PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  “Parents are cruel, sadistic bastards,” Aka said. “I suspect heavy drug use. Or Mom lost a bet.”

  “But,” Erin said, her head cocked and brow raised, “if you’re ‘also known as’ . . .”

  “Right? It’s not like I’ve got another name,” Aka said. “Parents were high. I’m sure I mentioned this. Totally changing my name to Bob Smith or something when I’m eighteen.”

  Erin laughed. “I insist on calling you Pink from now on.”

  “I’d really prefer you didn’t.”

  “That’s just stupid,” Dylan said. “Named after a band? I’d never have admitted that, dude. Not in a million years. Especially with such a girly middle name.”

  “He can’t help his name,” I said. “People of small minds mock others for things they can’t change. I don’t mock you for your stupidity, do I?”

  Dylan looked at Sarah. “What did she just say?”

  “I don’t know,” Sarah lied, “but I’m sure it was fabulous.”

  “No, you’re fabulous,” Dylan said. He wrapped his arms around her in a sickening display of public affection. “I love you.”

  Right about there is when I would have run screaming out the door. Sarah had been seeing Dylan for about three weeks. I’m not even sure he could spell ‘love,’ much less be lost in a fog of its dazzling splendor (assuming love exists and that’s what it feels like).

  Sarah had the clarity of mind to question it. “You love me? That’s a bit much, don’t you think? I mean, it’s sweet and all, but it’s—”

  “Ridiculous and juvenile?” Erin said. I agreed. I could tell by Aka’s expression he agreed. Sarah probably agreed, too, but frowned at Erin.

  Dylan ignored the sane people at the table and said, “I’ve loved you since I saw you. No. No, that’s not true. It was the eye-roll. Your eyes rolled, and it rocked my heart. Yeah, that’s it. Together we rock and roll.”

  Erin grabbed her books and stood. She rested a hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “My condolences,” she said before she walked away.

  I couldn’t help myself. What Dylan said was the dumbest thing I ever heard. “You realize that’s the lamest love declaration in like . . . ever, right?”

  Dylan sneered. “You’re just jealous no one wants you, Elchubba.”

  I glared as I rose from the table. “Yeah, that must be it.”

  Sarah disappointed me by not taking my side, but people have their priorities and it’s no big shock to discover I’m not one of them. Except for Aka. As dependable as the tide, he was at my side before I made it to the door.

  ***

  Chemistry was as enjoyable as having my eyebrows waxed. I maintained I would never use any of what I learned in half my classes once I entered the real world. If, by some freak occurrence, a need arose for me to know an element number on the Periodic Table, I’d just find it online.

  I wasn’t going to work for a beauty products laboratory and test mascara on rabbits or work for the government to create the latest fad in biochemical warfare. I failed to see why Chemistry was required for someone who had every intention of being a journalist someday.

  My attention level during such a class dictated I sit in the back. My happy place was next to a window. The teacher sat at his desk and droned on about fusion and fission while I counted branches on a nearby tree. Trees aren’t especially fascinating, but anything was more entertaining than Mr. Moyer.

  A flash of something pale caught my eye, and I thought a squirrel poked his head out from a hole in the tree. I was wrong. How he fit or managed to climb twenty feet inside a tree, I had no idea, but Rigel’s little muzzle was sticking out of the shadows of a squirrel’s hole.

  I coughed. My gum shot into the hair of the girl in front of me, but was too damp with saliva to stick. It fell to the floor. She turned around with a brow raised in suspicion, but I shrugged and shook my pencil. It was my way of lying without actually having to lie. I would rather have her think I spasmed and hit her with my pencil than know I spit gum in her hair. I would never hear the end of it.

  “Mr. Moyer?” I said. “Can I go to the bathroom?” Which was, of course, student-speak for, ‘I’m bored. I won’t be back.’

  He gave me a dismissive wave. I grabbed my bag and headed outside. One of the perks of being a girl was that a teacher can assume your feminine products are carried with you, so it’s usually safe to leave with your bag.

  The sun’s harsh rays were a severe contrast to the flickering, synthetic light in the school. I slipped on my red-lensed sunglasses and marched across the lawn. Rigel was supposed to be imaginary; a transgression of my sugar-deprived psyche. It was unacceptable for him to be real. But, imagination or not, it was definitely more unacceptable for him to be stalking me. He could have been seen by anyone who looked out a window.

  I sat at the base of the tree, my legs crossed in front of me at the ankle. My thighs were too thick to be comfortable any other way. I was not in the mood to get caught talking to a skunk on school property (or anywhere), so I held a book in front of my face and didn’t look down at the tree’s hole near my ass.

  “So. You’re real.” It wasn’t a question. It didn’t need to be.

  “Yes, I know.” Rigel did not come out of the hole, but I could hear him easily enough. I was glad he was smart enough to stay out of sight. “Did you doubt it?”

  “Well, you’re not something a person sees every day, you know? I don’t even know what you are. You're not like . . . Satan, are you?" It was the first thing to pop into my head. Smarter questions exist, but they eluded me.

  “If I were, would I tell you?”

  I turned a page, still trying to feign reading under a tree. “I have no idea what the devil would do.”

  “Do you want me to be?”

  “What? No. I was just checking.”

  “Then I am not.”

  I turned and leaned down on one arm to look into the hole. Rigel was somehow upside-down against the interior of the trunk. I lowered my sunglasses and narrowed my eyes. “That's not very convincing.”

  “I am not, with sugar on top?”

  The penitent expression on his furry face was far too human. I threw dirt at him and sat back up. I frowned at the pages of the book I reopened and straightened my sunglasses. “You’re not helping.”

  “You are not asking questions worth answering.”

  The night before he’d said he was there to prevent a tragedy. It was no great leap of deduction to guess he meant one that involved me, seeing as how it was my room he invaded. So I went with an obvious question. “Are you supposed to help me?”

  “You could say that.”

  “I could?” I slapped my book closed. “Is that doublespeak or what?”

  “What.”

  “What, what?”

  “You gave me two choices, so I chose one.”

  “You’re not exactly instilling me with confidence here.”

  “That is not my job.”

  He infuriated me. It figures my fairy godskunk would be a total asshole. Fate couldn’t be nice and send me something with a sense of humor and a personality I could tolerate.

  I shoved my book into my bag, then laid my head down on it, facing the hole. The dust and dirt my bag stirred up danced on the chilly breeze into my mouth. I pulled the hood of my jacket over my face as best I could so no one could see me argue with a tree. “So, what is your job?”

  “I cannot tell you.”

  “You can’t or you won’t?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which one?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I hate you.” I rolled over on my side to face the street. Sick of his games and sick of hearing his flat British accent, I said, “Go away,” just loud enough for him to hear.

  “That is not possible.”

  “I think it is.”

  “You are not informed enough to know. I am.”

  I grabbed a nearby stick and rolled back over. I thrust it into the tree and fished around
with it angrily. “I know I can toss you on your ass.”

  Rigel’s voice echoed down from high in the tree. “You could try. You would fail.”

  “Damn it. You are Satan, aren’t you?”

  “Would that make it easier for you?”

  The stick got tossed into the short grass. Screw it. Obviously I wasn’t getting rid of Rigel any time soon. I sat back up and leaned against the tree, debating between skipping my last class or not. I really wanted to go home.

  “You know what?” I said to the ground. "Satan would be better at corrupting my soul. You suck. All you do is piss me off.”

  Tired of the game, I dragged my flabby carcass off the ground. My decision to go home was made, punishment be damned.

  If I got caught.

  I didn’t look back. I didn’t care if Rigel followed me. I figured he would eventually.

  But follow he did not. Half a block from my house, I spotted him as he waited for me on the porch. Creepy little thing. If he were a boy, I could report him for stalking. That said, the cops would probably ignore frantic calls about talking albino skunks.

  “So, what are you?” I said as I climbed the porch steps. “A furry Rumpledforeskin? Come to rescue me from the greedy prince who will kill me if I don't make his stupid love letter perfect?"

  "Would that explanation suit you?"

  "Not really."

  "Then what would?"

  "The truth."

  "Sorry, that is not something I can give you."

  "Why not?" I said as I fished around in my bag for my house key.

  "I cannot help you if I tell you the truth."

  "That's stupid."

  "You are writing love letters to someone you hate to be bartered for food you know is not good for you. You are in no position to judge the intelligence of anything right now."

  “Whatever.” I left the door open when I unlocked it so he could follow. I could have closed it in his face, but he would just pop in the same way he popped about everywhere else. He took the hint and sauntered in.

  “Do you have anything to eat?” He didn’t look back, just made a beeline for the kitchen.

  “Are you trying to be ironic?” I said as I followed his scampering backside. “Lack of food is what got me into the mess to begin with.”

  “Tish, tosh.” Rigel sat in front of the fridge, and it seemed to open of its own accord. “I see fruit and vegetables. That qualifies as food to most creatures.”

  An apple jumped into his waiting paws and the fridge door closed.

  “I’m not cutting it up for you,” I said. “You’re not my pet.”

  He ignored me. In a blink, he was atop the counter. My mom would’ve had a stroke. The faucet turned on and he dropped the apple into the sink.

  I shook my head as I walked out. “Well, knock yourself out. I’m going to my room.”

  “I will be up in a minute.”

  “I figured.”

  7: Conversations with an Unwelcome Guest

  I didn’t know what my mom did for a living. She left for work before I left for school and got home after I already had a bowl of cereal or macaroni and cheese for dinner. At least, back before she began her campaign to kill me.

  She wore those pseudo-suit dresses with shoulder pads. I think they stopped mass-producing them in the eighties, but she still managed to find them somewhere. Why do women want big, fake shoulders? Is it some psychological thing a woman needs broad shoulders to make it in a man’s world? Maybe it was for protection in case she ever broke through the glass ceiling of middle-management.

  I assumed she was management. She made good money, and I doubt she would make those wages in those clothes being a stripper or prostitute. She didn’t look half bad with makeup, but every time she spackled it on I mentally wiped it off again. I imagined her with no face paint, a drab dress, and one of those stupid white bonnets women used to wear.

  Her skin was blotchy, and her beady eyes were too close to the large nose that divided her un-plucked unibrow. It helped to remember she wasn’t truly pretty either. She was just a good artist who could slap paint on a mediocre canvas and call it beautiful with the hope no one noticed.

  I did. It was as average as a painting in a cheap hotel room—nice in its own way, but a dime a dozen.

  By the time she got home that night, I’d suffered the company of Rigel long enough to grow immune to his cryptic conversation. At first I was so curious, I couldn’t stand it. But once I calmed down and realized I was an amusing toy, I became unresponsive to his bait.

  “What are you doing now?” Rigel said.

  I sat with my back against my pillows, scribbling down words in my notebook with my lucky red gel pen. He had made himself a bed in my closet. He had tried to get my attention with dramatic sighs and rustling my belongings in places I couldn’t see him, but I refused to ask him another question he would just give a useless answer to.

  “Writing,” I said. “It’s the opposite of reading, which is what I’d rather be doing.”

  “What do you read?”

  “Well, I lost my copy of skunk banishing spells, so I’d settle for Rowling right now.”

  “Ho ho, so amusing,” he said, then pounced up on my bed. “Is that homework?”

  “No, it’s a list of ideas for Josh’s stupid letter. I like to jot down thoughts before I forget them, then go back to them later and decide which road to take.”

  “Why not just write the letter and cross out what you don’t like?” He made a circle like a dog before spreading out near my knees, his fluffy tail flicking up and down slowly. “It seems an exorbitant amount of trouble for so simple a thing as a letter.”

  He would be sort of cute if I didn’t have the urge to kick him in the head.

  “I don’t know much about her, so I’m trying to be vague and specific at the same time,” I said. I scrunched up my nose as I read one of my thoughts and crossed it out. “I’m too anal to just write any old thing.”

  “Why not ask me? I know all about Macey Trindle.”

  “How?”

  “The same way I know about you. It is what I do.”

  “Stalk young girls?” I said. “That’s called being a perv.”

  “It is not stalking. It is knowing. Knowledge is powerful.”

  “So is a cattle prod.” I could tell Rigel was trying to bait me again, so I attempted to shut him down. “I never wanted one until now.”

  “You are not inducing me to help you.”

  “I never asked you to.”

  “You need me.”

  I laughed. I needed him like I needed a bikini in winter. Or any time for that matter. “I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone. What I need are things; cash, a car, a place to live. People, on the other hand, I can do without. You talk, so you’re almost people-fied.”

  “You have a strange way of speaking.”

  “If you were a real skunk and not Pepe le Pew’s inbred British cousin six times removed on his father’s side, you’d never notice,” I said, rather proud of myself for creating such a lengthy insult. “Besides, I don’t speak funny. I speak like everyone else. You’re the one with the allergy to contractions.”

  “Contractions are for the lazy speaker,” Rigel said imperiously. “And I did not say you were funny. I said you were strange.”

  Right about then I realized it wasn’t actually murder to kill a talking animal. I could hang his pelt in my window as a warning to any other talking animals that thought my room was a cool place to lounge.

  I kicked at him. “Get off my bed. I’m going to sleep.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “I don’t care. Go outside and find something to spray.”

  ***

  I woke the next morning to an empty room. Maybe Rigel followed my advice and went outside to torment the neighborhood pets. Either way, I was glad to be rid of him while I went about my morning routine.

  My mom was in the kitchen. The microwave dinged and I wondered if she�
�d made herself something to eat that I was no longer allowed. Possibly a honey bun covered in hot, melted butter or a bowl of brown sugar oatmeal. I climbed into the shower instead of heading downstairs to sulk in front of her. Pouting got me nowhere. The woman had no sympathy.

  My morning routine included my towel-wrapped body and scrutinizing eyes in front of the mirror. Who knew why I tortured myself? I let the mirror defog while I brushed my teeth, then pulled my black makeup bag from the drawer.

  When Rigel appeared on the countertop, I nearly poked an eye out with the eyeliner.

  “Why do you wear all that?” he said.

  “Oh, my God! Get out of here!” I tugged at the top of my towel to make sure I was completely covered up.

  “There is no need for modesty. I am a skunk. Nothing about you is sexual to me.”

  “Great,” I said. I waved my hand at him to move, but he didn’t budge. “So you’re just like every other guy.”

  “You did not answer my question.”

  “Why should I? You don’t answer mine.”

  “I do. You just do not like my answers.”

  “Because they’re not answers,” I said. I opened my silver eye shadow and tried to put my makeup on with an audience. “They’re words you say in response.”

  “I do not see the difference.”

  “Well, I’m not explaining it to you.”

  “Which?” He sat down on his haunches and watched me, his face mimicking mine as I applied the powder. “The unnecessary face colors or the difference between an answer and words?”

  “There’s not a reason, other than I like it,” I said.

  “But it does not make you more attractive.”

  “Thank you, Casanova.” If that’s how he talked to females, then the odds were looking good he would remain a single skunk forever. “That’s not the point. I told you, I wear it because I like it.”

  “But you cannot see it. If it is for you, and you cannot see it, how do you enjoy it? Is it comfortable?” He reached for my bottle of foundation and scooted it towards himself. With no thumbs, he couldn’t pick it up. Instead, he rolled it around like a toy. “Does it keep your face warm?”