“Yeah,” I nod, handing him a comb from my purse.
He smiles, taking the comb from me. “You know what I like most about you, Evie?” he asks me.
My eyebrow arches. “Umm, I’m not sweaty?” I ask.
His grin deepens, reaching his gray eyes as he shakes his head. “Well, that, and the fact that you think of everything. It makes me worry less about you because I know that you’ll cover every angle before you attack a problem,” he answers.
I give him a furtive glance as I retort, “You know what I like most about you?”
“My musicality?” he asks with a straight face.
I grin because we both know he is completely tone-deaf. “Well, that,” I agree, “and the fact that you always manage to say just the right thing.”
“You liked that?” he asks me while we walk up the sloping sidewalk to the entrance of my new residence. “Good, because I practiced it in the car all the way here.”
“It sounded very parental,” I compliment him as he holds the door for me to enter.
“That’s what I was going for,” he acknowledges, approaching the wide mahogany table in the lobby.
“Evie Claremont,” I say to the perky brunette seated in a wing-backed chair behind the table.
She scans the roster before looking up and asking, “Genevieve Claremont?”
“That’s me,” I breathe nervously, “but everyone just calls me Evie.”
She glances from me to my uncle, and her smile becomes toothy. My Uncle Jim and I both pretend not to notice when she begins flirting with him: me because I'm uncomfortable and him because he's not into females my age. Anyway, I’m used to it—it happens often; I think that every one of my female friends was in love with my uncle at one point or another.
As she begins outlining all of the upcoming dorm activities for him, I take the time to gaze around at the old building. I know that it was once a home to a wealthy Crestwood family, but they had donated it to the school around the turn of the previous century. The interior is elegant, with ice blue, silken wall-coverings, crown molding, rich deep-brown wainscoting, and leaded-glass windows.
Uncle Jim nudges me before handing me my new keys and motioning with his chin toward the stairs.
“She was friendly,” I tease him as we climb up to the second floor.
He nods his head and feigns ignorance, muttering, “Very nice.”
Locating my room, we open it, and I set my purse down on the low table by the door as I enter. The room comes fully furnished with a single bed, a desk, a dresser, a bedside table, and a small lamp. A bathroom-style sink and a closet are the only other appointments to it.
“Home,” Uncle Jim says with a sanguine glance at me. He must be reading the dark excursion my mind is taking because he adds hurriedly, “Don’t worry; when we get your stuff in here, it won’t feel as strange.”
“I’m not worried,” I say, flashing him a faux grin.
“C’mon,” he says, putting his arm around me and tugging me to the door. “Let’s go get your stuff.”
We get to work unloading my swag from his truck. After bringing a few boxes up several flights of stairs, I stay in my room and begin unpacking them. “Where do you want me to put this box?” my Uncle Jim asks me, breathing heavily and staggering through the doorway.
Narrowing my eyes, I murmur, “Umm, let me think,” while looking for available space on the floor. “What’s in it?” I ask, sifting through the box in front of me.
He grunts before saying, “Judging by the weight, I’d say it has to be either your ex-boyfriend’s dead remains or…books.” Pressing the front of the box against the wall, he tries to keep from dropping it.
“Ah, it must be books—all of my exes are buried in the backyard at home, so pleasant dreams when you get there tonight,” I reply with a smirk, putting my alarm clock on the nightstand near my bed. “You can just set it down by the desk, thanks.” Shuffling across the room, he heaves the box down with a loud thump.
“I was wondering what happened to the last one. The one that took you to the movies…” he replies. He wipes the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his Ramones t-shirt. Poor Dee Dee Ramone on the front of it looks a little soaked.
Giving him an ironic smile I shrug, “His name was Greg, and like I said…backyard.”
“Good, I never liked him,” he says with the same kind of smile. “Do you want help unpacking these?” he asks, indicating the boxes strewn around the room.
“I’m not sure where I’m going to put everything yet. Maybe I should just do it myself,” I say almost as a question.
“I’ll set up the Internet connection so you can send email and surf,” Uncle Jim says as he finds my laptop and places it on my desk.
“Thanks. I register for classes tomorrow, so I’ll email you—let you know how that goes,” I promise.
He bypasses the dormitory’s LAN and gives me my own Internet access and firewall so that I can maintain my privacy. I can probably do it myself because he taught me how, but I’m grateful that he is taking care of it.
Finishing the set-up, he turns his grayish-blue eyes to me, smiling in triumph. I think my mother also had the same color eyes as her brother and I do, but I have to rely on old, grainy photos of her in order to see them. As for the rest of my physical characteristics, like my auburn hair and my tall, slender frame, they could’ve come from my father’s side of the family, but since neither of us knows who he is, it makes proving that theory slightly difficult.
Uncle Jim loses some of his smile as he looks around and sees there isn’t much left for him to do now. “So, you have your cell phone,” he states as if going over a parental checklist in his head. “If you need anything, you can call me. Do you need any money?”
“You already gave me money,” I say, seeing him reach into his pocket for his wallet. I put my hand on his arm to stop him. “I have more than enough money for all of the beer and drugs I plan on experimenting with,” I tease him gently. “When I blow it all on Internet gambling, I’ll call you.”
He smiles back at me, and I watch the way his eyes crinkle in the corners. I love that. I like to think that I’m responsible for most of the laugh lines around his eyes. “Did I tell you how proud I am of you, Evie?” he asks, his voice soft with affection.
I feel a blush creeping into my cheeks. “Oh, once or twice,” I reply. “Anyway, with me out of the house, you can focus on all of those things you’ve been putting off—maybe check out the Internet dating scene. But…don’t do any background checks on your dates, it takes all the mystery out of it,” I tease him.
It’s sad that I can’t even remember his last girlfriend’s name. Uncle Jim hasn’t had a date in a while. I believe I know the reason for this and it has to do with his line of work. He’s sort of a computer nerd. Working primarily for private investigators, Uncle Jim handles mostly divorce cases, specifically, cheating spouses.
He gains access to the alleged cheating spouse’s computer and clones the hard drive, always with the express permission of the suspicious spouse, since it’s usually considered joint property. Then he delves through emails and bank accounts at his leisure. So, one can make the argument that infidelity keeps our little family afloat, if one is so inclined. I like to think that it’s the reason why he doesn’t really date and not that he took himself out of the game to raise me.
Taking my comment in stride, he replies, “Just for that obnoxious crack, I’m turning your room into a home gym. You’ll have to sleep on the weight bench when you come home to visit.”
“How dare you!” I reply with mock outrage, but I’m trying not to let him see my anxiety. He will be leaving soon and I will be staying here. It has always been just the two of us; I’ve always had him to count on. Tears immediately spring to my eyes at the realization that things will be different.
“I miss you already,” Uncle Jim says, seeing my tears.
I begin to panic at his words, so I run down my own parental checklist. “I
did the grocery shopping yesterday, so you should have enough food to last you at least a week. I bought you new razors, and I put them in the drawer in the bathroom. Oh, and I took your suit to the dry cleaners. You have to remember to pick it up on Wednesday because you have to be in court for the Henderson’s divorce case on Friday.”
“I’ll remember,” he says with an indulgent smile.
Inhaling deeply so that I can hold in my tears, I whisper, “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he replies. Seeing the hint of anxiety in his eyes, he adds, “I want you to call me, you know, if you start having those nightmares again.”
Looking down at the floor, I mumble, “I think now that I’m here they’ll go away.”
“If they don’t, I want you to call me,” he replies, touching my cheek.
“Okay,” I reply in a small voice, and he drops his hand.
“I should get on the road now—I want to avoid the rush hour traffic near Ann Arbor,” he says with forced cheer in his voice. “Everything’s going to be great here. You’re going to love it at Crestwood, Evie,” he says with a reassuring smile.
“Yeah, you’re right. It’ll be stellar,” I reply with forced enthusiasm. “Anyway, you should go—beat the traffic. I’ll walk you out,” I say, pretending that I’m not about to bawl my eyes out.
Holding his hand, I walk with him out to his truck. He gives me a huge bear hug before getting into it. “I’ll come for Homecoming, okay?” he asks through the window.
“Can’t wait,” I say with a ghost of a smile.
As he starts the engine, I bite my lower lip so it won’t tremble. Seeing him smile at me through the glass, my heart accelerates in fear. Uncle Jim gives me a small wave, and I mirror the action, although my hand shakes just a little. When his car drives out of sight, I walk slowly back upstairs.
Turning the key in the lock to my single room, I push the door open. About to step through the doorway, I freeze when I see a shadow move quickly across the wall. It startles me. “Hello?” I inquire, but no one answers me.
Rubbing my eyes, I blink a couple of times before I close my door. I hurry to the windows on the far wall, looking for someone outside my window on the fire escape. It’s empty; the heavy iron grate of the landing is rusty in spots from disuse, appearing as if no one has been out there in a while.
Sighing, I turn from the window and scan the room, taking in the bare walls and empty shelves—it can belong to anyone. It’s like looking at a blank canvas; as if the person that I was prior to this moment with all of the vibrant colors, intricate shapes, and textures that were painted on that canvas throughout my life has no voice here—no future. I just need to unpack my stuff, so I can feel normal, I think to myself.
I choose a box near the sink and begin unpacking it. As I set a picture of Uncle Jim and me on the bedside table, the clock tower of Central Hall scares me by loudly tolling out the hour. Bong…bong…bong…three o’clock. The deep timbre of the bell churns the air ominously. I hope it doesn’t do that all night because that could get really annoying, I think before trying to synchronize my clock to reflect the clock tower’s pronouncement.
Unpacking some of my clothes next, I finish putting them in the drawers. I have more time to kill before I have to walk to the Sage Center. Freshman orientation starts at four o’clock. My plan is to get there just in time to slip in the back of the auditorium and find a seat because the thought of milling around alone in the lobby before the orientation seems very awkward and unappealing.
After making my bed, I feel a little bit better as I lie on the soft coverlet, smelling the scent of home that clings to the blanket. Yawning tiredly, my eyes droop because I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I avoid sleep. When I sleep, I dream, and my dreams make me feel like I’m drowning. Yawning again, I push myself up, looking for another box to unpack so I won’t crash yet. I want to be utterly exhausted when I sleep so that there will be less of a chance that I’ll remember my nightmare.
Finding a small box by the sink, I pick it up and wrestle with the sticky packing tape, trying to rip it off. The tape sticks to my hand as I carry it to my desk, setting it down near the lamp. Pulling the box cutter from the pocket of my denim skirt, I expose the blade.
A shadow darts in front of the window, blotting out the sunlight for a moment. It distracts me so that I look up. In the next second, searing pain registers in my mind as blood runs onto the box. I hiss in pain, dropping the stupid box cutter with a clatter on the desk. As I inspect my finger, blood wells up from a deep cut. Walking to the sink, I run it under the cold water.
It’s not too deep. Maybe I can get away with just putting a bandage on it when I get it to stop bleeding, I think to myself. Finding a small towel to wrap around it, I open the medicine cabinet over the sink that I had stocked earlier. As I fumble with a box of bandages, I apply pressure to my cut. It’s throbbing like I had opened an artery while splotches of red soak through the bone-colored terrycloth.
Ignoring its pulsing ache, I go over to the windows again to see if someone is out there. I examine the fire escape again; I am on the second floor, and the grating is at least twenty feet off the ground. The ladder has to be pushed off of it, so no one can just jump onto it. Sticking my head out the window, I look up, but there is no way to enter it from above either. Feeling shady about it, I close the windows and lock them.
I’m so tired that I’m seeing things, I think, rubbing my eyes with my good hand. I cross back to my bed, flopping onto it to stare at the freshly painted white ceiling. Yawning, I turn my head, reading the clock. My eyes close for a second, and I feel for a moment like I am floating. I jerk my eyes open before pulling one of my pillows to me and hugging it for comfort. Watching the clock in front of me again, I try to stay awake.
Why is my room so cold? I wonder as I turn over on my side. It’s freezing… Opening my eyes, I stare hazily at the vinyl tiles beneath my damp cheek; they stretch out in a checkerboard pattern of muted beige and taupe into a desolate infinity. Touching my fingertips to my aching jaw, I lift my face from a sticky pool on the floor. Thick, red lines of blood slip down my neck to rain like tears onto my elegant top.
Beautiful music of the sweetest resonance sways around me, but it is punctuated by a grating, buzzing sound that is making my head dizzy. Disoriented and nauseous, I look toward the sound of the music.
My eyes fall upon the most beautiful face I have ever seen, but his perfect features are covered in gore. Large streaks of blood mottle the sides of his mouth, running in trails of horror from his face. A slow, sensual smile curls the corners of his lips as he sees me watching him.
Fear, like a choking noose, steals the air from my lungs, forbidding me to turn away from him. Gently, he lifts my hand while softly prying my fingers open. Small silver pendants dangle from a worn brown leather strap in my palm. They catch the light as the beautiful monster takes them from me.
A voice that sounds like my own whispers, “Unravel the life force and lose a soldier, a lover, a friend. Always been there…always there…” Bong… “Can’t stop it from coming…” Bong… “Can’t stop…”
About The Author
I live in Michigan with my husband and our two sons. My family is very supportive of my writing. When I’m writing, they often bring me the take-out menu so that I can call and order them dinner. They listen patiently when I talk about my characters like they’re real. They rarely roll their eyes when I tell them I’ll only be a second while I finish writing a chapter…and then they take off their coats. They ask me how the story is going when I surface after living for hours in a world of my own making. They have learned to accept my “writing uniform” consisting of a slightly unflattering pink fleece jacket, t-shirt, and black yoga pants. And they smile at my nerdy bookishness whenever I try to explain urban fantasy to them. In short, they get me, so they are perfect and I am blessed.
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At my website:
http://www.amyabartol.
com
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Under Different Stars Page 30