Oculus

by S. E. Akers

  Our dinner proved far tastier and more satisfying than breakfast — two full 18 inches of heaven, one for each of us. There was barely enough room on the daggone table to fit them, let alone what limited space our tummies provided. But on the plus-side, having to sit there and let four pounds of cheese settle in our guts gave me the perfect opportunity to give Katie a proper West Virginia ribbing about all the northern slang I’d heard her dropping since my arrival. I was itching to say something at the park yesterday when she’d called the water fountain a “bubbler” (despite how cute it sounded). And though I fully respected a person’s native dialect, little Miss Bostonian had opened up a big ole can of worms when she’d ordered our drinks and referred to them as “soda” instead of “pop”.

  “Hey!” Katie protested. “I may have picked up a few new words, but I sound the same!”

  “No, not really,” I teased. “I’ve heard you say ‘cash registah’ all day.”

  Katie blasted out a huff. “I think all those Latin lessons have screwed with your ear-brain connection.”

  “That’s okay,” I grinned. “I’m having the State of West Virginia revoke your redneck card in the morning.”

  “That’s funny,” Katie smiled. “Well, when you get in touch with them, see if they can’t find some of that confidence you lost. It may be back in Welch. I just hope for your sake it didn’t get sucked away with Bea’s house.”

  I holstered the rest of my jokes immediately. All teasing aside, it was the truth. At least all the bungling insecure signs were there.

  Katie reached across the table and patted my hand. “I’m sorry, Shi.”

  “Don’t be . . . It’s been hard holding on to any confidence,” I assured her. “Fighting the Onyx was tough enough that night, and I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Helio. I know that for a fact. But these monsters . . .” I fiddled with my napkin while the wrath I’d endured from my battles marched like a legion of tireless soldiers through my mind. “Katie, they’re quick and powerful and resilient. Right now, every shred of my confidence is dependent upon a barrel of layria bark.” And Tanner’s aim, I acknowledged silently.

  Katie issued me a tender smile, oozing with sympathy. “Then maybe you need to stop depending on it and look someplace else?” she posed. “See if you can’t find your confidence hiding in another barrel? That’s what the Shiloh I know would do,” she professed and shored it up with a firm nod. “You’d like her. She’s very resourceful, and she can be pretty feisty when she wants to.”

  I stretched back in my chair, drinking in her candor. “I’ve never known you not to have the right words to say, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this profound,” I bragged. “Your new life suits you.”

  “It’s my new lease on life,” Katie corrected. “I don’t want to be so blind to things . . . not anymore.”

  I realized something as I looked into her eyes. A part of my bosom friend had undeniably grown up, right under my nose, all because of what she’d gone through, and I’d been so wrapped up in my own little world that I’d totally missed it.

  “You know you don’t have to worry about me,” Katie assured, eyes bearing the weight of anchors that desperately wanted her words to sink in. “I’m going to school this fall. I’ve made some friends here. Oh, and I’ve even stopped stalking people on Facebook as Elizabeth Connelly.” Her head slid towards the table with a rueful tip. “Well, everyone except my family.”

  “That’s understandable,” I muttered. “I still occasionally stalk mine. Your obsession is normal. Mine’s pathetic.”

  “And I don’t want you worrying about the witchcraft either,” Katie requested.

  The corners of my lips tightened into balls. “I know I can’t stop you, but I do want you to be careful,” I implored. “Some of the witches you’re bound to encounter are okay, like Bethesda and Padimae, but there are an awful lot of bad ones too. Just look what happened to me with Ms. Lá Léo.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me doing any major mingling. Bethesda won’t let me join her coven anyway,” she grumped.

  Shamefully I was an equal mix of happy and sad after hearing that. Now I felt horrible. “Are they nice?” I asked, shooting for supportive.

  “Yeah,” Katie insisted. “Um, except for Donnie,” she added, eyes rolling. “He’s a total jerk! And for the record, I’m putting in my September birthday request for a piece of tin to stretch over his mouth.” Her lips plumped into a schemey grin. “Then I’m going to beat the crap out him with a tire thumper.”

  “Is he that bad?”

  Katie took a sip of her drink. “Trust me. You’ll want to take a crack at his butt two seconds after meeting him. I’d bet my new car on it.”

  “Hey, I’m easy-going,” I argued. “Between having to put up with Charlotte and now Silas, I can tolerate a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see,” she hummed knowingly.

  “Hopefully, we won’t,” I replied.

  Katie snagged my attention with an abrupt foot nudge under the table. “One more thing,” she added seriously. “Just remember that no matter what choices I make, they are my choices, okay?”

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  “I’m still your Katie-Kate, and I always will be.”

  An abrupt and unmistakable “beep” sent me trawling through my purse, and the fresh mound of crumpled receipts shoved everywhere was making the normally challenging hunt ten times worse.

  Katie nodded to my bag. “You would think as much voodoo as that thing is packin’, all you’d have to do is just snap your fingers to get your stuff to pop up out and then land magically in your hand.”

  “I wish.” My fingertips eventually struck gold when they sensed the hard, rectangular case. I pulled out the phone and tapped on my messages. Of course it being from Tanner was a long shot, but I still found myself surprised nonetheless — not by its sender, who turned out to be Naomi, but from the message itself.

  “What’s wrong?” Katie asked.

  I flipped the phone around to show her the crazy message and then followed it up with a recap of our last conversation.

  “What the heck does that mean? Is she wanting you to shoot him?” Katie laughed.

  “Beats me,” I shrugged. “With Naomi you never know.” After all, this was the gal known to tuck the tiniest of .22 caliber guns in the back crack of her jeans. She may have very well meant for her cryptic suggestion to be as black & white as a newspaper.

  Katie sprang out of her chair and snatched up the bill before I could grab it. “I’ve got this,” she winked. “It’s the least I can do.”

  I grabbed her arm, unable to resist. “And I’ll be waiting right here when you get back from the cash registah.”

  After a hard flick to the back of my head, my BFF headed off to settle up our tab. Yeah, I’ll show her a real thump if she even thinks about ditching her “y’all”…

  Katie came rushing back to the table within minutes, waving a flyer like a checkered flag. “A girl left this lying on the counter. Look! Here’s a place that’s hiring part-time seamstresses. I thought we could check it out. I think it’s a sign!”

  I couldn’t help but wish that destiny would leave such a courteous and clear-cut printed trail for me to follow. “What about your part-time job at the jewelry store?” I asked.

  “I’ve been working in a jewelry store since I turned ten. If I’m majoring in Fashion Design, what better way to make money and get some experience? See, it involves sewing, patternmaking, draping — It’s perfect! And they specialize in formal dresses and bridal gowns. How wicked-cool is that?”

  I checked my watch. “It’s pushing seven o’clock.”

  “Well, it’s also a shop,” she contended. “They could still be open.”

  “All right,” I agreed as I slid my chair under the table. “But for the record, that’s something else. I’ve heard you say ‘WICKED’ about a thousand times.”

  “Seriously?” Katie laughed. “That coming out of you
r ‘daggone’ mouth is priceless.”

  My lips rolled together and pressed out a grin. Yeah, she kind of had me dead to rights on that one.

  With the Yankee-Redneck score now tied, the two of us were out the door within seconds and en route to our next destination. And thanks to her car’s wicked GPS system, we were able to find 747 Piedmont without a hitch.

  The establishment turned out to be a quaint four-story brick building that looked more like a townhouse than anything, right down to the ivy smothering its façade. Katie compared the logo printed on the flyer to the fancy sign staked in its modest front lawn.

  Katie cut the ignition with a keen flip of her wrist. “This is it,” she announced. “You’re coming in with me, aren’t you?”

  I’d kind of assumed she would want to make her first impression alone, but whatever. “Sure,” I said and popped open the door.

  We followed the flagstone walk up to a set of black-lacquered double doors. Katie tugged on the brass handles without any luck. She stepped back and eyed the light shining from the upstairs windows. “Even if they’re closed, someone’s still here.”

  Clearly she wasn’t leaving without some sort of meet-’n-greet. “Just knock,” I suggested. So she did. Even after three semi-patient rounds of taps, no one ever came to open the door.

  “Do you see a buzzer?” Katie asked.

  I started scanning the thick clumps of ivy. “Where?” I said, patting the leafy vines. “It’s like a wall of carpet.”

  Katie tapped her fingers on the brass handles. “Go ahead,” she urged. “Work your magic.”

  “You want me to break in?” I posed, “ . . . with people in there?”

  I’d never seen a person sporting a more certain look. “Yeah,” Katie breathed, nodding vigorously. “I’ll tell them the door wasn’t locked, okay?” She turned up the notch on her BFF pleads. “Pretend we’re crashing a party instead of trespassing. It’s basically the same thing.”

  A bad feeling rolled through my gut. But I ignored it, mainly because anything that would help keep her hands busy and away from firing up a cauldron got an A-Okay stamp in my book.

  “Fine,” I said, caving right along with my sagging frame. I turned towards the door and grabbed both of the handles. Katie couldn’t have looked any happier when the two panels pushed away from their latched seam and into the building.

  “Thanks, cat burglar,” she simpered and breezed inside.

  The foyer we had entered was relatively small, too small for the humongous crystal chandelier that took up the top third of the room. The walls were painted a shimmery slate gray, and each of them had been outlined with meticulously stacked boxes of soft white molding. Very snazzy. Lying to our left and right were two sets of aubergine velvet drapes drawn to a close. They appeared to be covering a pair of separate doorways.

  “Hello?” I called out.

  Katie shushed me. “What are you doing?”

  “Being mannerly,” I submitted.

  “There are no manners in party-crashing,” she fussed. “We need to find someone first . . . and make sure they’re not calling the cops. Not all of us can turn invisible and run away.”

  “I wouldn’t leave you,” I said in my sincerest voice.

  Katie clenched her heart in a twist, touched. “Awwww.”

  “I’d stay so I could snap a picture of you in the backseat of a police cruiser . . . for my scrapbook,” I grinned. “The caption will read, ‘I told you so’.”

  “Oh, I bet you would,” she smirked.

  “So? Curtain Number One or Two,” I asked, hoping to coax that saluting finger of hers into pointing our way.

  Her answer was interrupted when a female voice abruptly asked, “May I help you?”

  Startled, we whipped towards one of the doorways to find a statuesque, olive-skinned woman standing there with her arms stretched like a set of falcon’s wings, pushing back the two panels and pressing them against the molding with a fierce glare. And rest assured, her stance wasn’t the only thing intense about her. The woman’s cropped, jet-black hair dipped into a steep taper that rounded to a curt stop at her chin while the tiniest run of razor-edged bangs sliced across her forehead, which made her green eyes practically springboard out of their sockets. It was one of those sleek and artsy styles you’d find thumbing through a Redken book while waiting at a salon that made you think “there’s no way in hell”. A pair of weighty golden circles jutted out of her earlobes and clear down to her shoulders. I’d actually seen smaller hoops playing a round of backyard Ring-Toss. The woman’s choice of attire made her look like she’d been dunked and dried all in black from her long, figure-hugging dress straight down to the six-inch stilettos strapped to her feet. A yellow tape measure hung from her neck, right along with a modest gold necklace that held a small conch shell on its end, striped in an array of peachy tints and edged in gold. At least there was something a little summery attempting to soften up Morticia’s look.

  Katie held up the flyer. “Yes. I wanted to see if you were still hiring.”

  The woman bounced her stare between the two of us and the door critically while she tapped her long red nails against the framing. “Possibly,” she remarked, her husky voice drenched in mystique. She released the drapes and took a commanding step towards Katie, well into her personal space. “I am Madame Syeira.”

  “Katherine Hepburn,” Katie replied.

  Madame Syeria scanned her from head to toe, paying particular attention to her hair. “The only Katherine Hepburn I know of was a redhead,” she laughed coarsely.

  “Well, this one isn’t,” Katie replied uncomfortably. You could tell from the flutter of her eyelids just how much she truly hated her new last name.

  Suddenly a lanky young girl with brunette tresses down to her waist and gleaming sable-colored eyes emerged from behind the same curtain. She waved Madame Syeria towards her, almost humbly. The storeowner lowered her head to the young girl’s mouth so they could keep their conversation at a whisper.

  Their huddle didn’t last long. After a few exchanges, Madame Syeria resumed her uncurving stance and then turned to Katie. “Go through there and around to the showroom doors in the next room. See what lovely things we make here. I will join you momentarily,” she announced. Then she and the young girl disappeared behind the curtain.

  We stood there watching the drapes sway to a stop. “Did you catch the tan on that girl?” Katie asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Real or spray?” she posed as we pushed back the velvet panels.

  “I don’t have a clue,” I replied. “I was too busy wondering how she got those thick black eyelashes so separated.”

  “She looks like she’s had plenty of practice,” Katie assured. “With the amount of paint caked on her face, I bet she’s pulled more mirror-time than most make-up artists.”

  “True,” I grinned in agreement.

  “How old do you think—”

  “Twelve,” I interrupted.

  Katie stopped in her tracks with a stomp. “No way!”

  “I read her mind,” I said doubtlessly.

  “She looked at least twenty-one,” my BFF mumbled. “I didn’t have boobs that big at that age.”

  “You still don’t,” I chuckled.

  “Neither do you,” she poked back.

  “And it’s a good thing too,” I said. “The first bump you hit, we’d pop out your windshield.”

  We stopped in front of a pair of golden doors. “I’ve got these,” she grinned and then grabbed the two clear crystal knobs.

  With her wrists mounting their synchronized turns, Katie twisted the knobs and pulled back on the doors. We staggered into the showroom, both of us at a total loss for words — physically that is. Plenty were rolling through our hypnotized little shock-eyed heads. Our stares panned the room feeling completely spellbound by the panorama, like we’d stumbled upon a secret world where Fairy Godmothers and their star-tipped wands were just a heartfelt wish away. I’d never seen
a wider palette of colors drenching gowns in one place before, not even at both of my two quickie high school dances combined. Voluminous taffeta gowns bearing lavish embellishments lay scattered throughout the showroom, and just about every one of the whimsical wonders had a crinoline petticoat exploding out of their bottoms. The sparkles glistening from all the rhinestones had my eyes seeing spots at every turn. There were poofy ones, slinky ones, and a whole bunch of others that were an eclectic blend of fantastical styles falling somewhere in-between. Truthfully, it was nothing less than a kooky-yet-charming collection of about a thousand little girls’ dreams that fell somewhere within the range of Haute Couture meets Hot-Mess.

  “These are just like the ones on those Roma gypsy wedding shows,” Katie mumbled out slowly and then whirled around in a sudden jerk, now full-on giddy. “This is bitchin’ bling-tastic!” Then she ran off to inspect every ginormous and bedazzled bridal gown circling the ritzy mirror-paneled room like a little girl who’d found the ultimate treasure chest of dress-up clothes.

  Well, at least she didn’t say “wicked”. I followed my bewitched BFF as she worked her way around the maze of mammoth gowns, carefully avoiding their never-ending trains of ruffles and maneuvering through the swell of their skirts. Of course my retinas were still trying to adjust to the mix of all the bright psychedelic hues staring back at me. There wasn’t a solid white one to be found anywhere, and each of them had been designed with a specific theme. Whether the brides had envisioned themselves as risqué & ruffled Can-Can dancers, mermaids decked out in a skin-tight bodices that fanned from the knees into layers of shiny lamé scales, or simply wanted souped-up versions of a crown-clad Cinderella rolling out of a pumpkin coach, all their dreams were represented in this very room. Oh, I’d seen plenty of these flamboyant fairy tale numbers on TV, but it was nothing like witnessing them in all of their trailing taffeta and crystal-covered glory.

  “Hey!” Katie called out, waving me over.

  I joined her beside an enormous indigo-colored tulle gown. She aimed a remote at it and pressed one of the buttons. The entire dress lit up in white lights, making it twinkle like a starry sky.