“Absolutely. Well done, Ri-ri.” My sister smiles like a satisfied Buddha.
I go on. “So think about Rashesh’s big sister, and think about the rabbit. When you have both of them in your mind, open your eyes and we’re going to make shadows of rabbits on the wall.”
Instantly, Ri-ri’s eyes pop open. “We are? Totes amazing!” And she slips down off the bed to turn the overhead light out, then back up in a flash to turn on my reading light and aim it at the far wall. “Let’s do it, Hill!”
Silently, I pray to Diana to make this work, in spite of the fact that my sister is actually a precocious but innocent witch.
Chapter 19: Gay Girl
I suffered through my days at home, doing chores and yard work. At least my mom didn’t grace us with her presence for too long. Still—that Christian boarding school thing—unbelievable!
When I got back to school, I found out from Hillary what had happened with her; it wasn’t good, but the spell she cast on T.K. was a stroke of genius. I just hope Ri-ri keeps her mouth shut.
Three more days now until I get my computer and phone back. Of course, we have computers at school, but there’s always a teacher or library monitor close by. I’m dying of curiosity about Mariah—not only finding her and getting to know her, but trying to figure out why she seems to have this hold on my emotions after such a brief encounter. I mean, Taylor and I were friends first, and the physical/love thing caught us both by surprise. I still miss Taylor and our times together, including the physical stuff, but I honestly thought that I would find a boy to like once ‘Hurricane Taylor’ had cleared away. Now I’m not so sure…
When my mom found me with Taylor in my bed back in August, Mom made me go to a Christian counselor recommended by the pastor. I literally have no words to express how lame and ridiculous this process was, and I hope I never have to talk about it to anyone, not even Hill. But the woman did say one thing that has stuck with me—something my mom would totally freak out if she heard coming from a counselor recommended by the pastor. Ms. Ramirez told me that, in spite of any religious beliefs about gay people, one’s sexual fantasies and daydreams are true to one’s innate sexual orientation. At first I was shocked, and didn’t want to believe her. But I think now this might be spot on.
When I think about Mariah, her grayish eyes and secretive smile, and those hands that look so strong and capable, I get a warm feeling “down there”—in what Taylor called “the pearl.” I have no idea whether other girls and women use that term, or whether Tay just made it up. Anyway, sometimes at night, safely tucked in my single bed with the door closed, I want to touch myself down there and imagine it to be Mariah. This totally freaks me out, because I made this pact with myself after what Ms. Ramirez told me about fantasies: that I wouldn’t do that again until I could imagine a boy touching me and get turned on by it. I wish I could make that happen. But at this point, I don’t think even Diana herself could change the way I’m starting to feel about Mariah.
It’s after dinner on the second Thursday of my “no computer” punishment. My mother’s visit over a week ago really spooked me, but I’m also getting more solid in my own identity. Right now, I’m trying to write a poem about Mariah, but it’s hard since I don’t really know much about her.
As I sit at my desk with a pen in my hand, staring at the now-familiar greenish wall, I hear Aunt Penny coming up the stairs. She appears in my doorway, with my laptop under one arm.
“Emelia, I think you might be ready to get this back, don’t you?”
I’m speechless, staring at her in amazement. For sure, this concession did not come from my mother.
“For real?”
Penny smiles. “Yes, for real. You did indeed accept your punishment graciously; you worked hard in the yard and the house, and didn’t try to contact Hillary or anyone else outside of school. Plus, you were polite and even gracious to your mother. I’m thinking twelve days is plenty.”
I jump up and run to hug Penny. “Oh my God! Thank you so much. It’s been such a pain, but I know I deserved it. And I know Mom is still upset about not knowing where we went that day. But I just couldn’t tell…”
“Well, Em, your mom gets upset about lots of things where you’re concerned. She probably still thinks your disappearance had something to do with—you know—thinking you’re gay. In spite of whatever we both tried to say.” I can tell by Penny’s expression she has just a ghost of the same thought.
I blush crimson at the word gay; it’s probably true that Mom does think this, but it’s so embarrassing to have Aunt Penny mention anything about sexual stuff. I wish she didn’t even know about Taylor, but, of course, that’s ridiculous. At least I can make sure she doesn’t know anything about Mariah…
With my face flaming, I instantly say, “No, no—nothing like that. It’s Hillary’s secret, but it’s nothing dangerous or anything, and I just can’t tell. But I promise it has nothing to do with being gay. And I don’t really want to talk about—that. I’m doing fine, and I’m busy with my writing when I’m not at school or doing homework.” And as if to assure Penny, I hold up the paper I’ve been trying to write on, which is still blank. “Now that I have my laptop back, my writing should flow better. Thanks again.”
Penny then hands over the longed-for laptop. As she heads back downstairs, all I can think of is Mariah, and checking on Facebook to see if she’s found me. I really do think having my computer to write on will help my poetry get going again, but that’s not the writing I’m concerned with at this moment. As soon as I get online, I go right to Facebook. I close my eyes before I look at the activity bar, praying to whoever might be up there in heaven to let there be a friend request from Mariah.
Opening my eyes, I look—it’s there. She’s there, looking for me online. My hands shake as I click accept and look at her page. The usual info: Mariah Warren, same age as I am, born in Salem, Massachusetts. Not much else, and no pictures to speak of, which is a bit weird. Pretty much everyone my age loads up their FB page with pictures of friends, pets, and family. I’ll have to wait and run that by Hillary tomorrow at school. Then I realize that I don’t have to wait—I can PM Hill right now!
Sure enough, there she is online. I type:
Hey, Hill—what’s up?
Emelia! You got your laptop back?
Affirmative! Aunt Penny said I’ve suffered long enough. Literally…I can’t believe she’s being so great about it.
Penny’s a sport—excellent news!
Guess what else?
??
I found Mariah. Or she found me—I just accepted her friend request on FB.
Damn…be careful, Em.
It’s just FB, Hill. I haven’t even talked to her yet since that day.
IDK. just have a feeling.
Speaking of, can I ask you something…
Gotta go.
OK—ttyl
And she’s gone. Shit! I didn’t get any help from that convo.
Having no one else to consult with, I decide (after about forty-five minutes of envisioning various disastrous outcomes) to leave it at accepting Mariah’s friend request for now. The rest of the evening passes quickly, with linguini and clams for dinner, some math homework, and chats with a few Daytona friends online. I wish I could get advice from Jessica or Dylan from home, but I just know it’s a bad idea to share that much info. They know about Taylor and why I’m in Kentucky, but, as far as they know, I’m steering clear of any romance until further notice. Even though I don’t buy Hillary’s claim that Mariah is unnatural and smells weird, I do admit there are lots of unanswered questions that might be deal-breakers. Best to keep the whole thing quiet for a while.
Chapter 20: Feeding in the Night
It is the first time I’ve sought to feed on a human in Kentucky, and I am wondering where to find the right person. In Boston, I had Lily to direct me almost from the start, and we would go down by the docks where sailors and low-lives gathered. But there is no body of water here, so I�
�m trying to think of where people might find themselves feeling vulnerable and sad. These are the people who benefit most from the way Lily taught me to feed; exchanging blood nourishment for our bodies for spirit nourishment for their minds.
I decide to simply walk around as soon as nightfall is complete, watching for a suitable soul. I’m not worried about my own safety; I can always disappear from the vision of any mortal if need be. I put in my pocket the small stiletto that Lily insisted I bring with me into this part of my journey, and step out into the soft Kentucky darkness.
Soon I pass the place where Emelia and her friend Hillary stopped to work on their writing. It smells like food—meat and baking bread—I do miss human food sometimes. But when two young men walk by and I smell their pulsing blood, I quicken my step to hurry on my way. Longing for “regular” food is of no use to me now.
I purposely walk in the opposite direction from the school and the lovely, large houses on that street; I do not want to be chased by a barking dog or an angry resident with a gun. I also do not want any entanglements with the police in this town. I know I still look odd, even in the clothes I got from a store called Goodwill. I have a passing thought that I should do something about my hair style; maybe then I could find a way to put a picture of me on my Facebook page for Emelia to see…
After walking quite a while, I come to a place with dim lighting both outside and in, and a large sign that says Liquor. The words ‘Thirsty Ernie’s’ are painted in uneven green letters on the front wall, and I can see through the dingy window people, mostly men, drinking beer and other drinks. This should do admirably.
I sit outside Ernie’s and wait. It is not long before an older couple, both wearing trousers and heavy sweaters, come out the front door, arguing loudly.
“I told you I didn’t want to come here. Your friends here are obnoxious, noisy drunks! I wish I had just stayed at home like usual.”
“Lois, damn it all, I told you not to come with me. But you insisted…”
“You always leave me behind; I thought maybe for once we could have a night out together. But no, you have to come to this crappy place and save a few pennies on beer.”
Before the man can answer, Lois looks around as if she has lost something. “Shit—I left my purse in the booth. Go back and get it, Henry.”
Henry replies, slurring his words a bit, “What the hell? I don’t want to carry your purse. Get it yourself.”
The woman called Lois looks as if she is about to either cry or strike the man. “Such a gentleman you are, Henry Cheaver! I should have listened to my sister and married Paul instead. And it’s your fault I was so distracted I forgot my bag.”
Henry wipes one hand over his face and then on the back of his trousers. He heads back into Thirsty Ernie’s, a wave of talk and music rushing out through the briefly open glass door. I turn my attention to Lois, wondering if I have time to make her my victim gently before Henry returns. I take a chance that, once back inside, his mates will talk him into another pint. Lois is now sitting on a grimy-looking bench placed against the painted wall. I ready my stiletto carefully hidden in my right hand, and sit next to her.
“Hello,” I say. “A chilly night, isn’t it? Wonder if it will snow?”
Lois turns faded brown eyes on me, sad eyes that look as if they’ve cried too much.
“Chilly, yes. I hope it will snow soon; I love the cleanness of fallen snow.” And then, as if she just realized she is not talking to herself, “What are you doing out on a school night, child? And here of all places. You should be home doing your homework, or washing your hair…or something. Your mother must be worried about you.”
“I live in a foster home,” I say on an impulse. “I haven’t seen my mother for years.” This excuse has an odd truth to it: I was indeed a parentless child back in Salem, working as a servant for my keep.
“Oh, sweetie,” says Lois, “I’m so sorry I mentioned it. It must be hard for you.” And she turns away from me, looking at the door through which Henry disappeared. I take my chance. I use my left hand to grab her by the throat, and before her body can even register the danger, my tiny blade has done its work. Lois slumps down on the bench as if asleep, and I press my mouth to the wound on her neck. I am always thankful that Lily taught me this way to get what I need without biting. Tituba’s original bite was my making as a vampire, and the violence of it frightened me. Every time I feed, I feel Tituba watching me from a dark place in my mind.
I feel the warmth and heaviness, so satisfying, slip down my throat and course through my body, filling me. I know from experience that when I stop taking in her blood, it will be about five minutes before Lois wakes up. If I do the job right, she will not remember what happened, and will think the next morning that her tiny wound came from a bug bite or the scratch of her own fingernail. Before I run away, though, I look into the woman’s soul with spirit eyes, and see the regret and sadness she carries about this man Paul. I send her the plan to dream about Paul and Henry, and recognize that Henry was her true choice. I don’t know much about adult relationships among humans, but I hope this dream will help her. I silently thank the sleeping Lois for my nourishment, and slip away into the night to think about Emelia.
Chapter 21: Mystery Woman and Poetry
It’s been three weeks now since Hillary and I both got our computers and phones back after the writing conference fiasco. My mom is still talking like she doesn’t want me to hang around with Hill, but from the distance of about seven hundred miles there isn’t really much she can do about it. I’m so thankful she went back to Florida without causing any real damage. Without my mom’s influence, Aunt Penny seems okay with my friendship with Hill, even though I never have told her about Moonstruck Books or Hillary’s amateur witchcraft. Hill is my best friend here in Shively, but I have to admit to myself that she actually doesn’t know what she’s doing. She means well, but…
When I first saw Mariah’s FB page, I was so thrilled to connect that I only vaguely noticed the weirdness of the content. No photos, no events, no cute animal pics, nothing that tells me she’s a normal teenaged girl living in suburban Kentucky. When I talk to Hillary about it at school, eating lunch at our usual picnic table, she immediately buys into my doubts. Of course, Hill threw a shadow on my enthusiasm for Mariah right away, the day we met her. But when I express my own discomfort about the FB thing, Hillary jumps on it.
“I told you, Em: there’s something definitely not normal about this girl. She looks strange and talks strange, and now you have your own questions. I would almost think she made herself a Facebook page just to find you. Mariah, or whoever she really is, is not like us or anyone we know. She’s bad news, and that is that.”
“Maybe you’re right—but I want more specific reasons. There’s something about her…and the fact that she’s not like everyone here in Shively seems to me a good thing! But the lack of pics is definitely a bit off…”
Hillary finishes her yogurt cup and crumples her trash into a ball, tossing it into the nearby red trash bin. “Score! Well, my friend, I don’t know what to tell you. And it doesn’t have anything to do with the ‘lesbian thing.’ If you found some nice average baby dyke and fell in love, I would be totally happy for you.”
I squirm inside when anything even peripherally LGBT-related comes up. They have a Gay Straight Alliance group at the Unitarian church, but I’d rather eat glass than walk into one of those meetings. Yet…I feel I’m getting a little bit closer to being okay with myself in private. I can’t deny that I think about Mariah “that way.” I would just like to take my time before coming out in Shively—maybe fifty years or so? And, of course, the image of my Mom’s disapproving, angry face is easily summoned in my mind.
“Hill, don’t even go there. I just find her—interesting. Let’s go in and see if Dax wants to sit with us today; I’m pretty sure Charity went with her dad to take her sister to the autism clinic in Louisville.”
Dax is a step ahead of us, having det
ermined that Charity is absent, and making himself at home at our lab table.
“So, junior witches. Am I finally gonna get the scoop on your escapades in Jeffersontown? Did you get the whatever-it-was Hillary needed? Did you get huge torturous punishment? Did you win any awards?”
“You moron!” Hill snaps. “You know we got suspended—I told you that part weeks ago.”
I add, “And—no—we didn’t win anything; it would have been on the Morning Bear Walk the next day. I—we—got disqualified.” Dax hands each of us the lab assignment sheet for the day. “Well, there must be something juicy to tell besides what I can guess: you bought the thingy, got caught, got suspended, and got some gruesome punishment from your respective parents.”
We both pretend to be absorbed in the instructions for comparing suspensions and colloids. I’m actually deciding whether to tell Dax about Mariah. Probably Hill is, too.
I take the plunge while Dax is setting up our equipment. “Well, we met this girl—we met her off campus, near the bookstore where we bought the Lasa. But then she was back at the school, too.”
Hill adds, “A couple of things struck me as odd about this person: one—she had a faint but distinct odor, like earth combined with blood.”
Dax gives a burst of laughter and the chemistry teacher glares at our table. “Oh, yeah, Hill. That’s a common odor—easy to recognize, I’ll bet…”
Hillary looks put out. “I know it sounds weird, but that’s what it was. I thought about it on the bus until it came to me. Like if you cut your finger and stuck it in dirt.”
“But I didn’t really smell it, Dax. I did get a sort of—vibe—from Mariah, though. Like something other than a normal real person.”
“Whoa, whoa, ladies. We’re getting a little bit out of touch with reality, aren’t we? I mean, playing around with white magic is one thing, meeting supernatural creatures on school field trips is another,” Dax says. “Although I’m not adverse to a good vampire tale now and then…”
Buried Secrets Page 8
