Poison

by Dejana Vuletic

  She sat there cheering all by herself, screaming my name. I smiled as I looked at her sitting there, her fiancé by her side.

  “Friend of yours?” I heard Chris ask from beside me as we halted the band by the stands.

  “Best friend I could ever ask for,” I replied with a smile.

  “Mm . . .” he murmured in what I wanted to think was agreement, but I could tell he wasn’t really paying attention to what I was saying.

  I ignored him with an effort and laid the mace down on the black top gently. His floated down gently beside mine and he squatted beside me, his elbows on his knees.

  “What?” I asked self-consciously.

  He looked away suddenly. “Nothing.” His voice was cold, bitter, detached all of a sudden.

  “Oh,” I replied, completely taken aback by his harsh tone. “Tonight, um . . . after the game . . . I was wondering if maybe you would answer some questions for me.”

  “What’s wrong with right now?” he asked bluntly. “I’ll answer whatever you want.”

  “Okay . . .” I said in hesitation. “What the hell are you?”

  His mouth flattened into a hard line. “Not that question,” he retorted cuttingly. His eyes were glowing again in the darkness, and I felt suddenly drawn toward them, took comfort in their light. I felt protected, like nothing could hurt me . . .

  The other band members weren’t paying any attention to us. The game had started, and Ms. Altera was barking commands to them about the ensuing halftime show. Chris and I were behind the bleachers, talking in the shadows completely unnoticed.

  He swallowed and exhaled deeply, his hands clenched into fists, clumping up the fabric of his uniform pants.

  “I wish I could tell you,” he said slowly. “I wish I could tell you everything . . .”

  “Why can’t you tell me?” I asked, leaning slightly away.

  “You have no idea how tightly I’m bound, Dessa,” he said solemnly, releasing his right hand to touch the locket at my neck. “She told me not to tell anyone. And if I’m wrong, she’ll . . .”

  He cut off as though something was choking him and all his breath left his lungs in a gust. His eyes widened at the loss of air and my hands fluttered uselessly about him as I tried to help him.

  I stared at him helplessly. “What’s wrong? Why’d you come here? You have to tell me . . .” I begged, my voice escalating to a tone of panic. “Is someone after me? Chris, please . . . just tell me what the hell is going on . . .”

  “You’ll find out,” he answered, carefully phrasing his words. “I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to.”

  “You don’t have to tell me anything,” I said, suddenly calm. “I’ll find out on my own.” I stood up, holding out my arm for him, and he took it, bringing himself to his feet. “Now look happy. I think we’re winning.”

  He chuckled, but the frown didn’t leave his face. I left him for a moment to grab two bottles of water from the cooler beside the chaperone corner of the bleachers, where all the “band moms” sat during the games. He stood still; his body tensed as if to fight someone, and didn’t move until I was beside him again.

  “Drink this,” I half ordered him, opening the bottle and putting it in his hand. He obeyed, sipping the water little by little.

  Suddenly everyone began to cheer, and I jumped.

  “Touchdown!” the microphone screamed at the audience mercilessly. I threw the water aside and ran to the middle of the bleachers with Chris, my arms spread wide. I twirled my hand in a circle for about three seconds, and then the percussion began to play our fight song. I sang and danced along with it while conducting and the smile on my face could not have been wider.

  This was my life.

  Band . . . the joy and thrill of playing in front of crowds that cheered for you . . . It was part of me now.

  A part that – no matter the stakes – I didn’t want to give up. I knew that college was coming soon, and I was afraid of the transition to university life without Ricky there to help me. I was afraid to be separated from the life I had made here in the boonies of Pennsylvania; I was afraid to turn my back on all my experiences—the good and the bad together.

  But then I remembered what Ricky had said to me, and my heart filled itself with hope, not despair.

  “Dess, you just gotta remember that I’m always gonna be just a phone call away. Sure you’ll be away from home, but if you ever need me, you know where ta’ find me. I’m right here in your heart.”

  I smiled as I saw his face in my mind, smiling at me while his hands reached out to grab my annoyingly ticklish feet. His laugh rang in my ears as I could see myself running from the terror of being tickled, and I chuckled at the vision that fell before my eyes.

  I cut off the band from the fight song at the snap and the game continued on, now with the atmosphere of victory permeating the stadium. Chris was standing beside me, his eyes still slightly glowing in the setting sun.

  “Dessa,” he said slowly, putting his arm around my shoulder to pull me aside. I heard the percussionists wolf whistling again, but I ignored them, following him to the cooler, where he stopped walking.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Are you having trouble breathing again?”

  “No, no,” he argued in annoyance. “The only reason that happens is if I try to do something against the rules.”

  “Rules?” I asked skeptically. “Whose rules?”

  “I can’t tell you that now,” he argued. “The only thing I can tell you at this point is that your eyes are glowing.”

  I stared at him.

  “What?!” I breathed. “It’s not my eyes that are glowing. It’s yours . . .” I argued.

  “I know, I know,” he said impatiently again. “They do that when I’m around others like me.”

  “What d’you mean, ‘others like you’?” I asked, bringing my fingers to my cheek bones, where they drifted slowly upward to touch my eyelids.

  He sighed. “Tonight, after this game’s over, I will explain that to you.” He looked at the scoreboard then, and suddenly he smiled; it was grim, but somehow he still managed it. “It’s almost halftime,” he said. “Just forget about all of this until after halftime. Come out onto the field with me, and let’s have a great show.”

  “Mm,” I said, my mind finding it increasingly difficult to let go of the heated conversation. I picked up the mace mechanically and began twirling it off to the side as the rest of the band got out of the stands. Chris had moved to the other end of the bleachers to help the percussion warm up, and had left me—that punk—to deal with the majorettes.

  “Majorettes,” I called, “You have five minutes to warm up. I suggest you get moving.”

  The Majorette Captain, an acquaintance of mine named Rachel, had already finished placing all the equipment, her rifle in hand.

  “Rach,” I called almost silently. Her excellent hearing inclined her to my call and she appeared at my side a moment later.

  “Yeah, Dess?” she asked. “What’s up?”

  “Just wanted to make sure you keep those girls in line,” I said with a smile. “This is our last game before play-off season, and if we lose, I want us to go out with a good image.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” she replied confidently. “These girls are well-prepared. I’ve worked them extra hard for this, so please don’t stress yourself out.”

  “It’s not this that’s stressing me out,” I admitted, internally kicking myself for complaining to her.

  “Well, what is then?” she asked with concern.

  “It’s him,” I replied, discreetly pointing my finger toward Chris as he twirled the mace flawlessly. “He’s not normal, Rach. I don’t know what it is . . . but he’s different. . .”

  “Dessa, are you feeling okay?” she asked, reaching out her hand to touch my face. “Your eyes look awfully strange in this light, you know . . .”

  I gasped and closed my eyes immediately, then shook my head and said, “No, Rach. I’m fine. Or I will be
, anyway . . .” I trailed off, walking away from her toward Chris.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  “Yep,” I answered, popping the “P.” “Let’s go.”

  “What type of salute are we doing?” he asked suddenly.

  “I don’t care,” I answered nervously, my mind still preoccupied by our glowing eyes. “Surprise me.”

  He chuckled. “That shouldn’t be too hard, then.”

  “Ha.” I laughed sarcastically back at him. “Funny.”

  “You know I am,” he answered. “That’s why you’re smiling so much right now.”

  I found it almost impossible not to smile when looking at him. My lips curved joyously into a grin and I laughed.

  “See?” he asked. “I knew it!”

  “That you did,” I agreed with another laugh. “Come on, let’s go.”

  He followed me to the 50-yard line, our hands almost touching as we went to attention in front of the audience. The football players were just leaving the field, and the referees were following slowly but surely.

  The last referee was off, and the snare drummer began to tap us onto the field. I continually glanced at Chris as we marched up, waiting for some sign of his salute. He cocked his head to the side once we reached the front hash and I stopped marching, waiting for him to give his signal.

  Suddenly, I knew what I needed to do. He gave me no sign, and my mind made no effort to evaluate that sign, but my muscles somehow knew what he wanted them to do.

  I walked over to him in step with the percussion beat and he went down on his knee, sticking the mace in the ground by his side. I sat upon his knee gingerly, looking into his glowing ice-blue eyes. His hands grabbed my waist firmly and within seconds I was in the air, twirling like a ribbon in the breeze. I tucked in my arms and threw them out, tossing the mace into the air above me.

  I landed in Chris’ arms, and seconds after I landed, I opened my right hand and Chris his left, to catch the mace as it fell perfectly into our grasp.

  The crowd erupted with applause and Ms. Altera’s face from in front of us was full of astonishment. I smiled at Chris and marched away from him to stand on the podium. He stood faithfully beside me on the ground, his body at strict attention.

  Our first song, an original that no one could possibly forget, began our show of a lifetime. As I led the band in Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’,” the entire stadium began to sing along with the melody in the trumpets. I began to sway from side to side and dance, and I even heard Chris singing along with it.

  I cut off the band to another round of tremendous applause and bowed before the audience. As I lifted my head, I saw a face I hadn’t even expected to see. There, sitting on Pa’s other side with a wide smile upon his face was Ricky.

  He was smiling and cheering along with Pa as I stepped down from the podium; my heart was suddenly higher in my chest than it had been moments before. Chris touched my hand as he took the podium and he bowed low before the audience as well. They erupted into cheers as they remembered his amazing showmanship.

  He led the band in performing an old song from the 90’s by AFI: Miss Murder. The beginning – slow and melodic, yet treacherous in its simplicity – featured our baton twirler. She twisted and moved and leapt all across the field, being followed by one of the male band members.

  Then Chris picked up the tempo suddenly, and the entire band picked up their feet higher, moving almost angrily upon the field to the music. I watched in awe as Michelle, the twirler, walked up and down the field in her black dress, while the guys all flocked around her.

  Chris ended the song with majesty by turning around and bowing on the very last note. Michelle simultaneously pulled out her saber and pointed it at the band member’s throat as he knelt on the ground.

  The crowd pretty much freaked out in excitement. I heard everyone screaming for more, and my pride welled up as I took my place upon the podium again.

  Our final song, The Fray’s “How to Save a Life,” took the crowd by storm. Michelle danced around again with her baton and Chris joined her with the mace. They performed several routines and, as I conducted the song and watched Chris dance with Michelle, I couldn’t help but be amazed.

  It was his first game with this band, but he performed as though he had been here all along . . .

  Our show ended fabulously with Chris holding Michelle in his arms. The crowd cheered louder than I had ever heard them before and Michelle took her own bow before exiting the field. Chris and I joined hands and took our own bow before the astonished multitudes; I had to blink to keep my tears from spilling over as I heard Ricky shouting my name.

  I marched off the field with a surge of pride that I had never ever felt before, and Chris put his hand on the small of my back when we had made it back to the stands.

  “Why are you crying?” he asked, completely appalled. “You did great out there!”

  I sniffed. “I know,” I blubbered. “Some idiot person decided to give me tear ducts that explode whenever I’m happy.”

  He burst into a fit of laughter and wrapped his arms around me in a hug. I hugged him back, letting my sensitive fingers feel the muscles of his back. I felt warm as I stood there in his arms, and the tears began to slow.

  “Now stop your crying,” he ordered gently. “You did wonderfully out there. And that salute was absolutely phenomenal.”

  I smiled. “Thanks,” I replied.

  “I’m surprised you caught on to my facial expression so well,” he commented. “All I did was cock my head to the side and you suddenly knew exactly what to do!”

  I laughed nervously. “I honestly don’t know. I feel like I know you. I’ve only just met you today, yet I feel like I have known you for a lifetime and then some . . .” I trailed off, realizing how stupid I sounded.

  “I get that a lot,” he said with a kind smile.

  “Oh, well at least I’m not the only one, then,” I said stupidly, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks. He smiled and slowly brought his hand to my face. His fingers lingered there, resting upon my burning cheek, trying to cool it with his touch. I felt the strangest sensation then . . .

  Almost as if my vision was suddenly clearer, allowing me to see more than just the perceptions of the human eye . . . Suddenly I could see so much more . . .

  His eyes were glowing again . . .

  “Are my eyes being freaky?” I asked, and he chuckled.

  “If that’s what you want to call it, then yes. They’re being ‘freaky’,” he answered with a laugh. “Your eyes are so unique, Dessa. I hope you realize just who you are.”

  I stared for a few seconds, and this time he was the one to look away.

  “What?” I asked bluntly.

  “I said nothing,” he said sheepishly.

  “You did, too,” I persisted. “Don’t lie to me. You’re terrible at it.”

  “I’m not lying,” he argued. “Why would I lie to you of all people?”

  “Because you’re keeping something from me that’s obviously important and I don’t appreciate the fact that your Boss is making you keep secrets from me!”

  “Silence is golden, Dessa,” he said almost silently. I widened my eyes at him and raised my eyebrows in skepticism.

  “Sure it is,” I agreed sarcastically.

  “You’ll believe me in due time. In the meanwhile, I believe we just scored.”

  I looked up in a panic and sure enough, the band was cheering and picking up their instruments.

  The game was nearly over. With only 30 seconds to reclaim the ball and go for a touchdown, the opposing team had little hope of survival. When the buzzer rang, the entire stadium was filled with yelling and cheering for the undefeated Hopewell Vikings.

  Brother And Sister

  Once we got back into the band room, and our ears were ringing with the shouts and cheers of victory, I finally was able to take a deep breath and relax. Chris fell dramatically into the chair beside me and kept fanning his face while he rolled his ey
es around like a maniac.

  “Never again,” he murmured with a chuckle.

  “Too late,” I replied jokingly. “We still have playoffs, you know.”

  He whipped his head to stare at me. “Oh no . . .”

  “Oh yes . . .” I replied with a devilish smile. He laughed and stood up, momentarily touching my hand.

  “Well, hopefully we lose in the first playoff game,” he said, his voice light and joking. There was a bitter edge to his voice, though, a warning in it . . .

  “Oh well,” I said, exhaling a raspberry. “What happens will happen, I suppose.”

  He looked at me for a moment, his eyes surprised. “Yeah, I guess so,” he agreed after a silent minute of staring at me. “Too bad we have no control over such things,” he murmured almost incoherently.

  I chose not to respond to him. Instead, I grabbed the black linen wrappings for the mace and began to put it away, keeping my eyes away from him. He sat down beside me and put away his staff, then sat there dismally, his head in his hands.

  I mimicked him, cupping my hands and putting my chin gingerly in them. He looked at me with an amused expression, and my heart sped as I spotted the beauty in his eyes. The ice-blue shine reminded me of the sun’s rays bouncing off the frozen surface of a lake, the layer of soft white glowing atop the deep blue of the water. His mouth shaped the waterfalls through which emotion poured out to bring tears to the eyes. His black hair framed a face of complete confidence, yet a sweet disposition of shyness was hidden deep underneath.

  It was a beautiful face, too beautiful for me to allow it to slip away.

  “Dismissed! See you all on Monday!”

  Ms. Altera’s unusually loud, screaming voice pulled me out of my hypnosis with a jolt, dragged me forcefully back into a reality that I didn’t want to face: a Saturday sucked up from work, a Sunday stuck with my terribly annoying, yet loving cousins, and a pile of homework taller than Mount Everest waiting for me at home. Terrible weekend. I just might have cried.

  I stood up with Chris and he walked with me up the stairs to the uniform room, where we both hung up our uniforms. He then escorted me outside to the desolate parking lot.