by M. D. Archer
“Good. Are you friends again?”
“Uh… no. We had a big fight.”
“With Piper? What about?”
I look down. “It’s a blur.”
“Yeah, your voice mail was pretty rambling.”
“I, uh… don’t remember that either.”
“What’s up with you anyway? Why did you get so drunk?” Chris comes around the kitchen counter but stops a few feet away. I’m grateful because I don’t think I can handle him any closer. Everything is in surround sound and smell. This is the last day that Chris should be wearing that shirt, he recently ate ham, and I can hear the scratching sound of his fingernails against the denim of his jeans as he fidgets.
“Some of the stuff you said…” Chris shakes his head. “Didn’t make sense.”
My stomach flips.
“You said you weren’t sure about some things… you didn’t understand it… you didn’t know what you should do.” Chris takes another hesitant step in my direction.
About what though? Being Lucan, or about us?
“I was tanked. I don’t remember what I said.” I look at my hands as I search for a way out of this. Maybe I don’t have to lie. “I have these doubts… about school. I don’t think it’s right for me, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
“Oh.” Chris nods, relaxing. “But it’s not that bad, is it? I mean, can’t you just push through? You can get a diploma in two years.”
Irritation courses through me. Two years?
“Whatever, I guess. Chris, I… I feel like horseshit and I can’t deal with a lecture about my future right now.”
“Fine. I’ve got stuff to do anyway. Just thought I should check in with you.” Chris’s eyes flick to me then away.
Maybe my message made more sense than he is making out.
“Look—”
“Chris—”
We need to talk, I know this, and even though a second ago I wanted him to back up, now I need him close. I need his familiarity. I need his security. I need something to ground me, to pull me back to earth, to stop the feeling that I’m spiraling out of my body into nothingness.
I step toward him and pull him to me. He frowns. And at the same time as I wonder how I can be so contradictory, I’m overtaken by want. I bury my face into his neck. He turns away, confused, and faces the counter, but I press against his back and kiss his neck. I don’t smell the mustiness of his shirt anymore. I smell him. He leans into me and I can hear his heartbeat, which is starting to increase as his body responds to mine.
“You are so warm,” he says.
“Mmm?” I say, running my hands under his T-shirt as I continue to nuzzle his neck.
“Tam, what’s up with you?”
“Nothing.” I take his hand and pull him into his bedroom. “Is there a problem?” I ask, kicking the door shut, not needing to wait for him to verbalize his response.
LEAVING HIM SLEEPING, I slip out of his apartment, feeling awful, as if I tricked him. I don’t know what happened back there. I wasn’t entirely in control of myself.
Exhausted, I go home and straight back to bed.
When Mom opens my door a few hours later, I bury my face in my pillow to stop the assault of her perfume. I focus my attention on blocking out this bit of sensory input, telling my brain to ignore the signals from my nose, and I’m pleased when it works. She takes a step inside my room.
“Are you feeling okay?”
“I think I might be getting sick.”
“Symptoms?”
“Uh, sore throat, headache, tired, sore joints.”
“Hmmm. Were you at Chris’s last night?”
I nod my lie.
“What about dinner? Are you hungry?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh,” Mom says.
“You’re supposed to feed a cold and starve a fever,” I call out as she turns to go. I want to skip dinner just to show Mom, but I can’t resist the meaty stew smells that waft up half an hour later. When I get downstairs, Dana is there, leaning against the counter chatting to Dad as he stirs dinner, a tea towel thrown over his shoulder. Dad grins hello.
“Tam, how’s it going?” Dana says brightly.
“Bit under the weather actually,” I say, letting a hint of sarcasm enter my tone. I thought I was being subtle, but Mom’s head whips around to me.
“Let’s take a quick walk before dinner. It’ll make you feel better,” Dana says.
“No thanks.”
“Tam, you have to listen to me. It’s important. I need to tell you about the full moon. It’s only a few days away.”
I freeze, still unused to being communicated with like this. Still unprepared to accept it as a normal part of life.
Mom frowns. She has definitely noticed.
“Tam, you have to listen to me.”
“Stop it!” My response is instinctive. Dana looks at me in surprise.
“Perhaps you should catch up with Tamzin another time, Dana. She isn’t well.” Mom comes over and places a hand on my shoulder. Dana opens her mouth, but then changes her mind.
“Okay. Talk to you later.”
She’s not going to drop it, I get it, but my response is to lean into Mom.
After dinner, Dad does the dishes while Mom and I go for ice cream.
We used to do this kind of thing and hang out all the time when I was younger. At age eleven, when I broke both my leg and my arm attempting a backflip dismount from the monkey bars, Mom took time off work to look after me. We got through three seasons of Gilmore Girls before I had to go back to school, and our GG references and inside jokes continued for ages. It was only two or three years after that the almost daily fights started. I don’t really understand what happened. Dad says we are too much alike.
We amble down the road. Mom asks about Chris—she loves Chris—and I answer, keeping it light and misleading. She tells me about the real estate market and I try to stay interested. We talk a bit about Dad’s boss and why he can’t quit, and then we come home with Chunky Monkey and settle with Dad in front of the TV to binge-watch Stranger Things. I love the retro style and the low-level scariness. Mom and Dad enjoy it on another level, reminiscing about BMXs and being kids in the 80s, roaming around the neighborhood. It’s so nice to feel like part of a normal family, to not think about last night, or about being Lucan—whatever that means—that I fall asleep snuggled into Mom on the couch.
I’m not positive, but I think Dad took a photo of us.
Chapter 5
This afternoon is the anatomy test, and I have never been so underprepared for anything in my life, but I’m still going to go, because what else can I do?
I turn the textbook page and take another gulp of coffee. This is my tenth hour of studying. I’ve been sitting here, swilling coffee, trying to cram information into my brain since 2:00 a.m. Fatigue gnaws at me, only being held at bay by the continuous stream of caffeine.
“Tamzin?” Mom calls from the hall. She opens the door, beaming, “Oh, look at you, working so hard!”
“Hey.” I drop my pen and lean back, pushing my arms up into a stretch. “How come you’re home?”
Once again it smells like she took a bath in perfume, but if I focus...
“Lunch. I have a listing nearby.” She pauses. “Are you busy? Is that important?” She points at the textbook. “Do you want to go to Dante’s Deli?” Her eyes, lined with expertly applied eyeliner and eyeshadow, are uncertain. “If you’re busy, it’s fine…”
“Uh…” I glance at the time. I’m starving and I don’t think I can shove any more information in anyway. My brain will start leaking. “Okay. I have a thing later, but yeah, lunch sounds good.”
Her face lights up. “Great.”
Dana and I go to lunch all the time—is Mom jealous?
An hour later, we’re walking down the street where Piper and I had our fight. Across the road is the bodega I nearly barfed outside.
When we enter the deli, I brace myself for a sensory ass
ault, but it doesn’t come. It’s nearly three-quarters full, but the smells and noises aren’t overwhelming. This must be the kind of fluctuation Dana was talking about. I catch myself—am I really seriously considering what she said as if it’s not completely nutso?
The waitress, wearing a charming smile but with distracted eyes, seats us and pours water. I suck mine back.
“Tell me about your classes. Are you still enjoying them?”
Still? Had I given Mom the impression that I was enjoying school? My phone beeps. Saved.
“It’s Dana,” I say. It’s another text saying we have to talk. It’s important. I put my phone face down on the table. “Hey, Mom, did you always want to be a real estate agent?”
“Oh, well, it wasn’t my burning passion. It was something I could study for at home and do without a degree,” she admits. “I was only twenty-one when you were born, so I had to do things in a different order. And I needed the flexibility, because of…” She gestures at me.
“And do you like it?”
“Yes, it’s fine.”
“Huh.” I study the menu. I guess it’s pretty cool that she can make her own schedule and have spontaneous lunches like this.
“Your job doesn’t have to be your passion, you know, Tamzin. Now, do you know what you want to eat?” Mom says brightly.
My phone beeps again.
“Dana?” Mom asks. I nod. “Do you want to invite her?” Her voice is tight.
“No. Let’s just keep it us.”
The look of relief on her face makes my heart hurt.
APPREHENSION RUMBLES THROUGH me.
Mom dropped me off on campus half an hour ago, but now, with the test starting in ten minutes, I still can’t go inside. My classmates stream past me. Someone asks if I’m coming in, and I wave them away. I can’t move. Do I have a shot at passing? Maybe not, but if I don’t go in and at least try, then what? The combined energy of all the people filing into the hall is making me feel wobbly, but I get carried along by it and find myself inside the exam room.
I take a seat at the back and on the outer edge of a row. I jiggle my leg as the proctor paces in front of the room barking instructions I can’t focus on. All I can hear is the rustles, scratches, coughs, sighs, and sniffs of the hundred other people in this room. I place my head in my hands, close my eyes, and try to find a way to focus. When there’s a sudden burst of activity around me, I realize the exam has begun. I turn over the paper and start reading. It might as well be in hieroglyphics. But that isn’t even the biggest problem—it’s the nervous energy radiating off the girl beside me… and the guy in front of me. I’ve tapped into it. I’m streaming it, mainlining it, or something. Whatever it is, I can’t handle it. I’m going to pass out. Breathing shallow, chest tight, I lurch out of my chair. One of the proctors starts toward me, hand raised, and I shake my head. I can’t do it. I stumble to the front, grab my bag, and get out of there.
A KNOCK ON the door wakes me. Dammit. I had come straight home, intending to make a plan for how I was going to salvage my life, but I had fallen asleep almost immediately.
“Come in.” I already know it’s Dad.
He takes a seat on the edge of my bed, scratching his jaw, the beginnings of stubble making a harsh grating noise. I focus on not listening to this.
“Dinner’s in half an hour.”
“How is work?” I sit up. “Is your boss still being a you-know-what?” I don’t know why Dad came in here, but I don’t think it was for chitchat.
Dad shakes his head slowly, meaning yes.
“Can you report him to someone higher up?”
“It’s complicated. Office politics, you know,” he says then hesitates, maybe realizing that I wouldn’t know. I can guess though. It’s probably just like high school, with cliques and bullies.
“So, Tam, I heard you come in the other night. It wasn’t your stealthiest moment.”
I gulp, cringing as I look down. “Sorry. Yeah. It was, uh… a night out that got… uh… a bit out of hand.”
“Just… it’s not a good idea, you know?” Dad is so awkward. Mom is usually the one doing the overt parenting, but she obviously didn’t hear me and Dad doesn’t want to tell her. I’m totally on board with that.
“Is everything okay?”
“Uh…” I want to say something, but what? Well actually, Dad, everything is a pile of shit. I wasn’t doing so well already, and on top of that, it turns out I’m not totally human.
“School isn’t—”
“Hi, you two. What are you talking about?” Mom smiles as she appears around the doorway. I smile back. We haven’t gone this long without fighting in years. Looking at both their faces, their kind and interested parental expressions, I feel like I can talk to them.
“I, uh, I’m not doing so well in anatomy class.”
“What do you mean, not doing so well?” In an instant, Mom’s voice hardens.
“Uh…”
“Tamzin?”
“I just don’t think I got a very good mark on the test today.”
Understatement of the year.
“The test? Was that the ‘thing’ you had this afternoon?” Mom’s eyes are steely. “Should you have been studying instead of having lunch with me?”
Irritation builds in my belly. No fair. That was for her.
“When do you find out?”
“Two or three weeks?”
I could tell her my grade now if she wanted.
“Hmmph.”
Anger.
“Tam.” Dad pats my hand. “Look, this time of life, these days anyways, it can be difficult to know what path to take, but you just kind of have to knuckle down. Just get through it and find your way ahead. Life isn’t all about having fun, travelling the world, and having dream jobs. Sure, go after something that you enjoy, but get on with it. You can’t just drift around forever.”
“Sure, Dad.”
Mom remains silent, regarding me with suspicious eyes.
“You can do anything you want to, you know. You just have to put your mind to it, stick at it,” Dad continues.
I know he means it—he wants the best for me—but does he know how hard it is to concentrate on something you have no interest in? Actually, when I think about his job as some manager dude at some random company, I think maybe he does. But I’m not like him. I’m not patient and nice and able to take crap that other people dish out. And is that really what I’m supposed to do? Just get a qualification, get a job, and then go to some place day after day in some soul-crushing approximation of living life?
“Your father is right,” Mom joins in. “You can do whatever you put your mind to, but the bit he will never say to you is, stop being such a lazy slob.”
I look at her in surprise.
“But I will. There is a time limit on this, Tamzin.” She gestures around the room, like my bedroom is going to cease to exist at some point in the near future. “I’m not going to let you mope around screwing up or dropping out of one thing or another. You need to put some effort in and make whatever you do a success.”
Wow. Truce officially over.
“Get out of bed and come down to dinner,” she says to finish the conversation, collecting Dad as she turns away.
I stay where I am, unable to move because I’m trembling with anger. Who was I kidding thinking Mom was on my side? I want to follow her downstairs and….
I need to get out of here.
Hands shaking, I leap out of bed and go to my closet. After a brief rummage, I throw on running shoes that I last used almost a year ago, leggings, a tank, and a sports bra that has definitely seen better days. I leave by the front door so Mom doesn’t have a chance to stop me.
Almost instantly, I break into a run. Incredibly, my neglected muscles remember immediately what they need to do and they respond. Contract, flex, contract—they work rhythmically as my brain festers. I’d thought we were getting on, but then Mom showed her true colors. Or reminded me of them. Mom doesn’t unders
tand me at all, obviously, and she doesn’t understand anything I’m going through.
I find myself at the base of the Lakeview Hills, and without even a moment’s hesitation, I bound up, taking long strides, my pace not slowing. My chest starts to burn only when I reach the first plateau. Once there I pace, letting my body cool down. At the viewing platform, I look out over the city, inhaling deeply. My anger, hurt, and frustration is melting away. In my new calm state, I can admit to myself that I can feel myself changing. I’ve been pushing everything Dana told me down, but now… I don’t want to ignore it anymore. I can almost feel my cells adapting, updating, and upgrading. I inhale again, picking up and zeroing in on two people striding toward me, still two hundred feet away. A man and a woman, adults but younger than fifty. How do I know that? I shake my head. It’s crazy. How can I believe and not believe something at the same time?
Not ready to return home yet, I jog down the hill and then along Marshall Street heading toward Lakeshore Drive, where there is space to pick up some speed. I’m not the only one out here going on a night-time run, but it’s dark, with only sporadic street lighting, so I can let loose. I extend my legs, reaching maximum stride, my muscles pulling and tightening to propel me forward. My hair, pulled loose from its ponytail, streams behind me as my arms pump alongside my body and I enter that unique state of effort and ease. Panting, sweating… God this feels good.
Where now? Downtown. I want the rush, the energy, the buzz of the central city.
As I reach the outskirts of the central business district, a cry stops me in my tracks.
“No! Don’t.”
I get a whiff of something that is instantly recognizable even though I have never been able to smell it before. Fear. It’s coming from somewhere to my left. I cross the road, heading toward the voices—and the smells—and turn down a dead-end alley with a few shops and a liquor store.
“Stop moving!” says another voice, muffled, angry.
“Please don’t hurt me.”
A bell rings when I enter the store, which is dingy and dark except for the florescent lights casting a weak bluish light sporadically around the interior. At the counter, a man with frightened eyes is standing behind an open cash register. I don’t need to move to know that there is another man standing just out of sight behind a stack of brightly colored packets of chips. I can hear and smell his adrenaline-fueled breath. And I can smell something else radiating from his body. I don’t know enough about drugs to pinpoint it, but he is definitely using some sort of chemical to run interference in his life.
