Wing’s trembling took possession of her entire body, and she convulsed, rippling, each muscle in turn shuddering.
Wing held her hands up to the blue sky outside the glass pyramid, and seemed to wait for some answer. Then slowly Wing walked away, elegantly, like a one-person procession. She stood on the top step of the escalator and was borne down like a queen on a palanquin.
Hesta said nervously, “Dove?”
“I’m not Dove,” said Wing softly. She pressed her palms together, and held them upward, as if offering a sacrifice. Her body continued to ripple and quake, like a robot whose bolts were coming apart.
Through the glitter of the sun in her eyes, Dove saw fear on the shoppers’ faces. Who was this girl dressed in black, body quivering like a volcano ready to explode, hands held up as if she were a sniper reaching for a machine gun?
Wing never blinked.
Never looked down.
When she reached the bottom, she walked directly into the splashing fountain. She did not see the shoppers who paused, and stared, and exchanged frightened glances. She held her hands up to the pyramid’s cone straight above her and called the gods of the Nile. “I know you’re there!” cried Wing. “I can see you!”
She dipped her hands into the cool tumbling water and threw droplets of silver into the air toward the pyramid.
Yes! thought Dove. Go! Take your ancient twisted genes and go back to the Nile, back to Egypt, back to your tomb! Just leave me here! Dove tried to fall back in the mind to give Wing room to fly, to let Wing out of whatever opening Wing had come in.
Like falling autumn leaves, Dove heard whispery flutters of talk among the people staring at this strange event. Dove saw Wing as the crowd leaning over the second-floor railings saw her: a small slim girl, shrieking nonsense about wings. A girl floating on the edge of insanity, baptizing herself in a mall fountain.
“What’s going on?”
“Who is that girl?”
“Somebody call the mall police!”
Don’t call them yet, thought Dove. Give Wing a minute. This might work, she might go. Please let her go!
“Don’t get involved!” said a harsh voice. “Wait for the ambulance. They know how to handle this stuff. Sometimes people like that get violent.”
Another v word. There was no end to these v words. Dove floated in v words: venom, viper, victim, violence.
“What will happen to her?” said a shopper. “It’s not a crime, is it?”
“Lock her up, I suppose. Their personalities snap like that, they don’t get ’em back, you know.”
The shoppers knew. They had an extra show that day; how they enjoyed it. They circled her.
I’m glad I’m safe inside, thought Dove, cringing. Those are scary people out there.
Hesta’s big long hands closed on Wing’s shoulders. “Are you crazy?” hissed Hesta. “It was funny at first, but enough’s enough.”
Wing ignored her.
“Let’s get out of here!” said Hesta.
Wing continued to shriek, but now the words were not English, they were something far more primitive, something ancient and evil.
“Stand away from her!” shouted somebody. “She’s flipped out.”
“Come on,” hissed Hesta. Grabbing Wing’s shoulder did not work, so she grabbed Wing’s hair. “Come on!”
“You touched me,” said Wing.
“We have to get out of here!” said Hesta, yanking at her.
“You touched me,” said Wing. “You’ll be sorry.”
Chapter 17
SAFELY IN HESTA’S CAR, DRIPPING on the lovely wine-red upholstery, Wing continued to tremble under the spell of whatever she had seen through the sun and the glass.
Hesta, too, was trembling, driving quickly, looking over her shoulder, muttering, “Dove, who would have thought you could get so weird?”
Dove seemed to be the body also; she felt damp on the seat and the curliness of her hair from being under the fountain. She felt the pressure of the shoulder strap and the acceleration of the curve.
She knew what was happening. Wing was receding just enough for Dove to take the blame. Wing would let Dove suffer for what Wing had done.
It is hard enough to take the consequences for what you do yourself—but to take the consequences for what your other personality does? How unfair!
People will assume that it was me in that fountain. I’ll have to pay the price. It’ll be my mother and father who have to deal with it. Not some maternal body. My mother! And what will Wing do?
Wing will vanish.
“You looked so funny in that fountain,” said Hesta. “There you were, splashing like a two-year-old, calling up to the sky like you’re worshipping the mall gods, or something! What a hoot! Too bad nobody had a video, because everybody at school would love it. You used to be so stodgy, Dove! And now you’re halfway to an insane asylum.”
Hesta was teasing. Dove recognized the lilt.
But it was Wing to whom she was really talking, and Wing did not like being teased. Wing’s inner trembling was replaced by a metallic brittleness, as if neither Wing nor Dove owned the body anymore—it was a robot’s. The bolts were being tightened. Wing’s eyes drilled into Hesta’s.
Dove shrank back from the force of Wing’s dislike.
“You have such a creepy expression on your face,” giggled Hesta.
“Are you afraid?” said Wing. “You should be.”
Hesta laughed so hard, she hardly kept hold of the steering wheel, but controlled it with the tips of two fingers. “You looked so funny at the mall,” giggled Hesta. “At the time I admit it shook me a little, but now that we’ve got away, and nobody could possibly have recognized you, Dove Bar, I mean your own mother wouldn’t have recognized you—well, the truth is, you looked so funny.”
The venom that was Wing turned her pale with hatred for Hesta.
Hesta paused at a red light and took in Wing’s expression. “What are you thinking about?” she said, giggling again.
“I am,” said Wing, “choosing my next victim.”
Hesta giggled on, hearing nothing wrong in that sentence. “Oh, Dove, you’re so funny! I mean, I had no idea. You hung out with Luce, who’s so annoying, and Connie, who’s so simple-minded. And here you are, you’re so funny, Dove Bar.”
“I am not Dove,” said Wing through her teeth. “I am Wing.”
“Wing, schming,” said Hesta. “Say, there’s Timmy O’Hay and Laurence. Let’s pass them.” Hesta slammed down the accelerator. She pulled into the left lane and drew up next to Timmy. Timmy looked over, saw Dove in the passenger seat, saw Hesta driving, and took the challenge. He floored the gas. Hesta and Timmy roared down the road, neck and neck, stock car racing in the middle of town.
“What do you mean—Wing schming?” said Wing.
“Stupid name,” said Hesta.
Call me stupid! Wing said silently. I’ll show you stupid, Hesta!
“Stick with Dove,” advised Hesta. “You’re giving ‘Dove’ a whole new meaning.”
I’m going to give you a whole new meaning, said Wing silently.
Don’t do anything, Dove pleaded. We’re going too fast.
“Go faster, Hesta,” said Wing. “Timmy’s going to beat us.” Because they shared a mind, Dove knew what Wing was thinking of. Because Dove looked out the same eyes, Dove knew what Wing was looking at.
The steering wheel.
A strange sense of lassitude overcame Dove, as if she had been given sleeping medicine. Wing was not only going to do something stupid, she was going to do something dangerous. Something potentially fatal. Something vicious, with victims.
One of the victims would certainly be Hesta.
One of the victims could be Timmy O’Hay. One Laurence.
And one, though Wing seemed not to understand the consequences, could be Dove.
Dove could curl up and take a nap inside the mind. What was the point in worrying? She had no more control than an infant in a car seat has con
trol of what happens to the car.
Dove could not even look over and check out Timmy, see if he was still racing Hesta, because Wing’s eyes were focused on the steering wheel that Hesta held loosely in her hands.
Wing cast a quick glance over the traffic patterns of the road ahead and made her decision. She was going to wrench the wheel when they drove over a raised portion of the road, where daisies bloomed like a million white and yellow stars, and the road edge fell twenty feet to a rock-lined gully.
Your thoughts are too horrible. I don’t want to share thoughts any more, Dove said.
Then don’t listen, said Wing. Evil filled the cavity of their mind.
I wasn’t brought up like this, thought Dove. I was brought up to be kind and do right. How did Wing turn out bad? She was there with me all along. Why didn’t she learn the same things from Mother and Father that I learned?
Or was she there all along? Is she really my vanished twin? Do such things happen?
Or is she some evil spirit from the ancient past, who came through the skylight, or through the Venom or through whatever terrible powers are out there? Invisible and uncaring?
They were parallel to Timmy’s car. If Wing went ahead with her plan, they’d crash into Timmy and both cars would careen over the edge, smashing the wildflowers and smashing each other.
Or is there no Wing at all? thought Dove Daniel, dwindled and diminished in the back of the mind.
Just me … going insane.
Chapter 18
“DON’T DO IT, WING,” Dove said.
“Go back to sleep,” said Wing.
“I’m your victim,” said Dove. “I accept that. But nobody else should be your victim, Wing.”
“I’m in control. What I choose is what will happen,” said Wing. She flexed her hand, preparing.
But Hesta had grabbed the wheel herself, tightening her hands till her knuckles were white, wrenching the wheel a different direction, skidding into the parking lot of a doughnut shop. The brakes slammed, the key turned, and Hesta popped out of the car. Out of breath, staring at Dove with the same look of fear that Timmy had worn, Hesta said brightly, “Well! Let’s have a snack. Jelly doughnut? Coke? Coffee?”
Hesta had heard both conversations. Both Wing and Dove had spoken aloud, arguing both sides of whether to give Hesta a fatal accident.
Wing’s hope for excitement and horror vanished. She sat sullenly under the seat belt.
“Cruller,” added Hesta. “Powdered sugar. Glazed.”
Perfect word, thought Dove. You do look a little glazed.
“What are you, a waitress?” said Wing. “I don’t like doughnuts.”
“Fine,” said Hesta. “Well, of course, now that we’re here, I guess I’m just going to go in and have one anyway.” Hesta looked as if she might spend several hours in there, safe among the doughnuts, rather than do any more driving with Wing.
One way to end an unfortunate friendship, thought Dove.
“I wanted to end it a different way,” said Wing.
Hesta fled.
Dove said aloud, “You realize that when we talk to each other, everybody can hear.”
“I like it that way,” replied Wing. “I like to watch their faces when they realize there are two of us in one body. I like how they flinch.”
“Even though Hesta laughed at you,” said Dove, “I think you should feel gratitude to her and not hurt her.”
“Gratitude?” said Wing. “In the mall, you mean? Please, Dove. She interrupted something very important there.”
Dove waited, but Wing did not say what important thing had been going on, other than a humiliating display. “Gratitude because she was the one who opened Venom again,” said Dove. “I’m not grateful, of course, but you should be.”
“Gratitude is such a human kind of thing, don’t you think?” said Wing.
“Aren’t you human?” said Dove. She was slipping into a coma of despair. Wing was going to kill somebody, and it would look like Dove had done it!
“No.”
“Dove, we are so worried about you,” said Luce.
“I’m not worried about you,” said Wing. “You’re easy prey. When I decide to take you, I’ll take you.”
Wing discussed her failure to push Timmy out of the gondola.
She discussed her failure to turn Hesta’s steering, wheel.
She discussed her conversation with Egypt at the bottom of the pyramid in the mall.
Nobody else had much else to say. Especially Timmy and Hesta.
It was not surprising that Mr. Phinney, the ancient history teacher, suggested Dove might want to go to the nurse, as she seemed to be fatigued. Being Mr. Phinney, he actually said, “You seem very very very fatigued to me, Dove.”
Wing raised her eyebrows high enough to take flight on them.
Mr. Phinney said, “I think you have been working very very very hard, Dove, and you just need rest. Sometimes we get overextended, we just take on far far far too much, and we need to be couch potatoes for a while, rest our bodies and our minds.”
“Dove is resting,” explained Wing. “I’m here instead. I expect I’ll be here for some time. It’s the perfume, you know.”
“An aspirin and a half hour’s rest,” recommended Mr. Phinney, and both Dove and Wing laughed at that. Their two laughs spiralled insanely in the thick classroom air.
The school psychologist happened to be in that afternoon; this seemed unfair to Dove, since he came only one afternoon a week.
“Now, Dove,” said the school psychologist. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I’ve been planning how to destroy Timmy,” said Wing. “Thinking up the most effective technique.”
“Why,” said the psychologist, “would you want to destroy Timmy?”
“Why not?” said Wing. She smiled, and the psychologist flinched, just the way Wing liked it. With all his experience he had not dealt with a teenager like this.
He was afraid of her.
How am I going to escape this mess? thought Dove. I can’t even get out of my body.
The psychologist made phone calls. Wing seemed not to know the purpose of them, but Dove found them very clear: He was going to lock Dove up. She was mentally ill, and he was going to take away her freedom.
I’m not mentally ill, you have to understand that, it’s the perfume. It summoned Wing from inside of me and she’s in charge now! It’s a vanished twin. It’s evil. It isn’t me. Don’t take it out on me.
“Sometimes,” said the school psychologist, “a half hour of rest isn’t quite enough, you know, my dear. Sometimes we need several weeks. Even several months. Lots and lots of rest.”
I’ve already lost my freedom! thought Dove. I don’t even have a body. Please, please, please, no, don’t put me in an institution!
“An institution,” said the school psychologist, “can be a great help in times of trouble such as these.”
Terror seized Dove like the talons of a hawk, deep and sharp.
Wing, amused, proceeded to frighten the psychologist more.
Dove’s mother and father were summoned from work to discuss their daughter.
“The maternal body,” said Wing, raising her eyebrows to ceiling heights. “My goodness—it left work for my sake. What sacrifice.”
“The maternal body?” repeated the psychologist carefully.
“Hello, Dove, honey,” said her parents, terrified and worried.
“I am Wing,” said Wing, introducing herself.
On the inside, Dove was as weak as a single piece of confetti; a tiny circle of colored paper. She felt as if even gravity would have nothing to do with her; she was too light for the world.
Mother! she thought. Father! Get me out of here! You gave birth to me before—you have to give birth to me again.
“What did she say?” whispered her mother. “Wing?”
“There is no Wing, sweetheart,” said her father carefully. “That was just a story.”
“You should be so lu
cky,” said Wing.
The room was very quiet.
“I was unfit, you know,” said Wing. “The maternal body often discards an unborn that is unfit.”
Mother and Father were practically comatose with horror. Dove knew how they felt.
I have to summon up my strength, thought Dove.
Pull myself together and get rid of Wing. When we go home tonight, somehow I’ll break the bottle of Venom into the sink, and wash it away, and that will be the end of Wing.
“You will do no such thing,” said Wing. “I am the perfume and the perfume is me, and I am here to stay. I am Wing.”
“Oh, my god,” whispered Dove’s mother. “She’s having some sort of nervous breakdown.”
“No, I’m not,” said Wing. “I’m simply here at last. You missed me and now I’m here. You should be glad to see me. What’s the matter with you, anyway?”
Dove’s mother clutched Dove’s father’s hand. There were two of them, and it gave them strength. There are two of us, too, thought Dove, but it doesn’t give me strength.
“I never did like the maternal body,” Wing told the psychologist. He flinched again. Wing smiled again.
“I’m going to recommend a mild tranquillizer,” said the psychologist, “and she should stay home tomorrow and rest. Let’s hope this is simply a brief episode.”
“There is nothing simple about it,” said Wing. “You are simple. Your solutions are simple. For that matter, the maternal and paternal bodies are simple. But I myself—No. I am not simple.”
Simple, thought Dove on the inside. Simple, mimple, pimple, himple. This time the words poked out. “Simple, mimple, pimple, himple,” said the mouth rhythmically and repetitively. Both Wing and Dove were surprised at the jumble of words pouring past the tongue.
“On the other hand,” said the psychologist, “I could call the acute ward at the city hospital and see if they would evaluate her.”
“No, no, no,” said Dove’s mother quickly. “We’ll just drive on home and I’m sure we’ll settle down.” Her mother looked at her watch. “Tomorrow at work will be very very very important,” she said fretfully. “I can’t believe the timing on this.”
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