by Debra Kristi
Then Ryland’s back, leaning into me and lowering his shades, giving me a clear view of his eyes. They’re a warm slate gray, misted with flecks of mercury. They remind me of the stones I sometimes work with in my garage, trying to create the perfect pendant.
“Can I get you a new coffee?” he says.
I sway back on my heels. “No. Thanks. I’m good.” My muscles are suddenly stiff and rigid.
He retrieves the fallen cup from earlier and swiftly destroys all evidence anything was ever amiss. “Movie and popcorn on the family room sofa tonight?” He nudges against me, a playful smile flirting at the corner of his eyes.
“Fun! But I can’t tonight.”
“Okay.” He smirks. “We’ll talk later, then.” His voice is smooth. A calm hiding a storm. He walks away.
Crystia scrutinizes Ryland’s retreat in wide-eyed interest. “Holy Cheez Whiz! He is jealous.”
“Is not. That’s crazy talk. He doesn’t like me like me.”
I glance at my phone. An avoidance tactic. Time is running short. I volley between taking another customer and tearing down shop. Decision made, I fold our price board and easel.
Crystia collapses the blue director chairs and starts to throw our tools into a big white plastic bin. “Does!” She shoots me a glare and tosses in the last items. “Would you ever consider it?”
I sweep away the miscellaneous petals and leaves we dropped on the ground and consider her question. Ryland’s stayed by my side ever since that horrible night of the car wreck. It’s probably time I moved on from Jeremy. But with Ry?
I glance at him. Mom and Ry are busy packing up the leftover flowers. Buckets of flowers beneath a tent to our side make a colorful attraction. Beside them sits an eight-foot table half-stocked with merchandise. The other side is left open to wrap arrangements.
My lips twist to the side, and I turn my attention back to Crystia. “I don’t know. Maybe,” I say with a slight shrug of the shoulders. My heart’s not in the words and instead clings to the stranger from earlier.
“What are you waiting for? You haven’t even looked at another guy since Jeremy, and that was two whole years ago! I’m guessing it’s because of that one right there.” She points not-so-nonchalantly in Ryland’s direction. “Time to come clean and give the real flesh-and-blood boyfriend a chance. You might like it.” She cocks her head and bats her eyes, as if flashing a magic gesture to set me free into the dating scene.
I fight not to sigh and roll my eyes. Some days I think it was a mistake when I told Crystia about Dohlan, two years ago. Maybe it’s a good thing I never told her about the green-eyed guy. But I can’t dismiss the possibility she’s on to something. What if Ryland is the reason I haven’t moved on, and, for whatever reason, I can’t admit it to myself? Huh. Now she has me doubting my own feelings. Great.
Ryland is practically family. Since he saved my life, my mom and sister have pretty much adopted him. He’s our honorary man-of-the-house, considering I don’t have a dad. Never have. I’m probably the product of a short-lived relationship gone bad. Although Mom romanticizes the man the few times she actually talks about him. Ryland spends a lot of his spare time with us and is a huge help to my mom on these Saturdays, especially when it comes to transporting supplies to and from the Market. He works through the customers with ease, so self-assured. My gaze is constantly drawn to his strong arms and the edge of the sharp tattoos peeking out from beneath his shirtsleeves. The ink is usually covered better than it is today.
Crystia’s words whisper in my ear. Boys can’t be friends with girls without wanting something more. Ryland does an awful lot for my family. Why? He should be playing sports or dating a cheerleader or both.
The thought hasn’t fully ingested when I realize Ry’s talking to a girl from school. She’s not a cheerleader or athlete, but I’ve seen her around. One of the quiet types. Like me, except more so, if that’s possible. At least I have the swim team, and I don’t think she’s got anything. My skin prickles with heat. I’m not jealous—am I?
“Do you ever feel…” Crystia pauses, allowing a lull to take root in her sentence. It’s as if she is searching her internal dictionary for the right words, or is afraid to continue. She takes a deep breath. “…different from other people?” She spits the last few words out super swift.
I press my lips together, glance at her, and suppress a laugh. Unsure where this is coming from, I play along. Our conversation is so distracting I almost fail to spot the glaring hole in the road. In the nick of time I steer the Explorer around the massive pothole, not quite making it. The back left tire catches the edge of the break, and we thump in our seats. The suspension creaks.
“Hello,” I say, waving one hand in front of my face, pointing to the fact both Crystia and I were born with bizarrely colored eyes.
Our eyes couldn’t be just one color, like everyone else’s. Nope. They’re a zigzag of green and blue, which might have been pretty if it weren’t for the brown running along the outer edge, bleeding into the center iris. The doctor calls it sectoral heterochromia. I looked it up. Our eyes don’t fit any cited examples. No matter what you call it, it still looks like mud’s seeping into our eyes. Earned us freak status at school.
Crystia chooses to hide behind brilliant blue contacts, but I can’t do it. I tried. Couldn’t get used to poking myself in the eye every day. Plus, they gave me headaches. So her freakiness is masked, and I’m left as the odd one at school.
We don’t get to choose our physical traits. I remind myself of this every day when I look in the mirror, pretending a positive attitude will improve my self-image. After all, we must strive to make the best of what we’re given. Or so I’ve been told, time and time again. Although, I have to admit, Crystia looks stunning, batting her bright baby-blues with a waterfall of unending, sun-bleached hair to frame her delicate face. My hand automatically tugs at my dishwater-blonde tendrils.
I catch sight of my horrid birthmark in the rearview mirror and immediately look away. Crystia didn’t get one of those. Lucky me. Sunburn-red and shaped like a malformed starfish, it clings to the upper portion of my face, just above and to the side of my left eye. Yet another reason I’ll never hang with the popular crowd. I sigh.
Crystia throws her hands up. “Seriously, Ana.”
I direct my attention back to her.
She twists in her seat to face me. “When I’m volunteering at the Feline Preservation Center, the cats and I have a special connection, especially Caesar and me. I adore him! I’m a different person because of them, because of everything I’ve learned from them, and about myself.”
Realizing she’s serious, I stifle my desire to giggle. I’ve heard about the cats on multiple occasions. I’ve also heard about Caesar, the Siberian tiger. A lot.
“I bet if you come by, you’ll hear them too.”
Crystia’s implying I’ll comprehend the cats’ thoughts. It’s totally demented. Not that I should expect anything less from her. She’s my New Age, hippy sister. Her wafer-thin build, flared denim pants, and floral Beatnik blouse put my weathered jeans and T-shirt to shame.
“You think I’ll hear cats talk to me?” I speak with more sarcasm than I meant, but it sounds completely silly when I say it out loud.
“Not exactly. You’ll understand when you come.” She looks at me with pleading eyes as we pull into our dirt driveway. “Will you come?”
“If it means that much to you. I promise. Soon as I catch a break in my schedule.” I jump out of the car and head for the house.
Crystia’s quick on my heels. “You mean all that stuff Ry has you doing. What’s he pushing you for, anyway?”
“He doesn’t have me doing anything. I want to be doing it.” My tone sounds harsher than I planned. “I push myself. Okay? Besides, today is yoga. It’s about balance and finding my center.”
“Yoga’s cool, but I still don’t get it. You’ve changed. You’re all yoga and fighting now. It’s not normal.” She walks past me and nudges thr
ough the door to the house. I’m right behind her, but she’s already rummaging through the refrigerator when I walk into the kitchen. Her cat, Oscar, orbits her feet, rubbing obsessively against her leg.
I point to the cat. “Does Oscar get jealous of the time you spend at the cat zoo?”
“It’s not a zoo. It’s a Feline Preservation Center,” Crystia says from inside the refrigerator.
“Okay. So tell me, does Oscar talk to you, tell you he’s jealous?”
Crystia emerges holding a large bottled water. All that time rummaging through the refrigerator, and all she extracts is a water? She snags a protein bar from the cabinet, leans against the counter, and starts eating. “Want to get a mani-pedi?”
“Seriously?” I glance down at my stubby, gnawed-on nails. They’re constantly getting messed up in kenpo.
She nods enthusiastically.
“I got yoga. You know I can’t. Can’t keep a decent nail to save my life.”
“That is the lamest excuse ever.” She tosses her half-eaten protein bar on the counter and heads for the door. “When are you going to join the rest of us in the real world and start living a life?” she growls as she shoves through the screen door. It bangs shut behind her.
Fanning my hands before me, I study my nails and wonder if they could be considered weapons and worked into my training regimen. I shake my hands and the ridiculous notion away, then move to the window, watching my sister drive away. Her words echo in my mind. Something in me changed, she said. Have I changed? And if so, has it made me a different person? So many things have happened, Jeremy’s death hardly being the least of them. Ryland certainly became a large part of my life, and Dohlan started seducing—or haunting—my dreams, depending on how I chose to look at it.
But something else happened too. Something I don’t completely understand. Something I can’t describe. Before that night, I had no idea what I was missing, not until it happened. It’s almost like the accident ignited some kind of spark, and a switch inside of me flipped. A light ignited, and a dormant section of me finally came to life. It sounds silly, I know, and that’s why I don’t speak of it to anyone.
The clock is ticking and I need to get ready for yoga, so I let the thoughts melt away. I close the window and head to my room in search of my duffle bag. Oscar follows at my side. We round the corner into the bedroom. It’s disorganized from my early and abrupt retreat this morning, but it’s quiet, and a messy bed has always looked inviting to me.
I grab a chocolate from the bag on my dresser and eagerly unwrap it. My computer explodes in a chorus of crazy chirps and tweets. I jump and stare at the monitor, my chocolate forgotten. Oscar yawls and runs from the room. I could have sworn I’d turned the thing off. Lights flash across the screen, and it chirps again. Fantastic. Ash seeps through my bones. All I need is for my computer to die in the middle of my senior year. Whirling pictures assault the screen. I sigh and add Call Geek Fix to my mental list of things to do.
A page for a psychic by the name of Madame Marrouske morphs in, replacing the swirling images. She peers out from the screen at me with her shiny black hair, olive skin, and purple robe. Front and center she holds a black crystal ball, obsidian probably. Her eyes sparkle an intense green, and for a moment, I’m reminded of the guy from the market.
Bleep. The computer sounds again, and I return my concentration to the image in front of me. Paying attention is doubly arduous now. My mind wants to return to thoughts of him. My eyes wander aimlessly along the cool sparkling stars creating the astrological symbols. They rotate freely, hypnotically, behind the psychic. Across the top of the page in fancy scroll print reads, Let Me Tell You Your Future.
With a shrug, I turn away. Loud chimes, like dozens of tiny bells, resonate around me. I spin back, and the words Anala Danika Janssen run across the page. My eyes widen, and I stumble back a pace.
How did the old woman get my name, complete with my middle name? An old, crackled voice speaks through the mystic music. With a flinch, I clamp my hands over my ears.
Images slip into my subconscious, begin to run through my mind. My mom is holding a child. My older sister Kaia. Except, I never believed Kaia was anything more than a dream, someone I visit in Hiddenkel. Still, I see it. See her.
And I see Mom holding her up to a woman, the psychic from my computer. The image changes, and Kaia is grown. She stands before a cozy cottage nestled in the woods. A light burns warmly in the window. The fortuneteller, unchanged by time, approaches and embraces Kaia. They talk urgently. It’s clear they’re familiar and trust one another.
Somehow the psychic is invading my dream world—my Hiddenkel. I shiver. The vision blurs, and words whisper in my ear.
Every muscle tenses. My nerves are ready to jump at the slightest touch. Apprehensively, I depress the computer’s power button. Streaks of blue light burst from the button, running their webby fingers around the rim of the monitor. It’s an insane type of static electricity. Not only does the computer not shut down, I get a light show to boot. Never in my life have I experienced anything like this! The fingers of blue zip and zap around the electronics for a matter of seconds before discharging. So not cool. My desk smells like burnt wire.
Taking a sidestep toward the wall, I tilt my head ‘til the power cord attached to the back of the monitor is in view. One deep breath, two deep breaths, go! I yank, snapping the cord connection.
Zzzaappp.
The psychic fades from view. My skin is tingling, itching, and I want to crawl out of it. Grabbing my shoes, car keys, and ten ounces of courage, I hightail it out of the house as if my computer is going nuclear. Still, as I twist the key in the car’s ignition, I can’t help but wonder what the psychic’s cryptic message meant.
Hiddenkel isn’t real. That’s stupid.
God and Gaea…I’m losing my mind. Totally hallucinating again.
I skip yoga and head to the high school pool. Swimming is the best for clearing my mind. An advantage of being on the swim team is getting to use the pool outside of school hours. Yeah, it’s way outside of school hours now, but I have an in with the custodian. He won’t say anything, as long as I don’t get caught. So I’m always extra careful.
Not wanting to draw a drop of attention tonight, I keep the illumination switch on dim, leaving the pool in a shadowy light. My inner energy jumps, anxious to ease into the pleasant liquid. Whenever I slip into the water, something inside of me changes. Like that switch within is being flipped. Water has always brought me an unexplainable peace. When I finally do get in the pool, the warmth wraps around my body, securely cocoons me, and creates a sense of belonging.
The supple slapping of gentle waves against the pool’s edges echoes throughout the closed space. Madame Marrouske’s voice plays in my mind. I didn’t want to hear it, yet now I can’t forget. It has begun. The Seventh Moon has risen. Time to come home to Palinot Woodlands, Anala. Hiddenkel awaits you.
What has begun? And if I am to believe Hiddenkel is a real place, what does that make my sister Kaia? Or Dohlan? What does it mean about Mom and Crystia? Are they really my family? A chill wraps around me, and I shiver. The water, usually warm to my touch, now nips through me to the bone.
My skin prickles, my stomach quivers, and my gaze searches the perimeter. Every dark corner, every wispy shadow. It feels like I’m being watched, but I see nothing.
I float in the center of the pool, the water no longer soothing. My paranoid mind is too bothered by what it perceives as changes in the lighting. Although the lights remain the same, shadows cover a larger portion of the pool. For one fleeting moment, I imagine the shadows are moving fluidly, like living things. And not just moving, advancing. Toward me.
My stomach tightens, and a gasp of pain escapes. Thick, black, and heavy, a portion of what I thought were shadows has now wrapped itself around my abdomen. It yanks me under, and water rushes to my lungs. I thrash and kick, fighting against it. Stronger than me, it slithers around my body like an octopus’s tentacle,
bringing with it shocking visions to my mind’s eye. Flames, destruction, death on the battlefield. Short glimpses gone too swiftly to gain any understanding.
Then I see her. A woman in the midst of combat, dressed for her rank—a soldier in black armor. She is my mom, and I can do nothing but watch as she’s slayed by another, a fierce woman smeared in blood, with flaming hair. I scream and choke on pool water.
I am dying.
My heart drums in my ears, and then is overcome by the sound of laughter. Hysteria before death? No. The laughter is not mine. I try to kick free and find myself unable to maneuver. My legs are now completely cocooned by the black stuff. It creeps up my torso. My efforts are futile. Not like I’ll let that stop me. I claw and dig at the matter, attempting to break it off. I need to get free. Need to get to the surface.
“I will destroy everything you treasure.” Her voice emanates from the darkness around me.
Disturbing pictures of Mom, Crystia, Ry, all in various poses of death, flash through my mind. I wince, not wanting to see them. Then someone is dying in my arms. The emotion from that exact death moment crushes all desire to live from my soul. My fingers tingle and my pulse accelerates, everything around me spins. My heart wails, even though I can’t discern who I’m holding. Sorrow seeks to bury me, drown me, blur my sight. Only his green eyes are clear, and seeing them like this squeezes my heart dry. What significance does he hold for me, this green-eyed guy?
Without warning, the pool water illuminates, glowing a brilliant blue. The shadows shriek and shrivel. Seconds later, they disappear from sight. I sense only him now. Like a memory more than a threat or promise.
My body collides with the pool floor. I fight the desire to give in to exhaustion and instead thrust for the surface. Madame Marrouske’s face and voice whirl around me, distorted by the water. You are the key to their salvation. Embrace your destiny.
What destiny?
I drag myself from the pool and stagger to the locker room. Pain and exhaustion are my companions, yet I shove past them and try to move with haste. I can’t throw on my sweats or toss my bag over my shoulder fast enough. With each tick of the clock, I feel better. Hitting the lights, I head straight for the exit.