Unhinged: 2

by A. G. Howard

  Once more, I try to tell Morpheus thank you for his bravery at the tracks, but he dismisses me like he did all the way here: “I stayed for the car.”

  I know better. It’s not the first time he’s done something selfless for me. And I’m starting to suspect he didn’t let me hit the little boy at the stop sign because of the same soft side he doesn’t like to show.

  If only he would be consistent—instead of always turning my image of him on its head.

  I shut off the ignition and touch Chessie’s swinging tail. “You can come in, if you’ll stay hidden.” The tuft of fur wraps around my finger like a hairy snake, squeezes, then loosens. The gesture leaves me at peace and warm.

  “He needs no invitation,” Morpheus scoffs. “If he wishes to go inside, no one will be able to keep him out.”

  I start to take off my seat belt. “I’m still stuck.”

  Morpheus eases closer and grasps my hand. “Shall we try to take the skirt off?” he says, his voice provocative. “We have the leisure of doing it right this time.”

  I’m not sure if he intends all of the innuendos packed into that suggestion, but considering it’s Morpheus, I suspect he does.

  “Forget it. I’ll take care of it myself.” I try to jerk away, but he guides my hand to the seat belt. Curling my fingers around the car’s key, he uses the teeth to dig my skirt out of the latch while working the button. After a couple of minutes, the fabric pops free, wrinkled but salvageable.

  “Thanks,” I whisper.

  “My pleasure.” Eyes meeting mine, he brings my hand up to his lips and flips it to expose my inner wrist. He breathes over my skin—so balmy and close, my veins ache in response. Then at the last minute, he unfolds my fingers, takes the keys, and drops my hand. Before I can even get my bearings, he’s back in his seat.

  I press on my wrinkled skirt with my thumb, wishing I could iron out my emotions as easily as the fabric.

  “Look …” I find my voice again. “I’m sorry for scaring you by driving so crazy. I shouldn’t have played on your fears like that.”

  He opens his door. As it glides upward on its hinges, he sets his feet on the ground and looks over his shoulder.

  “You wish to apologize?” He grins. “Whyever for? Everyone has something that can be used against them. You set aside your innate compassionate nature and used my weakness to get what you wanted from me. That was well played. You followed your instincts and let down your inhibitions without my even having to coach you. That is good. For the only way you’ll be able to defeat Red is by learning to be merciless. Compassion has no place on any battlefield … magical or otherwise.” He eases out of the car. He sways as if to get his bearings after the earlier drama. “You know how to manipulate me, and I know how to manipulate you. That makes us even.”

  No. We’ll never be even.

  We’ll always be trying to outdo each other. I won’t say it aloud, any more than I’ll admit that I like it that way; that some primal, powerful side of me craves the challenge and always has.

  “Wait.” I get out of the Mercedes, grab my backpack, and press the remote to shut the doors. “Before we see my mom, we need to get our story straight. You’re an exchange student from school. You’re interested in seeing my art. That’s how we’ll bring up the mosaics she has.”

  Forearms propped on the roof of the car, he stares across at me, a hint of the jewels under his dark eyes glittering beneath the shade of his hat. “And what if she sees the truth beneath the mask? She shares your blood.”

  “We’ll deal with it,” I answer, although I know it won’t be that simple.

  We start toward the garage, but a shout from next door stops us.

  “Hey.” Jen jogs up with a dress bag over one shoulder and her sewing tote hanging from the other. I completely forgot we had plans to do last-minute alterations on the prom dress she made for me. She looks Morpheus up and down. “M?”

  She appears puzzled but not mad, which means she still hasn’t heard about our supposed lunchtime liaison.

  “Hey, Jen.” I play with the backpack’s strap on my shoulder, keeping my eyes averted from Morpheus. “Did you get my text?”

  “Oh, sorry,” she answers. “My phone died during lunch. It’s charging at home.” Her attention wanders back to Morpheus, that curious glint still there.

  “Good afternoon, green eyes.” He tips his hat and gives her a heart-stopping smile.

  “Uh, hey.” When she turns back to me, her cheeks are flushed the same pink as her hair. “Wasn’t my bro picking you up today?”

  At least I don’t have to invent an excuse and lie even more than I already am. “The magazine rescheduled his interview. Mor … M offered to drive me. He’s an old friend of the family.” Yeah, old is an understatement; and friend? That doesn’t quite cover it. “I mean, his family has known ours for years.” Plagued is more like it. My gaze drops to my feet. “I brought him by to say hi to my mom, okay?”

  “What’s with you?” Jen asks. “You act like I caught you guys making out in his car.”

  Morpheus laughs. “Timing truly is everything, isn’t it?”

  “What does that mean?” Jen turns to him.

  Morpheus holds my gaze. “Had you been just a few minutes earlier, you would have caught us. I had my hands in Alyssa’s skirt.”

  Jen gives Morpheus a look that could kill, then frowns at the wrinkles around my skirt’s zipper. “What’s going on, Al? Why are you such a mess?”

  I suppress the urge to punch Morpheus. “I found out that Mr. Mason lost three of my mosaics,” I say to soothe Jen’s accusatory scowl. “I was upset.” I swipe at my dried mascara tracks for emphasis.

  Jen’s expression softens a fraction and she dabs at the smeared eye makeup with her thumb. “But what’s that have to do with your skirt?”

  I glare so hard at Morpheus that heat radiates from my eyes. It’s my own fault. I made him promise to fix things between me and Jeb but not Jenara. Which means he can still use her to screw with my world. “It got stuck in the seat belt, and he had to help me get it out.”

  “Oh.” Jenara snorts. “Hands in her skirt. That’s frackin’ hilarious.” There’s an edge to her sarcasm as she turns back to Morpheus. “Word to the wise. I wouldn’t use that joke with Jeb. He doesn’t have my sense of humor … in fact, he has a ‘pound first, ask questions later’ policy.”

  “I’m aware of his overprotective tendencies,” Morpheus says.

  “How’s that?” Jen asks, wrapping the dress bag around her neck like a feather boa. “You only met my brother once. And that wasn’t exactly on a good day. Al was halfway drowned.”

  Morpheus takes off his hat and swirls the brim in his hands, an obeisant gesture. He pulls it off beautifully; only I know he’s faking. “Of course. What I saw was care and concern.” Morpheus’s gaze flits to mine. “It’s obvious he’d go to the ends of the earth for her.”

  Nostalgia tightens my throat. “And I’d do the same for him.”

  “That’s why you guys are so great together.” Jen smiles and weaves an arm through mine, my easygoing best friend again. “So, are you ready to see the dress? Fresh from the dry cleaner and waiting for the final touches.”

  Morpheus returns his hat to his head and angles it, completely at ease. How can he be so calm? Jen being here complicates things even more. I’m going to have to corner my mom and convince her to go along with my lie about Morpheus being a family friend. And to do that, I’ll have to be honest about who he is. Pile on Queen Red’s possible presence in our world and the battle I’m totally unprepared to fight, and I’m almost at my wit’s end.

  Sweat beads at my hairline as I lead the way to the garage, then punch the combination into the keypad. Morpheus pauses to look at the buckets filled with gardening items.

  Jen stops next to him. “Al used those buckets to make traps, to capture insects for her mosaics. Back before she started working with glass gems.”

  Morpheus doesn’t answer, just stares at
the buckets. “You know, those aren’t nearly as comfortable as they look,” he says with a sour frown on his face.

  He’s referring to the night he spent inside one as a moth a year ago, but Jen can’t possibly know that.

  She snickers. “Really? Did the bugs tell you that? You talk to them?”

  “They undoubtedly told Alyssa,” he answers, “but she chose not to listen.”

  Jen laughs.

  My face burns as several bugs hidden throughout the garage chime in to scold me:

  We told her, all right…

  She never listens. Even now, we’re still trying to tell her…

  The flowers, Alyssa. You don’t want them to win any more than we do.

  You are a queen … stop them.

  I thought the insects and flowers were on the same team. Together, they have served as my connection to Wonderland for years. Now they’re fighting with each other?

  It must have something to do with Red’s rampage.

  Jen edges by and steps through the garage entrance into the living room. Morpheus tips his hat in a maddening gesture, then lets me go through the door first.

  It’s a relief to shut out the bugs, but it’s short-lived when I notice the living room is empty. Musty dampness blasts from the wall unit air conditioner. The wood paneling makes the room appear small and dark. Clean towels and rags wait to be folded on Dad’s favorite chair—a ragged corduroy recliner with daisy appliqués, where my mom used to hide her Wonderland treasures. Those have been gone for a while now, all but the Lewis Carroll books in my bedroom.

  “Mom?” I drop my backpack on the floor and peer into the kitchen. The scent of chocolate chip cookies drifts from cooling racks on the counter.

  “Wonder where she is,” I say absently, but my guests have wandered to the back hallway, where my bug mosaics decorate the wall.

  Dad hung them up after they won some ribbons in the county fair. He refuses to take them down now, no matter how many times Mom and I beg. He’s sentimental in the worst way, and we can’t explain our aversion to the artwork, so he always wins.

  “Told you she was talented,” Jen says, adjusting the tote straps on her shoulder.

  Morpheus nods in silence.

  Jen gravitates to her favorite piece: Winter’s Heartbeat. Baby’s breath and silvery glass beads form the image of a tree. Dried winterberries dot the end of each branch so it looks like they're bleeding, and shiny black crickets form the background.

  Morpheus taps the berries gently, as if counting them. “Looks like something from a glorious dream.” He glances over his shoulder at me. There’s pride and nostalgia in his voice.

  That very tree is in Wonderland, studded with diamond bark and dripping rubies from its branches. Morpheus took me there in a dream when we were both children. I crafted the image years later, as a way to free the subconscious memory.

  All my mosaics represent Wonderland landscapes and suppressed moments with Morpheus. No doubt it feeds his ego to know that he inspires my art. Or haunts it.

  Haunts is a better word …

  “Okay. C’mon, Al.” Jen heads to my bedroom. “Prom’s tomorrow. This dress isn’t gonna fix itself.”

  Before following her through my door, I stick my head into my parents’ room. Mom’s not there or in the master bathroom. It’s weird. Her perfume lingers as though she was here minutes ago. She’s always home after I get out of school. She doesn’t drive, so someone would’ve had to pick her up.

  Or worse, someone forced her to leave.

  I signal to Morpheus. He traces a fingertip just above the blue butterflies of Murderess Moonlight, careful not to touch them, completely absorbed in his study until I clear my throat.

  He looks up. “Did you need something, luv?”

  I glance over my shoulder into my room. Jen opens her tote and lays out measuring tape, sewing chalk, a thimble, and a box of straight pins on my bed. When I turn back to Morpheus, he’s already moved on to the last bug mosaic.

  “Red hasn’t been here,” he says before I can even voice my concern. “Everything is much too tidy. You know how chaos flourishes in her wake. Besides, she wishes to see into your mind. Had she found your house, these masterpieces would be gone.”

  This allays my fears momentarily. But I still can’t bring myself to leave him alone. “Morpheus,” I whisper.

  He glances at me again.

  “Don’t mess anything up out here. Promise.”

  He frowns, as if offended by the suggestion. “I vow it. Keep your friend distracted, and I’ll look around. Perhaps your mum left a note.”

  Not without some hesitation, I leave him to explore and step into my room, closing the door for privacy. Sunlight streams through my slanted blinds, revealing dust motes in the air. Everything’s in its place: my cheval mirror in the corner, Jeb’s paintings on the walls, my eels skimming in their softly humming aquarium. Yet the hair on my neck won’t lie down. Mom’s perfume is stronger here than anywhere else in the house. It’s almost like she’s standing in front of me, but I can’t see her.

  I shiver.

  “Yeah, that was my reaction, too.” Jen grins as she slides the dress from its plastic sleeve. “It turned out even better than the one in the movie, right?” She hugs the dress to her torso.

  The gown is exactly as I envisioned it, and I let out an admiring sigh.

  When Jen and I were brainstorming our “fairy-tale” costumes for prom, there was one thing I knew: I was not going to wear a princess pageant gown or some sequined, skintight Tinker Bell number.

  My mind kept returning to a dress from a cheesy horror movie that Jeb, Corbin, Jenara, and I watched called Zombie Brides in Vegas. The gown was delicate and backless with a fitted bodice and flowing skirt—elegantly tattered and stained with bluish gray mildew from the grave. It appealed to me in ways I couldn’t explain.

  As my accomplice in all things morbid and beautiful, Jen insisted on making a replica. Using some images we found online as examples, she drew several sketches, then gave a copy to our boss at the thrift store. Persephone looked for similar wedding gowns at estate sales each time she went shopping for inventory and finally found one for twenty bucks: strapless, white, satiny, sequined, and pearled … a paragon of vintage charm. It even had a long, sweeping train. Best of all, it was only one size bigger than what I wear.

  With scissors, a few tightened seams, an airbrush tool from Jeb’s studio, and dye the color of faded forget-me-nots, Jen turned out a masterpiece.

  She cut triangles out of the hem to create scalloped edges. Then she cauterized the raw satin so it wouldn’t fray, leaving the scallops crinkled like wilted flower petals. For the final touch, she airbrushed dye—enhanced with glitter—along the cut edges, across the sweetheart neckline, and also at the seam where the bodice and skirt converge in a cascade of pleats.

  The result is shimmery, shadowy, and moldering.

  Jen rotates the dress back and forth so the flower-petal edges swish. I feel a pang of something I haven’t felt in years: the thrill of playing dress-up.

  “Uh-oh. We’re in trouble,” Jen teases, picking up on my unspoken reverence. “Is that excitement I see? Alyssa Gardner, looking forward to wearing a gown and tiara and hanging out with her peers? Definitely a sign of the prom-pocalypse.”

  Smirking, she spreads the dress out on the bed and shakes a netted periwinkle underskirt out of a plastic bag. It reminds me of the iridescent mist that lingers on the horizon after a storm, just before the clouds clear and the sun emerges.

  “Gotta tell you, Al. I’m really glad you’re not backing out.”

  She’s wrong. I am backing out. But not because I want to.

  None of this is helping my frazzled nerves. I’m worried about my mom, my blood mosaics, and Red … I’m worried about telling Jeb the truth and leaving him alone to spend time with Ivy instead of me. I’m worried about everything.

  The last thing I should be doing is pining for a silly dance.

  I can’t
just keep pretending everything’s normal and okay.

  “So, let’s see those boots,” Jen says, referring to the pair of knee-high platforms I found online about a month ago.

  Moving mechanically, I drag them out of the closet. After stripping down to bra and panties, I tug the underskirt over my head and arrange the elastic at my waist. Then I step into the dress, and Jen zips up the back.

  Seated on the mattress’s edge, I slip my left boot into place over my tattooed ankle and run my hands along the synthetic leather. It’s the same faded blue-gray as the dye on the dress, with three-and-a-half-inch soles and utility buckles that run the length of my shin—the perfect foil to all things princess.

  “What do you think?” I ask Jen halfheartedly once I get both boots secured and my periwinkle fingerless lace gloves pulled up to my elbows.

  Her smirk is both proud and conspiratorial. “I think all those poser frog-princesses are going to hatch tadpoles when they get a load of you.” She bursts into a fit of laughter while helping me stand. I do my best to fake a carefree laugh, but it feels flat and transparent.

  Jen adjusts the clear elastic bra straps she sewed on to keep the bodice in place and sets a tiara made of artificial forget-me-nots and baby’s breath on my head. She was meticulous down to the last detail, even draping fake spiderwebs along the flowers to hang over my neck and upper back like a veil.

  When she turns me to face the mirror, my breath catches. Her admiring reflection over my shoulder says she’s every bit as impressed.

  The dress looks exactly like I hoped it would, yet even better because she modernized it by scalloping the front hem so it would touch the top of my knees and spotlight my boots. With the addition of the netted slip, the back of the dress barely drags on the floor so I won’t trip while dancing.

  Or I wouldn’t trip, if I really was going to prom.

  I drag Jeb’s locket from my bodice. The key necklace catches on it and pops out, too. Studying them both, I’m struck by how the chains are tangled together, inseparable, like my two identities have become.

  Jen repositions the tiara. “Now tell me what you think.”