Most of the kids have gone home now, except for the ball game boys. This is usually my chance to find water to drink inside the school; I come out from my hiding place and run around to the opposite side of the building. No one is around, so I am able to get water from the metal box on the wall, and use the toilet in the room labeled ‘Faculty Lounge.’ It took a few days to figure out that the waste will go down into the ground, but now I know to push the handle to the left. I find this a great improvement over the outhouses I am used to.
I haven’t yet had to feed on a human, having found plenty of small creatures nearby in the fields. There are usually mice or rats by the building, especially near the door by the cooking room. I dread feeding from humans, although I learned from Lily that you don’t have to kill to feed. Before I met her, I hated the feeling of taking a life to sustain my own existence. The time may come here in this Kentucky place where I will need to find a victim, but I will be careful not to drain the person too far. And I will leave hopeful dreams in their head.
After the boys and Coach leave the field, I know from experience to wait another half hour or so before I enter through the gate. The boys go into a small brick building painted blood-red with a shiny warrior on a horse painted on the side. When they come out, they are in the clothes they wore to school earlier, and they all have wet, dripping hair. They talk and laugh and punch each other on the arm as they leave the field and head to their homes.
Now it is my turn. There is almost always a ball left on the field; it is not round like the balls for lawn bowling or croquet in Boston. Rather, it comes to a point on two sides. I enjoy using my body to hurl it through the air, pretending to throw it to another player like the boys do. Then I run as fast as I can toward the pole at the end of the field. Lately, I have tried kicking it through the poles that stick up into the air. This hurts my toes a bit, but the ball makes a satisfying thunk when it lands on the other side.
Soon, I am tired out, and I know I still have to hunt and feed. I leave the ball where I found it so as not to call attention to the presence of a stranger near the field. In the fading light, I decide to first check the brush nearby for a possum or squirrel. The mice and rats are less pleasant and have a faint smell of garbage. Yes, even vampires have some taste when it comes to dining.
Chapter 7: Mean Girls
A little over a month now since school started, and I might actually have a friend. Plus, I have a cool teacher for English and a writing group. And not one person has said the word lesbian out loud since I got here. I’m thinking Shively might work okay for me—at least for a year. Surely my mom will release me from exile for my senior year…
The only possible problem with Hillary Calvano as a potential friend is this witch business; I know for sure Mom would flip out if she knew, and, as open as Aunt Penny likes to think she is, she wouldn’t like it either. From what I understand, Hill’s family is totally in the dark about the entire thing, and she carries what she calls “The Book” around with her all the time so they don’t find it. Personally, I think it sounds kind of dope—I could so turn up for a witch meeting, or ceremony, or whatever. She said something about “calling down the moon,” whatever that is. I should find out soon, because we’re going to start meeting outside for lunch before Chemistry.
“So, you see, I’m almost ready. I have a Wand—I cut it from the apple tree in our yard in the middle of the night. It was a bitch to get the herbs I needed to give it power, but I finally did it.”
I’m sitting next to Hillary at one of the picnic tables outside of the school cafeteria, eating the ham sandwich Aunt Penny packed for me, and trying to decide whether or not this girl is scary. I think probably not, but I stay silent and let her talk on.
“The bowl wasn’t that hard to get, but I literally had a heart-attack swiping the Strega booze from my dad’s liquor cabinet.”
Hillary takes a bite of her own sandwich as Dax comes up behind us. She gives him a withering look, which doesn’t seem to faze him.
“Hey, ladies. Are we looking forward to chemistry class?”
Hillary answers, “Well, you might be, being the weirdo that you are, but we are definitely not. Now run along, kid.”
“You’ll be sorry when you need my help. I hear today is osmosis day.”
I feel the need to back Hill up. “Whatever. We don’t care about osmosis—or you.”
Hillary and I exchange looks, cancelling Dax. I feel us edge a bit closer to actual friendship. Still, I’m wary about getting too close to any female person at this point…Taylor started out as a friend.
In spite of our poking at him, Dax chooses to sit down on the grass about five feet from our table and eat his lunch. He makes a show of ignoring us, but I can tell he’s still listening.
Hillary resumes her tale of the tools of Stregheria. “I have a wine glass I got at the thrift store for a chalice; did you know that Christianity adopted the idea of the Holy Grail from the Old Religion? Gucci, huh?”
I nod, my mouth full of apple. “Yeah, Gucci…do your parents know you think that?”
Hillary looks a bit put out. “No, they don’t—and I don’t just think it—it’s a fact. I read it in my book, and Grimassi knows what he’s talking about.”
“Well, my mom would totally freak if I said something like that, so I just wondered.”
“It’s a matter of secrecy,” replies Hillary.
“Discretion,” calls out Dax. “I can be very low key, you know.”
We both sigh in frustration. Why is this guy stalking us? The only thing we appreciate about him is his skill in science: not much to go on in thinking we like him or anything. Hillary scoots around so that her back is toward Dax.
“The next to last on the list is the pentacle; I got that online. Of course, I only wear it in my room when no one’s around.”
“You’re supposed to be naked when you work magic,” our eavesdropper interjects.
“You know, Em, I think we need to get on in the classroom and be extra prepared today, don’t you,” Hillary says this loudly and pointedly, toward Dax.
I raise my voice, too. “Right you are, Hill—extra prepared. So that we don’t need any help.”
Dax keeps on making a show of ignoring us, as Hillary and I gather up our trash and book bags. We head into building three; as the door swings shut behind us, I hear Dax say something about us “being sorry” later when we need him. What a loser!
As we take our usual table in the Chem Lab, Hillary suddenly turns to me and asks the question I’ve been dreading since I started hanging out with her, “So, Em, did you have a boyfriend back in Daytona? I can’t imagine that you didn’t…”
“Um, well, kind of,” I stammer. “But…it’s over now. Water under the bridge, so to speak.” Hillary seems to accept this answer, nodding her head in understanding. “I really don’t have time for that, you know, what with adjusting to a new school and—my writing and all…”
“Yeah, I feel you. Me neither. Becoming a witch takes all my concentration. Maybe when I go to college…”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe I will be lucky enough to have Hillary for a friend without ever telling her about Taylor. I consider asking her about her own love life, but decide opening that particular can of worms can wait. Charity joins us, and I turn my mind to the problem on the board. Only near the end of class did I realize Hill had said the pentacle was the “next to last” item. I wonder what the final one is?
* * * *
School drags on from day to day, but at least Shively is made a bit more tolerable by having someone to talk to. Hillary is becoming a real friend, and hasn’t said anything more about boys or dating. Before I know it, the next Creative Writing meeting rolls around. Ms. Schell picked me to give a presentation about narrative poetry. Mimi Chesney is doing one on haiku. She’s a senior and a cheerleader, but seems pretty friendly to everyone in the club. Keisha, of the locker room incident, is in the club, too—good thing I don’t have to watch her tal
k in front of the room for ten or fifteen minutes.
I’ve been working diligently on this project, and I think it’ll go well. But you never know…
The day of the meeting flies by. I made sure to fix my hair and make-up carefully this morning; I want to look pretty for a change, so I even put on earrings. I also checked my file about a million times, including doing a dry run with Aunt Penny. As I walk into Ms. Schell’s room, I feel quite confident and capable. This will go well.
After some preliminary info from Ms. Schell, Mimi’s presentation gets underway. Personally, I didn’t think it was all that original, but she tried—and, as usual, she was friendly and gracious about answering questions. I don’t care which clique you belong to, it’s impossible not to like Mimi.
My turn. As I make my way up to the podium and start setting up my laptop, I hear faint sounds of laughter coming from Deshawn, Keisha, and their cronies. Obviously, nothing has happened yet: I didn’t fart on my way up or anything…I try to dismiss the sound, but the butterflies in my stomach start to dance around a bit.
Ms. Schell smiles at me and says, “Well, group, I’m sure we all appreciate Mimi’s effort, and look forward to Emelia’s talk on narrative poetry. You may think narrative poetry is easy, but I’m trusting Emelia to show you how it can confuse you into thinking you’re writing prose.” I nod and smile. “Oops, I probably said what you’re getting ready to say in your talk, Emelia. Carry on.” Ms. Schell goes to the back of the room to be one of the audience; even in regular English class, she says she wants the student presenting to feel like the star.
My first few slides are pictures without text—various poets known for writing narrative poetry, so I don’t need to actually look at the screen. I face the group, take a deep breath, and begin.
“Narrative poetry is one of the oldest styles of poetry, appearing in ancient Egyptian texts, old Norse poetry, and writing from many other ancient cultures.” I can see Ms. Schell nodding from the back of the room, her earrings bobbing softly.
“As you can see, some of the best known poets who wrote narrative poems include William Wordsworth, Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickenson, and more contemporary poets like Adrienne Rich and Marilyn Hacker. Hacker is best known for sonnets that also tell a story.” I’m feeling pretty confident once I get the first few sentences out.
Suddenly, DeShawn, in the front row, holds up a cardboard sign reading “LESBO” in bright red letters. I stop talking, my mouth frozen shut. Stifled laughter echoes through the classroom, while Ms. Schell stands abruptly and stalks to the front. While I stand there like Forrest Gump, DeShawn manages to turn all around holding the sign so everyone can see.
Deshawn and her friends are absolutely hysterical by this point, and laughter pops up here and there in the group even after Ms. Schell snatches the sign away from DeShawn and stuffs it in the trashcan. I try to think what to do, but my mind’s a total freakin’ blank.
Without even looking at the culprit, Ms. Schell goes to her desk and takes out her pad of Conduct Reports. She rips one off and writes furiously, then hands it to a shocked-looking DeShawn.
“Young lady, here is your reward for that cruel little stunt. Please leave the room now, and report to the Dean’s Office immediately.”
The room grows quiet as DeShawn takes the Conduct Report from Ms. Schell’s hand, gathers her stuff, and leaves the room. Then Ms. Schell turns to me.
“Emelia, would you like to postpone your presentation to a later meeting?”
My mind is racing. Part of me wants to run home and hide in my puke green room, but there’s another part that wants to show how tough I am.
“Ms. Schell, I can go on, I think, I mean—I want to. Could I skip over a bit, please?”
I know she knows that I had been planning to read from both Rich and Hacker—both lesbians—and I just could not risk more connection there. “Of course, Emelia—whatever you think best.”
I go on calmly, skipping over to Poe’s “Annabel Lee,” which is familiar to almost everyone and is totally heterosexual. I imagine the mean girls were going to try to sneak in a question about sex if they could, but I know my presentation so well I just pick the parts that are safe. For once being an obsessive student pays off!
Chapter 8: Sharing Secrets
Even though I manage to continue and survive the potentially disastrous club meeting, I leave the room afterwards with a heavy feeling in my soul. The idea is now officially out there that I’m a lesbian—for most of Shively, that translates to pervert. I have no idea right now how to handle this, but I know I desperately need a sympathetic ear. I suppose I could tell Aunt Penny; she’d be supportive (and outraged at Deshawn and her cohorts), but she’d also be worried and feel she had to tell Mom. No way!
As I walk in the door of the house, Penny’s in the kitchen, already working on a dinner that smells fantastic. Too bad I couldn’t stomach a bite. I head to my room and close the door, thankful to have a private space. The tears come out at last, and this feeling of aloneness makes me miss Taylor all the more. I need a friend—and it dawns on me that I now have one: Hillary Calvano. We aren’t that close yet, but I think I trust her. I dig my cell phone out of my purse and enter her number.
“Hello?” The voice isn’t Hill’s, but a higher, smaller version of it. “Who is this?” Then a childish giggle.
Next there’s the sound of a scuffle and Hillary’s voice yelling, “Ri-ri! How many times do I have to tell you not to answer my phone?!” Then Hill comes on.
“Emelia? Is that you? So sorry for the little monster’s misbehavior—she’s spoiled rotten—unlike some people in this house.”
I say nothing, just breathe into the phone.
“Em? Are you okay?”
“Actually, no. I’m not. I mean—I will be, but I need to talk. Something happened today.”
“Do you want to come over? It’s okay—my pop won’t be home tonight and Patrice will be in bed by the time you get here. Come on.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll ask Penny, but I’m sure it’s okay. See ya.”
* * * *
This is the first time I’ve gone to Hillary’s house, but it isn’t hard to spot. It’s not in the best section of Shively, but an area that has big old houses, some of them over one hundred years old. The Calvanos bought their house before Hillary was born, expecting to take time to fix it up—and expecting to have a big family. They have fixed it up over time, and it’s really pretty, both outside and in. The family turned out unable to completely fill it, though: just Hill, one boy, Roger, who’s nine, and little Patrice.
When I knock on the door, it’s Hillary’s mom who answers. She smiles at me, and I feel welcome at once—what a relief. Mrs. Calvano is chubby and young-looking, with the same mass of wavy hair as her daughter. Patrice, called Ri-ri I soon discover, runs up behind her mother, short curls bobbing and eyes flashing. I can see instantly how she could be a huge pest to live with; she’s wearing a werewolf mask and a pink Hello Kitty bathrobe. I assume she just got out of the bath.
“Hillary Ann, your friend is here,” calls Mrs. C. “I’m sorry, dear, what was your name again?”
“Emelia,” I answer, “Emelia Behrends. I live with my Aunt Penny—she works at Creative Styles on Crums Lane…” I trail off lamely.
“Of course: Emelia! And I do know your aunt; Joe gets his hair cut there.”
I smile and nod, assuming Joe must be Hill’s dad. Thankfully, Hillary bounds down the stairs at that moment, saving me from further adult conversation.
“Come on, Em—come up to my room. We can come back down and get a Diet Coke or something in a bit.”
Hillary’s room is awesome: she has a loft bed that her dad built for her, so that she would have enough room beneath it for her desk and computer stuff. The walls are painted lavender, and one wall has wallpaper that looks like stone. All the posters show fairy scenes or mysterious-looking landscapes. I think to myself that I need to talk to Penny about painting my room if I’m going
to live in it for another seven months or so.
I sit on a poufy chair and she plops down on the floor in front of me. “So, what happened today? I’m dying to know—and I hope I can help.”
“Thanks, Hill. Just that statement helps some. There’s probably nothing to be done, but at least you care. It was such an unmitigated disaster, it’s hard to even tell the story.”
“I’m not sure what unmitigated means, but it doesn’t sound good. So tell the story.”
“Well, you know I told you about the presentation I was giving today in Creative Writing Club. I was excited about it—Ms. Schell chose me for a really tricky topic, even though I’m new and everything. I worked so hard on it.”
“So, you fucked it up?”
“No, no, nothing like that. In fact, Ms. Schell seemed really proud of me for going on after…”
“After what? Em, you’re not making this easy.”
I shift in my chair. “Sorry. Okay. At the beginning of my presentation, while I was looking straight ahead and concentrating, Deshawn Johnson held up a sign that said LESBO in big red letters. The whole class cracked up. Of course, Deshawn got a Conduct Report, but I’m sure the rumor is all over Butler now, that I’m…you know.”
Hillary surprises me by first laughing and then giving me a hug. I don’t know how to react, staying stiff and motionless until she lets me go.
“Em, don’t you know by now that Deshawn and that gang will say anything to mess with one people like us? No one will pay it any mind after a few days, or until the next time they decide to pick on some poor schmuck. It’s not personal.”
“Well, but to me it is, because—” I stop myself, not sure whether I’ll tell my new friend the truth. In one flash of an instant, I decide to just spit it out.
“See, it kind of is true. I did have a girlfriend in Daytona. Taylor. In fact, my mom caught us together, and that’s why she exiled me here to Shively. So…I guess I am a lesbo—lesbian.”
Buried Secrets Page 3