PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  Unlike a lot of kids who tore out of school and ran home eagerly, I sort of meandered. Strolled. Lollygagged. There was nothing at home worth pulling a muscle over.

  My older sister, Karen, had left for college a year before. She and I didn’t always see eye-to-eye, but we loved each other. Our mom, however, loved her more. More than she loved me anyway. And Karen wasn’t thrilled that both our parents didn’t swing their favoritism toward her, as Dad and I were close. We got over it. I don’t know if age really leads to maturity or a slowly acquired apathy towards what used to be important.

  When I was little, I was sure my mom hated me. I must have been a really bad baby or broke a lot of her stuff when I learned to walk.

  Dad would tell me I was being a goofy little girl for saying such things. Mama loved me. She just had a strange way of showing it. She scolded me to teach me, he said; wanted me to learn and never forget. If I forgot, then she didn’t teach me proper. Mama didn’t like to fail. She made sure I learned good.

  Thank God I don’t talk like Dad.

  It was pretty clear why Mom preferred Karen. She was beautiful, smart, had a lot of friends, and cared about the same things our mom did that I never could. I didn’t like most magazines, didn’t watch reality television, and if there was a negative give-a-crap-scale regarding celebrities and their fashions, I would win some sort of ribbon of excellence.

  When I got home, the house was empty. That was normal. Dad worked a lot of hours, and I strongly suspected it was his way of avoiding Mom. She worked a full-time job and got home a couple of hours after I did.

  The kitchen was usually my first stop after school. Now I dreaded what new discoveries I would make in there. I already knew the cereal was gone, and it only took a moment to find my beloved macaroni and cheese had vanished as well. In its place was a box of whole grain nutrition bars. Nasty. My mom’s plan for me to lose weight would work, if for no other reason I would starve to death before eating the flavorless cardboard substitutes she’d bought.

  My computer called to me, so I headed upstairs to my room. I slung my bag from my shoulder and leaned it against my desk, then pulled out a bag of chips I bought with the money Josh gave me. My mom didn’t believe in giving an allowance, so when I spent whatever I would get from Josh in the end, I’d be screwed. I considered putting an ad in the school paper for writing services, but then I would just get students who wanted me to do their homework.

  The storm from the previous night had cleared before the sun peeked over the horizon. I opened my drapes and lifted my window to let in the light and fresh air. One of the bulbous clouds looked like God giving me the finger.

  From my window I could see several backyards of the houses on the adjacent street which made a slow curve to meet mine two blocks down. The screen had been knocked out long ago so I could sit on the roof of the den which had been an addition to the house years before.

  I searched the internet for Macey and found her blog. It was pretty much all I anticipated. A small number of followers, posts about her dad’s church or thoughts on the Bible or being a good Christian. Her terrible grammar was unexpected. I thought her grades supported a better understanding of the English language.

  There was a small picture, but it was useless. I still couldn’t tell if her eyes were green, hazel, or blue. They weren’t dark enough to be brown. Her thick blonde hair wasn’t styled and rested against her chest like a golden scarf. She wore a pink t-shirt that emphasized her blemishes. I was at a loss as to what guys saw in her at all. Namely Josh.

  Josh hadn’t given me a time frame, so I wasn’t in a hurry to get started on his letter. I wasted some time browsing the internet, then rolled up the chip bag and stuck it back into my school bag beside my desk. Must destroy all evidence, after all.

  “Hello.”

  I jumped at the unexpected male voice behind me. For a brief moment, I thought it was my dad, but when I turned, my bedroom door was still closed. My eyes scanned the room and found nothing out of place. I checked my private bathroom. It was empty. My bed squeaked and I spun around.

  A pure white skunk with reddish eyes sat on my black velvet bedspread, looking up at me.

  I froze—all but my eyes, which darted to the open window. Before I could give much contemplation as to how or even why a skunk would climb to the second story of a house, it stood up on its hind legs and said with an unmistakably British accent, “It is very rude to not return a greeting.”

  Up to that point, I had been worried about getting sprayed and having to call in sick to school for a week. Now I was certain I was having a stroke or an embolism or something.

  “Shoo!” It was the best I could come up with. There was a frickin’ talking skunk on my bed. Call it panic.

  “Shoo?” it said. “I expected something more lucid such as ‘hello’ or ‘good evening’ from you, to be honest.”

  I can only imagine the look on my face.

  “Get out!” I grabbed a dirty towel from the floor and swatted at it.

  “Desist at once,” it said, dropping to all fours and rolling across my bed towards my pillows. “I am not rabid, for pity’s sake.”

  In an attempt to escape my sudden dip into insanity, I ran for the door. Sugar withdrawal. That was it. My body created hallucinations to compensate for my low blood sugar.

  The door wouldn’t open. I beat on it like an idiot who didn’t know how to turn a knob. An idiot who insisted on having the door opened immediately.

  “Perhaps I should have rung first. Or sent you a note detailing my impending arrival.”

  Oh, shut up! You’re a frickin’ skunk!

  Tossing any hope for my sanity out the window, I engaged in conversation with the albino woodland creature.

  “What? Why? What are you doing here? You’re not here. No, of course you’re not. I am just having some sort of breakdown. Maybe I have a chemical imbalance or something. Or I’m sleeping. Yeah, that’s it. I fell asleep at my desk. Or passed out. Maybe I passed out from lack of sugar . . . .” I began to babble in my head instead of aloud, which was an improvement, but still not very productive.

  “If you are trying to sound more lucid, you are failing spectacularly.”

  “Oh, my God, shut up!” I grabbed a stuffed Eeyore from my bookshelf and threw it at my furry hallucination. It fell short.

  “Or you shall what? Pelt me with more toys?”

  His British accent was really starting to grate on me. Like he was the reincarnation of Shakespeare or one of the Beatles. I tried the door again, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “Let me out!” Why I thought the skunk had any control over my ability to open a door is beyond me, but it seemed a good thing to demand at the time.

  “Not until you calm down and behave like a rational being.”

  “What?” I leaned my back against the door, my hand still on the knob.

  “I will explain everything if you take a seat and cease your caterwauling.”

  The seat I chose was the carpet at my door. I didn’t know what else to do, except wake up.

  “There now. That is much better, is it not?”

  Not really.

  The little beast hopped off my bed and waddled over to me in his skunk gait. He stopped moving when I pulled my legs up to my chest.

  “Well, I hope you are comfortable. This may take a while, depending on your ability to listen without interruption.”

  That wouldn’t be a problem. I’d run out of things to say.

  5: A Test of Sanity

  The skunk greatly overestimated how long it would take to explain why he was in my room. It helped that I had no questions. This was because I didn’t believe he was there. I did not have a talking British albino skunk in my bedroom. I was either a) asleep or b) hallucinating. Nothing my delusion said could convince me otherwise.

  “So, Rigel is it?” I said when he was done. “You’re on a mission to prevent something tragic? On a scale from the-return-of-disco to the-end-of-the-world, how serious
is this tragedy?”

  “You are mocking me.” He frowned at me. I didn’t know skunks could do that. Granted, I didn’t know they could talk, either.

  “A little,” I said. “But the question remains.”

  “There is a balance I must preserve.”

  “What balance?”

  “You would not understand.”

  “Because I’m a human?”

  “Well, there is that,” he said. He sauntered over to one of my large pillows which I tended to toss on the floor when I slept. With his body stretched out like a player on a chaise lounge, it was easy to imagine him with a pimp hat and some bling around his neck. “But also because you are a female.”

  I snorted so hard, I almost injured myself. “Wow. Just . . . wow. I thought you couldn’t be any more of a corporeal acid trip, and you go and toss ‘chauvinistic douche bag’ on top of it all. We’re done here.”

  My body lacked any real muscle mass so it was not an easy thing to lift from the floor, but I managed it and headed for the window. “Feel free to not stop back by. Have a nice hell.” I gestured toward the awaiting evening outside.

  He didn’t move. Big surprise. Perhaps he was one of those unfortunate loner types I heard of that don't normally mingle with other people and eventually become serial killers. Or hermits.

  The slam of the front door heralded my mom’s return home. I panicked for a beat, but it wasn’t like she’d see my hallucination.

  It was a short leap to anger when I realized it was all her fault. If she just left me alone, I would not have to write Josh a stupid letter, and I would not have to endure a chauvinistic mammal delusion shedding all over my black bedding.

  “Don’t move,” I said to the skunk with a commanding finger. “Or better yet, go away.”

  I headed for the door, and this time it opened without protest.

  My boots clomped as I headed down the stairs. About halfway there, I wondered why on earth I was looking for my mom on purpose. Other than an excuse to get out of my Rigel-infested room.

  She was in the kitchen, sorting through the mail at the breakfast bar. As I strode in, I realized there was nothing I wanted to say. Nothing that wouldn’t get me grounded, anyway.

  Her eyes didn’t lift from her postal perusal. “Finish your homework?”

  “I didn’t have any.”

  My mom grunted her dismissal, which was Mom-ese for, ‘I’ve faked interest in you, now go away.’ At least that was my loose translation for years.

  Usually I took the hint and wandered off, but I wanted an adult’s opinion on my current predicament, and she was the only one around. I didn’t want her to think I was crazy or even let her know I was in the middle of some sort of psychological breakdown, so I chose my words carefully. The last thing I needed was her thinking I needed a shrink. Or to give her yet another thing to complain to her friends about. If I was legitimately mentally ill, she would play the Mom-the-martyr card for attention. I didn’t want to know the hell my life could become if she suddenly adopted Münchausen by Proxy.

  “So,” I said. “Aka says diabetes can make a person crazy. How long do you think that takes?”

  “If you’re trying to make me reconsider your new diet, this is a bad argument.”

  “I wasn’t.” I slid into a chair at the table as I mumbled, “You never change your mind.”

  She ignored me. I didn’t mind. I was used to it.

  “But what about it?” I tried again. “Is it true?”

  “How should I know?” My mom scooped the ripped envelopes up and tossed them into the trash can at the end of the bar. “Isn’t this something you can look up online?”

  Well, it was worth a shot. Maybe it was better I drop the subject before my mom faked interest and started to ask me questions. “Yeah, probably. Just thought I’d ask, sheesh.”

  Mom looked at me for a long moment. “This new diet of yours, it’s for your own good. I just want you to be happy.”

  “Pretty doesn’t equal happy, Mom. Look at you.” I had no idea what possessed me to say that. Death wish, perhaps.

  She must have been in a gracious mood. Instead of screaming at me or insulting me in her usual fashion, she narrowed her eyes at me for about two heartbeats, then grabbed the coffee pot to fill with water, not bothering to address my outburst.

  I pretended to be hurt by her disinterest, complete with slouched shoulders and a dramatic exit from the kitchen. I stomped up the stairs deliberately, but paused at my door. I was right back where I started, unless the aberration had vanished while I was downstairs.

  After a deep breath, I entered. A quick glance told me my visitor was gone. I hurried over to close the window and drew the drapes shut. The act was pointless if it was all in my head, but if I wasn’t crazy then I had actually met a magical talking skunk.

  A rude, obnoxious, snarky, smart-ass, cocky, conceited . . . Well, anyway, he was a skunk I didn’t want to come back.

  6: Friends and Frenemies

  By the time lunch rolled around the next day, Rigel the cracktastic skunk was barely a memory. I tossed around a myriad of possibilities, everything from dozing off (benign) to a failed poisoning attempt by my mom (not so far-fetched, I decided).

  I tossed the rabbit food my mom gave me for lunch in the trash. I would rather starve. Aka sat with me, as usual. Best friend that he was, he shared his lunch with me. He had more food than usual, and I suspected he took pity on me and packed for two. Not that he would admit it. It wasn’t his way.

  The lunchroom was a game of territories, each clique divided into factions with impenetrable, invisible borders. It was a status battle zone surrounded by cinderblocks painted white and large windows. The smell of over-cooked hamburgers and something the staff passed off as taco meat lingered in every corner. Aka and I were in Quadrant Freak.

  Sarah sat with us. She was one of those super-skinny girls who earned glares from other girls when backs were turned. I may have been guilty of it myself a time or two. It was incredibly unfair for someone who eats twice as much as I do to weigh about the same as my thigh. At least I had better hair. Hers was thin and mousey brown.

  A loud thump of books on the table turned our casual slouches into straight backs. Erin was given to theatrics. She slinked into a seat and tossed her long, white hair onto her back.

  “If tedium was a disease,” she said, “I’d need an immunization just to be around you people.”

  That was Erin’s way of greeting us most days. She had a wit I envied and was scary sexy. I don’t mean she was a wondrous beauty. More like she was one of those people who dripped sex with every head turn and hip sway, but was also a bit frightening. Her ice-blue evil eye could shut most anyone up.

  Sarah, tearing her sandwich in half, rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you need shots, but not from being around us.”

  Erin ignored her. She tossed a pencil at me and said, “So, I read your article for next run. Not bad.”

  I threw it back at her. “My genius is epileptic. It comes and goes.”

  “Well, something about you screams, ‘seizure!’ but I don’t think it’s your IQ.”

  I snorted. That was just Erin’s way of coping with whatever it is she never talked about. People aren’t that offensive on accident. Take me, for example. Other kids didn’t get her, but they didn’t get any of us. It’s why we gravitated to each other, even when we had little in common besides our social leprosy.

  Aka spoke for the first time since he joined me at the table. “You know, IQ doesn’t have as much to do with intelligence as people seem to think.”

  “I know,” Erin said. “I judge by the size of someone’s forehead. Pretty sure you’re just marginally smarter than a troglodyte.”

  Sarah leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Why are you such a bitch?”

  “Bitch?” Erin echoed with a broad, plum-colored grin. “This is me on congeniality drugs. I thought I was doing pretty good.”

  Erin was my hero. I wanted to be
her when I grew up. For all my witticisms and posturing, I was a pale shadow to Erin. She hadn’t a care in the world, especially when it came to other people’s feelings. I wanted that. I wanted a numb heart and an impenetrable ego shield.

  “Hey, Aka,” Sarah said. “I need help in History. Interested?”

  “In work? Hardly,” Aka said. “Ask Dylan.”

  Dylan was Sarah’s latest boyfriend. He wasn’t one of us. When Sarah wasn’t around, we referred to him as Dumbass. Aka knew he’d be useless.

  “Where is he anyway?” Erin said.

  “Off campus having a cigarette,” I said. “You know, since lung cancer makes him such a sexy rebel.”

  “God, what do you see in that guy?” Erin said.

  Sarah shrugged. “You guys just don’t know him like I do.”

  The irritating, high pitch of Dylan’s voice appeared behind me. “Know who?”

  “No one,” Sarah said. “Hey, Aka can’t help me with History. Can you?”

  I was a little stunned Sarah had actually asked. Dylan would lose a spelling bee contest against a drunken platypus. She would get a better grade if she just set her homework on fire and handed in the smoldering ruins.

  “Can’t help, huh?” Dylan said. He strolled around the table to stand behind Sarah. “What kind of name is Aka, anyway? You don’t look foreign. Isn’t your last name Floyd?”

  “We’re all foreign,” Aka said, not lifting his eyes from his small bag of chips.

  “What?” Dylan’s confusion didn’t surprise me. I doubt it surprised anyone at the table.

  “He just means we’re all from somewhere else,” Sarah said.

  “Aka is what my parents called me once they were lucid,” Aka said. “A. K. A. is what’s on my birth certificate, as in ‘also known as.’”

  I’m sure my eyebrows were far closer to my hairline than usual. Aka never told me that, and a glance around the table suggested it was news to everyone else as well.

  Erin asked what we all wanted to know. “So . . . why?”

  “Pink,” Aka said. “My middle name is Pink.”

  “So you’re named after a band,” I said. I grimaced on the inside. I hate it when I state the obvious like that.