“She did,” said Hermes. “She said that she won’t be at the box next time because there won’t be a next time and she has a ball to attend. Then she told Hades to help her find a costume.”
I stopped running and stumbled into the wall, clutching my sides. I could almost hear Shar, upset, scared, and mad that I didn’t show, saying that. Hermes glided to a stop next to me as runners streamed by.
“Cramp, Wiley?” I heard Rossi shout.
Looking up, I saw him across the gym, standing on tiptoe and swaying so that he could see around the kids that zipped by in front of him. I nodded swiftly and gave him a thumbs-up, the sign that I just needed a minute to catch my breath and then I’d be “back in the game.” I didn’t need him to come over to investigate.
Hermes wiped a light sheen of sweat from his brow, then bent one knee and grabbed his raised foot in a runner’s stretch.
“Come on!” he chirped cheerily, proceeding to stretch his other leg. Then he stooped to pick up his helmet, which had reappeared when I stopped him.
I grabbed him by the elbow. He couldn’t flit away just yet. “You have to take another message to Shar for me.”
He shook off my grip. “I don’t have to do anything for you,” he snipped, his voice condescending.
“You don’t understand,” I begged.
“You don’t understand.” He straightened up and threw out a hip, placing one well-tanned hand on it while pointing at me with the other. “First, I’m messenger to the gods. You,” he sneered, looking me up and down, “are not a god.”
“Obviously,” I muttered. And I don’t want to be one. I wouldn’t want to be like any of you.
“Second,” he continued, “I did you a favor by carrying your first message. I think a little gratitude is in order.”
“Sorry!” Hermes was my only hope of setting this right, and giving him attitude wouldn’t win him over to my side. Unfortunately, it was too late. He crossed his wiry arms over his chest and with a flick of his feet, flew out the door, over the heads of the jogging students.
I stared at him as he left, but I couldn’t linger for long, not unless I wanted to face an inquisition from Mr. Rossi. Slowly, I rejoined the running parade. Would Shar really be a no-show? I had enough problems; I couldn’t handle it if things got any worse.
“Hey, Window Girl.” Caroline and Kate jogged past me.
It just got worse.
“What?” I ran faster to keep up with them.
“Were you practicing?” Kate sneered.
“For what?” I demanded, trying to sound as nonchalant as I could between breaths—but I knew exactly what they were talking about. They heard me talking to Hermes, but couldn’t see him. Whenever I talked to Shar, I was the only one who could see her—it hadn’t taken me long to figure that out. The question was, how did they know about Window Girl?
Rossi blew his whistle and everyone stopped.
“You’re famous!” Caroline fake-gushed. Kate whispered something in her ear and then drew her away.
“It’s not me!” I shouted, garnering puzzled stares. The two of them tittered all the way back to the locker room. I darted into a bathroom stall and stayed there until I was sure everyone left, then I skulked over to where I stashed my stuff and changed as fast as I could and hustled to the library. I didn’t care if I was late for my next class; I needed to confirm what they were talking about. I waited patiently for a computer station, and as soon as one freed up, I nabbed it and Googled “Window Girl.”
Hundreds of results popped up. I found photos of myself happily chatting with the chocolate mannequin, pointing an accusatory finger at the chocolate frog. Each image had pages of comments. There was also a video that I refused to watch. I felt my face burning. Who else had seen this stuff? My mom? Jeremy? Paulina? The video was damning evidence that I was psychotic, or … psychotic.
I buried my head in my hands. “What am I going to do?”
“Get Paulina to wear the fleece.”
Hades leaned back in the chair next to me, his feet propped up on the nearest computer station. He blew a kiss to the librarian, who blushed furiously.
“Not invisible, eh?”
He smiled expansively. “You know I show myself when the mood takes me. She wants to write the Great American Novel. Maybe I’ll indulge her. I need a librarian.”
“Go away,” I said wearily.
“Margaret,” he said in a mock-parental tone, “is that any way to talk to me?” When I didn’t bother to answer, he went on, “I can’t help but notice the fleece has stayed in your closet. You’re never going to get her to wear it that way.”
“I have other problems now,” I said, pointing to the screen. “Not, of course, that you didn’t know this would happen.”
“I didn’t.” His lips cracked into a smile. “I’m immortal, not prescient. No one can predict the things you humans will do. Kind of like the squirrel dashing across the road. Will it go one way, or the other, or right under the car wheels?” He shrugged helplessly. “But I can see how you might find the spotlight distressing.”
“Quite,” I said, trying my best to keep my voice steady and not to overreact. That was exactly what he liked—a little drama to make his day interesting.
“You know,” he continued, “accomplishing your mission will put an end to all your troubles, and not just the one about bringing Sharisse back, but the scales, your window fans, Jeremy.”
I fought to keep silent and rubbed my forehead on the back of my arm.
“I promise you, the moment Paulina is in my keeping, everything in the mortal world as you know it will return to its original, albeit boring, state.”
I lifted my head and gazed at him with slitted eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly that. No more scales. No more Window Girl. No memories for Jeremy of your neglect.” He smoothed an eyebrow. “And of course, Sharisse will forgive you for taking so long to complete so simple a task.”
He just had to poke until he hit a nerve. “She knows I’ve been trying,” I protested through clenched teeth.
“You weren’t present to speak with her the last time. She was hurt. She felt … betrayed. But I put in a good word for you, despite my personal reservations.”
I shivered, remembering what Persephone told me about Shar’s activities. What was Shar thinking—or doing? The image of Hades passing by in his demi-towel flashed in my mind.
“I’m trying,” I insisted. To him, and to myself.
“Take it to the next level. It’s what’s best for everyone.” Hades’ voice was silky smooth, his eyes matte-black like a shark’s. He was lying. I knew he was. But what could I do?
“When I talk to Shar next time—”
“I don’t know what Sharisse will decide to do, or if she is willing to listen to any excuses.” He sighed blithely.
“I’m not making excuses,” I whispered, but I knew I was. I wanted Shar back, but I didn’t want to send Paulina to Hades. I kept trying not to be friends with Paulina, but it wasn’t working. It wasn’t just the fact that she’d grown on me; something wasn’t right about this. My gut was rarely wrong when it came to people, and I got no chilling vibes from her. And despite all his talk of nondisclosure, Hades had been fairly free with the details of Arkady’s deal while refusing to reveal anything about Paulina’s.
“Well, then.” Hades rose and put his hands in his pockets, à la GQ. “You keep pondering the whys and wherefores, Margaret. I don’t mind Sharisse staying a bit—or, it looks like, a while—longer. I can always use hands-on assistants in the Underworld.”
With a roguish wink, he was gone. My life was a docudrama in the Unbelievable category. I went through what was left of the afternoon in a daze with only one thought on my mind: Would Shar show?
The weekend plodded by, and Mond
ay too. I spent Tuesday counting the hours until 6:55 p.m. As soon as school let out, Paulina was ready to shadow me as usual, so I told her that I had to go home to visit my mom. She tried to press me to come along.
“No, it’ll be boring for you. Stay here,” I snapped, not wanting a confrontation. Miraculously, she complied. I wandered around uptown, killing time.
Around six p.m., I parked myself in a cafe on the opposite side of the street from Pandora’s and watched as people started to gather. First one, and then another, and still more came: men, women, little kids. A few of them had cameras. I groaned when a news van pulled up, with a videographer and a tiny woman in a dark suit who I recognized from the nightly news local-interest segment. She opened an umbrella over herself as it started to rain and freshened up her makeup.
I watched them until about 6:45, then nervously pulled up the hood of my jacket, slid on dark glasses, and walked out. Not wanting to walk into a media circus, I went down the street and crossed, slowly making my way to the back of the crowd that formed in front of the shop.
Anchorwoman was interviewing someone.
“I love Window Girl! I want to thank her personally for saving my business,” said a man with a neatly trimmed, waxed, and twisted white mustache. He spoke with a friendly English lilt.
Anchorwoman eyed him shrewdly. “Mr. Coleman, some people say that this is a publicity stunt. Did you pay this mysterious Window Girl to come to your store? Rumor has it you did quite well last week, even though she didn’t come. And, tonight you’re running a 7:00 p.m. special—just the time that Window Girl stops talking to your displays.”
“Absolutely not!” he huffed. “I don’t know what possessed this young lady to come to Pandora’s Box. I have no idea who she is. No one does. I don’t know what she’s talking about, or if the candy talks back! Chocolate does sometimes repeat on me.”
He chuckled and laughter rippled through the crowd.
“Whoever she is, or whatever her reasons are, I call it divine intervention!” He grabbed the microphone and waved it at the camera. “Thank you, Window Girl! Thank you!”
“Window Girl! Window Girl!” the crowd chanted, and then started to back up, making a space in anticipation of my arrival. It was 6:54.
Did I really want to do this in front of all these people? I’d done it before, but not like this, not knowing there were cameras and news crews … but what if I missed Shar again? She’d never forgive me. Yet what if she didn’t show, like Hades suggested? Although it was entirely plausible that he wanted to bait me into not showing, so fueling Shar’s mistrust; he’d love to keep us both. I peered around the people, at the window. The wide empty space waited for Window Girl, for me. A hush fell over the crowd.
“Where is she?” I heard someone whisper, and immediately they were shushed. I had to try. Slowly I stepped forward, and the group parted like the Biblical Red Sea to let me pass. Once through, they closed in behind me. I felt trapped and embarrassed, but I couldn’t fail Shar again.
The window display had changed yet again. A dark and white chocolate roulette wheel turned lazily around and around. A deck of chocolate cards sat next to stacks and stacks of chocolate poker chips. Bet she’s there, bet she’s not. It was a game of chance and I had no choice but to make a wager.
I stood in front of the window and waited … but nothing happened.
“Window Girl, what do you see?” someone shouted behind me.
“Stop! You’ll wreck her concentration!” another hissed.
Suddenly, there was a bright light in the window. That had never happened before … my heart leapt up with hope. Then Anchorwoman started talking.
“This is Joy Evans, coming to you live from Pandora’s Box on 57th Street. For a month now, the mysterious
Window Girl has come to this spot at five minutes to seven to talk to the displays.”
There were a few moments of silence and the flash of cell phone cameras. I didn’t take my eyes off the window, but I could smell the stench of Camera Guy’s cigarette breath as he edged closer to me. Instantly the light was off me and Joy Evans was reporting again.
“Four minutes into today’s visit and Window Girl has said nothing!”
Only one minute left? Where was Shar?
No one moved, breathed, or made a sound.
“And, seven o’clock,” she announced.
There was a collected and disappointed sigh. Shar hadn’t come. I felt tears welling up and slid my glasses on with shaking hands.
“It was that newswoman,” someone muttered disgustedly. “She ruined the mood.”
Joy Evans hustled up to me, microphone in hand and camera in tow. “Window Girl, who are you? Why do you come here?”
I looked around helplessly. Just about everyone who had been standing around had jostled close to get a view of me or hear something prophetic from me. I wanted to scream, I’m just a girl! A scared, lonely, abandoned, duped girl. I can’t help myself and I can’t help Shar and I can’t help you!
“Leave her alone! Leave her alone! Can’t you see she’s upset?” I looked up to see Mr. Coleman, the owner, muscling in between Joy Evans and me. He was glaring at her. Then he looked down kindly at me. “Go on,” he whispered.
I pushed through the group to the sounds of him arguing with Joy Evans. Shar hadn’t shown; obviously she thought I abandoned her, and in a way, I did—but did I also drive her into Hades’ waiting arms? Hermes reported that she wasn’t going to come, and that she asked Hades to help her get a costume for that ball; she’d never asked him for anything before. Was he on the brink of getting her to give in? If Shar felt she had nothing to return to, and Hades offered her everything she could ever want …
I couldn’t let that happen. But I couldn’t give Paulina to him.
Then a light dawned.
You have to stick by Shar. Put on the fleece yourself, go to Tartarus. Whatever happens next, you’ll figure it out—together.
My step felt lighter, quicker; I would have skipped back to the dorm if it wasn’t for the knowledge of where I’d be spending the night.
When I got to the room, Paulina was there, lounging on her bed.
“Wanna get something to eat?” she asked. She was always hungry!
I ignored her and went right to the closet and took out the garment bag. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her get up in a quick movement that was all long, black-clad legs and limbs. Shaking off my jacket, I realized that I was doing this right in front of her, and for a fraction of a second I wondered if it was the right thing to do. I decided that if she had a deal with Hades, me suddenly vanishing wouldn’t surprise her, and if she didn’t, then once I was down in Tartarus all memories of me would probably be erased. That’s how I figured things worked—it would be too messy for Hades to leave memories of people who disappeared under mysterious circumstances.
I pulled the fleece out, shook it, and swung it around my shoulders, only to have it pulled from my hands. I whirled around; Paulina held the fleece at arm’s length from herself, barely pinching it with two fingers.
“What are you doing?” she cried, gaping at me incredulously.
“I’m putting on my coat—what does it look like?”
“It’s too warm. All you need is a sweater,” she said. “And it’s too ugly. I can’t let you be seen in it.” She sounded like Shar, only more gruff.
I held out my hand and wiggled my fingers, demanding its return.
Paulina eyed me cautiously, hesitating. “It makes you look fat,” she mumbled, as if she didn’t want to say it. As if she was desperate for … what? She turned around and marched over to her bed with it, and I followed on her heels.
“I’m serious, Paulina! Give—”
“You know,” she interrupted, turning around, “that dance is on Saturday, right? And we’re going?”
&
nbsp; I nodded, slowly. I won’t be here, so it doesn’t matter.
She looked sad. “Can I … borrow it?”
Huh? “I … you just said it was ugly.”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “But looking at it again … ” She turned it around, this time holding it in her whole hand. “It’s not so bad. But it was definitely meant for a taller person. What’re you wearing?”
I looked at the closet; the tight-fitting Edwardian dress I bought with Shar before Hades took her would never work now, with my scales. But did that matter? I turned back to Paulina, confused and with no energy left to argue. “Uh, I haven’t really figured that out yet … ”
“Me neither. We can figure it out over dinner.”
I managed to nod as Paulina dropped the fleece on the chair by her bed, grabbed her keys, and hustled me out the door.
Shar
Shall We Dance?
“That, that insect!” I screeched. My dress had arrived from Arachne, delivered by some dead-a-long-time servant. As soon as I opened the box, I knew she’d either ratted me out to Hades or taken it upon herself to gift wrap me for him.
I’d told her I wanted to go dressed as my great-grandmother: dowdy, neutral-colored house dress; sensible, orthopedically correct shoes; and garish, flowered apron; maybe even a wooden spoon clutched in my hand. I thought I was safe.
But noooooo!
Pushing aside the silver tissue paper, I found a pearly pink high-Hollywood-glam dress suitable for the Academy Awards, something the biggest stars would wear. A diamond necklace, à la Harry Winston and most likely dripping with over ten glistening carats of stones, was cradled in a sapphire blue cushioned box. Slinky silver heels by Ferragamo—I was willing to bet handmade by Mr. Salvatore Ferragamo over in Hades’ Italy of the ’70s—lay waiting to be introduced to my feet.
There was nothing for it; I had to wear it. It was either that or more Grecian goddess garb, and that had gotten old fast.
Sirenz Back in Fashion Page 18