by Mintie Das
I chuckle along with Dede’s high-pitched hyena laugh. Her feet, which are small enough to fit into children’s shoes, barely skim the Oriental rug underneath the sofa. Everything about Dede is petite, which she expertly uses to her advantage to disarm people.
My nanny is the realest person that I know, yet in some ways everything about her is the perfect con. To anyone but me, Dede appears to be a nanny straight out of Mary Poppins. Her slight stature is made even more diminutive by the cotton saris that she dons, despite my ongoing pleas to her to wear American clothes. Although she did reluctantly agree to swap her sandals for a pair of white Keds in the fall and snow boots in winter.
Her frumpy-ethnic-grandma look is completed by oversize glasses that sit on the bridge of her nose and a loose bun that seems to come undone every fifteen minutes. Perhaps Dede’s hair, which is black, is her only source of vanity. I only recently discovered that Mrs. Patel, Dede’s bestie, mostly because she’s the only other Indian woman who lives within a twenty-mile radius, has been dyeing the gray out of it once a month for the past several years.
Dede’s speech is peppered with curses, off-color remarks, and salty humor. But that is the Assamese version. In public, her English consists mostly of “Do you take coupon?” and “I love Amrica.”
Dede’s sweet-old-lady act makes the locals treat her like a delicate little Indian doll they purchased in a tacky souvenir shop. I’m pretty sure that’s the way Dede wants them to see her.
The real Dede is far from a precious keepsake you have to handle with care. She is the savviest guru/hustler around—a cross between Mr. Miyagi and Jack Sparrow. This makes her a constant pain in my ass, but in the end, I know that Dede always has my back.
“You think burning a body and spreading its ashes somewhere random like you Indians do it is better?” I ask.
Dede scowls, which makes her look even older. “You remember that you Indian, Violet.” Dede is not a fan of Naresh’s universal citizenship and tries to shove my ethnic heritage down my throat every chance she gets. “Something happen today?” Dede continues as she leans in closer to me.
I back away. She’s not an Aiedeo but my nanny has her own set of skills that include a mad sense of intuition and a wicked way of reading people. Especially me. Dede’s probably picked up that something is bothering me because I’m still irked about the creepy intern. But the food coma I’m in is doing a good job of helping me forget him and I don’t want to rehash it with her.
“No. You are not pulling that crap with me,” I warn.
Dede reaches for my hand. “No crap, Violet. This about your power. What you see?”
“I see me making a call to immigration if you don’t get out of my face.”
“Chht, this not good, Violet,” Dede clucks. “You are Aiedeo.”
I yank my hand out of Dede’s grip. My skin turns hot and prickly just hearing their name. “Uh-uh, I am not letting you go there.”
“Where I go?” Dede shrugs her shoulders. “I stay here and tell you about your mommy and whole big Aiedeo family.”
Dede made a promise to my mother ages ago to do whatever it took to protect me. For her, that includes never giving up about the Aiedeo. Dede has this unshakable blind faith when it comes to them. She saw what happened to me but refuses to believe my dead relatives’ motives are anything but altruistic.
Regardless of how much she pushes the Aiedeo on me, I’m not going to talk about it. Next to denial, my second-best way to handle unpleasant situations is avoidance. I pick up my cell phone from the coffee table and stand up.
“I gotta call Meryl about the lit assignment.” I speed-dial my best friend. Dede lets out a loud “Hmmph” in frustration and goes back to her TV show.
I know that Dede is letting me off easy and I kiss her on the cheek before walking out of the family room.
“V, I was just about to call you.”
I strain to hear Meryl over what sounds like a really bad cover version of an old-school drinking song.
“Where are you?” I ask, but then I remember it’s Thursday, which is dollar-pitcher night at our local underage drinking hole, and answer my own question. “Stumpy’s, of course.”
“You gotta come down here.” Meryl lowers her voice. “And help me hustle two frat guys out of a hundred bucks.”
I chuckle. Most of us have to take crappy jobs at diners and fast-food places to earn our spending money, but Meryl makes her cash by coming up with ingenious ways to scam preppy college kids who have no business being at townie hangouts.
“What’s tonight’s special? Three-point shuffle or fool’s pool?” I ask, referring to a couple of Meryl’s classic cons.
“I’m working on a new one and I could totally use my trusted wingman. First five pitchers are on me.”
“Five?” I laugh. “Unlike you, I’ve actually gotta show up at school tomorrow. Plus, we had a double practice and a Squad meeting that ran way over. I’m totally busted and I haven’t even gotten to my homework yet.”
I could practically hear Meryl’s eye roll over the phone. She wasn’t a big fan of the Squad or of Naomi. But she put up with it all for my sake.
“I’ll massage your feet and Brain’s here so he can do your school stuff,” Meryl offered, referring to the ex-philosophy prof who spent most of his nights at Stumpy’s getting hammered on Jack Daniel’s and spouting conspiracy theories. “And I’ll split my take with you. That’s an easy fifty bucks at least and you get to hang out with me.”
“That’s the part that worries me. A Stumpy’s night with you always means trouble.”
“Satisfaction guaranteed!” Meryl laughed.
Meryl was fearless in a way that put almost everyone around her to shame. When a big, burly-ass mofo tried to mug us last summer in Chicago, Meryl kneed him in the groin and then stole his wallet before we ran away.
“Hey, have you heard anything about the new intern at Talbert’s?” Meryl’s dad is the county DA and usually knows about everything going on in town. Plus he’s a friend of Jim Talbert’s, so I thought it was worth a shot to ask.
“No. Why? Is he cute? Are you ready to finally move on from your six-year infatuation with Austin Coopman, V?”
My cheeks turn hot at hearing my crush’s name. “Oh my God, Mer! Don’t talk about me and Austin Coopman out loud in public! Someone might hear you!”
“Paranoid much? Oh, don’t worry! No one here is paying attention to anything I’m saying.”
I highly doubt that because Meryl causes a stir wherever she goes. She’s definitely in the same elite league of hotness as Naomi but her smoke comes with a lot more dirt and grit—she’s like a heroine in a Quentin Tarantino movie.
“Hey, I gotta go. Jeremy’s trying to get in on my action with the college boys. Just come down for a pitcher, at least!”
“Not tonight but have fun! And call me if you need anything.” I’m a little tempted to join her because it’s always an adventure with Meryl but I know that I don’t have the energy to keep up with her tonight. “Later!”
Before I get a chance to say “Bye,” she’s already hung up. I sit at my desk and reach for my Brit-lit assignment. Just talking to Meryl helps me get my mind off the Aiedeo. And much later that night, as soon as my head hits the pillow, I manage to forget all about the creepy intern.
Four
I WAKE UP TO THE SOUND of metal clinking. Groggily, I turn in the direction of the noise as my nostrils fill with the weirdly familiar combination of disinfectant, bleach, and wintergreen toothpaste. I open my eyes, then shut them abruptly against the glaring overhead light shining directly into my face. A flash of neon spots burns into my retinas.
“It’s nice of you to visit, Violet.”
The words are muffled and hard to understand. However, the voice is eerily recognizable. I begin to tremble but I don’t know if it’s from the fear that is rapidly setting in or from the cold air. It feels like a refrigerator in here and I realize that I have on only the T-shirt and underwear th
at I’d worn to bed.
“Wake up!” I shout to myself to escape this nightmare.
I squint against the light. The outline of a man with broad shoulders and a tummy as big as Santa Claus’s slowly comes into focus. His face is turned away from me but I can see that he is sitting on one of those rolling stools like they use in a doctor’s office. I try to sit up to get a better look but I can’t move. I look down to find that I am strapped into a dentist’s chair with zip ties around my chest, wrists, and ankles.
“Dr. Jen-Jenkins?” I stammer, forcing myself to say the dead dentist’s name out loud.
I turn my head shakily from side to side. Somehow, I know that I am still in my bedroom but it looks like my old dentist’s office. Even the jungle-theme mural that covered the walls of the clinic is now where my movie posters usually hang.
If this is a dream, it is the realest dream that I’ve ever had. A chill runs down my bare legs. Whatever is happening to me is as unbelievable as it is terrifying.
Suddenly, there is a faint whirring noise as the dentist chair begins to recline farther back; it stops abruptly once I am lying almost flat. I fight against the restraints but they are so tight that there isn’t any room to move.
“Open wide,” Dr. Jenkins commands. I know that it’s him speaking but it feels like his voice is coming from inside my own head.
I shut my mouth and clench my jaw so hard that my neck muscles ache. Dr. Jenkins pries open my lips with his fat fingers and shoves his hand all the way inside. The bitter taste of the powder from the latex glove he wears rubs onto my tongue.
“Looks rotten, Violet,” Dr. Jenkins says as he clamps a pair of pliers around a tooth. “We’re gonna have to yank it out.”
I jerk my entire body back and forth and try to scream but manage only a low moan. The razor-sharp points of the pliers begin digging into my gums and I taste my own blood.
“I’m afraid these just aren’t cutting it.” Dr. Jenkins laughs as he yanks the pliers out and throws them onto the floor.
His face turns cherry red but this time, I don’t find it funny at all. My salty tears mix with my blood. After a minute, my cries are drowned out by the buzzing sound of a drill.
“No, no, please, Dr. Jenkins,” I beg.
The dentist ignores my pleas. “Open.”
This time I willingly oblige. Once Dr. Jenkins’s hand is inside my mouth, I bite down hard. I feel the latex rip and then his skin open as I sink my teeth into him. Then I begin to gag. His decaying flesh tastes like a rotting pig. A disgusting liquid seeps out from the puncture that my bite has made and starts to fill my mouth. The pungent odor is so potent that I instantly feel woozy.
Dr. Jenkins withdraws his hand. “It isn’t polite to bite.”
I recognize the smell of formaldehyde, and it dawns on me that Dr. Jenkins is oozing the embalming fluid that was used to preserve his body. A pool of blood, spit, and embalming fluid forms at the back of my mouth and I start to choke. My throat begins to close and the air stops flowing. I buck against the chair as I try to breathe. I force myself to swallow the repulsive mix of liquids.
The only thing that stops me from vomiting or fainting is the sharp screeching noise that is rapidly getting louder. Before I know what is happening, the dentist jabs the drill into my mouth. I look up at him with my eyes wide open. The overhead light shines directly on him now and I can see Dr. Jenkins clearly. He looks just like he did earlier this afternoon at the funeral home with his face covered in thick, waxy makeup and his eyes and mouth glued shut.
“I’m afraid this is going to be a little tricky without my eyesight, Violet.”
Dr. Jenkins pokes his finger around until he finds a molar located at the very back of my mouth, then he rams the drill bit through the tooth’s enamel until he hits what feels like every nerve in my body. I shriek. The pain radiates in constant waves.
“Fight,” I hear a faint voice call out from somewhere.
I desperately want to find where it is coming from and plead with whoever it is to help me. Nothing about this can be real but it is also not a dream.
Just as I feel myself begin to pass out, Dr. Jenkins stops drilling. Unconsciousness would surely bring some kind of relief but all of a sudden, my survival instincts kick in. I sense that I have to stay awake and endure this if I want to live. I force myself to breathe, fighting through the sheer agony that any kind of movement brings with it.
I hear the high-pitched scream of the drill again and I brace myself. He feels around my mouth but this time, just the pressure of his finger makes me jump.
“I warned you about too much sugar.” Dr. Jenkins shakes his head. “I’m afraid this one is going to kill, Violet.”
Then he lowers the drill bit right into the infected cavity. Every part of me, from the top of my head to the very bottoms of my feet, throbs. My body begins to spasm uncontrollably.
“Hold still,” Dr. Jenkins scolds as he lifts his elbow up high and then pounds it into me.
I feel like the air has been sucked out of me. He punches me but I don’t know where. There is so much pain coming from every part of my body. I gasp, then cough.
“Fight,” the voice says again, but this time it is louder.
I realize it’s coming from inside me and I have no choice but to listen. I don’t know what is happening but I do know that only I can stop it.
I take a deep breath. My mouth is raw and pulsing. I make myself take another breath and then another until my heart rate begins to slow.
I don’t hear the drill, which means that Dr. Jenkins is taking another break. This is my chance. I feel a tingle run down my spine. Harnessing all the strength I have left in me, I will myself to move. I yank my arms straight up in the air, breaking through the ties. Then I rip off the plastic tie around my chest and the ties around my ankles.
Dr. Jenkins flips on the drill and thrusts it toward my face. I knock it out of his hand and pummel him as hard as I can. He stumbles backward, then regains his balance and lunges at me. Frantically, I grab one of the dental instruments from the metal tray between us. When Dr. Jenkins is close enough, I plunge a sharp, curved hook directly into his closed left eye. He lets out a low groan. I ram it in until I hear a loud popping sound and his eyeball flies out. It lands on the floor and rolls under his stool. Embalming fluid rushes out of Dr. Jenkins’s empty socket like a flood of tears.
He tries to grab me but I quickly duck out of the way. I retrieve the hook and am about to stab him again when Dr. Jenkins suddenly disappears. The dentist chair, drill, and everything else vanishes along with him.
I stop abruptly and look around in utter confusion to see that I am back in my bedroom again. Standing in the exact spot where Dr. Jenkins was only a moment ago is a girl not much older than me. Her skin is the color of clay and her black hair is shaved close to her head.
I have never seen her but I know exactly who the girl is. She is an Aiedeo.
A rush of shock and rage pumps through me so hard that I feel as though I am going to explode. I tremble to my core.
“You bitches.” I seethe as I glare at the girl.
“Violet, is that any way to speak about your family?” the girl asks in a voice that sounds much older than she looks.
She doesn’t speak English and I sure as hell don’t speak whatever language she is speaking, but somehow, we can understand each other. Although maybe the Aiedeo’s version of Google Translate is hinky because the girl comes off speaking with an antiquated stiffness that is in stark contrast to her youthful, punkish vibe.
She’s squat and compact like a bulldog. Except for the fact that she has big moon-pie eyes like me, it’s hard to believe we come from the same bloodline. I don’t know how many Aiedeo there are in total, but the ones I’ve seen all vary greatly in age, size, and coloring. If you rounded us all up, I bet we would look like that mystical rainbow of diversity that my sixth-grade health-sciences teacher, Mrs. Flores, used to go on about.
“I almost died with that
Dr. Jenkins stunt!”
“Yet here you are, dearest. Alive and kicking,” she says as she gives me the once-over. “I’m happy to inform you that you passed your shama.”
“I am not an Aiedeo!”
The girl sneers. She’s got a gold stud in her upper lip; it matches the piercings in her nose and eyebrow. “That stunt you pulled three years back by using your powers against us was clever. And we have been very patient, giving you this extended hiatus so that you could contemplate your feelings, as you Americans would say. But did you really think we would just let you go forever?”
“Yes! You stripped me of my powers, so I’m useless to you!”
“No, Violet, you denied your powers and stopped believing you had them.” She takes a step closer to me. “But we never took them away. You’ve been in a three-year slumber and we cannot afford to wait any longer for you to wake. That’s why we had to force the shama on you tonight.”
I hear what she’s saying but none of it is registering. I’ve had my powers this entire time? It can’t be true.
The girl continues. “We need to prepare you and time is running out.”
“Prepare me for what?”
“A war greater than we have ever known is coming,” the girl answers. “We need the strength of all the Aiedeo to fight together and destroy the destroyers.”
I shake my head vehemently. “Uh-uh. No, no, no.”
The girl doesn’t hear me and she keeps on going on about a break in the Ultimate Reality and creators versus destroyers. I just want her to stop talking.
Before I even know what I’m doing, I charge at the girl as hard as I can. Her head slams back against the wall, tearing a hole in the middle of my Breakfast Club movie poster. Now I’m really mad. I try to punch the girl but miss.
“Do not let the anger control you, Violet,” the girl says calmly. “Work through it and find the center.”
My whole body tenses. That sounds like the wannabe-samurai kind of crap the Aiedeo spewed back in the day. I’m not having any of it. “Shut the hell up!”
I swing my fist but the girl catches it. “If you refuse to listen, then I will have to show you what I mean.”
