“I’ve been playing around with makeup. And fashion,” Naomi added sheepishly. “Do you want a makeover?”
Holland almost laughed in Naomi’s face. But Naomi looked so serious, she respectfully held back her giggles. She’d known Naomi since third grade and Naomi was a science geek. In all their years of friendship, Holland had never known Naomi to even mention makeup.
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Naomi encouraged.
Merely humoring her, Holland followed Naomi through the family room and up the stairs. Moments later, Naomi pulled a plastic container from under her bed.
Holland was stunned when Naomi popped the lid, revealing a huge assortment of makeup and beauty products. “What are you doing with all this stuff?”
“I’ve been thinking . . . like . . . instead of college, I might go to a beauty school. A career as a makeup artist would be hot. I could work with celebrities. Work on movie sets and TV shows.”
“What happened to being a microbiologist?”
Naomi shrugged. “Changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“My parents had to take out a second mortgage on the house to pay tuition to private school. They may not be able to afford college.”
“You’re like a genius . . . you’ll get a scholarship.”
“I hope.”
With her grades, Naomi would definitely get a full scholarship. She had to know that. Figuring that Naomi was secretly experimenting with makeup to revamp her look before starting the new school, Holland tactfully dropped the subject.
Oddly, as close and Naomi and Holland were, they’d never discussed Naomi’s innermost feelings about being bullied.
Back in ninth grade, Holland had watched in horror from her lunch table as mean girl, Chaela Vasquez, pretended to accidentally spill chocolate milk on Naomi’s white sweater. The laughter in the school cafeteria was raucous and deafening. While chocolate milk saturated her sweater and drizzled down her beige skirt, Naomi continued filling her lunch tray as if nothing had happened.
Amidst spiteful boos and catcalls, Naomi was expressionless as she crossed the cafeteria and then joined Holland at the lunch table they shared, acting as though nothing had happened.
“Naomi, don’t you think you should report Chaela to the principal?” Holland had whispered.
“No, I’m fine,” Naomi had said in a disturbingly calm voice.
“I have a hoodie in my locker,” Holland persisted, staring in horror at the brown stains on her friend’s sweater.
“I don’t want your hoodie,” Naomi said sharply.
Naomi had gone throughout the rest of the day wearing that soiled sweater—like a martyr. Kids made fun of her, saying that her sweater was covered with poop stains. Someone started a rumor that Naomi had had a diarrhea explosion during lunch. It was a God-awful day.
And that’s when Naomi had first put up the wall of silence. That’s when the two friends had begun their unspoken agreement not to discuss what was happening to Naomi.
Toward the end of tenth grade, Holland decided that Naomi needed an intervention. Naomi’s way of handling being bullied clearly hadn’t been working. She acted aloof and above it all, but deep inside, she had to be hurting. Finally breaking her silence, Holland told Phoebe about Naomi’s troubles.
Holland had expected her mom to have a secret meeting with the school counselor or Naomi’s parents, but of course, Phoebe had another idea. She worked a spell of protection for Naomi. She burned white candles and spoke some mumble jumble, explaining later that she had surrounded Naomi in peaceful white light. Holland’s mother had been certain that Chaela and the mean girls wouldn’t bother Naomi anymore.
Soon after the spell was cast, Naomi announced that she was transferring to a new school. Merely a coincidence, Holland had told herself.
With Naomi off to a new school, Holland wouldn’t have a friend in a world. Naomi brushed an assortment of colors on Holland’s eyelids; Holland’s mind was filling up with fearful thoughts. Psychoanalyzing herself, she was forced to admit that a part of her feared that Naomi’s departure at school would put a target on her back.
She cringed at the thought of getting picked on every day. In retrospect, languishing on the D list wasn’t so bad. Obscurity was preferable to being ridiculed and scorned on a daily basis.
Naomi snapped Holland out of her reverie. “Open your eyes,” she said, and held out a hand mirror.
Braced for a frightening clown face, Holland hesitantly opened her eyes. “Is that really me! Oh, my God! I don’t even recognize myself,” she said in an awestruck voice.
Naomi smiled at her handiwork.
“How’d you learn to do this? It’s perfect. Like makeup artistry.”
“YouTube videos,” Naomi said, matter-of-fact. “Ready for your nails?”
Unable to tear her eyes away from the mirror, Holland nodded. “I had no idea that makeup could change my whole identity. I’m like . . . really pretty,” Holland blurted.
“Yeah, makeup does wonders,” Naomi replied. She sorted through bottles of nail polish. “What color? Pewter or dark chocolate?”
Holland glanced away from her reflection long enough to look at the nail polish, and selected pewter.
With her lips pinched in concentration, Naomi painted Holland’s nails. After she finished, she added some fancy, black squiggly lines in the middle of each nail.
Holland was impressed. “Wow! What’s come over you, Naomi? How do you suddenly know all these beauty tricks?”
“Fashion magazines and how-to videos.” Naomi finished the manicure with a clear topcoat, and then clicked on a small fan.
Cautious not to smudge her nails, Holland held her hands in front of the fan. “Wouldn’t it be fabulous if you and I went on a double date with Jarrett and one of his teammates?”
“That’ll never happen, Holland. At least not in this lifetime,” Naomi said solemnly.
“Why not? I heard that Jarrett and Chaela Vasquez broke up.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“I snooped on his Facebook page. He changed his status to single.”
“Jarrett and Chaela are always breaking up. Don’t get your hopes up, Holland.”
“But Chaela has a new boyfriend. She has a new profile pic of her and a boy, Willow Hill. ”
“I guess anything’s possible,” Naomi conceded. “You and Jarrett would make a cute couple.”
“And what about you and one of his friends? We could double date . . . wouldn’t that be fun, Naomi?”
“Even if I got asked out on a date, which is highly unlikely, my parents wouldn’t allow it. You know how they are. I can’t date until I’m eighteen.”
Holland gave a solemn head nod. Naomi’s parents were super strict.
“Let’s do something about those jeans,” Naomi said, changing the subject.
“What do you mean?” Holland asked skeptically.
Naomi held up a razor. “Let’s give your jeans a more current look.”
Holland frowned. “These are my fave jeans. They’re really comfortable—nice and worn in the knees.”
“Holland, your wardrobe is tired; it needs a remix. I can jazz up those jeans with a few rips and some pulled threads.”
“Okaaay!” Holland said with a sigh, and then stood perfectly still while Naomi made stylish slashes in the front of her faded jeans.
CHAPTER 3
The hunger intensified with the darkening sky. Jonas immediately imagined a steaming bowl of lambi a la Creole, but instead of salivating at the thought of such a delicious meal, he felt nauseous. Unfortunately, none of his favorite dishes could satisfy this new hunger.
He heard footsteps in the distance. His heightened sense of hearing was a painful reminder of what he’d become. Undead. Yes, that was the term. Undead . . . trapped between life and death.
Jonas sifted through the rubble of his memory and recalled the elaborate ceremony that had taken place before the boat’s departure. The ceremony honoring Met Agwe
(the god of the sea) was tradition among some Haitian people; it guaranteed that all passengers on the boat would arrive at the destination safely.
Glorious weather promised a peaceful journey. Everyone was smiling and happy. And though a few people were dressed in casual, everyday clothes, most were wearing their Sunday best.
People were crammed together. Some were seated on a hard, wooden bench. Others sat on overturned buckets, crates—any available spot. Most of the passengers used their knapsacks for a cushion and were packed together on the floor of the boat. Feeling optimistic, the passengers kicked off their shoes, making themselves as comfortable as possible for the eight hundred-mile journey.
After a few hours at sea, the sky suddenly darkened. Howling winds and mountainous waves warned that an unforeseen storm was brewing. In the midst of a raging sea, the man-made boat became rocky and unstable.
“Met Agwe must be fed,” the captain shouted frantically.
Jonas wrinkled his forehead in confusion and turned toward an older man sitting next to him. Dressed comfortably in an old blue T-shirt, embossed with the cracked and faded Pepsi logo, the man had seemed to be a cheerful type, with his mouth turned up into a perpetual smile. But now his lips were sloped downward as he peered at Jonas through world-weary eyes.
“A human sacrifice has to be made,” the man explained grimly.
“I don’t understand.”
“Captain Henri will choose someone. After the sea is fed, our journey will be much smoother.”
Jonas scowled. “Does the captain intend to throw someone into the water?”
The man nodded solemnly.
“You can’t be serious; you’re making a joke,” Jonas said in disbelief.
“I’m very serious. Lower your voice,” he whispered sternly. Not wanting to draw attention to himself, the man didn’t allow his eyes to wander. Looking down, he concentrated on the leathery hands that were clasped upon his lap.
Jonas followed suit, dropping his gaze and folding his own hands.
Captain Henri paced slowly, the heels of his boots clacking against the wooden floorboard. A rotund man with scarred, pockmarked skin, the captain’s narrowed eyes roved ominously over the shuddering passengers as he assessed the various choices.
Acting as guards, the captain’s two-man crew stood at the ready, prepared to seize the misfortunate person that the captain selected.
As the vessel rocked unsteadily in the turbulent Caribbean water, a chorus of weeping and moaning erupted in the crowded boat, as no one wanted to be cast into the dark, shark-infested water.
“Quiet down! This boat will capsize and sink if we don’t feed Met Agwe!” Captain Henri shouted impatiently. He then pointed to a woman that was wearing a red straw hat and a red dress with white lace around the neckline and the hem.
The woman’s eyes became wide with alarm. Recoiling, she frowned and shook her head rapidly.
Among the passengers, tongues clicked in sympathy for the unlucky woman.
“What a pity,” a few people murmured.
“It is a shame, but the sea must be fed,” others rationalized.
Jonas made eye contact with the man wearing the Pepsi shirt. “This is outrageous. We can’t allow that woman to be thrown off the boat,” Jonas said in an astonished voice that beseeched his new friend to join him in coming to the woman’s aid.
With a dark, sun-weathered hand that resembled worn leather, the man gave Jonas a comforting pat on his shoulder. “There’s nothing we can do. It’s out of our hands, son.” He then made a hasty sign of the cross, and lowered his head as if in prayer.
Using a soft, cajoling tone, Captain Henri spoke to the unfortunate woman. “I’m a reasonable person, and I have to be fair. All these people have paid the price for a seat on my boat,” he said, waving a thick hand through the air. “But you have not paid one dollar.”
She cursed and insulted Captain Henri in rapid patois. Shouting in outrage, she sprang to her feet so quickly, her straw hat was knocked askew. “You made private arrangements with me,” she cried out, her eyes filled with fiery anger. “You told me that I could pay after I find work in America.”
The murmurings from the crowd took on a less sympathetic tone upon realizing that the woman who was to be sacrificed had not paid her fare. Looking upon the woman with self-righteous indignation, some spoke of the hardships that they had endured to pay for the voyage. Others disclosed that their families would be harassed by the lenders they’d borrowed from if they didn’t get to America and earn enough money to pay back the loan.
In a lulling voice, Captain Henri appealed to the woman’s sense of reason. “You must understand, this boat will sink if Met Agwe is not fed. I’m sorry; I have no choice. Come now . . .” He reached out his hand, as if expecting the woman to comply in quiet resignation.
“No!” she bellowed. “You can’t do this to me! I don’t want to die! Someone, help me!”
Captain Henri mopped his sweat-drenched brow and then beckoned his henchmen. Both men were odd sorts. One had a long, scraggly beard; the other wore a patch over his right eye.
Though it took all of his resolve not to defend a helpless woman, Jonas feared he’d be expected to exchange places with the ill-fated woman if he spoke up for her or attempted to come to her aid.
Filled with shame, Jonas turned a deaf ear to the woman’s desperate plea and briefly closed his eyes. Then, stealing a guilty glance at the melee that was unfolding, Jonas witnessed the guards taking hold of the struggling woman. Two men roughly grabbed her by each arm.
Boring her eyes into Jonas’s, the woman pleaded. “Help me.”
Jonas looked away from her and focused on his bare feet.
“Coward,” the woman shouted, drawing Jonas’s gaze away from his feet to her angry face.
Forgive me. With an apologetic expression, Jonas looked the doomed woman in the eye.
She sneered at him, twisting her lips in hatred. Then, quick as a snake, she stuck her hand inside the satchel that was slung over her shoulder.
Assuming that she was reaching for a pistol, Jonas and the other terrified passengers ducked for cover. But instead of being riddled with gunshots, the travelers that were within the woman’s reach were sprinkled with a grainy, white powder.
Screaming out a bitter incantation in rapid-fire, patois, the woman shook out the contents of her satchel, vengefully hexing the boat before the guards cast her into the abyss of the raging water.
Before settling on the floor of the boat, the mysterious powder swirled about through the air, causing a cacophony of choking and gasping among the passengers.
Blood trickled from the noses of those that had inhaled the powder. One by one, people were slumping over—gagging and vomiting before succumbing to death.
The captain demanded that the dead be removed immediately. “They’re bewitched! Throw them overboard before they wake up!”
Jonas had heard tales of the undead, but had always considered it Haitian legend. He’d never personally encountered anyone that had been awakened by magic, and didn’t believe it possible for someone to return from the dead.
For a brief moment, Jonas was frozen in his seat—immobilized by the ensuing chaos that surrounded him. The man in the Pepsi shirt elbowed Jonas. “Gather yourself together, son; you have to pitch in.”
“I can’t.” Jonas shuddered at the thought of feeding people to the sharks.
“My name is Emille. I’m your friend,” the man said. “As a friend, I must inform you that you will be thrown into the water as the second live offering if you don’t do what Captain Henri demands.”
Jonas obediently jumped to his feet and began pitching in.
Women wailed and lamented as Jonas and the other male survivors shouldered the grim responsibility of burying the dead at sea. Tracking barefoot through the poisonous powder, Jonas dutifully assisted in picking up dead bodies and tossing them to the sharks.
Jonas and the other men worked without pause for what see
med like hours. It was a gruesome task. Flinging human beings into the sea was the most despicable act of his young life. When his work was finally over, Jonas walked numbly to his seat.
Twenty-nine passengers had dwindled down to thirteen. Depressed, confused, and ashamed, Jonas buried his face in his hands and discreetly wiped moisture from his eyes.
His tears stopped falling when he became distracted by a burning sensation on the soles of his feet. He pulled a foot upon his thigh, bent over and examined the bottom of his right foot. He scowled at the strange markings that had formed. His left foot bore identical marks.
Jonas looked around the boat and noticed other men and women frowning in bewilderment as they inspected the bottoms of their feet. All those that had the misfortune of being barefoot bore mysterious scars.
Captain Henri and his cronies were all wearing boots and were unscathed by the poisonous powder.
“Why are we marked like this?” Jonas queried Emille, speaking in a hushed voice.
“Don’t let the captain find out,” the man cautioned. “Put your shoes on. When you arrive in America, tell your family that you need to see a doctor. American medicine is very powerful.” He patted Jonas’s hand. “Everything will be all right, son.”
But everything had not been all right.
Slumping miserably against a tree trunk, Jonas groaned at the recollection of the ordeal on the boat. Ravenous hunger demanded that he let go of painful memories, gather his wits and hunt for supper.
But clawing and killing was vile, a behavior that was more animal than human. Yet, he was neither. He was a cursed soul. An evil abomination.
His senses, reflexes, and strength had been sharpened beyond reason. Sounds that should have been inaudible were disturbingly noisy. He could hear everything . . . insects crawling; even the soft slither of worms produced an audible sound.
Sniffing the air, an inestimable mixture of smells swirled about. Breathing in and out, Jonas found that when he concentrated, he was able to differentiate between plant life, insects, birds, and beasts. Flaring his nostrils, he inhaled and recognized the smell of a raccoon. Following the scent, Jonas’s dark brown eyes zoomed in on the animal, which was approximately fifteen yards away and contentedly feasting.
Midnight Cravings Page 2
