by Amelia Blake
“Chloe wants Derek to ask her out to Brian’s party, and unless you arrange that to happen she’s going to make you wish you were never born. Did I get that right?” Wow, a good listener and smart. If only he wasn’t also a jerk most of the time.
“Yes, pretty much. So will you help me?”
“I said I would. Don’t worry about it.” I wish I could hear those words more often.
We all get out of the car and start walking up the street in the direction of my house. Large leafy trees on either side of the road obscure the view and provide cover from any inquisitive neighbors who might still be up and peeking out of their windows. Azzie is leading the way, his tail swishing from side to side.
I am so mesmerized by Azzie’s tail that I don’t notice a small pothole—the only tiny pothole on my street—and, of course, I step right into it. My arms flail, but before I can get mad at the pothole, my clumsiness, and bad luck and fall face down on the street, Logan catches me, his arms wrap around me and press me to his chest. In the process of trying to get my balance back, I step on both of his feet.
“Ow,” he says, but doesn’t let me go, mostly because I’m clutching at his arms like I’m about to die. “Is that revenge for scaring you earlier tonight? Because I already have a bruise on the back of my head from falling down the stairs in the basement.”
“You can never get too much revenge,” I say. Let him think that my stepping on his toes was a premeditated affair, and not just me being clumsy. Again.
“Sure you can,” Azzie pops out of nowhere. Logan and I jump away from each other. “My cousin Arcanus had a disagreement with a water demon once—”
“Jeez, how many cousins do you have?” Logan asks.
“Um, let me see,” Azzie rolls his eyes in concentration and starts counting on his fingers.
“Never mind that,” I say and nudge Azzie forward. “It was a rhetorical question.”
“I see. So which one is your house?”
“That one.” I point to the house just one door up the street.
“Isn’t that your attic?” Logan says and points to a dim light gleaming in a tiny window above my bedroom. “It looks like there’s someone there.”
“Huh, I wonder who’s up so late. Thanks for walking us,” I say to Logan. “I think I can take it from here.”
“Let me know if everything goes well.”
I nod and nudge Azzie towards the house.
Sneaking into the house turns out to be easier than I expected. The only problem is pushing Azzie past the kitchen which still smells like offal stew mixed with the new aromas of a sumptuous meal my family must have had for dinner. Azzie finds the luscious smells hard to resist and I can only manage to get him upstairs by promising to bring him something from the kitchen as soon as he is safely inside my room. Apparently demons find animal protein quite appealing. Who would have guessed?
Once upstairs, I notice that the ladder to the attic is pulled down and there’s a glimmer of light coming from the opening. “Be very quiet,” I whisper to Azzie and lead him into my room. I feel like a burglar, creeping like that in my own house. Luckily, we don’t step on any squeaky floorboards.
When Azzie is safely inside my room, I tell him to sit quietly while I fetch him something to eat. I tiptoe back into the kitchen, grab the largest plate I can find, open the fridge, and gasp in awe. The refrigerator is bursting with food. Mom must have spent the better part of the afternoon cooking. She could feed a platoon of soldiers with that amount of food. There’s the roasted pig leg, most of it anyway, then there are the remains of the morning stew, as well as roasted potatoes, carrots, baked apples, and some kind of half-eaten meat pie or something like that—I can’t quite tell what it is, but it smells divine. I fill the plate with food until it’s so heavy I can barely hold it in my hands, and then sneak back upstairs.
But before I enter my room, curiosity gets the better of me and I decide to check on whoever is in the attic and what they are up to. Usually, I don’t go into basements or attics voluntarily (just the thought of having a cobweb wrap around my face or a rat brush against my ankle is enough to make me shudder), but one tiny peek can’t possibly hurt.
I crack open the door to my room, place the plate on the floor, and give it a gentle push inside. Within a couple of seconds, it disappears in the shadows. I close the door and start climbing up the ladder. It makes a tiny squeaky sound, so when my head is up in the attic and I get a peek inside, I’m surprised to see that my mom hasn’t heard it. She’s completely engrossed in reading a behemoth of a book which barely fits on her lap.
“What are you reading?” I ask, curious. Mom squeals in surprise and the giant tome falls to her feet with a heavy thud.
“Om my God, Emmy!” Mom clutches at her chest. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
I don’t have time to apologize for scaring her, because all the doors burst open and Dad and Chloe are soon in the hallway, shouting and arguing. Someone’s hands grab my waist and pull me down the ladder. “Emmy?” Dad asks and looks at me with an expression I can’t quite decipher. He’s either angry at me for making him think I was a burglar or he is relieved that I’m actually not a burglar. Probably both.
“What are you doing here?” Chloe asks, rubbing her eyes. Her hair is sticking out in all directions. She must have washed it again before bed. I am so not fixing it in the morning.
“I came back early” I say. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake anyone up. Or scare anyone.”
Mom’s head pops in the opening to the attic. “Everything’s fine, Charlie. Go back to sleep.”
“I thought someone broke into the house. What are you doing up there?” Dad asks suspiciously.
“Just looking through some old things left from my mother. I thought we could do something with the attic, but I need to sort all of this first, make sure we don’t throw anything valuable away.”
“In the middle of the night?” Dad frowns.
“It’s not that late,” Mom says defensively. “It’s only midnight.”
“If we’re not getting burglared or murdered, can we all go to sleep now?” Chloe yawns. “Or can you at least be quiet?”
“Burglared is not a word,” I say. I don’t know why I even bother.
“Whatever. You’d know, living in a library.”
I fume and my ears are on fire.
“Even all your boyfriends are imaginary,” Chloe continues taunting me.
“They are not imaginary. They are fictional.” Why am I even trying?
“Whatever. Like there’s a difference.”
I fume some more, but don’t know what to say to that. She kind of has a point here (the only boyfriend I’ve ever had is Warren’s poster over my bed), but it’s not like I’m going to admit it. Ever. I’d rather die than let her know she is right.
“Girls, stop arguing,” Mom says tiredly. “Everyone, go to bed. We’re not being burglared or murdered, so there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Burglared is not a word,” I say, but, of course, nobody cares. Chloe snickers at me and goes to her room, slamming the door behind her.
“Why are you back so soon?” Dad asks me.
“I didn’t know everyone would be so upset with me getting home early,” I say, offended.
“Oh, honey, nobody’s saying that,” Mom says from the attic. “Did Logan give you a ride?”
“Yes,” I say.
Dad puts a hand over his mouth to cover a yawn. “Mel, are you coming to bed? We can look at that stuff together over the weekend.”
“Oh, no,” Mom says quickly. “No, no, I’ll take care of it myself. I can’t fall asleep, so this is better than staring at the ceiling all night.”
“All right, then, but don’t stay up too late. And you”—he points at me—“you should be in bed, you have school tomorrow.” Dad gives me a quick peck on the forehead and goes to his room. Mom’s head disappears in the attic.
I’m not really looking forward to spending
the night with Azzie, so I decide to give the attic another try.
When I climb up the ladder and peek inside, Mom is sitting cross-legged on the floor, her face and the whole upper part of her body hidden behind that same book she was reading earlier. I don’t want to startle her, but apparently there’s no way around it.
“Uh, Mom?” I ask gently. Mom squeals again, but this time clutches the book to her chest instead of dropping it to the floor.
“Emmy, what are you doing here and why aren’t you in bed? You do have school tomorrow.”
“Sorry. I was just curious about what you were doing here.”
“Nothing interesting.” Mom closes the book and places it in her lap.
“It doesn’t look like that to me. I didn’t know Grandma left us any books,” I say and start climbing up.
“Er, what are you doing?” Mom asks. “You should go to bed.” She dumps the book into an old cardboard box, then picks some papers lying around on the floor and stuffs them in the same box.
I sit on the floor beside the box and try to get a peek inside, but Mom closes it and puts her hands on top. Why the secrecy?
“What’s in there?” I ask, trying to get a look inside, but Mom doesn’t move her hands from the box.
“Just some old things that belonged to your grandmother.”
“Well, she was my grandmother, wasn’t she? Why can’t I see any of it?” I ask.
“It’s very personal.”
“What do you mean, personal?” I ask suspiciously. “Are there naked pictures of her or something?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Emmy. These are just some old documents, diaries, and other personal items.”
If Mom wanted to keep me away from the box, she should have told me it had naked pictures of Grandma. Diaries, on the other hand, only pique my curiosity even further.
There are other boxes lying around, but they are all sealed with tape, and there are no loose papers scattered on the floor. Except… A corner of an old photograph peeks out from under one of the boxes. I pull it out and immediately recognize one of the people in the photograph. It’s my grandmother. She’s about my age in this picture, maybe just a little older. I’ve seen her in other family photos, so I know what she looks like, even though I’ve never actually met her. She died before I was born.
Mom leans in to look at the picture. She doesn’t say anything, but I know what she is thinking. I haven’t seen any pictures of Grandma in a while now, so I haven’t noticed how much I’ve grown to look like her. The resemblance is almost eerie.
“Do you know who these other women are?” I point at three other young women in the photo. Mom shakes her head, strangely captivated by the picture like she hasn’t seen it before. One of the other women reminds me of someone. “Could it be… Do you think this could be Jessie’s grandmother?” I point to one of the women.
“Yes, it does look like her,” Mom says after a few seconds.
I’ve seen Jessie’s grandmother before, when I was little, and I thought I didn’t remember her, but apparently I haven’t forgotten her even though I was only four when I last saw her.
“Do you mind if I keep this picture?” I ask Mom. I really want to show it to Jessie. I had no idea our grandmothers knew each other. Come to think of it, it wasn’t that strange. They were about the same age and grew up in a small town, but it never occurred to me that they might have been friends. Not that I’ve ever given it any thought, but I suppose I will now.
“Actually, I’d like to inventory all the photos and papers here. You can have the picture when I’m done.” Mom holds out her hand for the photo, but I’m reluctant to give it back.
“Come on, Mom, it’s just one picture.” She is being a little ridiculous with this whole secrecy thing. I doubt my grandmother had any big, dark secrets. I’m pretty sure if there is a secret hidden in one of these boxes, it’s nothing like what I’m hiding in my room right now. “How about I give it back when you finish sorting all the other photos? I’d like to take a look at those too. You never told me that Jessie’s grandmother and mine were friends. Do you think there are other pictures of them in these boxes?”
“I… well, I don’t know.” Mom runs her hand through her beautiful blonde hair. She looks tired. “I guess you can keep the picture for now,” she says unwillingly. “Just don’t lose it, okay?”
“Of course, not,” I say.
“Well, all right, then. But you should go to bed. It’s a school night, after all.”
“Are you going to stay up here?” I ask, tucking the photo in the back pocket of my jeans before Mom can change her mind about it.
“No, I’m going to bed too. I’ll finish sorting through this some other time.”
Once in my room, I find Azzie typing away at my laptop. The enormous plate of food lies empty on the desk next to him. His butt hangs from either side of my chair.
“Are you wearing my pajamas?” I ask incredulously. “And what are you doing with my laptop?” I notice that my email program is open, as well as my journaling software. A treacherous blush crawls into my cheeks. I’d put a password on my computer to protect it from Chloe. How did Azzie manage to figure it out?
“I got bored,” Azzie explains. “After I ate, I wanted something to occupy my mind. And you don’t have a TV here.”
“I have books,” I point out. “In fact, so many of them, I’m running out of bookshelf space.”
“I prefer something that doesn’t make me think before bed.”
“So you want something to occupy your mind that doesn’t really occupy your mind?”
“Exactly.” He goes back to reading my diary like I’m not standing right there next to him. I’m speechless.
“How did you figure out my password?” I ask.
Azzie huffs. “Who sets her password to “ILoveWarren123” and then hangs the poster of said Warren over her bed?”
Well, that’s embarrassing. “Chloe couldn’t figure it out.” I make a lame attempt to save face.
“She must not be very smart.”
“She’s smart enough.” She really isn’t, not when it comes to picking passwords or pretty much anything to do with technology. Unless it involves her social media accounts. Then she’s a tech genius. “Anyway, I don’t know what kind of family or society you come from, but here, in the human world, it’s not okay to read someone’s private email. Or diary. Especially your host’s.”
“Talking about diaries, is the Logan you’re writing about in yours the same one I just met?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.”
“And his best friend, this Parker guy—why is it you hate him so much?”
I blush. “Because he’s an idiot.”
“That’s not a reason to hate someone.”
“Yes, it is.” I snap the lid of my laptop shut. I should’ve done it the moment I walked in. “I see you’ve finished your dinner.” I nod at the empty plate on the desk.
“Oh, yeah,” Azzie rubs his stomach with a happy grin on his face.
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Well, if you want to continue enjoying meals at my house, you should stay away from my email and diary in the future.”
Azzie’s eyes dart between the plate and my laptop. Apparently, the plate wins, because he nods reluctantly. “But you do have to set me up with some Netflix if you want me to not be tempted by your diary. It’s the most interesting thing to read in here.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“So where am I going to sleep?” Azzie looks at my bed.
“Uh, no way,” I say. “I have a fold-out chair, but I’m not sure if you’ll fit in it.”
“Why? Is it too short?” Azzie asks.
“Sure, why not,” I say, assessing Azzie’s nether region. How did he manage to fit it into my pajamas pants? Is my butt really that big? I shake my head. I’m so not going there.
When we set up the chair, it turns out exactly as I expecte
d. Azzie’s rear end can’t fit in between the arms of the chair. He wheezes heavily as he tries to squeeze himself into a sitting position.
“You know, you don’t have to actually sit in there,” I point out. “You can lie down.” Preferably, on your side.
Azzie gives me a dirty look.
“Or I could set up a sleeping space on the floor by the window,” I offer.
“The window is drafty.”
“No, it’s not.”
“I was almost blown off the chair when I was reading your diary, and the chair is several feet away from the window.”
I know where this is going. “You’re not getting my bed. It’s either this chair or the drafty window.”
Azzie squints at me. “I’ll take the chair,” he says finally. “But if circulation to one of my limbs is cut off when I’m asleep and I end up losing that part of my body, it’s going to be your fault.”
I imagine taking Azzie to an emergency room. The doctors would either run away screaming or—yeah, they would probably just run away screaming. “Your limbs will be fine,” I say.
I set Azzie up with some clean sheets—because he can’t sleep on a bare chair; a warm blanket—because he can still feel the draft from the window even though it’s on the opposite side of the room; and three pillows—one for his head and two for his horns which require special care during sleep. “You don’t want them bumping into the arms of the chair,” Azzie explains.
“No, of course, no one wants that.”
When I’m done with Azzie’s chair, I go to my closet and grab a pair of pajamas. All the while Azzie is wriggling, shimmying, tossing, and sending me dirty looks, but I ignore him and go to the bathroom. When I come back after a quick shower, Azzie is already fast asleep, his mouth slightly open and his huge feet sticking out from under the blanket. My pajamas look cute on him though.
I cozy up in my bed with the laptop. When I open it, it has my journaling software open right in the middle of the screen. I close it, and there’s my email program. My email doesn’t contain any sensitive information, so I don’t really worry about it and just close the application. I notice that my browser window is open. I bring it up and almost fall off my bed. It’s open to Victoria’s Secret website, bikini section. Seriously? I give Azzie my frostiest glare to date, but it’s completely wasted. He goes on sleeping peacefully as if he isn’t the biggest creep ever.