Poison

by Dejana Vuletic

  Short, spiky black hair protruded from the back of his hat, spiked in every direction humanly possible. Beautifully sculpted muscles stuck out noticeably through his skinny jeans that hugged his legs in a seductive way that made my stomach flip over . . . I swallowed loudly as he strutted past, his hands still jammed in his pockets.

  Was this him? The new kid?

  He went into the uniform room, leaving me to stand completely awestruck beside Ms. Altera.

  “He’s . . .?” I prompted her, trying to bring back her last question. “What is he?”

  Ms. Altera looked at me for a moment before her memory kicked in.

  “Oh!” she gasped. “Yes. Dessa, he’s performing with you tonight.”

  “Oh, so he’s going to play, then?” I asked.

  Ms. Altera shook her head slowly. “Not quite, Dessa.”

  It only took a moment for my brain to shift into overdrive. He was performing with me . . . He was . . . Oh no . . .

  The young man came out of the uniform room, his hat still upon his head, his skinny jeans still on, but now he was holding a band uniform in his hands. But it wasn’t the normal blue uniform that all my friends—the members of the band—wore. It was snow white, with adornments of gold upon the shoulder cuffs. It was the Drum Major uniform.

  He was a Drum Major . . .

  He was my Drum Major . . . We were Drum Majors together . . . Weird.

  He set the uniform down on a random chair and turned to look at me. His eyes were still obscured by the hat, but they looked blue in the light. His black hair fell into his eyes as he began to take the cap off.

  “Hello,” he said in a strained voice. He walked up to me with what looked like ease, but his voice seemed to be shaking in either anxiety or uncertainty.

  “Hey there,” I said back. He offered his hand, using the left to move his hair from his eyes. “I’m . . .” I looked up from his hand into his eyes . . . his piercing, gun-metal blue eyes . . .

  He raised his eyebrows inquiringly. “You are . . .?” he prompted with a slight smile.

  “D-Dessa . . .” I stammered, shaking his hand. It felt strange, the pressure of his fingers as they clutched mine.

  “Pleasure,” he said cordially, tightening his grip. “I’m Christopher, but most people call me Chris.”

  “Ah,” I said, and my voice was now the one shaking. But mine wasn’t from anxiety or uncertainty. Mine was shaking from fear.

  How was it possible? Was this the man who had been in the shop earlier? Or perhaps that was this boy’s father? Impossible. What were the chances of that? Slim to none, I admitted glumly.

  I felt a sick desire to move closer to him, a disgusting lust for him that made no sense. It was making me sick.

  I pulled out of his handshake, looking up at the clock for a moment. Still another ten minutes until the rest had to be here.

  “So you’re the Drum Major here?” he asked, trying to make small talk.

  “Yep,” I answered, popping my lips in the “P.” “This is my second year.”

  “Really?” he asked. “Mine, too. I was Drum Major at my old school.”

  “Where’d you move from?” I asked.

  “Uh . . . Phoenix,” he answered. My eyebrows furrowed. So did his.

  “Oh,” I said stupidly. “Well that’s cool.” Wow . . . no wonder no guys ever talked to me. Look at how bad I was at making conversation.

  “Try not to feel too pressured with me here,” he said slowly. “I mean, this is your school, not mine; so I’m here as a co-Major.”

  “Thanks,” I said, turning my back on him. His eyebrows furrowed again as I spun on my heel toward the uniform room. I ran in quickly, grabbed my uniform, and literally darted back to the band doors. When I was sure he wasn’t looking, I did a U-turn, waiting cautiously at the top of the stairs to watch him.

  I stared after him as he went with his uniform, his eyes trained on the speckled carpet of the symphony stairs. He went up to the furthest of the lockers in the corner of the room, hanging his white uniform neatly over the chair beside him.

  He seemed aware that I was watching him; his eyes kept looking back toward the stairs—back at me—their metallic blue shine sending shivers down my spine. Who was this guy?

  I turned away from him with an effort as I walked down the stairs, taking the white jacket out of its garment bag as I went. It still smelled like the packet of Skittles I had jammed in them last week before the hour-long bus ride to our game. I laughed to myself nervously as I realized that this guy—Christopher, as he called himself—would be by my side from now on.

  As I was buttoning my uniform I saw him come back down from the locker, holding something delicately in his hand. I tried to tell myself that I didn’t care what he was holding, but I couldn’t ignore the sick pleasure in my stomach to touch his hand and unclench it.

  “Hey,” I said in recognition as he came to stand beside me. He nodded, but didn’t speak, instead keeping his strange eyes glued on mine. I wanted to look away, but again, that disgusting desire filled me. I continued to stare at him, and he at me, until Ms. Altera came back into the room.

  It took me a moment to notice that my hands were clenched in fists at my sides and his were laid out as if beckoning me.

  “Dessa, you’d better make sure the mace is packed for you,” Ms. Altera said as she passed by. “You should get Christopher his as well. He’ll need it.”

  I frowned at the double meaning in her words, but walked silently into my little Drum Major office. There, beside my cabinet full of music scores, was a staff wrapped in black linen.

  “You’ll need one,” I said stupidly, refusing to look at him as I picked up the staff and its brother from their leaning places on the wall.

  “I know,” he assented with a smile. That was the first time he had smiled . . . “You don’t have to be frightened of me, Dessa,” he said slowly, his eyes getting somehow brighter in the darkness of the room.

  “I’m not afraid,” I whispered, reaching out blindly for the ties on the staff. He was going to hurt me . . . This office was soundproof . . . No one would hear me scream . . .

  “Then why are you acting this way?” he asked puzzled, his eyebrows rising in confusion.

  “Like what?” I asked, finally grabbing the staff and unwrapping it slowly in the darkness. I caressed the metal neck, feeling it grasped securely in my hands. If he tried anything, I had a weapon.

  “You stare at me this way,” he answered, reaching out his hand. I wanted to move away, but the want for him to touch me was much stronger, overpowering my instincts to run. His hand touched mine and brought it up to his face, letting the warmth of my skin travel slowly into him.

  His cheek was cold, like ice at the touch, but eventually that cold melted away to be replaced with beautiful, everlasting warmth.

  “You’re afraid of me,” he said in a whisper, turning his head into the cup of my hand. I stood frozen, immobilized as he touched my palm to his cheek. “And I honestly don’t blame you for that.” I gazed into his eyes, my hand still frozen as he took it away from his cheek. He slipped something small into my hand from his, closing my fingers around it. They didn’t protest against him; almost as though they were paralyzed . . .

  I needed an explanation. I searched his face, delved deep into his eyes, but found nothing, only the eyes of a lost soul staring back at me.

  “What are you?” I asked slowly. My yearning to touch him was suddenly overpowered by a desire to get away.

  He smiled bleakly. “It’s better that you not know. It’s safer if—” He looked away from me, his eyes gazing sightlessly into the blackness.

  He gritted his teeth and turned away from me, and I backed away a step at what I saw. The beautiful blue glow of his eyes seemed to intensify and reach the wall, lighting up his entire figure in the shadow of his eyes.

  He didn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he took a deep breath and looked back at me, his eyes still glowing.

  “Chris
?” I asked, taking another step back.

  He smiled, closing his eyes. “Beautiful,” he murmured as though in a dream, his voice saturated with love and adoration. “Just beautiful. It’s really you . . .”

  I finally found the strength to move my fingers and opened them to find the most quizzical of objects resting in my palm.

  A tiny little chain made of silver rested there, and connected to the chain was a heart of pure silver. A locket . . .

  The little clasp on the side of the engraved heart opened at the slightest touch, revealing the beautiful inside. The entire interior of the miniature heart was made of quartz crystal.

  I looked up to see his reaction, but he wasn’t there.

  I undid the clasp for the locket and put it around my neck, letting the heart rest in the hollow of my throat.

  When I left the closet, the band room was more populated, and I saw several of my friends huddling in a silly little gossip circle in the middle of the floor. I looked around the room, my eyes searching for Chris, but found him nowhere.

  “You heard about him, didn’t you?” I heard the gaggle of girls whispering to one another as I walked toward them.

  “I heard he has the most beautiful eyes,” another said in a dreamy voice that made me want to vomit. A nasty feeling in my stomach twisted my perceptions of everything and I felt jealous as they spoke of him that way.

  I walked up to the girls quicker now.

  “What’re you guys even talking about?” I asked, buttoning one of the freshman’s uniforms as she struggled.

  “The new kid,” Amanda whispered slowly.

  “Chris,” I murmured in assent, pretending to not care.

  “You know him?!” Three of them asked all at once. I took an involuntary step backwards as they shouted at me. I almost ran into someone, but I saved myself by grabbing the railing leading to the uniform room.

  “Yeah, he’s your new Drum Major,” I said haughtily.

  “New Drum Major?” the freshman sighed. “Amazing . . .”

  The one named Amanda laughed. “I can’t believe it! The hot new kid already Drum Major? Ha!” She stalked away with her nose toward the ceiling.

  “How did you meet him already?” the freshman asked.

  “He came in just after I did,” I answered, my fingers touching the locket in the hollow of my throat. They all seemed to recognize my movement, and I felt the blood rush to my cheeks as their eyes all came to stare at me.

  “What’s that?” one of them asked.

  I shook my head. “It’s nothing . . . just a locket, that’s all,” I answered somewhat nervously.

  “Just a locket,” the freshman repeated quietly, a soft giggle penetrating from her lips. “From whom?”

  I didn’t have to answer her . . . I knew I didn’t have to answer her . . .

  My eyes moved to the stairs and there he was, descending slowly, his eyes trained on me. His hand trailed on the railing as he descended the stairwell, his spiked black hair shining in the light of the room. His gun-metal blue eyes found me immediately and examined my stance. I held the locket at my throat in my right hand, my fingers caressing it loyally, and my left hand was opened, palm-up at my side, pointing toward him.

  I met his gaze evenly for a moment, feeling the strangest connection to him, though I had known him for less than an hour. The look in his eyes—almost as though he was dead and my existence had awakened him— and the look in my eyes—almost as though my life was dying piece by piece and his existence had permanently stopped it from dying—mixed together so amazingly that it caused my heart to stop beating.

  The others just watched curiously as he walked up to me, his eyes not straying from mine. I moved my left hand to move it through my hair and at the movement, he smiled.

  “Guys,” I said awkwardly, motioning toward him, “This is Chris, your new Drum Major.”

  “Hey, Chris,” they all said in unison, their voices ranging from awe to undying devotion.

  “Pleasure to meet you all,” he said, finally letting his eyes leave mine. “You have lovely friends, Dessa.”

  “Um . . . thanks?” the uncertainty in my voice making my sentence into a question. He smiled again as my cheeks flamed with an emotion my mother once called “jealousy.”

  At his words, the young freshman blushed a shade redder than the sun in the morning and her eyelids fluttered with pleasure.

  “Are you all excited for tonight’s game?” he asked conversationally. He discreetly reached out his hand for mine and our fingers touched for less than a second, that horrible burning of the cold upon his fingertips.

  “Couldn’t be any more excited,” the young freshman babbled energetically, flipping her hair into my face. I coughed in annoyance and backed away a step, leaving Chris in the middle of them. His eyes shot a pleading glance at me, and I smiled wryly back.

  “Sorry,” I mouthed as I slithered away, the grin still upon my lips.

  I grabbed my staff from where it leaned against the wall beside the stairs. I busied myself by retying the cords of the mace, taking extra care to make it tight and secure. But all the while, I couldn’t keep my thoughts away from him. My mind raced back to the dark office and the beautiful glow of his eyes against the blackness, to the words he had said, and to the look on his face as he had said them . . .

  “Get moving, people!” I heard Ms. Altera scream in her usual the-game-is-less-than-a-half-hour-away-and-I-need-to-be-frustrated-because-I-have-nothing-better-to-do-to-pass-the-time voice. I stood still, leaning against the wall with my mace in my hands, practically using it as a crutch to keep my body upright under the immense pressure that had suddenly been put on my shoulders.

  “Are you feeling all right?” I heard him ask a moment later, his hands touching my hips in a protective way. I ignored his hands, focusing more on his eyes as they seemed to find the very depths of my soul.

  “I’m fine,” I said cautiously, taking my hands off the mace. He grabbed his adeptly and tossed it into the air, allowing it to spin gracefully in a figure-8 before catching it again. “Show-off,” I muttered as I followed him out to the parking lot.

  All the band members were playing the tuning notes rather obnoxiously, the saxophone players blowing so hard the noise that erupted sounded like a dying goose. I chuckled at the noise and led Chris to a little grassy spot beside the parking lot.

  “Do you know how to use one of these?” I asked caustically, twirling mine about with absolute finesse. I let the metal glide along my fingers and felt the cold touch of the staff against my palm as I threw it into the air. It came down right beside me, sharp point stuck into the grass.

  “Not too shabby,” he commented under his breath. “But I’m sure I can do better.”

  “I’d love to see you try,” I retorted. He smiled as I said this, beginning a slow rotation of the mace in his hands. Within a period of five seconds he had accelerated the mace to an alarming speed; my eyes crossed simply trying to follow the tassels of its cords around in a simple rotation.

  He set up his legs into a semi-crouch, and he kept waiting, waiting, waiting, and then threw it into the darkened sky. It flew with a whooshing sound and disappeared completely into the starless night.

  “Holy crap!” I breathed, completely taken aback.

  He chuckled. “I guess that means I won,” he said, and at that moment he put out his hands in front of him and the mace landed safely in his hold.

  “Amazing . . .” I murmured, so low that I thought he couldn’t hear. He chuckled after I had spoken, though, so I must not have spoken as quietly as I’d hoped. He held out his hand for mine.

  I stared at it for a second, but shook his hand firmly.

  “We’ll work together out there,” I said with a smile.

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said just as boldly, his fingers now warm as they held mine. I heard several wolf whistles from the saxophones and trumpets.

  I scoffed in annoyance and he released his hold on my
hand. He grabbed my mace from the ground and tossed it carelessly to me.

  “You ready?” I asked as he took his position in the parade block.

  “As ready as you are,” he retorted almost silently. He pulled out his whistle from around his neck and put the metal tip into his mouth somewhat seductively. I swallowed hard, looking away from him to the other members of the band.

  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t keep my eyes away from him.

  He occupied every corner of my mind and soul, took over me as though I had no mind of my own anymore . . . Why had his coming here suddenly filled me with a sensation of desperate helplessness? Why had his arrival at this school suddenly set off an emotion in me that I didn’t want to come to grips with?

  Something more was going on here . . .

  What were the odds that Chris was a completely different person than the man I had met in the coffee shop, with his attitude of smugness and ease? What were the odds that he would know where to find me? Who was he? What did he want?

  I had so many questions, but I was afraid to ask him for the answers. He called the band to attention and I snapped myself to the position at his command. I scowled at myself, but ignored his smug reaction, returning my mind to my countless questions.

  As we started to march toward the field, I continued to shoot glances at him out of the corner of my eye. He marched flawlessly, as though he had an eternity of skill behind him, and I noticed that his eyes were bright again . . .

  The sun was setting now, covering the earth in one last blanket of warmth before the cold of the night swept over.

  We reached the field, and were greeted by all our peers in the student section, cheering and screaming the names of their closest friends in the band. I only heard my name coming from one person, and it came from my best friend through thick and thin: Pa.

  Her given name was Paola, and she had moved from Brazil to live in our neighborhood with her fiancé. She was 21—in the prime of her life—and spent most of her time with me and Ricky. I loved Pa to death, and Ricky seemed to like her a lot, too.