She had come home in tears and was curled on her bed when her father arrived home from work. She had sobbed the story to him and felt his warm hand smooth her frizzy hair and stroke her back through her baggy sweatshirt.
“I’m sorry, honey,” he had said gently. “Kids are stupid and cruel sometimes.”
“Can’t you do anything?” she had begged him.
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know, complain to the school? Make them stop?”
Her father had sighed, and there was a long moment when Celia waited for him to speak. “Honey, if anyone ever hurts you—physically—I will skip the school and go straight to the police. If anyone ever threatens to hurt you, you can bet I will make sure the school knows about it. And if I thought you were being emotionally torn up by what was going on, I would be spending a lot of time making sure you got the help you needed, with a counselor or someone else.
“But this is what makes being a parent hard: trying to decide when to step in and protect you and when to step back and let you protect yourself. Because growing up includes realizing that some people are stupid and cruel and you have to figure out how to deal with them. Figuring that out makes you a stronger person. Now, if it goes beyond that—if someone is violent, or if the person seems more threatening than just typical middle school stupidity—please tell me. But it sounds like someone is jealous of your talent, and maybe resentful because you don’t like the same things they do, and they’re trying to get under your skin. Does that sound true?”
Celia took a tissue from the box on her bedside table. “I guess.”
“Can I say something else to you? Sometimes I wish you drew a little less. I certainly don’t want you to stop, because you’re too good and I hope you always use your talent to make beautiful things. But to be a good artist, you need to live. And that means spending time in the real world, with real people, doing lots of different things. Which also means occasionally getting hurt and picking yourself up. It’s one thing to be a spectator, off in the corner watching, drawing what you see. It’s another thing to be an artist, out there in the world, creating things that change the people who see them—things that change the world, even.”
“Can a drawing do that?”
“I think it can. I think great art is like a miracle. It shows us things we wouldn’t have imagined ourselves. It makes us see the world differently. It makes things we thought were impossible, possible. I wouldn’t be surprised if you made art like that one day.”
“You think so?”
“I do. Someday you will draw things that will change people, and change the world.”
Celia remembered the feeling of his lips on her forehead, his hand helping her off the bed so they could go down to dinner. She put the admonition in the old sketchbook and returned it to the shelf, then went down to see if she could help her mother cook.
THE SECOND-TO-LAST DAY before the break arrived, and it didn’t take Celia and Mariette long to learn Stella Miller was out with the flu. “What does that mean?” Mariette said in frustration. “The flu isn’t the curse.”
“I don’t think so.” Celia couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say. “I guess we have to wait until tomorrow anyway, to see if anything happened to her. Anything that could be the curse, I mean.”
“I don’t even care, at this point. We have a bigger problem to solve, and that’s Ivo.”
“I told you, we’re meeting on Saturday at the café.”
“I know. But you understand how I’m not really going to think about much else until then?”
“Yes. I’ll see you in chem.” Celia watched Mariette walk away. She looked around the hall and thought, I’ll be so glad to get out of this place for a few weeks . . .
13. POWER, CORRUPTION & LIES
CELIA STEPPED THROUGH THE snow on her way to the café on the first day of winter break, thinking she wouldn’t be surprised to find two shadows trailing behind her if she looked over her shoulder. There would be the usual one, cast by the sun, making a distorted impression of her on the white lawns as she passed. And there would be a second one, composed of all the strange secrets that had collected around her, always just out of reach, but never far and often underfoot. She had hoped to savor the holiday as a time to relax and forget about school for a little while, but troubling parts of it had followed her home.
There was the curse, which wasn’t really a curse, but a covert attempt by an Unkind to fulfill an admonition. There was Mariette, whose powers were good—Celia believed that without a doubt—but who had powers, strange and fantastic things Celia had seen with her own eyes. Powers, incidentally, that Mariette believed Celia would be coming into herself, though Celia wasn’t convinced. There was Skip, who might be the nicest guy at Suburban or might be the person who had attempted to murder a few dozen times during the fall semester. And then there was Ivo, who had glimpsed something he shouldn’t have and who easily could convene a modern-day witch-hunt if he wanted—or worse. What if it turned out he was the Unkind behind all this? And wasn’t that the freaky part? A few months ago she never would have considered something like that even possible, much less something to be taken seriously. The cold wind blew, and she shoved her hands in her pockets and pulled her shoulders up beside her neck.
Celia arrived first at the café. She took the same table where she and Mariette had sat on Halloween weekend. A minute later Mariette arrived. “I’m glad you’re here early,” she said, sitting next to Celia so Ivo would have to sit across from them. “Let me do the talking. Don’t say anything.”
“I know. This is for you.” Celia handed a brightly colored gift bag to Mariette. She hoped it would help to smooth things over.
“For me? Oh, I had no idea we were exchanging gifts! I don’t have anything for you!” Mariette was distraught.
“It’s okay! It’s nothing. Just open it.” Celia watched her dig into the tissue paper. First Mariette pulled out the portrait Celia had drawn of her, encased in a frame. Celia had captured Mariette with a smile that filled her entire face, her curls arranged more artfully than Celia ever had seen them in real life. A hummingbird hovered over her shoulder, its wings a blur.
Mariette caught her breath. “This is not nothing!” Her eyes grew moist, and Celia was taken aback by the effect her gift had caused. “This is amazing! You are so talented!” Mariette looked up at Celia and her face was radiant, even as a tear escaped down her cheek. “Thank you so much!”
“You’re welcome! I really am sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s going to be fine.” Mariette wiped her face with the back of her hand. Then she pulled The Awakening from the bag. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to read this! Thank you! Thank you so much!” Celia was overjoyed to see her friend sunny again, but the next moment Mariette looked across the room and her tone changed. “There’s Ivo.” Celia turned to see him pushing open the café door. “Like I said, let me do the talking.”
They stood up as Ivo approached the table, which felt weird and formal. “I guess you’ve never actually met. Ivo, this is Mariette; Mariette, this is Ivo.” Celia watched the two of them mumble hellos and look each other over curiously. She vowed to not speak again until they’d finished.
“So, we need to talk,” Mariette said, sitting down.
“You’re right, we do.” Ivo pulled out his chair and they settled in.
After a strained silence, Mariette said, “Why don’t you ask me what you want to know?”
“Are you, I don’t know, a witch?”
“No, I am not a witch. But I do have powers you don’t understand.”
Celia was surprised Mariette would share something like that so willingly. She had figured Mariette would deliver some kind of plausible excuse in hopes of doing a better job of convincing Ivo there was nothing serious going on. Perhaps a story about a creative writing assignment. But there it was, out in the open. Mariette’s eyes were bright. She must have fantasized about what it would be like to say som
ething so bold to a stranger. Mariette and Ivo had locked gazes, and it was as though Celia had disappeared and the conversation was between the two of them alone.
“Like what?” Ivo said. “What kind of powers?”
“A lot of my powers have to do with nature, so it’s hard for me to give you a demonstration right here.” The bud vases were gone from the tables, so Mariette couldn’t repeat her trick from Halloween. And there weren’t any glasses handy, so she couldn’t create a frost fingerprint. Mariette lifted her hand up between her face and Ivo’s and snapped her fingers. For an instant a flame appeared in the space her fingertips left behind. And then it was gone.
Ivo’s eyes widened, but he recovered quickly. “That’s an old magician’s trick.”
“Hey, you don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to,” Mariette said airily. “It would be much easier if you didn’t believe me. But if you don’t, then why are we having this conversation?”
“Are you trying to kill girls on the day before their birthdays?”
“Of course not! Are you insane? And anyway, if I was supposed to kill someone, they’d be dead.” Celia thought Mariette’s display of bravado didn’t strike the right tone. Ivo wasn’t sure how to respond. Mariette went on. “I’m trying to stop the person whose poem you read.”
“So someone else is trying to kill these girls? Who? Why?”
“You’re not going to like this answer: I don’t know who it is. But that person is doing it to become more powerful. It’s kind of like a sacrifice.”
“Are you sure you’re not just doing some stupid role-playing game or something? Where people get in over their heads and someone dies because people take something make-believe too far?”
“Actually, that’s exactly what I’m doing,” Mariette said, sitting back in her chair. “You’ve figured me out. I am an overly imaginative girl who likes to play mysterious games that mean nothing. Are you satisfied now?”
Ivo smirked at her and shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know if you’re serious or not. I do wonder why Celia likes you so much.” For the first time Ivo and Mariette acknowledged that Celia still was there. “A bunch of girls have gotten hurt, and it’s pretty clear that they’ve been the kinds of injuries no one could have caused. But if you’re getting some kind of twisted satisfaction out of it, or if you’re using it as an excuse to hurt someone, I’d say you’re a sociopath and someone should know about it.”
“Then why don’t we go back to the other theory, that I’m actually on the good side. But I still need to convince you of that, so I’ll show you something else. Hold out your hand.” Mariette extended her own hand over the table, beckoning for Ivo’s.
“What are you going to do?”
“C’mon, I’m not going to hurt you,” Mariette mocked him.
Ivo hesitated a moment, then offered his hand to Mariette, who took it in hers. She closed her eyes and murmured under her breath. Celia and Ivo watched her intently. When Mariette opened her eyes, he said, “What was that?”
“You didn’t feel it? Let me try again.” Mariette changed her grip on Ivo’s hand, closed her eyes, and moved her lips again. “How about now?”
“No,” Ivo said triumphantly. “What am I supposed to feel?”
Mariette looked a little crestfallen and vulnerable for the first time since Ivo had arrived. “Huh. Maybe I’m not doing it right. You know what, I have to go. I’m sorry you don’t like me, but at least now you know I’m just a harmless crazy girl. You can do what you like.” She gathered her bag and Celia’s gifts and got up from her chair.
“Mariette!” Celia got up, too. “Wait!” Mariette was slouching toward the café door. Celia turned to Ivo, who gave her a look that meant he didn’t care what she did. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and went after Mariette, catching her just outside the café door. “Mariette!”
“Stand here so he can’t see me.” Mariette was grinning mischievously when Celia came around her. Over Mariette’s shoulder Celia could see Ivo through the window, still seated at the table. He looked out at Celia and gave her a friendly wave.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s fine. I fixed it,” Mariette said. “Don’t stay here. Go back to him.”
“What did you try to do? Why didn’t it work?”
“Oh, it worked. Have a great Christmas. I’ll see you at school.”
Celia watched Mariette practically skip down the street. She gave up and went back into the café.
“Who was that?” Ivo said when she returned to the table.
“Who?”
“The girl you were talking to, outside. Who was she?”
“That was Mariette.”
“Have you told me about her? Where does she go to school?”
“She goes to Suburban. She’s my—” Celia stopped, wondering if she was undoing what Mariette had just done. But Ivo only gave her a blank look for a moment, and then he didn’t seem to give Mariette another thought.
“I’m glad we’re hanging out,” he said. “I feel like we don’t really talk much when everyone else is around.”
“You’re right,” Celia said, sitting down, trying not to stare too hard at Ivo while she attempted to divine what Mariette had done to him.
“Like the other day at school. I’ve never told anyone else about Darkland, not even Brenden. If you haven’t said anything to the others, would you mind keeping it our secret? It’s kind of a fantasy, and it might sound foolish.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Celia said, trying to ignore how completely ridiculous that sounded, considering everything that had happened. And now Mariette’s secret is safe with me again.
14. SHIMMERING, WARM AND BRIGHT
CELIA WONDERED IF SHE should feel guilty about what Mariette had done to Ivo, but her relief got the better of her. She had plenty of other worries, but they could wait until the break was over. She slept in and worked more hours at Lippa’s to help with the holiday rush. A picturesque snowfall on Christmas Eve put a lovely touch on the break. When she left the bookstore that night, Celia took a detour through the surrounding neighborhood to enjoy the snow. It felt like its own little village with hedges and detached garages, slumbering in the white. She stopped in front of a house that looked like an English cottage, with stucco walls and a roof that curved under the eaves. Snow had blanketed the roof and dusted the ivy that climbed the walls, transforming the house into a gingerbread and powdered sugar confection. Chimneys rose on either side of the house like ears. Celia tried to imagine the people inside, until the chill began to seep through her coat, and she turned toward home.
Christmas morning was quiet, as though muffled by the cottony snow. Celia was tickled that her mother had found dark gray paper in which to wrap her gifts, and then overjoyed to receive a framed Mark Rothko print. “Your father liked Rothko, too. That retrospective at the National Gallery was quite a few years ago,” her mother said. “Maybe there’ll be another one before long.” They hung the print in her bedroom, and Celia was glad she hadn’t made any hasty decisions simply to fill up the empty space. She also received a black cashmere turtleneck and a charcoal suede skirt. “I might be crazy for admitting this, but I’ve grown to like you in black,” her mother said, shaking her head. “You look really nice.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Celia hugged her.
“You know, I was a little concerned at the beginning of school,” her mother said. “You made a lot of changes really fast. I wasn’t sure how much of it was you and how much was your friends.”
“I wondered the same thing,” Celia said. “But they’re not like that. Each of them is different. They all have their own interests. You should meet the rest of them.”
“I’d like to! And they must be a good influence in some ways. You’re doing so well in school.”
“I guess I am, so far. How are you doing?”
“I’m all right.” Her mother smiled. “This Christmas isn’t as hard as last year, but it’s still hard. I k
now you miss him, too.”
“Yeah, but it’s better. The funny thing is, now people think I’m into depressing things, because of how I dress and all that. But I’m not depressed at all. I feel like, even though the sad part never really goes away and I’m never going to stop missing Dad, the rest of my life has come back. I can start to be happy again.”
“That’s good.”
“What are you going to do?” Celia asked her mother. “Do you think you would ever be with someone else?”
“I don’t know. Maybe someday.”
“Don’t wait too long.” They hugged each other, sitting on Celia’s bed, with the Rothko print looking down on them.
THE BOOKSTORE WAS QUIET on the day after Christmas. Celia absentmindedly updated the bestseller wall, her thoughts on New Year's Day. Ivo and Liz had invited the Rosary to their house for First Night, which Ivo insisted took place not on New Year's Eve but on the evening of New Year's Day. "If we had it on New Year's Eve it would be Last Night, not First Night," he'd explained to Celia, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She didn't look over immediately when the door opened, but when the customer approached her, she turned to greet him. "Tomasi!"
The look on his face made Celia think he had escaped from somewhere. As many times as she had imagined his gray eyes, she was startled again by their depth. “Hi!” he said. “You probably thought I died.”
“No, but I wondered,” she said. This time there was no counter between them, and she had an impulse to hug him, but she wasn’t brave enough. “Where have you been?”
“I got pneumonia,” he said. “Really put a wrench in my plans.”
“Oh my god! I’m glad you’re better!”
“I wanted to send you a message, but I felt weird asking my mom to do it.”
“It’s okay. I understand,” she said. “It’s good to see you.”
“How late do you work?”
“I’m here until five.”
The Suburban Strange Page 15