“I have to?” I ask. “She pulled out my hair.”
“She gets…you know…” Veronica opens her hands in a what-are-we-going-to-do gesture. “She’s ready to talk to you.”
I make a dismissive sound. “Good for her. Then she can apologize to me.”
“Melanie doesn’t apologize,” Veronica says. “It’s just something we put up with.”
Like Daddy. Tiff says we shouldn’t put up with anyone like that anymore.
“I don’t put up with that crap at all,” I say. “If she apologizes, good. If not, no loss to me.”
And then I walk away. I probably should’ve said something about Veronica, like I appreciate the fact she’s talking to me or cares about me or something, but I don’t.
Because I know it’s really not about me and her. Melanie sent her, and Melanie expects her to get results. The fact that I’m not playing will probably get Veronica in trouble, and I should care. I really should.
But Veronica can say no to Melanie just like I did. In fact, Veronica should say no to Melanie, but of course she won’t. Melanie buys her things. Melanie makes her cool. And Melanie takes care of her until, of course, she doesn’t anymore.
Not that Melanie is a horrible person. I know lots of people—male and female—like her back home. Involved in their own stuff, so they don’t see anyone else’s problems at all. Like my dad.
Like me and Brit and Tiff, to be honest. As Interim Fates, we really didn’t understand all the problems other people had. We just saw them as things to be solved, and as things that got in the way of us living our everyday lives.
I sigh and hurry across the school, weaving my way in and out of the corridors, feeling responsible for the first time.
I’m almost to my Literature class when someone grabs my arm for the second time in five minutes. I turn, about to tell Veronica to lay off, when I see the person pulling at me is Agatha, not Veronica.
Great. Two of the three, trying to get me to kiss back up to Melanie.
“I already said I wasn’t going to apologize,” I say, and shake Agatha off.
“Are you talking about Melanie?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say, wondering what she’s playing at.
“Well, I’m not here to talk about Melanie,” she says. “I want to talk about Kit.”
My turn to tilt my head in surprise. I had no idea that Agatha knows Kit.
“I hear you had lunch with him,” she says.
“More like second breakfast,” I say, then realize that sounds worse. Almost dirty, in fact.
She does not look happy. “Stay away from him.”
I frown. I almost say, I had no idea he existed before today, but that’s not entirely true, since I noticed him in class. So the more accurate answer would be I had no idea he even knew who I was. He talked to me. But both of those answers are defensive, and today, I’m not feeling defensive. I’m feeling combative.
“Why should I stay away from him?” I ask.
“He’s mine,” she says.
I feel that jangly sensation I sometimes get when someone tells me one thing and someone else tells me another and both can’t be true. He acted like there was something wrong with M, V, and A. Was it because he had a grudge against them?
“You own him?” I ask.
“You are so literal,” she says. “I’ve made it clear to everyone I’m interested in him.”
“Yeah, so?” I ask, knowing she hasn’t made it clear to everyone or I would have known.
“So stay away from him,” she says.
I step away from her instead. “I’m…” There’s nothing I can say. I suppose I can say no. I suppose I can defend my “relationship” with him. I suppose I can say I didn’t even know his name until this morning, but I’m not going to say any of it.
“I don’t take orders from you,” I say, and realize that sounds petty. But it’s true too. I don’t take orders from her or Veronica or Melanie.
I slip past Agatha and cross the last few meters to class. I’m a little surprised by all of it. I thought Agatha was above the petty stuff that Veronica and Melanie did.
I guess I’m on their bad side now, so I get to see what that really is.
The classroom door is closed and the hallway is empty. I’d been so preoccupied with Agatha, that I somehow missed the screeching bell.
I pull open the door, and the teacher, Mr. Rosenfeld, looks over a book at me.
“Nice of you to join us, Ms. Chandler,” he says in that snotty tone he uses whenever someone is “tardy” (which sounds so much worse than being “late”).
“Sorry,” I say, head down as I move toward the desk I’ve been using.
“We’re discussing the three witches,” he says, “and Shakespeare’s use of magic, the way that modern society has appropriated those witches, and how accurate or inaccurate those portrayals are.”
He says that like I should understand him. I glance up at the analog clock he keeps on the back wall (for him, so he doesn’t have to check his phone or his watch), and see that I’ve only missed three minutes of class. Somehow he had covered a lot in three minutes.
“What do you think of the witches?” he asks.
No one answers. I slide into my desk and pull out the thick book that we’re supposed to read, which I, of course, haven’t even looked into.
“Ms. Chandler?” he says. “What do you think of the witches?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, my face heating as everyone looks at me. “Which three witches?”
“In Macbeth?” He’s as condescending as Fabe can be when we’re discussing music. “You know, Ms. Chandler. The passages you were to read for today. The opening section with the witches.”
“‘Boil, boil, toil and trouble,’” whispers that weird girl from earlier. She’s sitting one seat behind me. Who knew we had classes together?
Obviously, she’s trying to give me a clue, and I’m not getting it.
“Oh,” Melanie says from her seat in the first row. I hadn’t seen her. She shows up so infrequently that I’d forgotten she was in this class. “She probably doesn’t think she needs to study witches. She is one, after all. She says she’s magic.”
The class looks at me. Mr. Rosenfeld doesn’t, though. He’s looking at Melanie. His expression is one of distaste, but he says, “I didn’t call on you, Ms. Martindale.”
“Of course, she can’t do magic,” Melanie says as if he hasn’t spoken, “because her family took her powers away. Poor thing.”
My face is red. I told her that in confidence the first week of school, then laughed it off later as the kind of story I usually tell. I had to think of something, because I realized pretty fast that no one here believed me about the magic.
And I’m still mad that no one, not even Megan, told me before I got here that I shouldn’t talk about magic.
Mr. Rosenfeld sighs. “Ms. Martindale, let’s discuss the play, shall we?”
As he talks gently to her, more gently than he spoke to me when I came into the room, I realize that everyone’s been right; they’re afraid her family will do something to the school if she gets disciplined.
“Oh,” Melanie says, looking at me, with something like hatred on her face. “I thought we were talking about magic.”
I glare at her.
“She just called you a witch,” that weird girl whispers. “Aren’t you mad?”
“Do you have anything to add, Ms. Donato?” Mr. Rosenfeld says to the weird girl. Well, at least I have part of her name now.
She shakes her head and slides down in her seat, trying hard to disappear.
Mr. Rosenfeld turns back to me. “Well, Ms. Chandler? What about the three witches?”
I don’t know anything about three witches in some play or magic being coopted by society, but Veronica did give me good advice that very first week. She said to pretend. I’ll pretend I know something.
“I think that the playwright…” I can’t remember the writer’s name. Dammit.
> That weird girl Donato whispers, “Shakespeare.”
“Shakespeare,” I say, glancing at her, hoping she sees my thank you. And as I say the name, some memory tickles my brain. I decide to ignore it and work on my patter instead. “I think Mr. Shakespeare knew a lot about Greek mythology and he uses it—”
“Oh, there she goes,” Melanie says, “telling us how wonderful Greece is again.”
Everyone in class laughs, except Weird Girl Donato and Mr. Rosenfeld.
“Actually, Ms. Martindale, Ms. Chandler is onto something. Continue, Ms. Chandler.” Mr. Rosenfeld’s not glaring at me. He’s actually looking at me with some kind of interest.
I kind have lost track of where I was. I have to mentally backtrack. I do it as fast as I can. Then, I take a deep breath, and say, “Mr. Shakespeare, he knew that in Greek mythology—”
(I hate saying “mythology,” because it’s actually my life, but I’ve learned no one listens if you don’t add that stupid word.)
“—magical women often come in threes. There are the three original muses, Melete, Mneme, and Aoide, although later more got added because my—um, Zeus’s—well, long story.”
Why do Daddy’s misdeeds always sideline me? I swallow.
Everyone is staring at me, even Melanie, who looks really pleased. I’m probably doing something wrong.
“Then there are the three Graces or Charities,” I say, my heart pounding, “Aglaea, Euphrosyne, and Thalia.”
Mr. Rosenfeld’s mouth is open slightly. He’s clearly surprised I know this stuff. Or maybe he’s surprised I have a brain. Or both.
“And of course, who can forget the three Fates: Atropos, Clotho, and Lachesis,” I say, feeling almost like I can summon them just by saying their names. I try not to put any emotion behind the names, because I’m still a bit conflicted about them. I mean, we took their jobs at Daddy’s insistence, but now they have the jobs back, and I’m worried about revenge, but I also know how hard they try to be fair and I yank my brain back.
Losing track again.
“Very good, Ms. Chandler.” Mr. Rosenfeld actually smiles at me. Then his eyes twinkle for just a second, or maybe I’m imagining that. He turns back to Melanie. “Ms. Martindale, which of those Greek prototypes do you think Shakespeare uses for his witches?”
“You’re saying she’s right?” Melanie says in surprise.
“Shakespeare did know his mythology,” Mr. Rosenfeld says, “which you would know if you bother to read his plays. So, Ms. Martindale, which of those prototypes did Shakespeare use?”
Melanie looks stunned. She hasn’t read anything either.
Mr. Rosenfeld sighs. “Class? Anyone?”
Weird Girl Donato raises her hand.
“Yes, Ms. Donato,” Mr. Rosenfeld says.
“It has to be the Fates,” she says. “Because those three witches foretell Macbeth’s future and scare the crap out of him. The whole play is about his reaction to them.”
I blink as I listen. The Fates. Shakespeare. That memory itches again, even though it’s not complete. Didn’t someone tell us to watch out for writers when we started our job as Interim Fates? Oh, yes, Daddy did. He said writers lie, although he loved the way that British playwright made the Fates into hags, because it really pissed them off.
I want to ask if Shakespeare was British, but I don’t want to draw more attention to myself. So I listen to the conversation, even as Melanie keeps staring at me.
Her stare, and her obvious attempt at intimidation, is pissing me off. I try to summon that internal energy, the one that used to bring up magic with just a thought. If I can, for just a minute, summon one one-hundredth of my old power, I can show her what intimidation really is. I won’t turn her into a frog or anything. I’d make it impossible for her to talk or I’d take away her looks forever or I’d make her into a hag—
“…Ms. Chandler?” Mr. Rosenfeld is talking to me. Ooops.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my cheeks warming again. This blushing thing is beginning to piss me off. “Can you repeat that?”
“Do you think Shakespeare believed in magic or used it as a literary trope?”
I don’t know. But if my family’s to be believed, he knew magic existed. And I can’t say that.
Deflect a question with a question. That’s a good method. I used it a lot as an Interim Fate (or rather, we all did).
I say, “Couldn’t he do both?”
Mr. Rosenfeld grins at me like I’ve done something beautiful. “Yes, he could, and did. He used magic a lot…”
And then he loses me again. That feeling’s gone too, that desire to do something horrible to Melanie. I “bested” her, according to Kit. That should be enough, right?
But it isn’t.
She’s clearly angry and I’m pretty angry, and things have gotten out of control in a way I don’t understand.
The bell rings, and Mr. Rosenfeld shouts out some page numbers, telling us to have those read by the next class. I just might. I’m curious now about this Shakespeare person.
Weird Girl Donato sidles up to me again, and asks in a too-loud voice, “Do you think whenever three women hang out together, they’re aspiring hags?”
She looks at Melanie as she says it. And Melanie doesn’t glare at her. Melanie glares at me.
I find the question as offensive as Melanie does.
“No,” I say to Weird Girl Donato. “I think three women can hang out together and be friends without being called names. I think it’s unfair to call anyone names.”
And then I walk out of the room without letting anyone see how shaken up I actually am.
THIRTEEN
HAGS, AND WITCHES, and a girl I thought was a friend spewing hate at me, and another trying to make me suck up to that girl, and a third yelling at me for stealing a boy who probably doesn’t even know he’s in play. My head aches, and now I have to go home to face Mother.
Or not.
I’m still tempted to run away.
I’m shaking as I make my way to the pick-up area. The car is late. Of course, the car is late. I need to get out of here today, and Ron the Chauffer texts me that he’s having trouble with the boys and will take an extra fifteen minutes.
Kids are milling around me, and M, V, & A are standing on the stairs, watching me. Kit waves from behind them. I can’t wave at him, because then M, V, & A will think I’m waving at them. So I meet his gaze and nod.
Then I decide, screw it. I’ll walk.
I text Ron and tell him what route I’m taking. He can pick me up along the way.
I shove the phone into my purse, mostly because I don’t want to see his response, then I let myself out the gated door on the side of the pick-up area.
This entire part of the side street smells like exhaust. Dozens of cars (and limos) are double-parked, engines running, as they wait for students to come out. I walk past all of them, deliberately not looking at them, and deliberately not looking behind me, even though I hear (or think I hear) someone calling my name.
I make it to the cross street and turn left. It’s amazing to me how the streets in this city all look the same—taxis going by, lots of fast-moving cars, people walking in suits or jeans with their heads down, not making eye contact—and yet the streets all look different, with the different shops and restaurants. Each neighborhood has a feel to it, and this neighborhood isn’t quite as posh as the one I live in. There are some delicatessens that always smell good when I walk by them, and a few coffee shops, some neighborhood grocery stores, and some clothing stores that Melanie always said were too “low-brow” for us, whatever that means.
(Okay, I know it’s not good, but I don’t know what it means. It’s amazing how much I’ve learned from context and tone and how much I miss by not asking questions.)
I shove my hands in my pockets and move with the flow of the people going in my direction. I have my purse and book bag slung over opposite shoulders, like Ron taught me, so I won’t get mugged.
I’m halfway d
own the block, near a small bakery, when Daddy appears about two meters ahead of me. He’s shorter than I remember, especially around all of these New Yorkers, and looks more like a bull than I’ve ever noticed before. Squat face, dark coloring, snapping black eyes. He’s wearing black pants and a white linen shirt that balloons around him. His hands are on his hips.
No one really notices that he has just appeared out of thin air. They just walk around him, like water in a river flows around a rock. (A big, giant, pain-in-the-ass bull-faced rock.)
“You’re ignoring me, little girl,” he says loudly.
One or two people do look at him now, apparently trying to figure out who he’s talking to.
I pivot and join the traffic going the other direction. He still doesn’t know my name. He’s calling me “little girl,” instead of “Crystal.” I think he’s said my name all of three times since I was born.
Tears prick my eyes. I’m not going to let him know that he’s upset me. Because that’s just what I need. Daddy, on top of everything else that’s happened these last few days.
He pops in front of me again. This time, some woman in a power suit and tennis shoes walks right into him.
“Hey,” she says, “watch where you’re going.”
And then she steps around him.
Daddy, of course, ignores her. And everyone else walking by.
“Crystal,” he snaps. “I should not have to call after you like a member of the Faithful.”
The Faithful. Daddy doesn’t have any Faithful any more. No one worships Zeus. Athena has some who still show up at her temple, and Aphrodite has several, mostly because she’s in the cultural zeitgeist, but the Faithful are—at least to me—as mythical as the Greek myths are to my fellow students.
I pivot again, so I don’t have to talk to him.
He pops in front of me a third time, and some guy in wingtips curses as he almost stumbles into Daddy.
“Watch yerself, bub,” the guy says.
“You watch yourself, ‘bub,’” Daddy says. “I’m trying to talk to my daughter here.”
But the guy has already moved on, which seems to anger Daddy. He turns around, hand raised. He’s going to do something stupid.
Crystal Caves Page 11
