by Lysa Daley
"I thought you liked the ones you found online? Peep toes to die for?"
"Not for a study date." She rolls her eyes like she can barely deal with my stupidity. "Oh young grasshopper, you have much to learn. Maybe we can find some earrings and perfume too."
Fifteen minutes later, I find myself strolling through an open-air mall with a $9 pressed juice in my hand. It's pretty quiet except for a few bored window-shopping fashionistas tottering around on wedge heels and clutching their designer bags.
"Maybe this wasn't a great idea," I say as we’re assaulted by a cacophony of scents as we stroll past a fancy candle store. "And you know what, I think I like the shoes we saw online. Plus it's free shipping."
Ignoring me, Ruby spots something in the window of a shop and decides that I must try it on. "You would look fierce in those jeans."
"But I thought we were here for shoes?"
"You need something to wear with them, right?" Ruby says, heading inside the shop toward an impossibly beautiful redheaded salesgirl who's busy texting behind the counter.
"Hi. My friend wants to try on the jeans in the window."
The salesgirl turns her perfectly made-up smoky eyes to me and seems to be deciding whether she's going to let me try on her merchandise or not. "What size? An 11?"
Ruby's mouth hardens. "Not unless it runs as small as your --"
"I'll try a size 3," I interrupt, not in the mood for a catfight. "If you have it."
Despite her annoyance that we've asked her to do her job, the salesgirl quickly locates the jeans and gets me installed in the cushiest dressing room I have ever seen.
From outside the velvety green curtain, Ruby says, "I'm going to see if they have anything else you should try on."
After she leaves, I flip the price tag over to see that the jeans cost $268. Really? Could this be a typo?
I slip off my uniform skirt, then wiggle into the jeans. At first, I don't think they're going to fit, but then I get myself zipped up and turn to the mirror.
The jeans fit perfectly.
In fact, they're making me look tall and lean. I guess that's what happens when you pay nearly three hundred bucks for something.
Just as I swivel to check out the rear view, the lights in the dressing room go out thrusting me into almost complete darkness.
"Hello!?" I call out to anyone in the general vicinity. "Um, what's up with the light?"
After a moment, emergency lights buzz on casting everything in a sickly green aura. I turn back around to find I now look weird and gaunt in the ugly light.
My spine tingles with a peculiar sense of deja vu, until I remember where I've seen light this strange color before -- in the back of the Mariposa's minimart.
Suddenly, Señora Mariposa's parting words echo in my head, "The light will be the first warning."
But a warning for what? Why didn't I think to ask her?
Suddenly, the curtain to my dressing room flies open. Even in the dim light, I see the salesgirl staring at me coldly.
"Hey! Excuse me." I cry.
She just glowers at me, and I realize there's something wrong with her eyes. They're glowing like a cat's, except they're a frightening deep red like the color of blood. But even with the weird color, they look dead.
"Did the power go out or something?" I ask dumbly. With my back to the wall, I feel like a trapped wild animal.
Then I see a little projection radiating out in front of her face like a 3-D hologram. It's me. It's the image of me from the photograph taken in San Francisco. The one stolen from my locker.
"Whoa!" I say, trying not to panic. "What's going on?"
But as soon as the words come out of my mouth, she grabs me, with incredible strength, easily lifting my whole body off the ground.
Then I'm slammed into a long mirror on the back wall. I crumple to the floor as a thousand shards of mirror rain down on me, cutting my arms and legs.
"Stop! Why are you doing this?” I struggle to stand, fear filling every inch of me. “You must have me confused with someone else."
The jagged glass has cut me in several places, including a deep gash from by neck along my collarbone. It stings. But I can feel it already starting to heal itself.
The red-eyed redheaded salesgirl says nothing as I heal. Her head is cocked in such a way that I can see she has a strange circular tattoo on her neck. The ink looks like it’s swirling. Like it’s somehow alive.
Before I can scramble away, she lunges forward, bearing down on me with her crazy cold blood red eyes. With super human strength, she hoists me up like I'm nothing more than a rag doll.
"Please," I utter meekly, "I don't understand what's going on."
Swiveling, the crazed salesgirl spins me around then physically throws me for a second time, all the way across the room where I slam into another wall then crumple to the floor.
My left arm takes the majority of the blow and the sharp pain followed by a horrible throbbing makes me wonder if I broke it. Rolling my hand in a circle, my wrist aches but is still functional.
It flashes through my brain that I should know what to do. I've only had ten years of martial arts training. In theory, this is exactly what it's been for.
What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do!
My mind is suddenly completely blank.
A weapon! That’s what I need. My karate training finally kicks into gear. My mind slows and focuses.
The only thing nearby is an empty clothes rack. I shove the hanging clothes to the ground, grab the top metal bar and give the supporting leg a yank, which dismantles the whole thing freeing the 4-foot long bar.
"This’ll do," I say to myself. Gripping it with two hands, I swing it around and over my head turning it into a makeshift bow staff. The whoosh of air stops the creepy salesgirl’s forward movement.
I strike, but lightning fast, she blocks the bar with her forearm. While effective, I can hear the crunch of her bone, yet she shows no trace of pain. Instead, her other arm moves forward trying to punch me in the face.
I lean back and miss her attack by inches.
I circle my weapon around the other way. She blocks it again. Back and forth, we exchange strike, block, strike, block. Yet, no matter how hard I hit her, she does not go down. Her strength and ability are unnatural.
Finally, my concentration breaks, and she knocks the bar from my hands, then thrust kicks me against the wall. She pulls out a short knife, a thick dagger. It must have been holstered behind her back.
The metal resembles bronze, except it has a strange red glimmer, almost the color of blood.
She jabs it out, and I sidestep the attack. The blade is unlike any metal I've ever seen. It almost looks like a beam of light. She comes at me again with the knife.
I retreat as she swings back and forth trying to cut me. I'm almost backed into the corner again when the tip of the blade slices my arm. There's a deep cut. It hurts, but it’s nothing my healing ability won't fix in a few seconds.
Before I can recover, she raises the dagger ready to slash my throat. I close my eyes, expecting the worst. There's a thwonk as she melts to the floor.
I open my eyes to see a wide-eyed Ruby holding a folding chair.
The crazed salesgirl falls sideways through the curtain of a dressing stall where she lies unconscious on the tile floor.
"Oh my God! Do you think I killed her?" Ruby asks, trying to look at the salesgirl without getting too close.
The regular warm glow of the dressing room lights pop back on washing out the sickly green.
"I doubt it. You didn't hit her that hard."
"Why was she attacking you?"
I look down at the eerily still body of the girl. "I have no idea."
Ruby’s eyes flick down to my arm. “You’re bleeding.”
“What?”
“Your arm.” She points. “She cut you.”
Warm blood trickles slowly down my arm. I’m shocked to see that my skin is not healing. I’ve never not
healed before. Was there something different about the red-bladed dagger she used?
“Here,” Ruby hands me a wad of tissues from the pack in her bag. “Put pressure on it.”
Just then a deep male voice yells, "This is the police. Come out with your hands up."
Ruby immediately panics. "Oh God! The cops. Twice in two days."
How exactly do we explain what just happened? No one will ever believe me.
The voice, now closer, barks, "Come out here right now, girls!"
Ruby and I exchanged looks, and I take her hand. Slowly we make our way out of the dressing room.
I don't know why I'm expecting to find an entire battalion of police officers, all pointing their guns at us -- probably seen too many cop shows -- but there's just single one officer. He has a gun, but it's still tucked firmly in its holster.
"We had a report of a physical altercation at this location," he informs us flatly, placing a hand on his firearm.
"I was attacked," I blurt out.
"Attacked?" he asks. "By whom?"
In my mind, I try to piece together some logical story about what just happened.
"By her. The salesgirl," I explain, turning and pointing back into the dressing room. But it turns out, a logical story won't be necessary.
The salesgirl is gone.
Chapter 9
Ten minutes later, Ruby and I are sitting in separate rooms in the mall's security office.
The cop, Officer Fitzgerald, a heavyset forty-something with a potbelly and a kind face, turned out to be a decent guy. He seems familiar, like one of my friend's dads, all dorky and kidding around. Even though he's a real cop, the mall cops let him use their office for big things like crazed salespeople trying to kill random customers.
I finish explaining what happened -- leaving out all the unexplainable parts -- for the third time.
He furrows his brow and asks, "And that's the truth? The whole truth and nothing but? She just attacked you for no reason?"
"Yes," I reply from the leather couch in the security office that smells faintly of cigarettes, shoplifting, and desperation. "That's the truth."
Obviously, I'm not going to tell him what really happened. So, um, this salesgirl with the freaky red eyes came at me. Like he'd believe that.
Truth be told, I could care less what Officer Fitzgerald believes, I just don't want him to call my uncle.
"And then," he nods. "Your friend hit the saleswoman with a chair?"
"I know it sounds crazy but what were we supposed to do?"
Officer Fitzgerald leans back, and I can tell he's mulling this whole thing over. After a moment, he asks, "Was there anything unusual about the salesgirl?"
I hesitated. "What do you mean?"
The spot on my arm where she cut me aches. When we first got to the security office, the receptionist brought my antiseptic and bandages. Even though my wound is all cleaned up, it still hurts.
"You know, was there anything out of the ordinary?" he asks, never taking his eyes off me.
Was this my opportunity to tell him about her weird eyes or her superhuman strength or how the ceiling lights went green? I wonder if perhaps he knows something he's not saying.
I blink a couple of times. "No. Nothing unusual."
"Are you sure? There must have been something?"
"Um," I begin, uncertain as to how much to say. "She had a weird tattoo. On her neck."
"Weird how?" he asks, flatly.
"Just a strange shape. That's all."
He nods, studying my face. "Well, there's no trace of anyone - dead, alive, or otherwise -- in the store. We've called the manager, and they're trying to track down their employee," Officer Fitzgerald says with a shrug. "I don't know what happened in that dressing room, but your friend has the same story."
"Maybe, cause, like, it's the truth," I suggest. Although, of course, it's only partly the truth.
“Okay, then.” He stands. “I need to call your parents."
"Oh." If my uncle finds out about this, I'll be wishing that salesgirl had killed me. "Why? We were just headed back to school. And it's the middle of the day, so our parents are all at work."
"Because you're minors, I have to release you girls to an adult," he explains, sliding a pen and piece of paper across the table to me. "What's a phone number where I can reach a parent?"
I pick up the pen and hold it above the paper. If my uncle finds out about this, I will never be able to leave the house again. The small, fleeting glimpses at freedom that I currently enjoy will instantaneously vanish.
Coupled with the meteor, odds are, we'll pack up and move again.
I start to write down his cell phone number, but at the last second, I transpose the last two numbers. Oopsy. This way I have plausible deniability because I can earnestly claim I just made a mistake.
I slide the paper back to him and ask, "Can I use the bathroom."
As he picks up his cell phone, he nods. "Sure. Through that door."
I get up and head out of the little office. I reach up and rub the throbbing cut on my arm. It aches. It feels very strange to have an unhealed cut.
Turning the corner down the hallway, I spot Ruby sitting on the couch in the waiting area. I silently motion for her to follow me. She tosses the O Magazine she's reading on the beat up coffee table and slinks after me.
"Let's get out of here," I whisper.
"Thought you'd never ask," she replies as the two of us dash toward the front of the office. Walking quickly, eyes straight ahead, we hurry out the door.
It takes every ounce of strength I have not to break into a full on sprint as soon as we're in the mall.
"Just act normal," I say, glancing over my shoulder. No one is chasing after us. Yet.
"I am acting normal," Ruby replies. "Astrid, what is going on? Why did that woman attack you?"
"I don't know."
She's silent for a moment, then asks, "Was there something up with her eyes? Or was that just the light?"
I didn't realize she saw that much. The only thing I can say is, "Probably just the light."
Luckily, no one comes after us. We don't talk about it anymore on the ride back to campus.
The rest of the school day is pretty much a waste. I pretty much hit autopilot through history and English as my brain keeps circling back to the crazed salesgirl with the weird eyes. Why was she trying to hurt me? Did she want to kill me? I'm doing my best to not completely freak out.
And I know I should call my uncle.
But if I do, then we’ll be packed and on the road to the next town before you can say - overreact much?
Also, it goes without saying that I'm super excited about my study date with Chad in the library after school. But, after the weird events at the mall, I seriously consider canceling it. I’m pretty frazzled.
But, after turning everything over in my brain, I come to the conclusion that if my life is about to be uprooted again, then I might as well spend a half hour with beautiful Chad Olson.
After all, he's not trying to kill me.
As soon as the final school bell rings for the day, I grab my backpack from my locker and head to the always-empty girls' bathroom on the second floor near the math lab.
I just want a few minutes to myself.
This remote lavatory is one of the few places I can kill fifteen minutes without Ruby giving me point-by-point instructions on exactly what I should do and say around Chad Olson.
I love Ruby. She's the best friend I have ever had. But I'm just not in the mood to deal with her right now.
After I drag a brush through the tangles in my pink hair and dig out a long forgotten lip gloss at the bottom of my bag, I make my way to the library.
I stop just outside the entrance to draw in a deep cleansing breath in the hopes of calming the butterflies in my stomach. I don't know why I'm such a weirdo. Chad probably won't even show up anyway.
When I first walk into the library, there's no sign of him. Clusters of kids ar
e scattered at various tables doing homework or killing time until their ride home shows up.
This private school library, with its honey blond wood everywhere and soaring two-story wall of windows, is by far the best library of any school I've ever attended. I circle the perimeter of the large space and still don't see him.
Disappointment washes over me, and I realize how crazy I was to think that someone like Chad Olson would actually want to meet me after school.
I'm such a complete and total idiot.
Spinning on my heels, I slink back toward the entrance with my head hung low when I hear a voice from over by the reference section.
"Hey. Astrid."
I turn to see Chad waving at me from a table near the back door with his books and notebooks spread out in front of him. I realized I didn't see him because a cluster of 9th-grade band geeks blocked my view.
"Oh, hey," I say, heat rising in my cheeks as I move toward him. "I didn't see you. I thought..."
"You thought what?" he smiles, and my knees nearly give out.
Now, what do I say? I thought you bailed on me. "I thought maybe I was late."
There are four seats at this table -- one next to him and two across. Where do I sit? After a moment's deliberation, I drop my backpack into the chair kitty-corner from him and take the seat directly across the table.
"So did you have a chance to do any of the lab report?" I ask casually, pulling my folder from my backpack.
"Oh, um," he begins. "A little. Not much."
"Okay, let's get started," I say and force a smile. For some reason, my heart dips a little in my chest. He's probably just one of those super cute guys who wields their charm like Excalibur, luring sad, pathetic, loser girls like me into helping them with their homework.
"Is that a footprint on your folder?" he asks.
"Yeah. Long story."
When I look up, he's staring at me.
"What?" I ask, suddenly wondering if there's something on my face.
Realizing that I caught him staring, he looks away and says, "Oh sorry. I was just noticing your eyes. I've never seen eyes that color before."
In the right light, my eyes look almost neon blue. Which is weird. "I have unusually bright pigment. I guess it runs in my family."