Strange Alchemy

by Gwenda Bond

  My street is off a more remote stretch of highway, a small pocket of cheap, mostly rental houses shoved where the tourists will never see. A different kind of lost colony.

  I pull into my usual spot at the curb and get out. Walking quickly, I cross the patchwork yard to the house. I grip my keys as I go so their teeth stick out through my fist. Dad showed a rare flash of concern when I started at the theater, and made me promise this little action whenever I’m outside at night alone. I’m not worried, but I do it because he asked me to.

  The porch light is off, making it hard to see the white paint on the house, which has been flaking for years. I test the front door.

  Locked.

  Just then the best golden retriever in the world lopes across the yard to join me. I reach down to scruff the fur under his neck. “Hey, Sidekick. Hey, pretty boy.”

  Sidekick showed up a couple of years ago out of nowhere. He got his name because sidekicks are usually the characters I like most. Streaming TV binge-a-thons are my main escape besides the theater.

  I release my death grip on the keys and fumble at the lock. As I struggle with the door, I manage to drop both my bag and the keys. Clunk. With a sigh, I bend to pick them up. Dad must not be home, or surely he’d have heard me out here by now.

  Grrrr…

  Sidekick’s low, angry growl makes me jump. His yellow head whips toward the street. His body stretches tight from nose to tail as he lets out a warning bark.

  I freeze. He rarely barks. And never like this.

  Then the others start.

  Every dog in earshot bays and howls in a riotous symphony devoid of any melody. Sidekick’s neck cranes to the sky, more wolf than happy golden retriever.

  I refuse to look up, afraid of what they’re barking at, afraid of what I’ll see. I jam the key into the door’s lock and twist hard. The knob spins, and the door gives. I kick my bag inside. I hesitate, halfway in, holding the door open.

  “Come on, boy, come on.”

  Sidekick arches his head at me and whines. His eyes glint in the dark.

  “Sidekick.” I fight to keep panic out of my voice. “Now!”

  Sidekick comes, galumphing through the door. His growling quiets once he hits the threshold. The howling outside continues without pause, without song.

  I slam the door and slide the deadbolt into place. I tug aside the faded blue curtain and check outside.

  Nothing. Certainly no ship. Nothing but a cloud floating across the pale moon. The dogs’ racket ends, just like that.

  I settle down on the too-soft cushions of our ancient beige couch. What a night. Being surrounded by home is some small comfort. The easy chair covered by the red slipcover I made from an old blanket, the ancient floor-model TV with a grainy picture quality, and, above that, the grinning photo of Mom playing tourist beside the mast of the Elizabeth II at Festival Park. Sidekick pants with his usual mellow-dog grin.

  “Honey?” a voice calls from up the hall. “Is that you?”

  So Dad’s home after all. He stumbles up the hall with the clumsy but somehow sure-footed steps of a professional alcoholic and weaves into the room. Sidekick leaps up next to me, collapsing against my side.

  “It’s me,” I say when Dad pauses and squints.

  His face is stained a red that means nothing anymore. His skin stays that way. The distinctive snake-shaped birthmark that crawls up his cheek toward his temple is nearly hidden by the permanent flush. He’s spent too many years drinking for his angry pores to ever calm down.

  “Of course it is, kiddo. I’m headed out…” His voice trails off.

  I could trace a thought bubble in the air and fill it with the dot-dot-dots as his mind goes blank. It breaks my heart a little, every time it happens.

  “Do you need me to give you a ride somewhere?” I don’t want to go back out, but I have to offer.

  “Nah,” he says. “Fine… evening for a walk.”

  I drop my head back against the sofa, closing my eyes only to get a flash of that black ship. I bolt upright to find Dad watching me. He’ll be safe out there, won’t he? Safe as he ever is?

  “Have a nice time,” I say. “But call if you need me.”

  Usually that’s Dad’s cue to stumble the rest of the way to our small kitchen for his keys, then out the door and to whichever bar in Manteo he’s welcome at this week. Tonight he hesitates, wavering on his feet, focusing on me with an expression I don’t know.

  “You’re a good daughter,” he says. “You deserved better. I wanted to be stronger for you. I didn’t know how.”

  I ruffle Sidekick’s fur, not sure what to say.

  Wavering, wavering, wavering, Dad says, “I want you to know that.” Then he completes the circuit to the kitchen and the front door, where he fights the deadbolt and wins. He closes the door behind him well enough that I’m able to stay put on the couch. I listen, half waiting for the dogs outside to go crazy again. There is only quiet.

  There’s nothing for me to do but think about the supreme weirdness of the night.

  I have a firm policy of never being the silly girl — the kind who goes to check out what the noise is or who sees things no one else does. The kind who worries that her dad was slightly sadder than usual tonight and whether it means anything. The kind who would call up Polly right now and confess why she ruined the show. The kind who talks to people and trusts them, period.

  There’s no one for me to talk to, no matter how much I wish for it. I’m best off sticking with the “never be the silly girl” policy.

  I plump the waiting pillow and ease onto my side. My eyes drift closed with Sidekick’s head on my hip. Dad will wake me when he stumbles back in later.

  But this way, sleeping out here, at least I’ll know he makes it home okay.

  Chapter 2

  GRANT

  I scoot along a wide stone ledge halfway up the outer wall of the four-story building that houses the library and classrooms. Good thing I’m not afraid of heights — though obviously if I was, I wouldn’t be doing this. I hum the Bond theme under my breath and press my fingertips into the spaces between the fat red bricks above me. My muscles protest, but flex as I lift myself, leaving the safety of the ledge. No humming during this part.

  I fit the rubber tips of my Chucks into the wall, then repeat the whole process again — finger hold, then foot hold — making steady progress toward the window of the library bathroom on the second floor. The one I left open for this very purpose.

  I’m cutting it close. They watch the grounds between the dorms and this building like the proverbial hawks after dinner here, so, even if it’s on the reckless side, disappearing from the library and scaling the wall both ways made the most sense. The back of the building faces the woods, which makes being spotted unlikely. Most of my classmates will already be checked out for the night, heading to the dorms. I just have to get in — and then out — before Ms. Walter, the librarian, closes up.

  I’m not actually worried. I never get caught. Not since I came to Jackson Institute, anyway.

  I insert my head through the window to ensure a clear coast and see no one. Jumping through the frame, I land on the tile floor with a satisfying thump.

  I grin, imagining the principal’s face when he gets out of the academic meet and goes to drive his car home. No way he’ll miss the present I left, though it would be even better if he doesn’t see it until the morning.

  The supplies for making the bumper sticker took me a few months to collect. Adhesive, the right sort of paper, the letters to make the message, all ordered online and sent to the nearby house of a teacher who happens to be on sabbatical for a year. Given the power of delivery confirmation, grabbing them from the mailbox wasn’t hard. And after the principal instituted a uniforms-even-on-the-weekend policy six months before, followed with a ban on “personal decorations” — aka posters — in t
he dorms, the message practically decided itself: I Heart Fascism. All I had to do was wait for a night he was here late and sneak off to smooth the sticker onto his SUV.

  It took a little longer than planned, though, so I’ll have to charm the librarian into helping me with the extra credit assignment I’m supposed to be here doing.

  I ease back into the library, and when I hit the checkout desk, Ms. Walter is deep into a thick hardcover book. She holds up a finger as I approach. I wait until she inserts a bookmark and sets down the book. I lean over to read the cover — The Shining.

  “Don’t judge,” she says. “It has ghosts, and it’s a classic.”

  “I would never,” I say, which is true. People who judge other people’s reading are, generally speaking, the worst. But I still won’t be checking out that book anytime soon. The last thing I need are made-up stories about lingering dead people.

  “You’re lucky I was reading, Grant,” says Ms. Walter. “I planned to close ten minutes ago.”

  “I lost track of time reading too.” Liar. “You have any special topics left?”

  “A few.” She holds up a top hat, the black satin faded from years of use.

  I reach in and withdraw a folded slip of paper with a research topic for my life sciences class. I don’t need the points, but getting straight As and praise from my teachers helps convince my parents they made the right decision by sending me off to boarding school in Kentucky while they’re still back on Roanoke Island.

  “Seahorses.” I look over at the row of communal laptops. The school deems it too risky for budding delinquents like yours truly to have online access in our rooms, so it’s those or nothing. “If you’re planning to close I guess I don’t have time to hit Wikipedia.” I give Ms. Walter my most pitiful look. “Any chance you’ll let me borrow a textbook? I’ll bring it back first thing.”

  Ms. Walter hesitates. I keep my puppy-dog plea fixed on her.

  “Well, if you promise not to tell anyone…” Ms. Walter smiles, adding, “I know you’d never really try to cite Wikipedia.”

  Is she being sarcastic? But, no, this is what being a model student means, the trust of teachers and school officials. I will never get used to being treated like one of the good kids, like someone who causes no trouble for anyone. It wasn’t that way back home, that’s for sure.

  “I’ll just get out of your way,” I tell her.

  I slip back to the science section, grab the right volume, and wave it at Ms. Walter on my way out. I leave her to her ghosts.

  *

  I toss the borrowed book on the desk in my small, regulation dorm room. No posters or art tacked up — thanks, Principal Fascist — just basic light fixtures bolted to the ceiling and the wall. Again, semi-delinquents can’t be trusted with nice things.

  Like the computers, the TV room is communal, which means I read even more here than I did back home. Instead of digging into homework, I pick up my novel-in-progress — The Man in the High Castle, a rec from Ms. Walter.

  I drop onto the bed, settling back, and run my finger along the spine. The book falls open a couple dozen pages from the end, exactly where I left off. The invisible bookmark is a gift I have, way more useful than my other one.

  The phone in my pocket vibrates. We are allowed to use personal phones, a small freedom, but only at night. And without data plans. My mom is the only person who ever calls me, though, and sure enough, the screen flashes the word HOME. I barely feel that way about Roanoke Island — I lasted for all of a year and a half there.

  Pretending to miss calls in the mountains is easy because the signals are spotty, but I’d better answer. Besides, I already know how the book ends. I always read that first. I don’t see the point in risking surprises that can be avoided. Not anymore.

  “What if I was asleep?” I say by way of greeting.

  “I couldn’t make you go to sleep before midnight even when you were three,” Mom says.

  “Did you have a reason to call or is this just to relive my early years?”

  “Just checking in,” she says. “Feeling like a bad mother for abandoning my son halfway across the country tonight.”

  “It’s a long day’s drive, not halfway across the country,” I say, “and you know I’m better off here.”

  Mom is silent for a moment. “Better off — but are you happy?”

  She’s never asked that before. The truth is, I’m too isolated to be happy. There’s no one here I’ll ever be able to tell about being the ultimate freak, no one who’d understand. But I don’t like Mom feeling guilty when I’m the defective one.

  “I’m seventeen — how happy can I be? It wouldn’t be natural.” She laughs, and I’m relieved. “Is everything okay there?”

  “I just miss your face,” Mom says. Then she adds an affectionate: “Brat.”

  “You’re still coming up here for Thanksgiving, right?” I ask.

  “Of course. But that’s months away. And I feel like a bad mother that I can’t cook you Thanksgiving dinner at home.”

  “You’re a good mother for coming here instead.”

  She doesn’t respond right away. Finally, after a few long moments, she does. “Okay, you reassured me. I’ll let you go back to avoiding whatever homework you’re supposed to be doing. I just wanted you to know I was thinking about you. I miss you.”

  My mom isn’t psychic, except in the way all moms are. She has a sixth sense for when I’m feeling a little down, despite being here where at least it’s quiet.

  “Miss you too. But I’m good here. Better here,” I say. “Good night.”

  “Night.”

  I hang up, but I don’t go back to the book. I’ll finish it another time. I wish to be the kind of person who could go home for the holidays, the kind of person who doesn’t have to be here in the first place. But I’ll never be that person. My main “gift” — the reason I left — comes from dad’s side of the family, which traces its heritage to the early days of English settlers. Gram always claimed we’re descended from little Virginia Dare, who of course disappeared along with the rest of the colonists, so that can’t be true.

  We never got to talk about it, but I think Gram could sense spirits too. I was thirteen when I first encountered them, the day she died. I don’t believe in coincidences that coincidental.

  I was outside in our backyard when I heard unfamiliar voices.

  She’s gone —

  But he’s here —

  Where is my girl?

  That’s wrong, wrong time.

  They chattered away, seemingly coming from gray shadows that glided around me in a chaotic mass — like I saw them through a veil. Around me, the regular grass and trees and sky with these… speaking shadows crossing through it.

  My mom came outside and put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Dad just called. Your gram passed away a little while ago.”

  I almost said, I know. But I didn’t. I didn’t know what was happening.

  It was like I saw this world, and also shadows moving through some world just beyond ours.

  I had no interest in exploring it further. But the spirits didn’t take no for an answer. Once I decided I wasn’t going crazy — yet — it wasn’t that hard to figure out who the speaking shadows were.

  The dead.

  And they went everywhere on Roanoke Island that I did.

  Pressing the voices and the visions away so I could continue to exist took constant effort. They were always there. A hum, a buzz, a glimpse of movement here, a menacing motion there, and, sometimes, a riot, with me in the middle.

  During the worst moments, I developed a theory. Every person who has ever lived and died on the island — and it has been occupied for a very long time — is still there. And I, the only one cursed enough to see them, was left to this pack of spirit bullies, capable of bringing chaos to my mind that I can’t even begin to co
ntrol. I never managed to get Gram, if she was among them, to talk to me, to tell me what to do.

  When I confessed to Mom, finally — it got that bad — she made an appointment with a neurologist in Norfolk. As we drove off the island, the shadows and their words faded. Not gone but fainter. A miracle.

  That’s when I knew I had no choice. I made enough trouble that my parents had to send me away. Dad is the police chief. His reputation couldn’t take the hits. I gave the year-round boarding school pamphlet to Mom myself, and she agreed to go along. Leaving was my last hope.

  The further from the island we got, the more normal I felt. The shadows quieted, then disappeared altogether.

  I’ve been at Jackson Institute for three and a half years. Roanoke Island is still home, I guess, because that’s where my parents are, but me staying here is better for us all.

  And so I do crack the science book and learn about seahorses. I can’t afford to have Mom worrying about me being here.

  I can’t risk having to go home.

  Chapter 3

  MIRANDA

  I stretch and hit Sidekick with my feet. He’s curled up on the other end of the squishy couch. Bright morning light stabs around the sides of the blue curtain, a harsh wake-up call. Dad must not have made it home last night. Or…

  I get up and open the door to see if he’s snoring on the concrete porch. He’s not there. Sidekick slips past me into the patchy yard. I leave the door open so he can come back inside when he’s ready.

  I shuffle down the hall and peek into Dad’s room, just in case. Other than a rumpled bed and piles of clothes, the room is empty. I visit the bathroom next. He isn’t passed out at the foot of his porcelain master, either, so I brush my teeth and get cleaned up.