But she knew the grimoire couldn’t be meaningless. Why would Jackson have written hundreds of pages of text about nothing, and then hidden it in fear for his life? Her tattoo was featured among the illustrations that interspersed the text, and that was definitely not a joke; it was a living nightmare that could go haywire and perforate the next person who stressed her out. If that much was real, then what was the rest?
When she wasn’t trying to crack the code she paged through the volume, sometimes until sunrise. The only consistent part of the book was the style. The coded language had hundreds of characters, many appearing only once. The text was loosely chunked into what looked like sections, each written at a different time period in different colored inks; some were ballpoint, others were permanent marker that bled through the back of the page. She’d kept a diary since she was ten, and knew this book wasn’t the result of just a few sessions. Jackson had been at this for months—maybe a year. And then there were the sigils: scores of designs like the one residing on her back, each with an unknowable story to tell.
Towards the end of the book, the pages were blank. Jackson’s final design was larger and more elaborate than anything that had come before; a multi-tiered pentagram with notes and instructions around its perimeter, sketches of candles and moon phases, buttressed by a dozen other sigils that mapped out … something. The notes tapered off mid-page, leaving his final project incomplete.
Her desire to solve the grimoire had swollen and metastasized. It ate away at her thoughts and spilled into her dreams. She couldn’t help but think this was all leading to a confrontation with them, whoever ‘they’ were—these people who had locked away her mother and taken Jackson’s life, and god knows what else. They were out there, somewhere. Maybe closer than she realized.
‘This book couldn’t save my life, but it might save hers.’ The mantra was like her tattoo, branded into her cerebrum with needle and ink, never leaving her mind’s eye. None of it made sense, but maybe she’d been going about things all wrong. Maybe getting rid of the sigil was premature. It wasn’t something Jackson had done to her, after all—she’d chosen it of her own free will. She didn’t understand it, but if she removed it now, she never would.
This book was going to save her mother. She was sure of it. She just had to figure out how.
It felt powerful to believe in something. This wasn’t hope, or blind faith, or a childish wish that her mother would one day be released. Unlocking the grimoire was a mission—a clear goal to shoot for—and with it came resolve.
But her mission had more than one objective. The ominous ‘they’ could come looking for her if they wanted because, sooner than later, she was going to go looking for them.
A bright, snowy Tuesday had begun like any other: English lit, gym, followed by American history. Now in Anthropology class, Calista was trying to survive a lecture by her extremely pregnant teacher, the diminutive Mrs. Post, who was set to deliver twins at any moment. She waddled from her desk to the whiteboard, wiping her brow with the back of her sleeve. She was endlessly cheerful throughout her pregnancy and seemed determined to teach right up until the moment before labor. With her apple cheeks and a bob of blond locks, she looked like a cartoon pixie who’d been knocked up, and had the helium-infused voice to match.
Mrs. Post printed a name in smudgy green marker on the board: Beckett Abrams.
Who? Calista blinked hard. She’d been poring through the grimoire until four in the morning when she passed out, cheek smooshed into the open volume, only to be startled awake at six by a garbage truck rumbling by. She’d never even made it from her desk to her bed. She squinted at the name: who was Beckett Abrams—some obscure biologist whose textbook she was supposed to have memorized?
Mrs. Post waved a boy up from the back of the room. “Don’t be shy, Beckett, come introduce yourself.”
Calista hadn’t noticed the additional student. A tanned, scrawny bundle of nerves with heavy framed glasses and an aquiline nose sat in the back row, sagged deep in his chair.
“Oh, come now, don’t be shy,” Mrs. Post sang out, brimming with an enthusiasm that her new pupil clearly didn’t share.
After some coaxing the boy shuffled to the front and faced the class. “Hey guys, I’m, well …” he gestured vaguely to his name on the board. “I flew here from Los Angeles, and boy, are my arms tired!” He cracked a nervous smile and spread his hands, waiting for his audience to burst into gales of laughter.
None came.
“I’m in North Valley because my dad is researching for a script, so this is where I’m finishing my senior year. My last school didn’t have uniforms, and since it’s sweltering in SoCal I’d wear t-shirts. Good thing long sleeves are required at Hawthorne so I don’t make everyone uncomfortable with my guns.” He flexed one of his biceps as if he were at a bodybuilding competition, though it was about as jacked as a pipe cleaner. He grinned again, awaiting laughter. For a moment Calista thought she heard a cricket.
Beckett glanced helplessly at Mrs. Post. Is my set finished yet? Can you please pull the curtain on this train wreck of an improv show?
She quietly thanked him and shooed him back to his desk.
He shuffled past Calista and took the seat behind her, leaning forward to whisper over her shoulder. “Wow, tough room. Is it always like this?”
“No,” she said without a hint of irony, “it’s usually much worse. We tied the last new kid to the flag pole and set him on fire. And his material was a lot tighter than yours, so you got off easy.”
He laughed under his breath. “Unfortunately that was my A-game. Maybe I should’ve brought props? I’m Beckett, by the way.”
“I can read.” She pointed at the whiteboard. “One of my many talents.”
“Oh, right. And you are …?”
“Calista Scott.”
He reached out to shake her hand. She did a quarter turn, and when their hands connected a wave of excitement butterflied into her stomach. Was it possible that the cosmic guillotine was cleaving her life in half once again? The thought of a new boy in her life—romantic or otherwise—sent a smile fluttering across her lips. It just felt nice to be talking to someone. She’d almost forgotten what casual conversation felt like.
“Well, Calista Scott, is one of your many talents tutoring? Because I’m hella behind in History, midterms are next month, and I need someone with solid note-taking skills to catch me up on the Revolutionary War.”
“Not to brag,” she said, “but my notes are impressive. When it comes to tri-corner hats, muskets and gangrene, I’m your girl.”
She cringed, wishing she’d stopped her list at ‘muskets.’
“I knew you were clever,” he said.
“How’s that?”
He glanced at her combat boots. “You’re the only student to have both circumvented the dress code and made it fashionable.”
“Wow, buttering me up to use my notes. You’re smooth, L.A.”
“Stand-up comedy isn’t my only talent. I’m also great at ass-kissing. Growing up Hollywood-adjacent makes me an expert.”
Calista and Beckett weren’t the only ones engaged in conversation. The room had gotten chatty, and Mrs. Post settled her pupils with a loud shush and a flap of her hands. “I promise things are about to get interesting,” she said grandly. “Everything that walks, crawls, flies or swims on this giant chunk of rock wants exactly one thing.”
One of the mouth-breathers in the back row shouted, “To get laid!” which triggered an outburst of laughter from the class—and surprisingly, a wry smirk from Mrs. Post.
“You’re actually right. It’s not only sex though, or the attainment of physical pleasure. It’s passing on genes.” Mrs. Post turned back to the board and scrawled the word ‘genes’ in friendly block letters.
“The genetics we pass onto the next generation,” she continued, “can perpetuate infinitely. It’s a way for us fragile humans to achieve immortality—in a sense. But we don’t need to physically reprod
uce to pass along a piece of ourselves: we can do it through memes.”
Below the word ‘genes’ she wrote ‘memes,’ eliciting some more laughter.
“I posted a meme this morning,” Parker called out. Maddox, sitting behind him, let out a hearty chuckle. Whitney rolled her eyes.
Their teacher continued. “I’m not talking about cartoons on social media. The internet hijacked the word ‘meme’ long ago, and the real meaning was lost. It’s a belief that can be passed along through fables, religion, or even the internet. They’re powerful, but even more powerful is a series of memes that support each other. This is what’s known as a ‘memeplex.’”
The jocks were no longer quipping, and the rest of the class sat in a befuddled silence.
Mrs. Post let out a pixie-like giggle. “I’ve lost some of you. Let me explain: if you believe in God, that’s a single meme.” She wrote ‘GOD’ in capital letters, encircling the word with a screech of her blue marker. “And if you believe in the concept of salvation, that’s another. But those two concepts must be believed in conjunction. One reinforces the other. If you don’t believe in a higher power, the concept of being saved by one is pretty useless, isn’t it?” She drew several smaller bubbles that surrounded the larger one, writing words in each—‘salvation,’ ‘damnation,’ ‘heaven,’ ‘hell,’ and tethered them with short lines. “The further a memeplex expands, the more powerful it becomes. It can literally change our brain chemistry.”
“That’s impossible,” Maddox called out.
“Is it?” Mrs. Post asked. “Neurosurgeons have proven that our brains change when we take on a new set of beliefs, and they give off different waves. It can be measured on an oscilloscope. Beliefs mold us into different people, and when a memeplex sets up shop in our heads, anything is possible.”
Whitney jutted her hand overhead, and Maisie typed a comment on her tablet. Their questions would go unanswered as the bell sounded.
“Have a great day, kids.” Mrs. Post huffed as she eased back into her seat. “If I’m not busy passing along a couple genes of my own, I’ll see you all Thursday.”
Calista agreed to have Beckett over for a study session and asked if he’d wait in the hall. While the class filed out she approached the teacher’s desk and pulled the grimoire from her backpack. It hit the surface with a thud.
“What can I help you with, dear?” Mrs. Post dabbed at her forehead with the sleeve of her blouse.
“I have this book I can’t figure out. I know symbols and linguistics are a big part of anthropology, so—”
Mrs. Post peeled open the cover and paged through the text, eyes wide. “What language is this? Where did you get it?”
“I don’t actually know what language it is. Kinda hoped you’d tell me. And … well, it’s a long story.”
“It looks Pagan,” she ventured, gently drumming her fingers into her desk. “But it has an Egyptian flair to it, almost like a variation on hieroglyphics. Mind if I snap a few photos?”
Calista shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”
Mrs. Post riffled through her purse, extracted a phone, and snapped pictures of random pages. “I don’t know how much time I’ll have to review these symbols, between mid-terms coming up and …” she rubbed her stomach and blew out her rosy cheeks. “… other activities. But I’ll do my best. Thank you for sharing.”
A raven-haired girl sidled up to her, jutting her finger towards the open book. “These designs are sick! What is this, an art project for Mr. Decker’s class?”
Ashley Flowers was tall and willowy with an evergreen smile that revealed shiny metal braces, saddling her with a comical lisp. Though Ashley never attempted to hack the school’s dress code, she was known for being a sartorial chameleon; outside of Hawthorne she dressed like a groupie at a goth metal concert, but came off more like an over-caffeinated cheerleader.
“Hey, Ash,” Calista said. “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s personal.”
“Nice!” Ashley flipped a few pages. “Mind if I take a peek? I’m searching for a new logo—something I can plaster on t-shirts and merch.”
Calista glanced towards the door. Beckett was pacing the halls, intermittently checking his phone.
“Maybe next time,” Calista said. She grabbed her book and left.
Beckett nodded in approval at Calista’s cramped apartment. “Groovy place you have here.”
He was just being polite. It was scarcely decorated with bare concrete walls devoid of family photos, and a television propped up on a wooden crate. Prison cells had more attractive décor. But her Uncle—an interior decorator by trade—was too exhausted from beautifying his clients’ estates to spend time sprucing up his own pad.
“You’re too kind.” Calista kicked off her boots and dropped her jacket and gloves in a mountainous pile at the front door.
She turned to find Beckett stooped by the couch, running his hand along Brady’s charcoal-black coat. “Who’s the little guy?”
“He’s my friend’s … well, my cat, I suppose. Brady.”
“I’m digging the name.”
“After a football player, I think.”
She waved Beckett into her room. A trace of smoky orange light filtered through the blinds she hadn’t bothered to open that morning. He wandered past her writing desk and trailed his fingers along the surface. “Nice. Vintage. Our house in L.A. is filled with pieces my dad picked up at auctions.”
She flung her backpack onto her bed and riffled through the contents. “It was my mom’s. Handed down from my grandma.”
“So your mom passed away?”
“No, nothing like that. She’s alive. She’s just …” Calista let out a silent breath, scraping the blond strands away from her face. “Can we not talk about this? It’s complicated.”
“I’m sorry. I have a way of planting my foot firmly in my mouth.”
“No, it’s fine. But if you’re into vintage, you might like this.” She reached behind her neck and unclasped her locket. Time had robbed it of its luster, and some of the silver was faded to a ferrous gray, but it had been well preserved.
Peeling open the locket revealed a pair of tiny photographs. On one side was a younger version of herself—Calista couldn’t have been more than seven. Opposite her was Julia in her mid-20s. Nearing that age herself, she was fast-becoming her mother’s mirror image: high cheekbones, mysterious downturned lips, and wide expressive eyes the color of polished steel. She saw none of her father in herself, though it was just as well. It was a daily reminder she could do without.
But the photograph served as more than a reflection. It was the crystalline vision of her mother she’d been preserving in her mind, safe and untarnished, until a visit to Culpepper shattered it like a brick through a stained glass window. Julia’s pallid face was haunting. Her sunken cheeks, darkened eyes … her despair. It rendered in real-time, vandalizing old photographs, polluting memories that used to warm her.
“Is this your mom?” Beckett said.
She clapped the locket shut. “This isn’t all that interesting. Let’s talk about you.”
“Sure, I’ll tell you everything.” He pulled up the chair by her desk. “I bet you’re dying to know my mysterious origin story.”
“I wanna hear the whole thing.”
“Okay, but it’s a long one,” he warned her.
She sat on the edge of her bed and folded her legs beneath her. “Fire away.”
“My mom is an actress. A few years ago she married this rich producer and became too busy with self-tanners and trips to Rodeo Drive to take care of a teenager. So now I live with my dad in North Hollywood.”
“… and you moved here. So he could do research.”
“Pretty much.” He nodded a few times and wedged his mouth to the side. “Huh. I guess that wasn’t a very long story.”
She shrugged. “Not exactly War and Peace. Interesting, though. So what is L.A. like?”
“Hot. Boring. People are fake and stupid and get a lot o
f plastic surgery. What is it like here in North Valley?”
“Cold. Boring. People are fake and stupid and get a lot of plastic surgery.”
“Ah. Seems like it’ll be a good fit for me.”
“Like a glove.” She stood, grabbed a notebook from her bag, and opened it on her desk. “Let’s get the ball rolling. Ready to be immersed in the fascinating world of American History?”
He rubbed his hands together in mock anticipation. “You know it.”
“I know a trick. Scooch back.” He allowed her enough room to pull open the desk drawer, and she extracted a bag of multi-colored gummy bears (minus the red ones, of course—those are always the first to go). She spread them out over her notes, dropping one of the gelatin treats at the end of each paragraph.
Beckett patted his stomach. “I know I’m a little lean, but is this your way of trying to fatten me up? ‘Skinny shaming’ is a thing, you know. The struggle is real.”
“It’s an incentive. You’ll be surprised at how fast you start devouring these paragraphs to get to the next gummy. Yes, it’s a little juvenile, and yes, I get some of my study ideas from beauty vloggers, but believe me, it works. Once you get to the end of the chapter I’ll quiz you.”
She ambled to her bed and pulled a sketch pad from her pile of books. “I’ve got some art homework to catch up on, but I’ll be supervising. If you eat the gummies too fast I’ll know you’re skipping paragraphs, so don’t cheat.”
The North Valley Grimoire Page 10
