by Ariella Moon
"Breakfast special," I ordered. "Eggs scrambled, bacon crisp, hash browns, and orange juice. Can I get hot chocolate instead of coffee?"
"Sure thing. Anything else?"
"Extra butter on the pancakes?" I asked.
"You got it, hon." She pursed her lips at Breaux. "I'll be right back with your drinks."
After Bernita left I said, "I think she's squeamish about blood."
Breaux picked at the bandana. "Does it look as bad as it feels?"
"Worse. Avoid mirrors if gore makes you queasy." I stood. "Speaking of mirrors, I'm going to run to the ladies' room. Guard our money. And if the food gets here before I return, start without me."
"Don't worry. I will."
As I walked to the bathroom, the two couples seated near the door rose to leave. While they shrugged into their coats and said good night to the cashier, I palmed a knife from a vacant table and slid it up my sleeve. A quick left turn brought me to an alcove leading to the restrooms and a small banquet room. Once inside the ladies' room, I transferred the knife to my waist sheath.
After quickly using the facilities and washing my hands, I winced at my reflection. Breaux wasn't the only one who should avoid mirrors. I hoped I hadn't appeared this hollow-eyed and traumatized when Ainslie had seen me. Since my hairbrush was in the backpack on the floor of the locked hybrid, I tried finger-combing the front tangles. I gave up after the first snarl and splashed water on my face to wake myself up. The scarf binding my ribs seemed to add a few pounds to my slender frame. I debated removing it, but then remembered how Breaux had tenderly wrapped it around me. My cheeks heated and I left it as it was.
Afraid I had dawdled too long, I slipped out of the bathroom and strode to the dark banquet room. The doorknob rotated in my hand. Some of the tension in my shoulders unraveled as I sneaked inside. Stale air filled my lungs. I moved away from the interior windows so I wouldn't be seen by anyone in the alcove.
I unsheathed the table knife and balanced it in my palm. The near head-on collision had cinched it. No longer would I drag my parents' bad mojo around like a debris trail. It had been bad enough when their drug-fueled lives had caused me injury. Now their bad choices and bad karma had forced me on the run as if I were the criminal, not them. Their bad mojo had become my bad mojo, and it almost had gotten Breaux killed. For all I knew it had caused Mam'zelle's death.
I sensed the bad energy gathering like a category four psychic storm. I had to put a stop to it. Time had run out. I couldn't wait for the ideal place and a real silver knife.
I forced the stale air deep into my lungs and then released it. "I hereby invoke the Hermetic Law of Similarity, with this table knife representing a sterling silver knife." I conjured up an image of the sterling silver knife I had worn at my waist until I had dropped it in Mam'zelle's magic room. I projected every detail I remembered about the silver knife onto the restaurant knife: its weight and the pattern engraved on the handle, the engraver's marks.
Raising the knife above my head, I tried to remember who and what I had been before my soul had chosen Mamá and Papá to be my parents. What lesson had I agreed to learn from being their daughter?
The answers came to me.
The table knife pulsed with the power of nearly pure silver.
I began to cut the cords.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
"There you are." Breaux's tone radiated relief. "I was about to storm the ladies' bathroom and see if you'd fainted or something."
I scooted around Bernita, who had just set our meal on the table, and slid into the booth. Steam rose from the eggs and Breaux's steak sizzled. I inhaled, intoxicated. The bacon smelled like sleepover breakfasts at Ainslie's house. "I did get a little lightheaded." During the cord cutting.
"Get some protein and water in you," Bernita mothered. "Your young man mentioned you'd had a rough day." She glanced about the empty restaurant, then reached into her apron pocket and withdrew a roll of surgical gauze and an oversized bandage. She leaned toward Breaux and placed the medical supplies in his hand. "I borrowed these from the employee first aid kit. I'll replace them on my next shift. Y'all look like you could use a clean dressing."
Breaux blinked up at her. "Ma'am, I am much obliged. And I do apologize for my appearance."
"We were in a boating accident," I explained.
"I'm sure you were." She leaned closer and lowered her voice. "But if you were in some kind of trouble of, say, the legal persuasion, I could call my son. He's a police officer and as honest and trustworthy as they come. He often stops in during his shift."
"Thank you, ma'am. Good to know," Breaux said.
She straightened up. "Well, y'all look half-starved. Anything else I can get for ya?"
"No, ma'am," we said in unison. "Thank you."
"Just let me know." With a final concerned glance she walked to the front to greet some newcomers.
Breaux stashed the bandages in his hoodie pocket. "Unless you are super grossed out, I'll clean up after we eat."
I picked up a piece of bacon. "Are you kidding? Eat! Nothing could stop me from devouring everything on this plate." The cord cutting had left me dazed, as though dark, sticky pieces had been scraped away and set adrift. I needed time to recalibrate. My hand trembled as I lifted my fork. Bernita was right. I needed protein.
I ate clockwise around the plate, devouring the eggs, then the hash browns. Breaux pointed his fork at my plate. "If you decide you don't want your pancakes, let me know."
I wanted them, but I cut off a wedge and placed it on his bread plate. It was worth the sacrifice to see his exhausted features light up. "Steak?" he asked, offering me a bite.
"No thanks." I broke off a piece of bacon. "You need to build up your strength."
"And you don't?" He glanced at my trembling hand.
"I'll be fine."
When he finished, he excused himself and headed for the bathroom. I lifted the white mug containing my hot cocoa to my lips. Breaux strode toward the front, then veered at the midway point to access the restroom.
A fresh aftershock shuddered through me. Cocoa spilled over the edge of the mug. He could have died. I could have lost him. My heart tore. He's going to be a member of Congress. I'm…
Anger flashed, warming my cheeks. Mam'zelle had been wrong. I had cut the cords. My parents no longer defined me. My circumstances no longer defined me. I defined me. Maybe Breaux had been right. Maybe Mam'zelle had sent us on this ordeal to show us what was possible. If so, I wondered what possibilities she had foreseen for me.
I blotted the hot chocolate drips with my napkin. Three latecomers who had eaten pie at the counter paid their bill and left. The front door pushed open and two men strode in. Spying them, my nerves crystallized into jagged shards of ice. I sank low in the booth, keeping the mug in front of my face. With my free hand, I pulled my sweatshirt hood over my knit cap and windblown hair.
The drug lord with the oil-slick hair and acne-pocked face acknowledged Bernita's greeting and asked for a booth toward the back, away from the windows. His underling, the guy who had piloted the motorboat, plucked a toothpick from the dispenser by the cash register. Then Bernita led them my way.
Crap! My hands grew clammy and my heart raced like a bullet train about to derail. I swiveled in the booth, lifting the menu from behind the napkin holder. Sitting sidewise, I pretended to study the dessert menu. Bernita had yet to clear our dishes. I eyed Breaux's steak knife.
The silver dime tied to my ankle thrummed as the trio neared. I debated unscrewing the salt shaker and creating a line of protection, but sprinkling salt on the table was sure to draw unwanted attention.
Bernita seated the two men and left, leaving one empty booth between us. Breaux would have to walk past them to reach me. I twisted and checked the back. No rear exit. I guess the diner didn't want people skipping out on their tabs.
A few minutes later Breaux reappeared. He almost collided with our waitress as she headed to the drug lord's booth, tall sodas in ha
nd. Bernita nodded approvingly at Breaux's clean bandage. The bandana had disappeared, probably stashed in his pocket. He had scrubbed the dried blood from his forehead. No one would look twice at him now.
Breaux gestured for Bernita to precede him. She bustled ahead. I laid the menu over the steak knife and slid the utensil up my sleeve.
Bernita chatted up the drug lord and his crony as she placed their sodas in front of them. They barely glanced at Breaux as he walked past. His gaze remained fixed on me. When he slipped into the booth, I released the breath I had been holding.
"What?" he asked.
Before I could lean across the table and tell him, Bernita bustled up to the table and asked, "Can I get y'all anything else? We have an excellent apple-cranberry pie tonight."
"I'm good." I dropped my voice as low as I could.
"Me too," Breaux said.
"Then I'll just leave this with y'all." She placed the bill on the table. "And take these away." She stacked the plates and gathered up the silverware with brisk efficiency. If she noticed the missing steak knife, she didn't say anything.
After she left, Breaux leaned sideways and peered under the table. "What happened to my steak knife?"
"Shh." I hooked my finger under my hoodie cuff, exposing the pointed tip.
Breaux's eyebrows scrunched together. He lowered his voice. "Why? What's going on?"
I leaned forward and gave him a whispered update. "They're here, the men from the boat. You just passed their booth."
Breaux started to look over his shoulder, then stopped himself. He leaned forward, a study in controlled movement, and used his straw to swirl his iced tea. "Did they see you?"
"I don't think so."
"Good." He scanned the area behind me.
"No rear exit. I already checked."
His head bobbed once as he sipped on the straw, drawing amber liquid up through the clear plastic tube.
"We could try to wait them out, but then we'd risk encountering them outside in the dark," I said.
Breaux shook his head. "Too dangerous. We're the only customers left besides them. We're too noticeable."
I placed the twenty on top of the meal ticket. Breaux pulled out three one-dollar bills and added them.
"How about we wait until Bernita returns with their food? Then we walk past while they are distracted, hand the meal ticket and our money to the cashier, and then saunter out like we don't have a worry in the world."
"I like it," Breaux said. "Tell me when you see her."
I raised the mug so it shielded the lower half of my face. Breaux sprinkled some salt onto his palm and tossed it at me. White specks sprinkled my hoodie like dandruff. "Protection," he mouthed.
I returned the mug to the table and reached for the shaker. Breaux blocked me with his hand and pointed to the knife in my cuff. My jaw dropped. If I had thrown the salt, the knife might have flown at Breaux or at least clattered onto the table, drawing attention.
Idiot! I slid the knife onto the table. When I glanced up, my pulse spiked. "She's coming. Wait…"
Breaux scooped up the meal ticket and the money.
"Now."
Breaux exited the booth first and stepped toward me, partially blocking me from view. I kept my chin down as I slid across the plastic vinyl seat. Bernita reached the other booth. My heartbeat sounded in my ears, drowning out the clatter of dishes and small talk. With Breaux leading, we reached the drug lord's booth as Bernita dispersed the platters balanced on her left arm.
"Good night, hon," Bernita called out.
I shrank behind Breaux's right shoulder as he said, "Good night. Thanks, again."
We made it past the booth. Breaux reached for my hand. I laced my fingers through his. Five more tables and we would arrive at the cash register. Breaux slid his arm around my waist and casually guided me in front of him, placing himself between the drug lord and me. My heartbeat filled the room. Four tables. Three.
The front door opened and two uniformed police officers stepped inside. My footsteps faltered. Did Bernita call her son? My chest tightened. Breaux squeezed my hand. "Please give Bernita the change," he said as he handed the cashier our money and the meal ticket.
"Will do, sir," the cashier said.
The younger of the two cops tensed when he heard the waitress's name. The older cop stood between the door and us. "You two live around here?" he asked, his voice a commanding whisper.
"No," Breaux said. "We're just passing through."
The cop clasped the doorknob and motioned with his eyes for us to move closer. As we approached he whispered, "Go directly to your car, then leave immediately. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," we said in unison.
We stepped from the glare of the brightly lit diner into the dark street. I clasped Breaux's arm.
"Stay close," he whispered.
Our sneakers thudded on the sidewalk as we speedwalked to the hybrid. I sensed several sets of eyes tracking our movements. When we reached the car, Breaux used the key instead of the loud remote. I figured he didn't want to startle the Drug Enforcement Agency agents staking out the diner. At least I hoped they were DEA. They could have been a Special Weapons and Tactics team. Hard to tell when they were hidden behind cars. Either way, I hoped the uniforms inside kept Bernita and the rest of the staff safe from whatever was about to go down.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ainslie
After breakfast Yemaya drove off in Bugsy. My parents fanned out on the third floor — Dad to the media room, Mom to her home office. Alone on the silent second floor, I holed up at my desk and typed away on my laptop. I liked making lists. They calmed me.
Reasons Sophia Didn't Contact Me:
1. She was held hostage.
2. She was in an area without phone service or Internet.
3. She lost her memory or was physically hurt.
4. Something terrible happened to her, and once she was free she was too ashamed or afraid to contact me.
5. She feared her phone calls and emails were being monitored. (Why didn't she use the fake name she had picked out, Hope Huntleigh?)
6. She found a new best friend and forgot about me.
Possible Places for Sophia to Live:
1. With me, in the guest room. (Impact on Mom and Dad's marriage?)
2. With Aunt Terra and Uncle Esmun (at least she'd be in California).
3. With her last foster parents.
4. Board at Athenian. (See if they've filled the spot left by the Kenyan girl who just returned to Africa.)
5. Group home for foster teens — NO WAY.
6. Louisiana?
Which School Could She Attend?
1. Athenian Academy — convince Mom and Dad to pay her tuition (GOOD LUCK!), but tell Sophia she received a scholarship, which would be technically true and not feel like charity. Or ask the school if they have any scholarship money available — doubtful if she starts this late in the school year.
2. Jefferson — Public School, lots of kids who knew her at Carter Middle School will be there, which could be good or bad.
3. Whatever high school they have in Palm Springs near Aunt Terra and Uncle Esmun.
4. Louisiana?
I hit the save key. Studying the lists, a plan of attack took shape. The question was should I execute it now, or wait until I heard from Sophia? My parents would tell me to wait. Athenian would tell me to wait. Aunt Terra and Uncle Esmun would want to meditate on it and would ask me if I had read my almanac entry for the day. Hmm.
An odd sound reached me — something between a hiss and a psst. I raised my hand toward the heating vent. No air stirred.
Hisssssss. Psssssst. Rattle. Rattle. Rattle.
The fine hairs on my forearms pushed against the sleeves of my sweater tunic. I swiveled my chair around to face the noise. The spell book wobbled, rattling the inset glass on the table in front of the daybed. Yemaya had closed it before we'd gone downstairs for dessert. I eased out of the desk chair and inched toward it. Each
step I took increased the vibration.
I halted and froze three feet away, afraid the glass would shatter if the grimoire grew more agitated. With a violent heave, the alligator-hide cover flew open and knocked against the glass. Exotic trills, whistles, whirrs, and ribbits filled every corner of the room. A mint-green funnel cloud formed over the grimoire and flipped the pages in rapid succession.
The tornado ended. My suite fell silent. A cautious step brought me closer as though I were playing the game "Mother, May I?" and had been given permission to advance. Emboldened, I drew nearer and peered down at the open page.
Thankfully, the writing was in English. Spell to Restore Friendship. Burn Balm of Gilead buds and myrrh or carry Balm of Gilead on your person to reconcile friendships or estranged love relationships.
Balm of Gilead. Where had I seen that name? I ran to my walk-in closet. The spot where I stored my box of magical necessities was vacant. My heart accelerated to bullet-train speed. Then I remembered. We had taken candles from the box to clear my room.
I dashed into the hall. On the high, narrow table near my double doors rested the box of magical necessities with its carved dragon lid. Breathless, I rummaged through the carefully labeled plastic bags until I found myrrh and Balm of Gilead buds. I paused over the charcoal still wrapped in its foil container. Deciding it wasn't worth setting off the super-sensitive fire alarm hardwired above my doors, I skipped the charcoal and rushed to the spell book.
"Here," I said, sprinkling a few sticky buds on the page. For good measure, I added a couple of rough chunks of glittery myrrh, even though they were probably magically inert without fire. "Please restore my friendship with Sophia and enable her to live a happy life."
Nothing happened. I closed my eyes and envisioned Sophia happy and smiling, her face free of stress and worry. "Wherever you want to live, Sophia, whoever you want to be with, I wish you lifelong happiness. You deserve it."
In my mind's eye, violet light surrounded Sophia. Our eyes met. Her smile, hesitant at first, grew and grew, making me smile in return. The image vanished, and I opened my eyes and glanced down at the spell book. The myrrh glowed; its crystal-like facets radiated light into my room. I blinked and the rough chunks of resin returned to normal.