could see reflected in his eyes: the person I wasn’t, but who he wished me to become. My hair became a symphony of color orchestrated by his whim. I wore clothes he chose, frequented bars he preferred. Make-up stained my face because he wished it to, reddening my lips, unfurling along my eyelids, dripping onto my cheeks, blackening my eyes. It aged me. I began to adopt his mannerisms, the way he squinted, the stoic silences he thrust between us when upset, his us-against-the-world paranoia.

  A painted little pantomime.

  I remember how he slept beside me, like an embryo that hadn’t stretched itself out yet, clutching the pillow as if he would drift away in the moonlight if he let go. There was no mirror on the bedroom wall. I convinced myself that there was an imprint on the p
illow where his horns rested against the cotton. I convinced myself he no longer slept on his back so he would not crumple his wings. Oh, I used to think he hung the stars and the moon.

  I suppose if you’ve never seen the sun, a lamppost will suffice just as nicely.

  23 / Reflections

  “No one really ever

  gets used to nightmares.”

  –Mark Z. Danielewski

  The car sputtered, stalled, and died.

  It wasn’t rocket science; the light indicated she’d run out of gas. She jumped out of the driver’s seat, registering the empty seat next to her and the just-as-empty highway. In the distance, a mile or so away, a gas station’s sign glowed neon green. She rolled up her sleeves, braced her hands against the trunk of the car, and pushed. The car made it to the gas station.

  The station was as empty as the highway. She pushed the car near the nozzles, the emptiness of the station feeling inevitable, no stranger than the fact she had the superhuman strength to push the car a mile down the road. She straightened herself, hands on her back—not even a crick—and walked over to inspect her options. Trust, read one nozzle. Stubbornness, read another. Dependence, read the third and least expensive one.

  She bit her lip and tried to recall what she usually picked. The quality of the station didn’t inspire her to choose the cheaper options. She picked up the nozzle labeled Trust and attached it to the car. She pulled and held the trigger of the nozzle, watching the numbers add up quickly on the screen. Once her tank filled, the nozzle stopped emptying liquid with an audible click, and she placed the nozzle back in its cradle. She paid with the credit card in her pocket and made her way back to the driver’s seat.