Luckily, Archie hangs out with us there so often he knows exactly where Nadine’s locker is. Unluckily, he has a not-so-happy history of spending time in a girls-only facility.
“Before I evolved into the buff gay jock you see before you,” he says, “I was the scrawny geek that the older kids in grammar school used to handcuff to the toilet in the girls’ bathroom.”
His voice sounded brave and not as if he were concealing any repressed pain; it was a period of his life that he’s definitely moved on from. But we had never heard this story before and were not prepared for it. Even though Archie had already confided in me that he once thought about running away, I never took a moment to consider the specific events in his life that would have made him come to that decision.
“The first couple of times I just waited until the janitor found me and broke the lock,” he explains. “But when he realized this fad wasn’t going to end quickly, he taught me how to pick a lock with a straight pin. Let’s just say I’ve had a lot of practice fine-tuning my lock-picking skills.”
At the same time Arla and I reach out and hold Archie’s hands. Nobody says a word, and the only response Archie gives us to indicate that he is grateful for our friendship is that he allows his smile to fade and shows us another piece of his true self. He shows us that even though he’s cheerful and confident now, he wasn’t always that way.
Halfway through our kickball tournament in gym class the next day, our plan was already in motion. While Arla, Nadine, and I were changing into our gym clothes, Archie was telling Mr. Lamatina that he was sick and needed to skip world history to see the school nurse. Lamatina hates interruptions to his daily routine, but he’s also a hypochondriac, so Archie was convinced he wouldn’t be able to deny him the necessary hall pass to get a medical diagnosis.
After the tournament, which incidentally my team won, we retreated into the locker rooms to undress. En route to the showers, I pulled Nadine aside to ask her if anyone at The Retreat suspected an insider had lifted syringes, while Arla lagged behind the crowd to prop open the back door that leads out to the baseball field. Since the field is unused at this time of day, Archie was planning to have a miraculous recovery about ten minutes before the end-of-class bell rang, tell Nurse Nelson that he wanted to return to class to make sure he got the night’s homework assignment, and instead would sneak out of school and into the girls’ locker room. Once inside he would break into Nadine’s locker, take her clothes out, and hide them. Hopefully, she would be too distracted looking for her clothes, let her guard—not to mention her towel—down, and I’d be able to get a good look at her as-yet-unseen tattoo. It was a risky plan, but since Archie is the unofficial risk taker of my Wolf Pack, we all thought it was a risk worth taking.
When Nadine opens up her locker and screams, I know our instincts were right.
“Who took my clothes?!” Nadine shouts.
The voice doesn’t belong to the Nadine of The Retreat, but to the Nadine of her basement. It’s loud and angry and pompous. She isn’t getting ready to administer some TLC to a needy patient; she needs an answer to her question, and she expects it ASAP. To the surprise of everyone except Arla and me, she doesn’t get it.
“Who took my clothes?!” she re-shouts. “You have five seconds to give them back, or so help you, you will be dead.”
A few of the girls gasp, others start to snicker, but I remain silent because I’ve seen Nadine flip out before, at her brother. Unsettling yes, but unpredictable, no.
“Is this yours?”
Standing barefoot in her bra and panties, Rayna Delgado holds up a white polo shirt, the two embroidered W’s on the left chest pocket giving it away that it’s part of our school uniform. There’s nothing on the shirt that identifies it as Nadine’s, but since no one else has been robbed, we all know who it belongs to.
“It was sticking out of the trash,” Rayna says.
Lunging toward Rayna, Nadine clutches her towel to her chest with one hand, and with the other reaches out to grab her shirt. “Give me that!”
Like a slinky matador, Rayna steps out of the way at the last second and raises the polo over her head like a red cape. “You didn’t say if it was yours,” she says, “Garbage Girl.” Her lips form a triumphant sneer as the crowd cheers the impromptu bullfight.
Instead of answering Rayna’s question, which would be the easiest route to reclaiming her clothes, but I guess would also be like admitting defeat, Nadine lunges at Rayna again. This time she forgets about her current attire and flails both arms into the air to retrieve her shirt, the awkward action leaving Nadine not only empty-handed, but empty-toweled too. She’s so livid at Rayna’s defiance that it takes Nadine a few moments for her to realize she’s standing naked in the center of a rowdy group of girls. It takes me less time to see the tattoo just underneath her left hip bone.
Less a cluster and more of a horizontal line, the three stars are in descending size order, the largest being on the outside of her thigh. The tattoo looks exactly like the drawing in Jess’s diary and I assume, with mild revulsion, exactly as it appears on Napoleon’s body as well. Watching Nadine standing there, exposed and defeated and mumbling, the only thing I find more revolting is me.
Unlike when I acted involuntarily under the control of Luba’s spell, this time my actions were calculated. And worse, I made Arla and Archie my accomplices. Together, we reduced Nadine to the broken girl standing in front of me. I can’t change what happened, but I can stop it from escalating.
“That’s enough!” I shout.
My voice doesn’t end the taunting chatter, but it puts a wrinkle in it, so by the time I pick up Nadine’s towel off the floor and wrap it around her, most of the girls have gone back to their lockers to finish getting dressed.
“Give me that,” I say.
Shrugging her shoulders, Rayna hands me Nadine’s shirt. “All Garbage Girl had to do was say that it was hers.”
Digging through the trash bin I find the rest of Nadine’s clothes that Archie put there. I’m so busy examining them to make sure nothing got stained and I’m so disgusted with myself for what I just put Nadine through that I don’t hear Rayna scream until Miss Rolenski barges into the locker room.
“What’s going on in here?!”
I whip my head around expecting to see Rayna and Nadine in a catfight on the locker room floor, but instead several feet separate them. Nadine is standing off to the side next to Arla, while Rayna is sitting on a bench, her leg crossed so her ankle rests on the opposite knee to reveal a bloodied foot.
“I cut myself,” Rayna says, her face wincing in pain.
“On what?” Miss Rolenski asks.
Looking all over the floor, Rayna shakes her head. “I don’t know, but it must’ve been sharp; look at the blood!”
Our gym teacher is young, but she’s tough and was a former all-state softball champion. She’s often shared stories of how she got a black eye or bloody nose from a fly ball or a thrown bat, so she’s far from squeamish. In fact, she appears to be thrilled that it only seems to be a mild injury caused by carelessness and not the result of a squabble that would require a formal visit to Dumbleavy’s office and most likely filling out a ton of paperwork.
“I’ve seen worse,” she says, grabbing a clean towel from the rack and placing it under Rayna’s foot.
Turning her back to leave the room, Miss Rolenski orders, “Now put some clothes on and let’s get you to Nelson.”
While some of the girls help Rayna hobble over to her locker, I give Nadine her clothes back. Watching her pull up her khakis, I remember the real reason we staged this whole break-in in the first place.
“Nice ink,” I remark.
My comment comes without warning, so Arla almost drops her wig before securing it on her head. It doesn’t seem to startle Nadine though, nor does it compel her to hide the truth. Just the opposite, as she offers more information than I thought she would.
“Oh yeah, it’s Orion’s constellation,” she
says, pausing a moment to look at the black stars on her skin before pulling up her pants. “I told you how I love astronomy.”
“Let me see,” Arla insists as she turns Nadine’s body around in case she suddenly gets shy about being exposed. “When did you get it?”
“Defied my mother’s orders and got it for my fifteenth birthday,” she reveals.
Honestly surprised, I reply, “I would never have pegged you for rebel tattoo girl.”
When Nadine laughs, her entire face softens; the silver mist is nowhere to be found.
“Connecticut girls aren’t all about pearls and sensible shoes, you know,” she says. “Connecticut boys, however, are a bit more predictable.”
Instinctively, I know she’s talking about her brother. “Napoleon?” I ask.
“A few weeks later he copied me and got the same one.”
“Why would he do that?” I ask, hoping my voice sounds more casual than I think it does.
“C’mon, Dom,” Nadine replies. “You haven’t figured it out yet?”
“Figured what out?” Arla asks for me since my jaw just kind of dropped.
“That brothers are jerks,” Nadine says, slamming her locker shut.
Relief fills my body, and uncontrollably I get a fit of gigglaughs. I haven’t laughed like this in a while, so even though it’s really not appropriate, it makes me feel good. So does Nadine’s comment.
“And, um, thanks for coming to my aid when you did,” Nadine whispers. “That was really nice of you.”
I think of the time Nadine wiped vomit spittle from my hair. “Just payback.”
This time we both laugh. Arla watches us a bit confused, but I’m sure she’s as relieved as I am that our spy mission has come to an end. We may not have uncovered any earth-shattering information, but at least we can confirm the tattoo Jess described in her diary is real. Maybe this means the whole thing is filled with facts and not fantasies. Not sure about that just yet, but at least we didn’t get caught.
“You dropped this, Nay,” Arla says, handing Nadine a card that must have fallen out of her backpack.
“Oh thanks.”
Before she shoves it back into her bag, I see the handwriting on the pink envelope.
“When’s your mother’s birthday?” I ask.
Smiling, Nadine takes a moment to make sure the card is tucked in between two textbooks, so it won’t get crumpled, before answering. “This weekend.”
“Oh so close,” I reply. “My mother’s birthday is today.”
The entire time we sang “Happy Birthday” to my mother, I couldn’t get over the fact that not only do she and Nadine’s mother look alike, but their birthdays are a few days apart. Something else they have in common, I guess. We’re just about to eat the cupcakes we brought when one of the nurses comes in carrying a bouquet of flowers.
“These were just delivered,” she announces.
When she’s confronted by three quizzical looks, she immediately replies, “Sorry, they came without a card.”
“Weird-looking flowers,” Barnaby remarks.
And he’s right. A round red vase holds a spray of about six white flowers in various sizes, but each one in the same shape. They look like pinwheels or starfish with five pointy petals that are bent so it looks like they’ll spin in a counterclockwise motion. Weird, but pretty.
“What kind are they?” Barnaby asks. I don’t know if he’s suddenly interested in horticulture or is trying to flirt with the nurse.
“Morning glories I think,” she answers.
A strange sensation comes over me; my father’s bemused expression tells me he’s feeling the same thing. These flowers smell very much like my mother’s favorite perfume, Guerlinade; not as powdery, but the unmistakable scent of fresh lilacs has overtaken the room.
Just as the nurse is about to leave, she stops at the door to say something that extinguishes the happy scent, turning it into a scent that rivals The Dandruff King’s natural aroma.
“They have another name too,” she says. “Moonflowers.”
To Barnaby this new name is a cool piece of info; to my father and me, it’s a warning. We’re convinced these flowers were not sent by a loved one or someone whose only motive was to share birthday wishes; whoever sent these flowers wants us to know they know our secret and they know about our curse. Or are we just being paranoid?
“They don’t look like the moon,” Barnaby remarks. “Look more like stars.”
The only thing my father and I get a chance to do is exchange worried, anxious looks across my mother’s bed before the static from his police walkie-talkie fills the room, the sound immediately followed by Louis’s voice.
“Sheriff,” Louis barks. “We found the Wizard of Oz.”
Despite Louis’s cryptic remark, my father remains silent.
“Mason, you hear me?”
Turning his back on the flowers, my father can finally speak. “Yes. Where’d you find him?”
“Ex-wife’s house over in Beatrice,” Louis replies. “Gonna need you to come down and talk to the locals.”
“On my way,” he says, clipping the walkie-talkie back onto his belt. “Let’s go.”
“But we just got here,” Barnaby whines, inhaling the moonflower fragrance deeply.
Something in the sound of my brother’s voice affects my father as if it’s another warning. He’s been so preoccupied with helping and protecting me that he’s been ignoring his son.
“I’m sorry, Barn, but duty calls,” he says.
“Did the Wizard of Oz beat up a munchkin?” Barnaby snaps.
When my father laughs, his face lights up with joy and sadly I feel as if I haven’t seen him happy in forever. Funny, how it’s sometimes so much easier to embrace the dark than it is the light. He keeps smiling as he speaks; he doesn’t want to lose hold of the feeling either.
“It’s shorthand, Barn,” he explains. “Oz means an ounce of drugs, and the Wizard of Oz is a drug dealer.”
“Does that mean Glinda is a happy hooker?” Barnaby asks.
This time we both howl at my brother’s risqué comment. Nadine is half-right; brothers can definitely be jerks, but they can also be inappropriately amusing as well.
“No, Barn,” my father says in between laughs. “We finally caught him, but since he’s been found across state lines I have to go in and make sure he doesn’t get away on a technicality.”
Makes total sense that we have to cut our birthday celebration short, but it still stinks. Until I figure out how to save the party.
“Dad, you go ahead, and I’ll ask Caleb to pick us up.”
My father doesn’t even have to ask if I’m sure that Caleb will come; he knows he can count on my boyfriend. Just like I can count on my father to do the same thing he does every time he leaves my mother’s room: He holds her hand, whispers something in her ear, and kisses her softly on the lips. Neither Barnaby nor I have ever asked him what he tells her; that’s a secret between them.
An hour later I can tell that Barnaby’s had enough and is ready to go. I’m surprised that he’s lasted this long or that he even wanted to stay in the first place, but perhaps as he’s getting older he realizes that our mother’s coma wasn’t her fault. He can’t blame her for leaving us; he can only be thankful she’s still above ground. However, he still hasn’t found the will or the courage to hold her hand and kiss her good-bye. In fact, when I’m finished and ready to leave, Barnaby’s already gone.
“Barnaby?”
My voice echoes off the walls of The Hallway to Nowhere, but isn’t greeted by my brother’s reply. All endearing thoughts of my younger sibling are lost as I walk down the harshly lit corridor in search of him so we can finally leave, and I’m reminded how much of a pest he really can be. And then I’m reminded of something much more important.
“There’s a full moon tomorrow night.”
The woman standing in front of me, the woman who just turned the corner at the same time I reached the end of the hallway, is
old. She’s over sixty at least and could be older, with long, straight black hair and pale, unnaturally smooth skin. Her thin lips are pulled back into a wicked smile, but the rest of her face is blank, especially her eyes. Staring at me are two black circles that would look like marbles if they were reflecting any light.
She’s wearing a thin hospital gown that hangs on her skinny body, and her hair falls down just above her waist. There’s a strong odor coming from her that I can’t place; it’s more familiar than offensive. When she turns to leave I can see that her black hair covers her entire back like a permanent scar. I want to make her stay, but I’m frozen; I can’t move my body or find the words to keep her from leaving. Watching her walk away, I see that the bones in her legs are threatening to jut out from underneath the sheer covering of skin. I can’t tell if she looks more like a zombie or a skeleton. To Barnaby she’s obviously a friend.
“Isn’t she a riot?” Barnaby asks.
I turn around to find him munching on a chocolate bar that he must have just bought at one of the vending machines in the lobby.
“You know her?” I ask.
“Sure,” Barnaby replies. “That was Luba.”
Chapter 21
Remember, Dominy, you are cursed.
“No!” I scream, turning around to stare at the emptiness that once held Luba’s image.
“What’s the prob, Dom?” Barnaby asks. “Luba’s harmless.”
I look around the corner, and no one’s there. This is impossible. The woman whose husband my father killed, the woman who put a curse on my head, is the same woman my brother knows? And the same woman my brother is calling harmless?
It feels as if the walls and the ceiling and the floor are starting to inch closer to me, and with every inch they take away a little more oxygen. My senses begin to contract; my vision, hearing, sense of smell, all diminish, and it feels very similar to how the transformation begins. I feel as if I’m starting to lose control of my body.
Moonglow Page 27
