Blue Moon

by James Ponti

“No,” added Grayson. “I think it’s what you’d call . . . a flinch.”

  The reference to my flinch/scream on Halloween brought more laughter from the three of them. They all started digging into their lunches, and rather than defend my honor, I just laid my head back down and tried to use my backpack as a pillow.

  “You’ve got to wake up, girl,” Natalie said, poking me. Again. “Do you have your vanilla extract with you?”

  “Why?” I asked. “You want to pour it on my head as a prank when I fall back asleep?”

  “Tempting, but no,” she answered. “I think we should save it for after school, when we’re all going to the morgue.”

  Suddenly, I was wide awake and happy. I know that most people would think it’s weird that I love going to the morgue so much. But I guess most people will just have to deal with the fact that the city’s death house also happens to be my happy place. Go figure. The same could not be said for Grayson.

  “The morgue?” he moaned. “Haven’t we seen enough body parts this week?”

  “You know, for a boy who likes to make fun of my flinching, you’re a pretty big scaredy-cat,” I teased. “The morgue’s nothing. I’ve been hanging out there since I was seven years old.”

  “Yeah,” said Alex. “And look how normal she turned out.”

  Okay, even I laughed at that one.

  “Why are we going to the morgue?” Grayson asked.

  “Because I contacted the Prime-O about Blue Moon and Times Square, and she wants us to go there and tell Dr. H everything we know about it.” She took a big bite out of her apple and added, “I think she’s considering an all-Omega alert asking every Omega, old and new, to be in Times Square, ready to fight.”

  Just the thought of that was hard to fathom.

  “How many Omegas would that be?” I asked.

  “Maybe a hundred, a hundred and fifty,” she guessed. “The Prime-O is the only one who really knows.”

  The addition of the morgue to my schedule and the possibility of an all-Omega alert gave me the boost of energy I needed to stay awake the rest of the school day. In fact, I was in such a good mood when we left the campus, I was willing to ride the Roosevelt Island tram. Normally, I avoid it, because, you know, it dangles from a cable above the East River. But I’d been trying to conquer my fear of heights, so when they all headed toward the subway station, I suggested, “Why don’t we take the tram instead?”

  They stopped in their tracks.

  “The tram?” Alex asked. “The tram that runs from Roosevelt Island to Manhattan?”

  “Yes,” I said. “The tram.”

  “The tram that hangs two hundred and fifty feet in the air?” added Grayson.

  “Listen, do you guys want to take it or not?” I asked as I started walking in that direction. “It’ll be faster, and I know you like the view.”

  “You don’t have to prove anything to us,” Natalie said. “We can ride the subway.”

  “I told you guys that I’m working on my fear of heights,” I said. “Besides, I have a new system.”

  “Does that system include an onboard anesthesiologist who is going to knock you unconscious?” Alex asked.

  “You know, you really should try stand-up comedy if the whole science thing doesn’t work out,” I said.

  “All joking aside,” said Grayson. “What’s your system?”

  “If you must know,” I admitted somewhat reluctantly, “I’m using . . . ‘Endless Love.’ ”

  Now they were really confused.

  “ ‘Endless Love’ as in the eternal emotion of devotion and affection?” Grayson wondered aloud.

  “No, ‘Endless Love’ as in the overly sappy and romantic love song from the 1980s.” I told them I had come across it the day before when I was making my new playlists.

  “You know how couples have a song?” I continued. “Well, ‘Endless Love’ was my parents’ song. They danced to it on their first date and at their wedding.”

  Alex was trying to make sense of this. “And that somehow makes it so you’re no longer scared to dangle above the East River?”

  “No, that’s just an interesting part of the backstory,” I said. “The reason it helps me is because it’s exactly four minutes and twenty-six seconds long. That’s precisely the same length as one ride on the tram.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Alex as we reached the turnstiles. “It still doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, sliding my Metrocard through the reader. “It only has to make sense to me.”

  The big red tram car holds about one hundred people, and it was pretty full for our ride. We found a spot toward the back, and I grabbed hold of the strap that hung from the ceiling. The others were staring at me, curious as to how I was going to respond, but I was cautiously optimistic that it would work. Technically, it was just a theory. This was my first actual attempt.

  “The one drawback is that I’m going to have to tune out of the conversation for the duration of the ride,” I said.

  I slipped my headphones on, and the instant I felt the floor beneath me rumble to life, I pressed play and cranked up the volume all the way. While everybody else was looking out the window at the approaching Manhattan skyline or down at the river below, I was in another world, listening to Lionel Richie and Diana Ross sing a duet and imagining my mom and dad slow dancing at their wedding. This way I had an idea of how far across we were without having to look. When the last note faded, I opened my eyes just as we touched down in Manhattan.

  “Brilliant,” said Alex, who was staring right at me.

  I couldn’t help myself when I responded, “I know I am, but what are you?”

  Part of the reason I was so excited to go back to the morgue was that I hadn’t been since the day we’d gotten suspended. I hung out there so much with my mom growing up, it felt like home and not seeing it for a few months was just odd.

  My good buddy Jamaican Bob was working the guard’s desk, and he flashed me a huge, toothy grin the moment he saw us. “Molly, Molly, in come free,” he said playfully. “Long time no see. Wagwan?”

  “That’s Jamaican slang for ‘What’s going on?’ ” I explained to Grayson and Alex.

  “Nothing much, just heading to an appointment with Dr. H,” I answered as I put my backpack on the X-ray machine. “What’s going on with you?”

  “Well, now that I see you and Miss Natalie, my day is picking up,” he said as he and Nat did their special six-step ritual handshake greeting.

  “I don’t think we introduced our two friends the last time we were here,” Natalie said. “This is Alex and Grayson.”

  “Nice to meet you boys,” he said. “Welcome to the morgue. You can call me Bob.”

  “Nice to meet you, Bob,” Alex and Grayson said.

  “And do you know what to call the dead bodies?” he asked them.

  The exchanged a curious look with each other and then turned back to Bob.

  “Corpses?” answered Grayson.

  “No,” said Bob. “You don’t call them anything. They’re dead, and they can’t hear you anymore.”

  Natalie, Bob, and I all burst out laughing while Alex and Grayson shook their heads.

  “It wouldn’t be a trip to the morgue without one of Bob’s bad jokes,” I said to them as we all walked through the metal detector.

  We took the elevator down to the bottom level and went to Dr. Hidalgo’s lab. Right before we stepped inside, Natalie and I each swiped some vanilla extract under our noses to counteract the smell of the bodies. I offered some to the boys, and unlike our first visit they were smart enough to take me up on it.

  “Is that your mom?” Grayson asked, noticing a picture on the wall.

  “Yes,” I said. “They put that up right after her funeral.”

  It was a nicely framed photograph of her in her lab coat. Underneath was a little plaque that read ROSEMARY COLLINS, FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS.

  We told Dr. Hidalgo everything we knew about Blue M
oon and the documents we found in M42. We even told him about the body parts in the freezer. We didn’t think these were part of the same plan, but we knew that it would interest the coroner in him.

  “They were stored in a mixture of ice and schist?” he said. “Fascinating.”

  Then we all moved over to his computer and watched some of Brock Hampton’s news reports. By the time we were done, Dr. H was convinced.

  “Well, looking at all of this, there are two things that I know for sure,” he said.

  “What?” asked Alex.

  “First of all, the undead have something big planned for New Year’s Eve, and we have to prepare for a worst-case scenario.”

  “And the other?” asked Grayson.

  He looked at the four of us for a moment. “Whoever picked you guys to work on the Baker’s Dozen was pretty smart. What you’ve done is amazing.”

  Suddenly, even Grayson didn’t mind being in the morgue so much. We talked a little longer, and Dr. H wrote down some notes to share with the Prime-O. He said that he’d get in touch with us once they came up with a strategy for New Year’s Eve.

  My lack of sleep had caught back up with me, but even though I was exhausted, I had one more thing I needed to take care of. I said good-bye to the others and took the subway up to Central Park. I walked by the zoo where I’d had my birthday party when I was five and stopped at the big clock with the dancing animals, where my mom had found me when I got lost. I had to reach her about something, and this is where she’d told me to leave her any messages.

  I wrote it out on a piece of masking tape and stuck it right along the archway beneath the clock. It was written in the basic Omega code, which uses the periodic table of elements and read, “Mg/Cr O:Zn 53,58 16,19,85,68 4,90.”

  It wasn’t about the undead. And it wasn’t about the Omegas. I had promised to find a way for her to see my sister in person, and this was my plan.

  Decoded, the message read, “12/24 8:30 Ice Skater Beth.”

  I knew Mom would know what it meant.

  (A Not Particularly) Silent Night

  Every Christmas Eve, Beth and I help my father with two projects at his station house. First of all, we’re the servers for the big holiday feast he makes for all the firefighters who are on duty. We’ve known most of them forever, and it’s like we’re one big Italian-Irish-Polish-African-American family. They love to give Dad a hard time about anything and everything and are always looking for new ammunition. Beth gave them plenty when she told them about his mad scrapbooking skills.

  “You should see how he makes the little ribbons,” she said. “They’re so delicate and pretty.” Dad’s captain, a giant man we’ve always called Uncle Rick, laughed so hard, he almost spit out his mashed potatoes.

  Moments later, Dad walked in wearing his favorite apron—which says FIRE CHEF instead of FIRE CHIEF—and carrying a plate of turkey. Things got quiet, and all eyes turned to him.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I was wondering if you could help me with something,” Uncle Rick said.

  “Of course,” he answered.

  “I’ve been studying for my recertification test, and there’s one thing I can never get straight.”

  “What is it?” asked Dad.

  “Are you supposed to glue the pictures directly onto the scrapbook? Or should you use double-sided tape instead?”

  The entire table erupted into laughter, and Dad turned two shades of red. He laughed too but quickly tried to change the subject. “So, did you catch that Jets game on Sunday? It was unbelievable, wasn’t it?”

  After the feast was done and all the leftovers were labeled and loaded into the refrigerator, we picked up the final donations to the station’s toy drive to take them to a nearby homeless shelter.

  “Michael, we left those last toys unwrapped,” Uncle Rick said to my dad. “ ’Cause we know you like to do the ribbon.”

  There were more laughs, and Dad gave Beth the stink eye as we headed out the door to go to the shelter.

  It was my turn to choose family time, and since we were already going to be in the neighborhood, I decided on a night in Manhattan. The plan was to start with ice skating in Rockefeller Center and then to cross the street and go to midnight mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

  This worked for me in so many ways. First of all, Midtown is beautiful during the holidays. There are lights and decorations everywhere, and I can’t think of a better way to spend Christmas Eve.

  Second, we’d learned from one of Brock Hampton’s newscasts that midnight mass was going to be this year’s Verify for Elias Blackwell. As my Omega team’s lone Catholic member, I’d told the others that I would take care of getting a picture.

  8. Elias Blackwell: Deceased

  Occupation: Lawyer

  Aliases: Elias Wollman, Elias Belvedere, Elias Olmsted

  Most Recent Home: Central Park

  Role within the 13: Legal

  Last Sighting: Fifth Avenue

  Most important, though, I thought both of these activities gave me the perfect opportunity to include Mom as part of our holiday plans. There were plenty of places where she could watch us skate, and it would be easy for her to hide among the packed congregation in the cathedral. It wasn’t exactly the same as being together, but it was as close as I could come up with.

  As far as ice skating goes, the family falls into varying levels of ability. Beth is by far the most graceful. She’s long and lean and took figure skating lessons when she was little. Dad played hockey in high school. He’s the fastest, although it’s not particularly pretty to look at. He also has a tendency to slam into people—and by “people,” I mean me—like he’s playing for the Stanley Cup. Meanwhile, I’m the worst. (I know, shocker!) I do what Dad calls “the Molly shuffle” and never stray more than a few inches from the safety of the side rail that wraps around the rink. Despite this lack of skill, I really enjoy going once or twice a year. I especially love skating at Rockefeller Center, where you’re outside, surrounded by the city, and right beneath the massive seventy-five-foot-tall Christmas tree.

  After going around for a few laps without spotting Mom, I began to worry that she didn’t see my message. I was scanning faces in the crowd when Dad came to a hockey stop right in front of me. But because I was looking up instead of where I was going, I slammed right into him, and we had to scramble to keep our balance.

  “Dad?!” I said, exasperated. “You almost tackled me.”

  “Tackling is football,” he said. “In hockey, they call it ‘checking.’ ”

  “Well, I’ll make sure to use the right term when I try to explain to the doctor how I broke my hand . . . again.”

  “Besides, you were the one who wasn’t watching where you were going,” he said. “Who are you looking for?”

  Busted.

  I stammered for a moment, trying to come up with an answer. “Hockey scouts,” I said. “You know, from the Rangers or the Islanders, in case they’re looking for a middle-aged player with good paramedic skills.”

  He smiled and waved a finger at me. “Don’t forget the Devils,” he said. “I could handle a commute into Jersey to play professional hockey.”

  We skated around together for a little bit and talked about nothing in particular. It was nice and relaxed. We both looked over at Beth, who was gliding effortlessly across the middle of the rink. Her bright pink jacket made it impossible to miss her. If Mom was up there somewhere, I’m sure she was glued to her every move.

  “I want you to be honest with me about something,” he said.

  “Of course,” I answered, nervous about where this could go.

  “Did the thing about scrapbooking just slip out? Or did she sell me out on purpose?”

  I laughed. “You know the answer to that one.”

  “That’s what I figured,” he said as he focused in on her. “I think it’s time for a little revenge.”

  “You’re not going to tackle her, are you?”

  H
e gave me a frustrated look. “It’s check, not tackle. How many times do I have to go over that? And of course not. I’m going to do something much worse than that. I’m going to embarrass her in front of those boys she’s flirting with.”

  Sure enough, there were a group of high school boys watching her closely. She wasn’t exactly skating with them, but she was staying close and maintaining just enough eye contact to keep them in her orbit, not unlike Jupiter does with its many moons.

  Of course, Jupiter gets by with gravity and doesn’t have to worry about a dad getting in the way. Ours skated right up and did his hockey-stop thing and almost knocked one of the boys to the ground. Then he started giving her encouragement.

  “Looking good, Beth!” he said loud enough so I could easily hear him all the way on the edge. “You’re burnin’ so bright, you’re going to melt the ice.”

  As if that weren’t cringe-worthy enough, he turned to the boys and said, “I’m her dad. I used to play hockey in school, and I’m thinking about getting back into it. You know any leagues around here for guys my age?”

  They were gone before he finished his question.

  “Guess that’s a no,” he said, turning toward Beth. “It’s just you and me now.”

  “All right, I shouldn’t have mentioned the scrapbooking,” she said. “I apologize.”

  “Good. Consider this your first Christmas present, a little gift I like to call sweet revenge,” he said. “And, fitting for this weather, it’s a dish best served cold.”

  The ice skating rink is located on the lower plaza of Rockefeller Center so that if you’re on the street level, you look down on it. That’s where I finally spied Mom on my next lap. She had tucked herself into a little spot near the Christmas tree and blended right in with the crowd. We locked eyes long enough so that she’d know that I’d seen her, and then she flashed me a smile that was the best present I could ask for.

  As far as skating goes, I was starting to get the hang of it and actually went about fifteen feet without holding on to anything when I got slammed into the rail. Again.

  “C’mon, Dad,” I said, a little frustrated. “I get the point. It’s called a check, not a tackle.”