Callida walks up the grimy stairs to the entrance of her school building. The headmistress nods at her from the front desk, as Callida turns to walk down the hall to English class. Most students despise learning a different language, but Callida smiles as she sees the familiar archway.
To her ever-moving mind, always hungry for a challenge, learning a language is a tasteful diversion. She pauses for a moment to look out of the large window to the right of the arch. Someone has left it open and the muggy morning breeze floats in, ruffling her hair.
Outside, she sees the two lone trees that decorate the school front. Is that a glint of silver in the leaves? She leans forward out the window for a closer look. Even her discerning eyes cannot pick out anything. She shakes her head and saunters towards the classroom. She, therefore, doesn't notice two faint figures wrestling in the tree branches.
“See, Sorem! This is what happens when I let you do the camouflage!”
“Oh, be quiet, Demetri. We’re supposed to be listening, remember?”
***
Callida manages to file in just as attendance call is taking place and hurriedly takes a seat at the front of the room.
“Ah, Ms. Interlengi, thank you for deciding to grace us with your presence,” her teacher says sharply. Snickers erupt throughout the room. “Silence everyone. I have your ‘self-reflection’ essays to hand back now.”
“Don’t bother giving Callida hers,” a voice from the back of the room calls. “We all know she got a perfect score.” Everyone crows with laughter.
“Why can’t you just call it an A+?” Denise Lowman says from the back of the room. Denise Lowman, the American exchange student, is easily confused by all things Italian, not to mention she despises Callida.
Callida stares forward at the blackboard and says nothing. Talking always makes you more vulnerable. As it turns out, Callida did get a thirty, which does nothing to improve Denise’s mood. Denise’s sneers are reflected in the window, but Callida pretends not to notice.
“Alright, everyone pair up! We’re going to practice our conversational skills, basic greetings from page three four eight please.” There is a collective aura of dread, but no one says anything. “Callida, why don’t you pair up with Denise?”
Well, this is going to be a long class, Callida thinks as Mrs. Adami continues to rattle off a list of pairings. Callida attempts a half-hearted smile as Denise walks up to the front. There is only poison and jealousy in the approaching face. Pity she doesn’t wear green eye shadow; it would complement her envy nicely. Callida sniggers at the thought.
“What’s so funny, know it all?” Denise asks in her usual snotty fashion. She leans against a desk lazily, her eyes rolling. As if controlled by an unseen puppet master, the desk slides left, taking Denise with it and sending her crashing to the floor.
“Shall we get started, Denise?” Callida says sweetly. “If you can’t handle some very difficult Inglese in the morning, I completely understand.” Denise scrambles to pull herself upright, her shirt now wrinkled. There is still anger in her eyes, but she nods realizing the fight is already over.
***
“Hello, what is your name?”
“Denise Lowman.”
“Nice to meet you, Denise. My name is Callida Interlengi.”
***
Callida practically leaps out of her seat when the bell rings. Even the thought of having art history next is not enough to dissuade her from rushing out the door. Denise had maintained a semblance of decorum throughout the lesson but continually harped on Callida for making mistakes. In America, we wouldn’t say it like that. In America, in America, in America. The fact that no one cares never seems to faze Denise, so Callida doesn’t mention it.
The familiar intoxicating, yet disgusting smell of paint and musty old canvases permeates the air as she enters the art room. Masterful prints line the walls, and the windows are covered in a haze of dust. Canvases are at each table, along with some buckets of white goo and some chalky red material. Callida observes the scene with surprise. Despite being an art class, very little art was created in Art History.
“Good morning, class!”
“Good morning, Ms. Dinapoli.”
“Today we’re going to do a hands-on activity as we continue to delve further into the ancient art of fresco painting. If you remember from last week, a pigment called sinopia was used to outline the design before the painting. My hope is that you can all complete a sinopia drawing by the end of this period and that we can move on to discussing egg tempura, next class. You have two hours, now go!”
The room buzzes with energy as students rush to their seats, eager to get started now that the class is actually interesting. Callida has a steady hand and, before long, her drawing is well on its way.
“You don’t want to mess with Callida.”
Her ears prick up as she hears her name from far across the room, in a conversation that is not her own.
“Come on, Antonio, get a grip. I distinctly remember seeing Callida cheating on that last test. How else do you think she gets such high scores?”
Callida doesn’t even have to turn her head to know who’s talking. Denise Lowman.
“Callida wouldn’t do that! Everyone else accepts that Callida’s probably the smartest person in this school, why can’t you move past that?”
Denise doesn’t answer and storms off. How typical.
A while later, Ms. Dinapoli begins speaking. “Now if you could all draw your attention up here for a moment, I’d like to show you how a canvas would look if you started painting.” She points to a dark easel with a large canvas on it.
“This is a replicatory work I’m doing for a renowned private collector,” the teacher says with only a hint of pride in her voice. The class pretends to look interested as Ms. Dinapoli displays her canvas. “Also, I would like to point out that this lovely beginning of a fresco painting was done by Ms. Lowman here. Notice the fine detail in the petal structure of the bunch of lilies.”
“Excuse me, miss, but aren’t we supposed to do our drawings first?” one of the boys asks.
“That’s correct, Bianca, but I wanted to show you since Denise has already started painting hers.” All eyes swivel towards Denise as she leans against a counter, a smug grin on her face.
“See, everyone, this is proof that Callida isn’t the best at everything!” Denise declares, clearly enjoying degrading her classmate.
“Now everyone, back to work please,” Ms. Dinapoli urges. She shoots Denise a reprimanding glare, but Denise skips along, not even looking in her direction. As usual, Denise's “victory” over Callida doesn't last long.
“Hey, Callida,” Antonio calls, “could you help with drawing a tree? I keep messing up the outline, and yours look really good.”
“Oh sure, no problem.”
Denise’s cheery grin soon turns sour as many other students line up at “Callida’s Tree Shop.” Even Ms. Dinapoli comes over to see what all the fuss is about. Sensing her opportunity, Denise heads over to the high paint shelf near the example canvas. As soon as the deed is done, she quietly slips back into her seat, smiling darkly. It will take a while for people to notice; they’re all so busy paying attention to Callida, but eventually they’ll all see it.
As Ms. Dinapoli walks back to her desk, she notices some dribbles of paint on the floor. Muttering about irresponsible students, she continues over to her desk where she notices more red paint. Her eyes widen in horror as she turns to face her easel, currently dripping a vibrant sludge. “My canvas!” she cries. “It’s ruined!” Her mouth opens and closes in disbelief a few times before she clamps her hand over it. “Which one of you is responsible?” She glares around the room, her hand now in a fist and her jaw clenching.
“It was Callida,” Denise says smoothly. A vein nearly pops out of Ms. Dinapoli’s neck as she turns to look at Callida. “I saw her.”
“Really?” Callida asks, sighing as if talking to a particularly unreasonable two year old. I
was sitting in my seat, drawing, with everyone watching me,” Callida replies flatly, “like I’ve been doing this entire class.”
“Then what were you doing right after Ms. Dinopoli showed her canvas to everyone? Loitering next to the teacher’s desk maybe?” Callida can’t honestly remember what she was doing right that second and just squints in irritation.
“I know it's you,” Denise says. “Don't try to weasel out of it.” She tosses her hair back in a huff. “You know, the way you do everything.” The class turns to look at Callida, wondering how she will react. "Did you all think she got all those good grades by being honest?"
Callida begins to laugh coldly. “Oh, Denise, what did you just say?” Faces around the room wrinkle with confusion. “Were you trying to insult me?” she inquires, standing up. Whispers bounce around the room as they all watch Callida, waiting for what she will say next. “Sorry, sweetie, but that only works if I care about your opinion. I do appreciate the effort though!” The look on Callida’s face is sincere, but her eyes sparkle with mirth. She curtseys and gives Denise a double thumbs up before moving to sit down again.
“I know it’s you!” Denise shrieks. “There’s even red paint on her chin, look!” All eyes follow her pointing finger to Callida’s face. Callida’s eyes flare brighter for a moment, like dying embers, but it’s only a passing phenomenon.
“On the contrary, Denise,” Callida says coolly. “It seems like you have some paint on your face.” Callida turns around and goes back to her seat.
Denise has a look of scandalized confusion on her face; her lips are twisted in a sneer, and her cheeks a ghostly white. “Where? Where is the paint? Know it all.” Denise asks, patting her cheeks in an over-exaggerated fashion.
Her snide remarks are soon drowned out by terrified screaming. One by one, like synchronized divers, cans of paint descend from a high shelf to make a satisfying splat as they spill and cover Denise in iridescent ooze. Shocked and amused faces alike turn slowly from Callida, sitting quietly at her work, to Denise, the new rainbow fairy. Callida lifts her head slowly.
“Do you still need help finding the paint on you?” Callida asks, her eyes glowing with innocence. “Your left shoulder seems to be coated with red paint, so don't look at me.” Denise growls and clomps back to her seat, leaving a trail of various hues as she goes.
Ms. Dinapoli is nowhere near regaining her composure and is running her hands through her hair over and over again. “Just go back to work,” she mumbles as she begins shaking and wondering if she had too many painkillers this morning. Everyone else stays rooted to the ground where they stand, any thoughts of productivity gone out the window.
One girl stares at the canvas with mistrust. A boy closes his eyes, trying to pretend it's not there, while his friend appears to be praying. Callida herself is silent, desperate to hide her own shock. I just visualized it, and it happened! What’s going on? Callida looks from her hands to the remains of the painting a few times, but still can’t comprehend what has just happened.
***
“Oh, she’s so powerful. She’s definitely one of them!” Sorem whispers to a disgruntled Demetri.
“Quiet, you don’t want her to hear you! Besides, we already know where the first ones are—
“We’ll get her later.”
“Alright, alright, can we at least get out of this air vent? Your elbow has been in my face for the past half hour.”
6
realizing that graveyard sitting is not a family friendly activity
A cool breeze blows as the fading sunlight arcs over the gravestones. Mortas walks slowly to the family plot, savoring the fresh, earthy smell of the night air. Only the sound of crunching grass can be heard. All else is silent.
Most graves have dead branches or moss on them. Some have even eroded enough that the epitaphs are illegible. But three graves remain pristine. Mortas heads over to them and brushes off the dead honeysuckle flowers. She cleans away the old bouquets and replaces them with fresh ones. She leans over the nearest gravestone and moves her hand over the scrollwork.
***
“Mortas, there was nothing you could do,” her father says as the pallbearers walk past. “Do you hear me, Mortas? It’s not your fault.”
No, it’s yours, she thinks. Mortas runs from his side to the front of the throng, clutching the folds of her black dress. Her father calls after her, but she is already lost in the crowd. Mortas watches as the coffin is lowered into the ground, a film of tears glistening on her face.
“Today we commit our sister, Lalia, to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless her and keep her, the Lord make his face to shine upon her and be gracious unto her, the Lord lift up her countenance upon her and give her peace. Amen.”
***
Mortas shivers involuntarily despite the warm night. She brushes the rough denim of her jeans to reassure herself. No black dress. She turns back to the grave. “Mama? Mama, can you hear me? Something amazing happened today ….”
Mortas tells her mother all about the World Studies Scholarship she won at school, her voice bubbling with excitement. “And my friend Ferula is coming too. You remember him don’t you? His family always hosts the school fundraiser.”
As the sky begins to dim, Mortas grows more animated. “And we’re going to visit all sorts of places around the world! I know we’re going to visit China, and Russia, and I think Turkey, and maybe even France! I know how much you love French food!”
Mortas stops abruptly, and a frown flits across her face. “The thing is, I’ll be gone for a month. I won’t be able to visit you, or Granny Taylor, or Firefly. Mama, I’m gonna miss you. I mean more than I do already.” Her eyes brim with water and tears begin to drip down her cheeks.
***
The hospital room smells like Clorox and suffering. Mortas sits by the bed, holding her mother’s hand. “Mama don’t go, don’t give up!”
A sweet smile masks the pain. A weak hand caresses her face and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I will always be with you, Mortas. Never forget that.”
The funeral was last week, and Mortas sees another coffin sink beneath the earth. The hospital never told her the official diagnosis and Mortas never believed they couldn't have saved her.
***
Mortas wipes her cheeks, flicking the salty water away. “Mama, I hope what you said is true. I hope you stay with me.” Mortas gets up and turns to speak to her grandmother. She had seen some Star Thistle Honey in the market, which was always Granny Taylor’s favorite. She places a vial of honey at the top of the stone. “Hi Granny, it’s been a while. I wanted to thank you.”
***
The days after the funeral were the worst, the reading of the will to be specific. Everyone was expecting to get a share of Granny's money. When most of her money went to helping Mortas with her education, chaos ensued. Mortas just sat silently; Granny was genuine, not like the others, and Mortas was honoring that memory.
***
“Granny, thank you for the money. If it hadn't been for you, I might not have even gotten to qualify for the World Studies Scholarship. It paid off, no pun intended.” Mortas laughs in spite of herself. She remembers Granny's laugh—a warm, throaty chuckle, sure to draw attention from onlookers. Mortas smiles at the thought. Granny was always so full of life. Was. She stiffens at the thought. After making sure the honey won’t tip over, she moves to the third grave.
“Firefly, girl, how’ve you been? Got plenty squirrels of chase now? You don’t have to be careful anymore.”
***
It happened in the early hours of the morning. That’s what the officers told us. Firefly wouldn’t have felt a thing. It was quick and painless. That did nothing to stop ice fingers tracing up her spine and threatening to spread through her whole body. Her once lively dog was a crumpled heap of bloody fur. Firefly flies no more.
***
“Here’s some jerky, girl. I got it from the store this morning. You can
have the whole bag. You don't have to nose around the pantry anymore.” Mortas recalls the many times she spent cleaning up ripped-open bags of dog food. “I gotta go, girl. I won't be able to come back for a while. Be a good girl for Mama and Granny.” Mortas pats the gravestone affectionately, as if petting her dog once more. She blows Mama and Granny goodnight kisses and begins to walk, brushing dried grass from her calves.
“That black dress is so grown up, Mortas! Where did you get it?”
“Granny Taylor gave it to me.”
The pallbearers begin to file past. They carry a large oaken coffin.
Granny was the hardest. She was the first. After she had died, all the funerals began to blend together. She could barely pick out faces in the throng. Sometimes it was only her, only Mortas sitting by three fresh graves.
She sees a familiar beam of light that breaks her out of her reverie. She waves to Richard as she makes her way to the gate. Richard has been the graveyard keeper for as long as she can remember. It was him, not her father, who helped her through her first visit. It was Richard who kept the gate unlocked for her at night. Richard waves back, his eyes full of pity.
Mortas exits the graveyard and walks down the gravel path. On a funeral day, one can hear the clicks of hundreds of pairs of high heels but, on most days, the path is silent. Only a few people make the gravel scatter as they pass beneath the rusted gate.
Ferula is waiting for her, leaning against the hood of his car.
“You ready to go?” he asks.
“Yeah, thanks again. Most people don’t want to take the time.” Namely a certain father who stays up crunching numbers and can’t even be bothered to make dinner.
“No problem,” he says, opening the car door for her. She buckles up as he enters from the other side. Ferula hits the gas, and they speed off into the night.
7
disappointing your parents with tequila and bad decisions
Ámpelos is wasted. Ámpelos is very wasted. That much is obvious from his stumbling. He doesn't even make an effort to open the door quietly, his keys jangling as he swings the door open. As a fleeting afterthought, he decides to tiptoe up the stairs. See? I’m being careful, Ámpelos muses to himself.
The Rise of the Fourteen Page 5
