Starfall

by Michael Griffo

  “Of course,” Arla answers. “Just like you do when the big, bad wolf wants to be, you know, all big and bad. But you’re sure it was Napoleon’s voice?”

  Okay, now I’m more confused than before. Even if Arla doesn’t get a warning, she knows when Nap is taking over her body, so why does she look so shocked? This isn’t the first time she’s been Nappossessed.

  “I thought the whole Nap-talking-through-me thing was over with,” she admits. “I figured he was too busy doing heavenly things to bother with me anymore.”

  My friend has so much to learn about how otherworldly creatures operate. “Well, heaven must have recess, because he was just here,” I convey. “Loud and clear.”

  “What did he say?” Arla asks in a voice that doesn’t conceal how much she really isn’t sure that she wants to hear Napoleon’s message.

  Holding her hand again, this time not to reconnect with Nap, but to make my bond with Arla even stronger, I answer, “There’s something wrong with Archie.”

  Breathing deeply, Arla replies, “I don’t need Napoleon to tell me that.”

  Before I can tell her that Jess has also told me that I need to protect Archie’s soul, she continues. “But as much as it’s painful to hear,” she says, “I get why he’s pro-Nadine.”

  “What?!” I cry. “What possible reason could he have for defending Nadine and feeling sorry for her? She’s the enemy.”

  “She’s also his ex-boyfriend’s sister,” Arla reminds me. “I think Archie feels sorry for Nadine because he misses Nap.”

  “You think Archie is displacing his feelings for Nap onto Nadine, the same way Jess did in her diary?” I ask.

  “It’s a possibility,” Arla replies.

  “But Jess didn’t know all the facts,” I state. “Archie knows that Nadine is evil.”

  “And so is Archie.”

  Not only does Arla’s voice disappear when she speaks, but this time so does her face; in fact her entire body dissolves in front of me, and in her place is sitting the dearly departed Napoleon Jaffe.

  His hand feels warmer than Arla’s. Has he been lurking around Jess’s golden shadows? Who knows?! The only thing I’m sure about is that Nap obviously felt he didn’t convey his message clearly enough the first go-around, so now he’s decided to use a visual aid. Since I don’t hear any shrieks of shock around me, I’m pretty positive that I’m the only one witnessing the dead twin’s return from the grave.

  “You’re wrong, Nap,” I declare. “Archie is not evil.”

  “Because you don’t want to see it,” he replies just as firmly. “Look harder, and you’ll find it.”

  How dare he call my friend evil! Not when Napoleon comes from a family of sin and corruption himself.

  “You should talk!” I seethe. “You’re not much better than the rest of the filth in your family!”

  I’m not sure if it’s because I let go of Nap’s hand or because of my unedited analysis, but Napoleon’s image vanishes. Unfortunately, the memory of it remains. I hear Arla asking me what’s wrong, but all I can see are Archie’s eyes, one gold and the other black. No! I don’t care what you say, Nap. I refuse to believe that my friend is evil simply because he’s sympathetic toward your murderous sister.

  “I blanked out again, didn’t I?” Arla accurately deduces.

  “Just for a few seconds,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders as if it were a completely forgettable few seconds. “C’mon, let’s go.”

  “What else did Nap say?” she asks, stealing a quick glance at Nadine as we walk out of the lunchroom.

  As usual when it comes to speaking the truth, I trust my gut instinct, so I lie. I pray that my words aren’t a complete fallacy. “He said that he misses Archie too.”

  The rest of the first day of school is just like Archie and Napoleon’s relationship: bittersweet. Every day, every hour that ticks by brings me closer to leaving one of the only places that has given me continuity and rescue and normalcy these past few years. I know that most high school seniors cannot wait for graduation to say good-bye to their alma mater and move forward in their life and never look back, but I’m really going to miss Two W. Even the lame assemblies.

  Looks like Principal Dumbleavy took a page out of Archie’s style book. Dumbleavy has always kept his hair short in that simple, nondescript, middle-aged professional man style. This year he’s sporting a weird hybrid combo of state trooper meets 1950s businessman. His hair, now more salt than pepper, has been buzzcut so the top is as flat as a textbook. It looks like freshly mowed grass after an unexpected snowfall. I wonder if he went to Vernita’s Hair Hut during her Men Only Monday special—first Monday of every month—for his new ’do. Jess’s mother once told me Vernita loves the military look.

  On top of his redone hairdo, he must’ve altered his diet to include meat and potatoes, hold the vegetables, because his face seems to have expanded about an inch on both sides, and his neck and belly are both spilling out over the sides of his collar and belt. Apparently, his clothes cannot contain his new girth. When he speaks, I feel bad that I’ve silently criticized him so harshly, because it’s obvious that stress is the main reason for his makeover.

  “We are living in troubling times,” he begins. “And we—as a school and as a community—need to be careful.”

  His voice isn’t quivering; it doesn’t break. But it is overflowing with terror. This man is frightened, and for the first time in my life I look at him with respect. The only reason he’s standing in front of the entire student body is that he feels a responsibility, an obligation, morally or otherwise, to lead us out of this dark period in our town’s history and into the light. He could easily have quit his job and moved far away from the unexplained, from the murders, from the disappearances, but he stayed. He looks worse for wear, but he’s still here.

  He continues speaking about how we must be more diligent, more cautious, more aware that there is danger out there. I look over at Nadine sitting among unsuspecting students, her back rigid, her lips forming an informed smile, and I want to grab Dumbleavy by the arm and whisper in his ear that danger is right inside these walls. But Miss Rolenski beats me to it.

  “Oh yes,” Dumbleavy mumbles before clearing his throat. “Thank you for reminding me.”

  Hold on a second. Did Miss Ro really tell our principal that danger is sitting right in the bleachers?

  “I almost forgot to announce that we have a new student,” he says.

  Nope, just another potential victim.

  “And she comes all the way from Cos Cob, Connecticut.”

  Cos Cob! Arla and I look at each other and then at Nadine, whose face has just gone pale, and since it’s the afternoon it can’t be because of morning sickness. Cos Cob is the quirky name of the town where Nadine and Napoleon grew up.

  “Please give a warm welcome to the newest member of Two W’s senior class,” Principal Dumbleavy announces. “Vera Bailey-Clarke.”

  Once I hear her name, I know that the something I’ve been waiting for has finally arrived.

  Chapter 8

  I hear the girl approaching before I see her, and already she frightens me.

  Squeak, squeak, squeak. That’s the only sound I hear echoing through the gym. It’s Nadine’s signature sound, the one I hear when she walks down The Hallway to Nowhere at The Retreat, but Nadine isn’t making any sound; she’s barely breathing. She’s sitting in the bleachers, her body and face like white stone, one hand gripping the metal seat, the other placed on her belly as protection from this intruder. But why does she need protection? And who is this Vera? Is she the fulfillment of some sort of prophecy, or is she just the next phase of this curse? When I finally see her, I feel like an idiot; she isn’t either.

  The squeaking is gone; I’m not entirely sure it was ever there in the first place. Could’ve just been my imagination because I’m like a Pavlovian Girl; I’ve been trained that whenever I’m frightened my thoughts immediately go to Luba and Nadine. Now that I’m a little less scar
ed, a little more in control of my emotions, I can only hear the sound of strong, confident strides. Nadine-squeaks are a memory.

  The heels of Vera’s simple, sensible shoes click against the floor with each step, and while the sound fills up the entire gym, it isn’t overbearing, hardly a thunderous roar, more like a sudden gust of wind that is massive in size, but in no way threatening. This stranger’s presence sweeps over our heads and hangs there not to crush us, but to demand our attention even before she reaches the podium. I look around, and I swear the entire Two W population is in a trance.

  When Vera turns to face her audience, I’m stunned, because she looks incredibly ordinary. Where is her power coming from? Examining her with a wolf’s eyes and a girl’s mind, I see she looks like she’s stepped out of a painting of a New England landscape; she looks beautiful and clean-lined and artificial. Her blond hair is silky and straight, parted on the right and cut in a no-nonsense bob that curls inward just below her chin. Her nose is slightly upturned, not enough to look like a deformity, but enough to make her appear as if she’s always critiquing her surroundings. Icy blue eyes that are inviting though guarded and unblemished skin that is smooth but veil-like complete her facial features.

  Her body is thin in a healthy way and not as the result of some diet pill laced with dubious FDA-unapproved ingredients. Long arms fall naturally at her sides, and even longer legs give her the appearance of being taller than she is. Naturally she’s wearing the Two W uniform like every other student in the building, but her khakis are spotless and freshly ironed, and her navy blue polo shirt is tucked neatly into her pants, so she looks like she’s wearing a costume instead of clothing. Under such wolf-girl scrutiny, she’s really a bunch of jumbled contradictions, like a painting with interesting visual elements that when combined create, perhaps not a masterpiece, but something pretty to look at.

  Glancing at Arla, Archie, and some of the kids near me, I realize that pretty appears to be downright mesmerizing. They’re staring at Vera Bailey-Clarke as if her real name is Mona Lisa. Nadine, however, is gaping at her as if she were the model for the Venus de Milo right at the moment when some machete-wielding maniac sliced off her arms and made her a statistic before she was turned into a statue. For her part, Vera appears to be very comfortable in the role of Dumbleavy’s latest exhibit piece, the most recent acquisition to his collection of students. But unlike our principal, she doesn’t take her position as seriously.

  “Welcome, Vera,” he announces solemnly. “Our school is your school.”

  First an obedient, almost coquettish smile forms on Vera’s lips that makes Dumbleavy blush. Subtle patches of red appear on his cheeks, as if his face has become a canvas and Vera is swirling a paintbrush in little circles on his skin. Then, unbeknownst to her subject, she peers out into the crowd and rolls her eyes. When the students laugh and applaud, Dumbleavy is so startled he shivers like Vera’s taken her brush and flicked red paint all over his face. He no longer looks demure, but devastated, sort of like Carrie did the second after she discovered she was wearing a layer of pig’s blood and not a red pashmina over her prom dress. Quickly reclaiming his self-anointed noble stance, he smiles at us approvingly, but I can tell that something about Vera has unsettled him. Not as much as her presence has terrified Nadine though. And it isn’t just the witch who’s frightened, but the witch’s light as well.

  Framing her body is a coating of her light, now black with no trace of silver, about two inches thick, but instead of the light floating and undulating and moving freely around her, it’s frozen. Encasing Nadine like a force field, the light is preparing for an onslaught. Unfortunately, it’s a futile weapon; Nadine knows it, I know it, and from the self-assured smile on Vera’s lips, she knows it too.

  When Vera raises her hand and waves in Nadine’s direction, I know that war has been declared. And when the witch’s ebony armor melts into her toxiskin, retreating from this new opponent, I know it’s a war Nadine isn’t sure she can win. My mother was wrong—something hasn’t come to Weeping Water to help us defeat the psycho clan; someone has.

  Calculus is difficult enough during those rare moments when my mind is ready and willing and able to concentrate on math. It’s indecipherable when I’m thinking of so many other more important things.

  Tugging on my string bracelet, all I can think of is Caleb. Funny how much you miss someone the moment he or she is gone. Jess, my parents, and now my boyfriend. The mathematical gobbledygook on the SMART Board in front of the class morphs into Caleb’s face. Plus signs become eyes, parentheses become ears, an equal sign his kissable lips, and a series of eights become his beautiful blond curls. He’s right there, in front of the classroom, once again my own private tutor who I can talk to and make out with and tell all my secrets and fears. Until his face is erased and replaced with someone even more powerful than my boyfriend.

  “Finding my lesson a little boring today, Dominy?”

  Mr. Dice is standing in front of me, no longer looking like Mr. Dice, but like the Sarutahiko Okami that he truly is. Japanese master, supernatural deity, and Jess’s mentor all rolled up into one. Which means that right now he’s rolled up in golden sunshine looking translucent and not at all hu-manesque. Which means the rest of the class is going to have a joint heart attack and make Nurse Nelson file for overtime for having to revive a classroom full of unconscious students. But why are the only screams coming from inside my head? Why is the rest of the class quiet and attentive and mathin-terested?

  “Because you’re the only one who can see me like this,” Dice replies.

  Glancing quickly to my left, I see Gwen and a few others not even paying attention to the change in the scenery. In fact, they’re all facing front watching Mr. Dice teach today’s lesson. The teacher and the Okami have temporarily parted ways, so Human Dice is still teaching, while Spirit Dice is gloating.

  “My students really do enjoy my class,” he says. “You’re the only one who has trouble concentrating.”

  “Because I’m the only one who knows your secret identity!” I silently shout. “I’m like Lois Lane when she finally sees through Clark Kent’s lame disguise.”

  Way to go, Dom. You’ve just insulted a god.

  “I think my disguise is pretty clever,” Dice sulks. “Everybody on this side of the great wall thinks so.”

  Obviously an immortal adult is still an adult when it comes to understanding teenagers.

  “Not your disguise, Superman’s,” I explain. “And what are you talking about? The Great Wall is in China. You’re Japanese.”

  Now it’s my turn to be on the other side of the generation gap.

  “The figurative wall, not the literal one,” Dice replies. “There’s an invisible wall that separates earthly life from everything else in the universe, a necessary barrier that protects the living until it enters its next phase.”

  Why is this existential and philosophical and intangible stuff so much easier for me to understand than mathematical formulae?

  Reading my questioning mind, Dice answers, “Because you’re one of the lucky ones, Dominy; you straddle both worlds.”

  “That makes me lucky?”

  Even silent, I can hear the sarcasm in my voice.

  “Incredibly,” he replies in a voice that isn’t necessarily human, but is definitely teacherly. “And it’s time you realized that.”

  Honestly, I am so sick and tired of hearing that I’m blessed and lucky and should be grateful for this tremendous gift that’s been bestowed upon me. I’m cursed! I’m a werewolf! I’ve been drafted into a war against a bitter, vindictive woman and her pregnant granddaughter! That may be the definition of lucky in the Omidictionary, but here on earth, a.k.a. the only world that really matters to me right now, that’s the definition of royally screwed!

  “Ignore her. She always gets like this when she’s frustrated, and calculus is three steps beyond frustrating,” Jess explains. “Super-mega-ultra frustrating, to be exact.”

  Now
Jess is sitting on my desk, perched there like some overgrown golden bird. I’m so ticked off I don’t even look around to see if Gwen or anyone else can see her. But I wish they could see her and Okami Dice, then everyone could be as lucky as me!

  “I don’t even know why you took this class, Dominysan,” Jess continues. “Without me to help you study, you know you’re going to fail.”

  “I am not failing!”

  Jess has gotten me so annoyed, I didn’t even notice that I flipped the switch from inner to outer voice; I spoke out loud. But if I did, why isn’t anyone staring at me like I’m a GWT—Girl With Tourette’s?

  “Think of it as being in a world within a world,” Dice suggests.

  “Kind of like when you’re trapped within the body of the wolf,” Jess adds, ever-so-helpfully. “You know, when it feels like you’re in a little, red fur-lined cage.”

  “Enough, Jess,” Dice chastises.

  Not feeling the slightest bit embarrassed or contrite, Jess defends herself. “Oh, Dominysan knows I love her red fur. It’s so soft and pretty and exotic,” she says. “Can I turn her into a wolf right now so I can pet her?”

  I know Jess has been out of school for a couple years, but she should remember that there’s no petting allowed in the classroom. Teaching, however, is encouraged, though it appears as if Mr. Dice didn’t get that e-mail.

  “How am I supposed to learn anything if you two keep interrupting me?” I ask.

  “Never fear, Dominy,” Dice replies. “When we’re done I’ll turn back time and start the class over from the beginning so you can hear every word of my lecture.”

  Yes, I am a very lucky girl.

  “And when I do, promise me you’ll remain focused on the lesson,” he adds. “All those other thoughts running through your mind about Caleb and Nadine and Vera are intrusions and can be dealt with after class.”

  Jess loses a little of her sunshine.

  “So . . . you finally met Vera?” she asks.