Moon Rise

by Marilee Brothers

  "Oh my God, Beck Bradford is hot!"

  "I can't believe he's with Allie Emerson."

  "Isn't she still hot for Junior Martinez?"

  "What a skank!"

  "He'll dump her in a week."

  We zipped past Nicole Bradford and her cool friends, heading for the Dairy Queen. She smirked and said, “Hey, Bro, what are you doing with her? Nothing good, I bet."

  She turned to her friends and murmured something under her breath. They all laughed and gave me knowing looks. I stopped and took a step toward the group, my face hot with anger.

  "I didn't quite hear you. What did you say, Nicole?"

  Beck ignored his sister and took my arm. “Nikki's just being a twit. As usual. Don't let her get to you."

  At Beck's words, Nicole's friends sobered quickly and watched as Beck led me away. I felt Nicole's eyes burning into my back.

  "Why does your sister hate me?"

  Beck shook his head. “She doesn't hate you, she hates what she is. It's kinda hard to hang with the cool girls when she changes into something not fully human after dark. She acts like a snob because she thinks that's what they want to hear."

  My snort of disbelief let Beck know I had a hard time feeling sorry for Nicole Bradford.

  He slipped an arm around my shoulders. “I know, it doesn't make sense, but try to be patient. She'll come around."

  Yeah, I thought as Beck unlocked the Ranger and opened the door for me. About the same time my mother has a boyfriend with an IQ higher than a mushroom.

  Beck slipped into the driver's seat and closed the door. He opened his lunch sack and pulled out what looked like a meatloaf sandwich. He unwrapped it carefully and offered me half.

  I waved it away in exasperation. “What did you find out?"

  He took an enormous bite and practically swallowed it whole. “Sorry.” He chomped down on the sandwich again. “I'm starving."

  "And...?” I could hardly wait for his answer.

  "It's what I thought.” He took another big bite.

  Boys and their stomachs! It was like he had a ravenous tapeworm living inside him. “Beck. Put-down-the-sandwich. Tell me why I have the demon mark."

  "It's because you're wearing the moonstone."

  I scowled. “And?"

  Beck said, “I remembered reading about demons being driven out of people using exorcism. I looked it up on the Internet. When a demon exited a person's body, it left a mark like a tattoo. An exit mark. In your case, a forked fate line, like mine. It happened when you put the moonstone on after you went home last night. It drove the demon dust, or whatever you want to call it, out of your body."

  Next test. I asked, “So, if I take the moonstone off, will the mark go away?'

  Beck shook his head. “I don't think so, but you can try if you want."

  I removed my necklace and set it on the seat between us, making sure it didn't touch any part of my body. Holding my breath, I looked at my palm. “Nope,” I said. “It's still there."

  Before he stuffed the rest of his sandwich in his mouth, Beck said, “Yeah, I think it's permanent."

  "So, according to your theory, the moonstone drove your demon influence out of my body."

  Beck took my hand and skimmed a finger along my fate line. I gave an involuntary shiver. He smiled. “Yes, the moonstone made it happen. The mark means the demon stuff is gone."

  Confession time. “Yep, that's what I found out too."

  One eyebrow shot up. “You did your own research? You don't trust me?"

  "Hey, I'm the one with a brand-new demon mark on my hand. Did you think I'd just sit back and think, ‘No problem. I'll let big old hunky Beck handle it?’”

  He flushed and dropped my hand. “So, this was like a test?"

  "No,” I said. “Not like a test. It was a test. The good news is, you passed. You told me the truth."

  When he looked at me, his eyes were filled with regret. “Allie, please believe me. I didn't know that would happen. I'm so sorry."

  I looked at my hand, then at Beck. “Do you think the mark will grow? If we ... you know, get too close to each other like last night?"

  Apparently emotion riled up his tapeworm, because Beck opened a plastic bag of cookies. “I don't think so."

  "Oh,” I said in a small voice. “But, it might."

  He popped two cookies in his mouth and pondered my question.

  "Because,” I said. “I really, really don't think I could handle that along with all the other things I've got going on."

  Beck inhaled his last cookie. “Actually, I have a second theory about the moonstone. Wanna hear it?"

  I nodded.

  "I think the moonstone acts as a shield. Sort of like mosquito repellant."

  "Hmmm.” I was warming to the notion that the moonstone could protect me. But, maybe that's what Beck wanted me to believe. We were back to the issue of trust. Speaking of which, I had one more question.

  "If the mark is left by the demon leaving a person's body, doesn't the mark on your palm mean your demon has left your body too?."

  Beck said, “No, it's different for me and Nicole. The demon entered our mother's body and left its imprint on Nicole and me ... along with its DNA, if demons have DNA."

  I felt a prickle of apprehension as I stared at my fate line. “So, we don't know for sure if the moonstone will protect me from you."

  Beck must have sensed my uneasiness, because he gave me a dark look, full of promise. “We could test it out. Like an experiment. When you're wearing the moonstone and I kiss you, if the line stays the same, we'll know it works. The moonstone keeps the demon out. But if the mark grows, we'll know the demon got a foothold in you."

  The funny thing was, I'd been thinking exactly the same thing. However, he didn't need to know that. I smiled. “Dream on, demon boy. Like I'd risk letting you and your demon kiss me again."

  He leaned close and handed me an apple. He tilted his head until his mouth was just inches from my neck. If I'm not mistaken, he sniffed me again. I sniffed him back.

  A sudden pounding on the window caused me to jump and drop the apple on the floor. I turned to see our principal, Mr. Hostetler, peering in at us and felt as guilty as homemade sin. He made a roll-down-the-window motion with his hand. The engine was off, so the window didn't work. I fumbled with the door handle, frantically scrolling through my mind trying to figure out what rule I'd broken.

  I got my answer when I opened the door. Mr. Hostetler said, “Number twelve."

  Oh, that one.

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  Chapter Ten

  No PDA. Public Display of Affection. Technically, we hadn't been displaying affection, public or otherwise. After Beck and I scrambled out of the truck, I tried explaining this to Mr. Hostetler.

  "I know we were close together, but, swear to God, he was just handing me an apple!"

  Mr. Hostetler acted like he hadn't heard me. His steely gaze was fixed on Beck. “Allie, you can go. Mr. Bradford and I are going to have a little chat."

  Somehow this struck me as wrong. “Maybe I should stay."

  The principal glanced over at me. His eyes were kind, but his tone meant business. “No. I want you to go."

  "If Beck's in trouble, then I should be too."

  "Relax. Nobody's in trouble.” Mr. Hostetler pointed toward the building. “Now, go!"

  Beck said, “It's okay, Allie. I'll see you later."

  Still apprehensive, I walked across the gravel parking lot toward the school. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Mr. Hostetler right up in Beck's face, using a lot of hand gestures. Beck look unconcerned, leaning against the Ranger with his arms folded. Brimming with curiosity—okay, nosiness—my only hope was that Beck would spill his guts when I saw him later in French class.

  The three-minute warning bell rang, and I caught up with Mercedes. She gave me a quick glance then looked away, but not before I saw the hurt in her eyes.

  "Guess you won't be eating lunch with us a
nymore. Now that you're with Beck."

  When I recovered my power of speech, I said, “Are you crazy? In case you've forgotten, Beck and I got our back packs got mixed up yesterday. He still had some of my things in his truck."

  Okay, I lied, but my other option was, We were only talking about my demon mark.

  Mercedes was trying to stay mad, a fruitless effort. The mischief was back in her eyes, and a dimple appeared in her cheek. “Took you all lunch period, huh?"

  "Well, uh,” I stammered. “We just talked and stuff. You know..."

  "Yeah, right. Remember, I was the one who said Beck was hot for you ... Halloween night in the gym? Someday, you'll learn not to doubt me. I know these things."

  I waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Anyway, if Beck wants to eat lunch with me, he'll have to sit with all of us."

  We fell into step behind Donna Jo and Dora Jean Hoffman, also regulars at our lunch table. At my words, they stopped, whirled around and peered at us through their thick glasses.

  Dora Jean said, “Beck Bradford's going to eat lunch with us?” Her voice was squeaky with excitement.

  I groaned inwardly. What had I started? I flapped my hand, “No, no, I just said, if he wants to, and I'm sure he doesn't. Let's just drop it, okay?"

  When Mercedes giggled, I knew the issue had been resolved. We edged around Dora Jean and Donna Jo, not an easy task, because they were as wide as they were tall, and, of course, the very reason they sat at our table. We were on our way to PE and wouldn't make it on time if we didn't get ahead of the Hoffman sisters.

  When we reached the gym, I stopped and grabbed Mercedes’ arm. “Nicole Bradford and I had a few words at lunch."

  Mercedes’ mouth turned down in disgust. “Oh, her!"

  "She's in this class."

  "Just ignore her."

  "Yeah.” I wondered if that was possible in a school the size of ours.

  It wasn't. Our PE teacher, Miss Miller, was all about fairness. She didn't want anyone to feel left out. When we chose up teams for volleyball, each captain got to pick three people. The left-over people joined the team of their choice. That way, nobody had to be the loser last pick.

  After we stretched, Miss Miller appointed two captains. Wouldn't you just know it would be Nicole and me?

  I picked Mercedes, Dora Jean and Donna Jo, because I knew Nicole wouldn't. Glaring at me like a rabid pit bull, Nicole picked three of her cool friends, Lexie, Erin and Caitlyn. When the rest of the class sorted itself out, I had three more players: Luella Hoptowit, a Native American girl who was only four-feet-nine and hated white people, Mexicans and well ... just about everybody else who was taller than she. Maybe she had good reason. Not for me to judge. I also had Jolene, who cringed every time the ball came within ten feet of her and Sonja Ortega, who didn't like me a whole lot, but truly despised Nicole. The rest of Nicole's skinny friends rushed to her side of the net. If the match was based on butt-size alone, we'd win.

  The match was for best two out of three. Since we each had one substitute, I put Jolene on the bench for the first game, Donna Jo in the front row and Dora Jean in the back. Sonja and I would spike. I could jump like a deer, and Sonja was just plain mean. She loved to pound the ball through the opposition's front line, preferably off someone's face. The Hoffman twins couldn't move, but took up a lot of space and had good hands.

  We won the first game 25-8. Mercedes, who never got rattled, served the last twelve points. After she served game point, Sonja ran to the net, shook her fist and screamed at Nicole's team, “Losers! You suck!"

  The comment earned her a reprimand from Miss Miller and fired up Nicole's team, who tried to intimidate us with dirty looks. Like that would work.

  Game Two was a different story. Jolene, who was green with fright, took Luella's place. I tucked her in the back row behind Donna Jo's enormous bulk, thinking she'd be safe. But, Nicole's best server, Caitlin, zeroed in on her. With uncanny ability, she served the ball to the back left corner of the court which forced Jolene to leave the safety of Donna Jo's sheltering body and make a stab at passing the ball. After Caitlin racked up ten points, I called a time-out and tried to convince Luella to take Jolene's place. Luella said, “Screw you, Emerson. Ain't no way I'm goin’ back in there."

  After the time-out, Caitlin smirked and winged another wicked serve at poor Jolene, who had begun to weep. When the score was 13-zip, a miracle occurred. Jolene closed her eyes and stuck out an arm. The ball caromed off her fist, hit Sonja in the head, bounced over the net and hit the floor between two of Nicole's players. Even though Nicole and her teammates complained loudly, Miss Miller said the ball bouncing off Sonja's head was a legal hit. Point and side-out!

  Our happiness was short-lived. After a string of good serves, we lost our momentum. Game Two went to Nicole's team, 25-15. Nicole and her teammates rushed the net, turned around and waggled their skinny little butts, jeering, “Bite me, losers!"

  I grabbed Sonja to keep her from charging the net. “It's okay. We'll get them in Game Three. Can you talk to Luella? We need her."

  Sonja looked at me through black-rimmed, rage-filled eyes. “No problem."

  Sonja stomped over to a sullen-looking Luella for a pep talk. Because Jolene had fled to the locker room, claiming her period started, we'd be short one player without Luella. No problem. Sonja, through threats or bribery—I didn't want to know which—worked her magic. She threw a beefy arm around Luella and walked her onto the court.

  We had first serve. Mercedes floated one in and dropped it between the front and back row. When the ball hit the floor, Sonja screamed, “Ace! In your face!"

  Mercedes, pleasant smile firmly in place, followed up with ten more points. Nicole called a time-out. I heard her say, “Come on, you guys! Are you going to let those losers beat us?"

  "Hell, no!"

  Mercedes’ next serve went in the net and Nicole's BFF, Lexie, moved into the serving position. She zinged one into the back row and Dora Jean reacted a little too late. The ball skidded off her arms and fell to the floor. Nicole's team cheered wildly then pointed at Dora Jean and yelled, “Gotcha, Queenie!” (We all knew “Queenie” was their code word for queen-sized, aka “Fat Ass.")

  Dora Jean, usually good-natured and placid, narrowed her eyes and growled, “I dare you to try that again, you skinny, anorexic bitch!"

  "Language, girls!” Miss Miller cautioned.

  Lexie made the mistake of serving the ball in the exact same place. Dora Jean passed the ball to Donna Jo, who made a perfect set. I leaped high in the air and wound up like I was going to smash it into the blocker's face. Instead, I gave the ball a little sideways dink, brushing it off the blocker's hands to the floor. Point! Side-out!

  After we rotated, Donna Jo's serve ricocheted off the back wall, hit the ceiling, bounced off the net and dribbled to the floor. Nicole's team stomped and cheered. We all dropped back to receive the serve. Caitlin lined up and focused on our right side, Luella.

  Caitlin hammered Luella, racking up eleven straight points to take the lead 12-11. Since the third game only went to fifteen points, I called a time-out, trying to ignore Nicole's team who were engaged in a premature, butt-waggling victory dance.

  "They're killing us,” I said. “Luella, just move out of the way and let us pass the ball."

  Luella jutted her jaw and snapped, “I can do it. Give me one more chance."

  Sonja heaved a disgusted sigh but, for once, kept her mouth shut. We straggled back to our positions like condemned prisoners facing a firing squad. Caitlin grinned and popped a high floater straight at Luella who was crouched and ready. Without spin, the ball wobbles like crazy. My heart sank as I watched it float toward Luella, then, at the last second, wiggle to the right. It's all over, I thought.

  "Hiiiiyaaa!” Luella screamed, launching her body flat-out to the right, arms extended in front of her, hands locked together. Somehow she managed to whip her arms up and hit the ball before she crashed to the floor. It flew over th
e net and landed in the middle of Nicole's team standing flat-footed and unprepared. Erin reacted too late, fisting the ball. It shot off to the right, out-of-bounds.

  We all rushed to Luella who scrambled to her feet, a huge smile on her face. Sonja picked her up and swung her around. “Damn, girl! That was hot!"

  Luella, pumped up on adrenalin, rotated into the serving position and chalked up the last four points we needed to win the match. We stomped and cheered. Sonja put Luella on her shoulder, marched up to the net and screamed, “Losers, huh? Well, guess what? I'm lookin’ at the losers."

  Miss Miller made us all shake hands before we went into the locker room. When Nicole and I touched hands, she leaned close. I swear her nose quivered as she inhaled my scent.

  She said, “You'd better hope you don't run into me after dark."

  Spooked by the hostility in her voice and the fact she was memorizing my scent, I jerked my hand away, flashing on the image of her sparring match with Beck. The power in her punches. The vicious kicks. The speed of her movements. Nicole could put me in a world of hurt without breaking a sweat.

  But my mouth got ahead of my brain, and I retorted, “You'll have to find me first."

  In light of Beck's comments about the twins’ extraordinary night vision and sense of smell, could I have said anything dumber?

  "No problem,” Nicole said, her eyes gleaming with anticipation.

  While my teammates celebrated, I stood and watched Nicole walk into the locker room, thinking, I've made a terrible mistake.

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  Chapter Eleven

  After school, I got off the bus at the diner, so I could ride home with Faye. I wanted to tell her about our counseling session with Miss Yeager before someone from CPS called. I hadn't had a chance to talk to Beck again. He'd been busy correcting papers during French class. I had a few things I wanted to run by him. Like, what had Mr. Hostetler said to him in his “little chat,” and, oh yeah, did I mention your sister wants to kill me?

  Beck did manage to slip me a note during the afternoon, saying, “Call you later."

  It's true, Faye and I now had a telephone. Not that I wouldn't like to be talking, texting and snapping pictures on my cell phone like everybody else in the entire world. But, for Faye and me, having even a basic plug-in phone in the trailer was a giant step forward. We no longer had to trudge over to Manny and Mercedes’ house to use theirs. Plus, certain people (like maybe Beck Bradford) could call me.