The Fascinators

by Andrew Eliopulos

  “I believe you, sort of. But if it’s getting in the way of even thinking about something with Denver, maybe you’re not as cool with just being friends as you think.”

  Sam knew she had a point. He’d come to the same conclusion himself, in the immediate aftermath of that night at the bowling alley. It was like he’d been keeping his true feelings in a soda bottle, and everything about that night had shaken the bottle and shot off the top.

  “I guess part of me feels like I need to talk things out with James before I do anything else, you know? But things have been so bananas this week, and plus—”

  “Plus you’re afraid it will ruin your friendship forever if you say something and he doesn’t like you back.”

  Rain beat down on the roof in sheets, the rat-a-tat-tat of a snare drum solo.

  Sam stared out the window beside him. “I mean, we’re supposed to be roommates next year.”

  “And that’s only one of the reasons you have to get over him. You know you have to.”

  “Hold up. ‘Get over him?’ Why?”

  He was ready for her to say that James was straight, or at least not into guys. He was ready for her to say that even if James did like guys—even if he was gay or bi or pan—Sam would be better off with a guy who wasn’t closeted. He was ready for her to say that even if James did like guys, and even if he finally came out, there was still no way he’d ever be into some femme, flamboyant guy like Sam. He was ready for these arguments, because they were his own worst fears.

  “Because he doesn’t deserve you, Sam.”

  “I don’t even—what?”

  “You know I love him, Sam. I wouldn’t be making this trip if I didn’t. But he’s changed. He’s not the same boy who started crying on the playground because Henry Mathis kept throwing rocks at that squirrel. He’s kind of a troublemaker now. Not even kind of.”

  “That’s where we disagree,” Sam said, turning back to face her. “I think he’s still exactly that boy from the playground. I think that’s the whole problem.”

  “Sam, he went to a party hoping to do drugs with a bunch of strangers and ended up robbing them. How many more red flags can I fit into one sentence?”

  “That was one time. You don’t judge your friends by what they do one time.”

  “Okay, what about at the convention dance last year, when he left in the middle of it, and then came back drunk as a skunk with those assholes from Fayette County? I don’t think I’ve ever been so embarrassed as when we showed up at his cousin’s place at eleven o’clock at night, trying to pretend like we didn’t all notice that James was slurring his words and tripping over himself.”

  “Wow, how do you really feel?” Sam was trying to downplay his knee-jerk defensiveness, but the truth was, he’d thought of that night often this past year—and never in a good light. He’d been so looking forward to that dance at the end of convention; the theme had been the nineties, and he’d found the baggiest pair of jeans imaginable at a thrift store, weeks in advance. Two songs in, James’s disappearance had made him feel like the most deficient, boring person in the world. The jeans were so stupid, all of a sudden. He’d wanted to leave, but he and Delia couldn’t until James returned.

  “Listen, I agree with you, Sam. You don’t judge your friends by one little thing, and James has his heart in the right place. That’s why we’re still friends, and why he’ll probably be a fine college roommate. But I think it’s pretty clear James would make a terrible boyfriend, and you can do so much better than that for your first boyfriend. Trust me.”

  Sam sighed, maybe a little melodramatically.

  He said, “Do you remember the other night last year, after the senior play?”

  “You mean the cast party at Adriana’s house?”

  “Yeah. You were off somewhere with Mark, and James and I were in Adriana’s room, even though it was supposed to be off limits. And I think I said something about Adriana graduating and studying theater at UGA, I can’t remember, but anyways, James said he couldn’t wait for us to graduate and be roommates next year. And then—he was sort of laughing, but I swear, he sounded so serious, too—he said, and I quote, ‘I really can’t imagine next year without you, Sam.’ I mean, who says that! And yeah, he’s messed up, because Friedman is a not-great place to be different in any way whatsoever, and James is different in so many little ways that he hides. But he just needs to get out—get away from his dad and his church and all the bigots we go to school with. Then we can finally figure out how things should be between us.”

  “Sam,” Delia said quietly. The rain was finally letting up a little, and Delia leaned back in her seat, the steady whir of the windshield wipers slowing to a less stressful speed. “Wasn’t James drunk at that cast party, too?”

  “This is why I avoid talking about this with you, Delia. It’s like you want to believe the worst in James.”

  “That’s not fair. Not even a little bit.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. That’s how it feels. Now can we please talk about something else until we get there? I’m running on zero sleep and infinity caffeine. I need simple, happy topics like Last Keeper Standing or Kelly Clarkson.”

  “Okay, let’s talk about Kelly Clarkson.”

  But they didn’t talk about Kelly Clarkson, or anything else, for the remaining twenty minutes of the drive. They sat in silence, each nursing their wounds and stewing in their thoughts.

  They didn’t speak again until they pulled up at the address for Findias, at which point, in unison, they both said, “What the—”

  Findias did not look so much like a store as it looked like a giant house.

  And not just giant—it was a freaking tower, taller than it was wide, and at least three stories taller than the houses on either side. “At least,” because it was hard to say for sure how many stories the house was. It was like a structure that a six-year-old would build out of Legos, the floors and balconies jutting out at strange angles, the walls a mixture of colors that didn’t not go together, but that was the best you could say for them.

  For all its remarkable quirks, there was nothing on the building to denote that it was a shop, and Sam and Delia might still have thought they’d pulled up to the wrong place—that James had somehow given them the wrong address—were it not for the cars double-parked in the narrow driveway, plus the cars parked all along the sides of the street. Even as they paused here, gawking, they saw a very dapper young man walk up from where he’d parked down the road and knock on the door, before he was let inside.

  “I guess I’ll just . . . go down here, then,” Delia said, driving until she finally found an opening to parallel park.

  They put up the hoods of their hoodies and walked briskly back up the sidewalk through the drizzling rain, both of them sparing a few glances into the windows of the neighboring houses, as if afraid someone might be watching them.

  When they reached the front door—robin’s egg blue, with an iron hand, palm outward, serving as a handle—it was clear they were both a little afraid to knock, rain or no rain.

  “Executive privilege?” Sam suggested.

  “I’m not the one having visions of faceless cultists,” Delia said. Which, fair point.

  Sam steadied his breathing and rapped his knuckles on the door.

  It took almost two whole minutes before the door swung open to reveal a woman, elegantly dressed in a strapless black jumpsuit, her shoulders covered by a sheer red shawl. She was barefoot, though. Sam found that welcoming.

  “Come in, come in,” the woman said, ushering them in out of the rain with some urgency, ignoring their questioning looks and quickly closing the door behind them. “I can tell it can’t wait.”

  “What can’t?” Delia said.

  “Whatever it is you’re looking for. This isn’t the sort of store people wander into aimlessly, you see. But in your case, I can see that you’ve arrived just in time. Thank goodness for you.”

  Sam wasn’t sure if this was some sort of mental magic she
was doing or merely a very persuasive sales strategy. Either way, it was working. Just beyond the threshold where they stood, he saw bookcases and tables teeming with objects that were neatly arranged and displayed, either for sale or else left over from a v-clip photo shoot, and he suddenly couldn’t wait to go through everything in search of whatever would make the visions stop. He really hadn’t slept in days. It had been a week of waking nightmares. A nightmare week.

  “Is there something going on upstairs?” Delia said, not moving. Now that he listened for it, Sam could hear the steady hum of voices coming from above them. He realized there was no sign of the man they’d seen come in before in this first-floor room.

  “Not just something,” the woman said. “Something special. A gallery opening for my dear friend Rachel Hanover. Have you heard of her?”

  Sam and Delia shook their heads.

  “She’s shown her art in Paris and London, and now she’s gracing the walls of Findias with her work. Can you imagine? I’d say I don’t know how I get so lucky, but of course I do know—I put a lot of time and effort into curating my collection.”

  This drew a smile from Delia, finally.

  “That would explain all the cars outside,” she said.

  “Indeed. And I really should get back to being a good hostess. Truth be told, when you knocked, I thought you were collectors too, here for the showing. The store’s technically closed today. But for you two?” She stepped back and gave them an appraising look. “For you two I can make an exception. I think I know just the thing . . .”

  Sam hardly had a chance to protest that they hadn’t even told her what they were looking for yet; she’d already taken three sweeping steps across the room, and now she held her hands in the air over one of the tables as if she could feel the objects on it without touching them.

  Some of the objects Sam recognized in a general way. A mid-size crystal ball perched on three iron talons; geodes and pendulums and compasses that Sam knew were meant to act as spell aides, clearing the mind for strong associations and acting as a channel for the magic. There were books and tarot cards too, and the woman hovered her hands over those, as if the magic she was looking for could be in anything.

  Then, she stopped.

  “Here it is,” she said.

  Delia and Sam leaned in, both so completely under her spell that she probably could have handed them a dirty straw and called it a wand and they would have paid her everything they had for it. It wasn’t a dirty straw, but it was . . .

  “A bowl?” Sam said.

  “A singing bowl,” the woman said.

  “For meditation, right?” Delia said. “Relaxation, that sort of thing.”

  That was the end of the spell for Sam. It felt like the lights had come on at the end of the party, telling everyone it was time to go home.

  “Thank you, but I’m not sure that’s what we need,” he said. “I’ve been meditating all week, burning sage to clear the bad magic and burning sandalwood to relax. But they still . . . I mean, I’m looking for something that can help us with a finding spell. Our friend heard about this place. He lost a book that we really need to get back.”

  “And why isn’t he here with you?” the woman said.

  Again, Delia smiled.

  “Anyway, it’s no matter,” the woman continued. “I can see that you are quite haunted. Yes, the situation seems very dire to me. But this singing bowl does not simply help with meditation, though that is one of its benefits, even for the untrained. This bowl was forged by hand and imbued with powerful magic. It won’t do your finding spell for you, but it will ensure that you are unhindered in your search.”

  Sam shivered, as if shaken by the force of the woman’s magic returning. He hadn’t mentioned anything about the faceless ones spying on him last time they did a finding spell. That was all her.

  “How much?” Sam said.

  “Forty-five even,” the woman said, and somehow her tone managed to convey both that she felt this was a steal and that she knew they were teenagers for whom any amount of money was too much. Delia sucked in a breath accordingly. But Sam pulled out his wallet, and from it the credit card his parents had given him in case of emergencies. They’d get a notification and text him about it when they did, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it—this was a real emergency.

  In one deft moment, the woman pulled out her phone, which had a small attachment for accepting credit cards; swiped Sam’s card; and then handed it back to him.

  “Now then,” she said. “I really must be attending my other guests. You are of course welcome to come upstairs and see the art, though I’m sure you’re in a hurry.”

  Sam assumed that Delia, who’d been so reticent to come here in the first place, would be anxious to leave as soon as possible. But even as he tried to catch her eye to confer and confirm, she said, “We’d love to see the art. Thank you so much.” And she was the driver today, so that was that.

  The large living space that was doubling as tonight’s art gallery turned out to be the top floor of the tall house. You could see the severe angles of the roof in the cut of the ceiling, sloping to a high point in the middle, but rising and falling around turret-like peaks in at least five other places. The whole house had the feeling of a project that had been finished and then expanded many times over the years, and nowhere was that more evident than in this strange, haphazard studio space.

  Sam observed two things right away when they reached the last stair and stepped smack-dab into the middle of the room:

  First, that everyone else here was an adult—maybe twenty-five, thirty at the youngest? But many much older—and not just adults, but the kind of stylish, sophisticated adult you were more likely to see on TV than in real life, with outlandish jewelry and floral-print suits and dresses that made their host’s outfit look subdued in comparison. They were holding champagne flutes that kept being refilled by two waiters who were circling the floor, replenishing their supply from a makeshift bar. Of everyone here, the waiters looked closest to Sam and Delia in age.

  Second, that the “art” on the walls amounted to a series of canvases that had either been painted uniformly with eggshell-white paint, or else—more likely—were all completely and utterly blank.

  “Um,” Sam said.

  “Would you like to meet the artist?” their hostess said.

  “We’d love to,” Delia said.

  Their hostess took them through the crowd as if she were leading them in a dance, waving to guests over her shoulder, leaning forward to blow kisses, and spinning to exchange pleasantries with nearly everyone they passed on their way to the far corner of the room, where a woman with silvery hair cut in a close-cropped bob was holding court for a small circle of adoring fans.

  Whatever story she’d been in the middle of telling, she brought to a natural close as soon as she caught sight of their hostess, and then, with a quick “Excuse me,” she pushed out of the circle to join them. With no small amount of discomfort, Sam felt the eyes of her erstwhile audience following her, wondering who these two teenagers were to take away the woman of the hour.

  “Rachel, dear, how are my guests treating you?” their hostess said, placing an arm around the artist.

  “I think fewer than half of them understand the paintings, but they are all lovely conversationalists,” Rachel said, smiling.

  “Good, good,” their hostess said, matching her smile. “I expect every last painting to be sold before the night is over.”

  “Who are your new friends?” Rachel said, taking a sip of champagne.

  “I’m Delia, and this is Sam. We were here for the shop, but then we heard you were having a viewing up here.”

  Rachel and their hostess exchanged an impressed smile at that, as if they couldn’t believe the manners of this articulate teenager.

  “Well, Delia and Sam, why don’t I talk you through one of the paintings?”

  “I trust you don’t need my help for that?” their hostess said—possibly
just to Rachel, possibly to all of them?—and then, with a flourish of her shawl, she spun away to talk to another group.

  “She doesn’t waste a moment, does she?” Rachel said, as if they were all old friends. “Now, how about we start with this one.” She walked them over to a large white canvas that looked to Sam like all the other white canvases. “It’s called ‘Firmament,’ inspired by the still rather recent belief that there was a dome above our atmosphere, where lived the angels and the water that came down from the sky as rain. What do you think?”

  Delia turned, in all seriousness, to regard the painting more closely, and this felt like the moment when Sam had to put his foot down on this whole charade.

  “I think it’s a blank canvas,” he said.

  Delia stared at him in horror, like he was embarrassing her.

  Even Rachel frowned, a little bit.

  “Is that your final assessment?” she said, her voice suddenly bored.

  In a minor panic, Delia turned to stare even more intensely at the painting, and Sam did his best to join her, although he felt like a little boy being sent to time-out.

  A funny thing happened as he stared at the canvas, though.

  It wasn’t that images appeared on the canvas, although that’s how Sam was tempted to describe it at first. He knew that wasn’t what was happening, because when he closed his eyes to try to clear his vision, the images were still there; if anything, they were stronger. It was more that images were pouring forth from the canvas and existing in Sam’s mind. Not just existing but amplifying—images of fire and water, sea spray and clouds, crowding his vision and swirling. A few times in his life, Sam had gotten the spins—both times, it was because he’d made the mistake of switching back and forth between beer and liquor, trying to keep pace with James. The experience of this painting was like getting the spins while on a boat in the middle of a storm. It wasn’t totally unpleasant, but it was totally overwhelming.

  Sam struggled to re-center himself—to view the storm from outside. When he finally succeeded, gasping on a breath, it took him a moment to remember where he was. The light in here suddenly seemed garishly yellow against the gray outside the windows.