Buried Secrets

by Ginna Wilkerson

  At this point Hillary goes into the supply room to get our materials, while Dax sets up the test tubes and labels, adding, “What did this non-human girl look like?”

  I answer, “Tall, slim but athletic, kind of—strong.”

  “African-American?”

  “No. In fact, now that I think of it, she was super white.”

  Dax smirks, while starting to measure out the chemicals Hillary fetched from the closet. “Super white? What the hell does that mean?”

  “I guess—just pale skin. Almost like you could see into it, inside. I felt like I could see her veins running under her skin.”

  “Weird. Anything else you noticed?” Hillary looks up from combining substances in the test tubes.

  “Yeah—she talked funny, like a different accent or something—and slowly, as if she had to think of the right words. She described Papa John’s as if she had no idea that it was a pizza place.”

  “Her Facebook page says she’s from Massachusetts; that would explain the accent, right?” Me, attempting to play down Mariah’s difference…

  Hillary seems to have the opposite goal: “And her clothes looked crumpled, like she slept in them. And she had this weird elaborate hair-do, like from an old western movie or something.”

  Dax seems overwhelmed at this point, turning his attention completely to the assignment and in-coming results. He hands me the worksheet and a pen.

  “Here, Em, make yourself useful. I need some time to consider all this Mariah-stuff you’ve both thrown at me.”

  And that was that from Dax. We finish up the assignment successfully, clean our station, and head out to the hallway as soon as the bell rings, all with minimal conversation.

  At home after school, I decide to write something—at least a simple greeting—to Mariah, so she’d know I still want to talk to her. When I get on my laptop, she isn’t on, so I chat with Jessica from home a bit, hearing about Mr. Strange and a dust-up he had with the cat next door. Suddenly, Mariah Warren appears in the message list.

  Hi, Mariah. Remember me? Red hair—from Shively.

  A long pause.

  Emelia. Yes. You were worried about getting in trouble.

  I send a worried face emoticon.

  No shit. We did, for sure.

  Another agonizing pause. I think about Hillary’s comment earlier today about Mariah sounding like she doesn’t know what to say. Could she be mentally challenged? No. There’s another explanation—I just haven’t figured it out yet.

  I try again. What’s happening at Jeffersontown High lately? A safe enough topic….

  Mariah writes back: The boys won a ball game—everyone was excited about that.

  Do you like football?

  Yes, it looks very enjoyable.

  What?

  I wish I could learn to play it.

  Not that she doesn’t look athletic enough, but—at least in Kentucky—girls don’t play football. Period.

  Well, I guess it probably is fun—for the boys. I have no idea what else to say. I’m about to just give up and do some writing, when Mariah writes a new line:

  I got my hair cut yesterday.

  Wow! Do you like it? How short is it?

  Short—almost like a boy. It shocked me at first, but I’m getting used to it. It feels wonderfully light.

  I would love to see it. Can you send a pic?

  Long pause. Another problem?

  I will try to do so, Emelia. It may take a few days…

  No prob. I’ll bet it looks dope. Gotta go—homework.

  Yes, I understand. Thank you for talking with me.

  And she’s gone. More weirdness. It’s like she doesn’t know how to take a selfie with her phone and post it. Or maybe she doesn’t have a phone. Where does she live, anyway?

  And the football thing…? I know this sounds outlandish, but it almost sounds like she just dropped down here in Western Kentucky from another planet—or another time…

  I can hear Hillary in my head fussing at me about Mariah again. I’m not calling Hill now, exactly for that reason. I want to think about Mariah on my own for a bit. In fact, I’m purposely putting this P.M. conversation in the back of my mind and writing a poem. For Mariah—though she’ll probably never see it.

  Proposal

  I stole her away from He

  with the scruffy hair

  and beginner’s beard

  using my wit and charm.

  Wink, fingers brush,

  hips slide together

  on a concrete bleacher—

  flung-together kiss in the ladies room.

  We’ll be married, she says.

  I’ll study physics

  or tap dancing—

  she’ll raise the children.

  I’m sketching her wedding gown

  for a strawberry-sugar smile.

  All I really want is her lingering

  lips—slender heat in my bed.

  Chapter 22: Making Changes

  I have a new hair style. It wasn’t easy to accomplish this feat without revealing my undead identity; I did it for Emelia, so perhaps she will not see me as so different from other Kentucky kids. We have begun to write each other regularly on the computer, especially since I learned about email from watching Mr. Perry and the others in the computer place. Now we can talk to each other and learn to be friends without my differences being such a barrier. Of course, some day, I want to see her in person. If I am truthful, I want to do more than see her; those flashing eyes and floating red hair call to me when I am alone in my dwelling at night.

  I knew I needed to make myself look more like the other seventeen-year-olds here; the clothes were not difficult now that I can find things out from the computer. One trip to the Goodwill was all I needed to get the trousers called jeans and some shirts of soft cotton—so much more comfortable than the clothing from my long-ago human life. Wearing the jeans, T-shirt, and flat shoes called sneakers, I am more certain than ever that I could play the game of football. More importantly, I think I could meet Emelia and blend in fairly well, especially with my short haircut.

  The haircut! What difficulty this had presented. Vampires have no reflection in the looking glass—mirror—and I quickly discover on the internet that places that cut hair have huge mirrors all over. Impossible for me.

  It takes some time, but I keep my ears open as I walk in the hallways and use the computer in Mr. Perry’s room. One afternoon, the girl called Santina tells her friend this:

  “My mom trimmed my hair last night—how does it look?”

  Her friend answers, “Not bad, really not bad.”

  “She’s always cut my brother’s hair, but I never had the nerve to let her do mine.”

  “Seriously, I think she could do it for a living. Do you think she could cut mine? I’ve been wanting a shorter bob kind of cut—you know…”

  Santina smiles and says, “I’ll ask her. I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

  Even though I’m terrified, this is too convenient an opportunity to pass up. I swallow hard and open my mouth before I can change my mind.

  “Santina, right? I’m Mariah.” Both girls stare at me like I might look at a rat from which I’m about to feed. I push on…

  “I really need a haircut, and I just heard you say something about your mother cutting hair.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, I know you don’t know me, but I’ve been here in the—Computer Lab—almost every day this spring. Mr. Perry can tell you.”

  “And?”

  She is not making this easy!

  “Well, I—I live in a foster home, and there isn’t much money for haircuts and such—extras. Is there any way I could pay your mother to cut my hair at your house? I do really need it.”

  They both look at my hair and then at each other.

  Santina says, “I don’t know….we don’t even know you really….” And the other girl, named Carys, nods.

  Me: “I realize that—I’m sorry to ask—I would be mo
st respectful of your home and your mother. And most grateful to you.”

  Santina’s face looks a bit softer at this. “Okay, Mariah. I’ll ask her. Could you pay five dollars? That’s much less than a regular salon cut, you know. And Mom would probably get a kick out of making you look…more stylish.”

  For a vampire with no actual blood circulating, I feel a bit warmer at the idea of going to this girl’s house. And the possibility of getting a hair style of which Emelia will approve. I’m determined not to put a picture of myself on Facebook until I look like I belong in modern Kentucky.

  * * * *

  The next day, I go to Mr. Perry’s room and hope Santina will be there. I wait for a while, looking at the photos on Emelia’s page; finally, she comes in. She has a smile for me, and then this: “Okay, Mariah—it’s cool. You can come over tonight after dinner—7:00 P.M. My mom thinks it’ll be fun to give you a new look. I kinda told her your old one wasn’t working for you…” And she laughs. I laugh with her. It feels really friendly.

  Santina hands me a paper with directions to her house from the school; I had told her earlier I really didn’t want to tell where I live. This foster home story seems believable to the people here, and it gets me out of situations that might reveal me. I plan to hang on to it…

  So that’s how I get a haircut for Emelia: sitting on a stool in Santina’s family kitchen. It’s enjoyable to talk to Santina and her mom; there is a younger sister, Gracie, who stays around to watch the transformation. And quite a transformation it is! When Mrs. Ramon is finished, I reach up to my head and feel short wavy wisps all over, just touching my neck and forehead. Santina and Gracie have big smiles of approval on their faces.

  Gracie says, “Oh, Mariah—you look excellent—so cute!”

  And Mrs. Ramon adds, “Well, Chiquita, not bad, if I do say so myself.”

  I have one dangerous moment when Santina offers to bring me a mirror so I can see my new look. I try not to panic, but to think fast.

  “No, that’s okay. I really need to get back before the curfew we have at my foster home. I can check it out there.” And then, to make sure their feelings aren’t offended—“It feels absolutely wonderful, and I’m very grateful for you taking the time.”

  Mrs. Ramon pats me on the shoulder. “No need to thank me. It was a learning experience for me. And you seem like a sweet girl. I’m glad to help.”

  At this, I remember the five dollars in gold coins in my pocket. I have a story to cover this oddness at the ready, but I do not need it after all. When I put my hand in my pocket, Mrs. Ramon immediately shakes her head.

  “No, Mariah—you save your money for something else you need—stuff for school, or make-up or something. There are so many things young girls need these days…” And she looks a bit melancholy at this. Though the truth of my living space is quite different from a foster home, it is not hard for me to relate. In reality, Mary Warren was a foster child—an orphan taken in to help with the chores—back in Salem Village.

  I take my leave from the Ramon house, grateful for my new look, and my still-hidden vampire identity. Now the next project is to find a way to take a picture…

  Chapter 23: Worst Witch Ever

  Emelia keeps going on and on about this girl Mariah—the one we met on the conference trip to Jeffersontown. The more I think about it, the more I know there’s something totally weird about this girl. Still, Emelia seems fascinated and attracted to this person. I talked to Dax about it when Emelia went to the restroom during lunch; he agrees that something’s weird, even creepy. The odd speech, the smell, her old-fashioned hair, the lack of content on her FB page: not normal. I wish Em could just forget Mariah and find herself some regular teenaged lesbian to fall in love with. Not that this would be easy in Shively…

  Today at school, Emelia announces that Mariah now has a picture on FB, and that she has a cool new short haircut. Like this is supposed to make everything okay. As soon as I get home, I check out Mariah’s page; her profile pic is now a fuzzy headshot of an unsmiling, pale Mariah with a short and choppy Miley Cyrus haircut. I’m contemplating this latest development as I come downstairs for dinner. The entire family, for once, is present and accounted-for.

  As soon as we all get seated and Pop says the blessing, the clatter of passing and serving begins. Tonight’s offering is pork chops, green beans, mashed potatoes (from a mix, though Mama would never admit it,) and applesauce. Not my favorite, but no real complaint. We’re all eating quietly, Roger and I having given brief reports on our school day, when Ri-ri starts bouncing in her seat like she has some major news to tell us.

  Mama says, “Patrice, what is it? And calm down; we’re all going to listen to you.”

  Ri-ri rushes headlong into her story. “You know what? I know something interesting.”

  Pop gives her a nod and a smile, as if to encourage her.

  “You know Rashesh Narwani, in my kindergarten group? Well, his mom is going to have a baby! And the weirdest part is that he has a big sister who’s Hill’s age, in high school.”

  Roger opens his mouth as if to speak, but Ri-ri cuts him off. “And a big brother older than that even—he’s twenty and goes to UK. Mrs. Narwani must be at least as old as you, Mama. Imagine…”

  I stare at Ri-ri with my mouth open, willing her to leave out anything in this story that might touch on spells or rabbit shadows. Meanwhile, Mama says, “That is interesting, sweetie.” And then to Pop, “Poor Sara, she must be worried sick. Not only about having an infant to care for again, but the risks of a late pregnancy like that…”

  Pop shrugs and looks uncomfortable; talk of babies and pregnancy is not his thing. Roger just looks embarrassed. But Ri-ri is now on a roll.

  “It’s funny that she should be having a baby now.” I stare at her again and put my finger to my lips to hush her up. Neither this gesture nor my evil stare have any effect on the little monster.

  “It’s funny because Hillary and I were talking about rabbits, and how people can be like animals. Rabbits have lots of little bunnies, don’t they?” Mama looks at me with raised eyebrows. It’s not that common for Ri-ri and me to have a conversation important enough for her to remember. I shrug and shake my head, as if to say that I have no clue what the little monster is talking about.

  Mama looks like she’s going to say something to Ri-ri, but before she can, Ri-ri goes on, “If a person was to be like a rabbit, she would probably have lots of babies, too, right Hill?”

  This line of convo has to be stopped before she tells the entire story.

  “Patrice.” Her head snaps around to stare at me—I never call her by her real name. “That’s interesting about Rashesh and all, but maybe you could tell us something about Cameron’s pet rabbit. Where does she keep it? In a cage or outside?”

  This totally works. Ri-ri forgets all about the reproductive habits of both bunnies and Indian ladies and describes Poofer’s cage in elaborate detail. We all listen with rapt attention, especially me. This leads to Roger telling something his teacher said about zoo animals and their habitats, and I’m off the hook.

  After dinner, I’m up in my bed reviewing the spell Ri-ri helped with earlier. I soon realize that I completely misread the instructions; the witch is supposed to cast the animal shadow directly on the person. So T.K. is under no spell at all, and Mrs. Narwani’s surprise conception has nothing to do with Stregheria or me. I am an idiot. I’m officially the worst witch in Kentucky, probably in the whole US of A. Shit!

  I flop over onto my back and stare at the swirl pattern on my ceiling. I wanted to learn to be a witch mostly to honor my nona. And I’ve failed at it. I probably didn’t even do anything to protect Emelia—after that spell by the pond, she still got kicked out of the writing conference because of me, and she met Mariah. Em is in more danger now than she was before. Double shit! Now what?

  I flop over again and see my writing group notebook on the floor beneath my desk. Maybe, just maybe, I have a workable idea. I could use the g
roup to help me write the true story of Nona: her childhood in Italy, going to school in New York, moving to Kentucky, and all the stuff she knew about the Old Religion. It’s a thought anyway.

  I need to talk to Em about it, but I’m too tired tonight. Tomorrow at school…

  Chapter 24: Hints from the Past

  So Hillary has decided it might be safer and more productive to write her grandmother’s story than to practice witchcraft in her honor. Somehow I picture Nona Calvano up there in heaven kissing St. Peter’s feet in relief. Hill, Goddess bless her, was not the most efficient of witches. Of course, we can still be believers in Diana and all that; personally, Christianity hasn’t treated me all that well as a belief system. In fact, considering my mom’s enthusiasm about sending me to Woodhaven Academy, I’m pretty down on the whole Christian faith right now, especially Southern Baptists. I’d be happy to go with a more nature-based spirituality, just as long as my mother never finds out.

  Anyway, most of my attention these days is on Mariah. We’ve been messaging for a while now, but I still don’t really know much about her. She says she lives in a foster home, and that she lost her parents a long time ago. She likes sports a lot, especially anything involving a ball. She doesn’t have any pets, but she likes cats and used to have one back in Salem before her mother died. As far as school subjects, she likes history, and seems to know a lot about American colonial history. None of this is particularly weird or scary, as I try to tell Hillary at lunch.

  “Really, Hill, I know it isn’t lots of info, but what I do know is kind of normal. From her emails, she seems to be a decent writer, too. I like that.”

  “Well, sure—that’s good—of course you would appreciate someone who also communicates well in writing. Something you have in common.”

  This is a big concession from Hillary, who has disliked my interest in Mariah from the get-go.

  “Yeah, and she has a sense of humor—even when she talks about what happened to her as a child back in Salem. I think she makes light of things because she lost her parents at an early age and has been a foster child ever since.”