Misfit

by Jon Skovron

  “But J,” Britt is saying, “he is so cute, in that big-football-player kind of way.” She puts her hands on Jael’s and squeezes.

  “And his Magnum is amazing. And, he bought me dinner and everything at some fancy restaurant with cloth napkins and the whole deal.” She takes a bite of her cheese-speckled cafeteria pizza and chews for a moment. “I mean, I went down on him too, but whatever.”

  “Sure,” says Jael, trying to sound casual. “Whatever.”

  “Don’t give me that look,” says Britt.

  “What look?” protests Jael. “There’s no look!”

  “The prude look.”

  “I’m not a prude.”

  “Jael, you’ve never even kissed a boy.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Oh yeah? When?” says Britt.

  “Seventh grade! Albert Crain!” says Jael, like it’s a game show.

  “Who the hell is Albert Crain?”

  “It was back when I lived in England. Back when I still tried to get in with the popular crowd every time I went to a new school. But since I was American, it was like they already hated me to start with, so I was desperate. One of the other girls dared me to kiss Albert Crain, this kid who always had a runny nose.”

  “And you took the dare?”

  “It was just a little a peck,” says Jael. “But the other girls laughed for hours about it. Well, really, they laughed at me for hours. But they didn’t accept me into their group. They just called me Mrs. Crain for a while, then ignored me. Plus, the whole rest of the time I was at that school, I constantly had to dodge Albert, who was convinced that I was secretly in love with him.”

  They sit in silence for a moment as Jael pokes gloomily at her pizza with her fork.

  “That so doesn’t count,” says Britt.

  “No,” says Jael. “I guess not.”

  “This is depressing. Let’s talk about something else!” Britt says with a forced brightness. “What are you doing for your birthday?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  “Well, you have to do something.”

  “That’s what Rob said.”

  “Oh really?” asks Britt. She leans back in her seat and gives Jael a smirk. “How interesting. . . .”

  “Come on,” says Jael. “Just because he actually talks to me doesn’t mean he wants to go out with me.”

  “He doesn’t know what he wants,” says Britt. “He’s super cute, but he’s a total space cadet. Trust me. You just need to take charge.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “He’s into you. How could he not be? You’re gorgeous.”

  “Britt . . .”

  “Seriously, I look like every other blond Nordic girl in the Pacific Northwest. But you, with your exotic looks—”

  “You mean my big Arab nose.”

  “Shut up. You’re beautiful. And I would kill to have your figure.”

  “What figure is that? Scrawny and boyish?”

  “You have muscles, J. That is so totally hot. And you know a guy like Rob isn’t intimidated by that shit. He is perfect for you!

  You just have to lead him in the right direction, and I guarantee he will gladly follow.”

  “I’m not leading him in some direction. I don’t even know if I like him like that.”

  “Oh please,” Britt says.

  “Even if I did, what would I ask him to do?” asks Jael. “I don’t have any money, so we couldn’t go out. And I couldn’t invite him over to watch a movie or TV, obviously. It would be like, ‘Hey, Rob. Wanna come over to my place and sit around and do nothing? If we’re real quiet, we might even be able to hear my father in his room praying, even though he doesn’t believe in God.’ Yeah. That would be a fantastic date.”

  “I’ll bet he’d take you out.”

  “How weird would that be? Asking him out, then asking him to pay?”

  “Okay, fine,” says Britt, slouching back down in her chair in defeat. “But still, you should do something on your birthday.

  How about you come over to my place again after school. We’ll eat junk and watch stupid TV.”

  “I wish,” says Jael. “But my dad said not to make any plans tonight.”

  “For real?” says Britt, perking up again. “Maybe he’s got some amazing present for you or something.”

  “Like a new suitcase,” says Jael.

  “Shut up,” says Britt. “Don’t even go there.”

  “What? Why not? It’s been two years. Time to move again.”

  Britt shakes her head. “He wouldn’t do that to you right in the middle of high school. Even he’s not that mean.”

  “You have no idea,” says Jael.

  “Why does he have this freaky obsession with moving?”

  says Britt.

  “Because he’s crazy,” says Jael.

  “Oh, God, now you’ve got me paranoid,” says Britt. “You better call me afterwards. If my phone goes to voice mail, it’s because my mom’s hogging it, so just e-mail me.”

  “I’ll try,” says Jael. “But you know, my old computer—”

  Britt waves her hand. “Hey, you know what? Don’t even worry about it. Because it’s not going to be a suitcase. It’s going to be something awesome. You just wait.”

  “But—”

  “J, trust me.” Britt squeezes Jael’s hand. “You are due for some awesome.”

  Jael forces a smile. She’s always admired the way Britt can stay optimistic, no matter what.

  “Sure,” she says, trying to match Britt’s upbeat tone. “You never know.”

  Jael gets home just as it starts to rain. The inside of the house is dark except for the light spilling in from the kitchen doorway.

  Her father never turns on lights unless he has to. He’s never said why, but Jael assumes it’s to save money on electricity. Or because he’s morbid.

  The old wooden floorboards in the foyer squeak with each step, announcing her arrival as she makes her way to the kitchen.

  The kitchen light shines harshly from a single uncovered bulb over the sink. Her father sits at the white kitchen table. He was never a guy to show a lot of emotion, but the past few years, it’s gotten even worse. He never lets anything out anymore. Jael can’t imagine why he hasn’t just exploded by now.

  “Jael,” he says quietly.

  His hands rest on the table, and next to them, Jael sees a small wooden box. A birthday present after all? She feels a sudden surge of hope, but pushes it down. She needs to play it cool. Just because he has a present for her doesn’t mean they’re not moving. In fact, it could even be a consolation prize for ripping her out of the life she’s been trying to make the past two years.

  “Hey, Dad,” she says, and only gives the box a quick glance on her way to the fridge. She gets out a fig and takes a bite, letting the mellow sweetness of its juice gather on her tongue as she tries to keep herself calm.

  He gestures to the chair across the table and says, “Please sit.”

  She walks slowly over to the chair and sits down. The window is directly behind her and she can hear raindrops striking the wide, flat leaves of the hostas in the tiny front garden.

  She takes another bite of her fig as she examines the box more closely. It’s about the right size for jewelry, but it’s plain and unfinished wood, with two tarnished silver hinges on one side and a silver clasp on the other side. A small silver padlock lies next to the box, open, with a key still in it.

  “Happy sixteenth birthday,” he says.

  “Thanks,” she says.

  “So . . . ,” he begins, then stops.

  Usually, he speaks with absolute precision. The hesitation unnerves her more than anything else has. She gets the feeling this is something even bigger than a moving announcement.

  “I have been holding this,” he says, and his hands move to rest gently on the box, “for you. I promised I would give it to you on your sixteenth birthday.”

  He doesn’t say anything more. His face is blank, except a sligh
t tic in one eyelid.

  “Who?” she asks. “Who did you promise?”

  “Your mother.”

  Jael suddenly feels like that scared little girl in the car at night in the desert.

  “My . . . mom?”

  “This was . . .” His voice crackles like an old record and he clears his throat. He brushes some imaginary dust from the small wooden box. Then he says, “It was hers.”

  He pushes the box closer to her. With his eyes still fixed on hers, he releases the clasp and opens the lid. Inside, the box is lined with a woven silver fabric. And in the middle rests a rough-cut, burgundy gem about the size of a baby’s fist, attached to a silver necklace chain. The sight of it pulls at something deep inside Jael. Her face is suddenly warm. The need to touch it almost feels like a compulsion.

  “Can I . . . ,” she says, her hands outstretched.

  “Yes,” he says.

  She reaches into the box and carefully lifts the necklace out by the chain. The gem feels impossibly light for its size.

  She holds it up and the gem spins slowly. The burgundy color seems to throb from deep within, softening even the harsh white kitchen light with its warm glow.

  “It—It’s beautiful,” she says.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Dad . . . this . . . this is the best present I’ve ever . . .”

  She looks at him and she must be getting soft because there are suddenly tears in her eyes.

  “I’m glad you like it,” he says, giving her a tight, forced smile.

  “And . . . she . . . wanted me to have this? She said so?”

  “She made me swear that I would give it to you when you turned sixteen,” he said. “And so I have.”

  The chain is all one piece, with no clasp. But it’s long enough for Jael to slip over her head. Her hands are shaking as she goes to put it on.

  “No!” Her father lunges across the table and grabs her wrist, hard.

  She stares first at his hand clenched around her wrist, then at the violent clash of emotions on his face. She almost doesn’t recognize him.

  “Dad?” she whispers.

  She watches the realization of what he’s done wash over him. He releases her hand, then slowly sits back in his chair. He stares at his hand, like he can’t believe it’s his.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, almost to himself. For just a moment, there is something dark and broken in his eyes. Then his face slides back to neutral. “You can’t wear the necklace.”

  “What do you mean I can’t wear it? Not at all?”

  “No. It’s not . . . safe.”

  “So why did you give it to me?”

  “Because I promised I would.”

  “But how is it dangerous?”

  “You are not to wear it. End of discussion.”

  She cups the gem in her hands and stares into its dark, impenetrable center. “I can’t believe this,” she says, at first more to herself. Then she looks up at him. “I can’t believe . . . you.”

  She presses her thumbs onto the gem, rubbing them back and forth like a worry stone. “You finally give me something from my mother. After sixteen years, finally. Something.” She looks back down at the necklace. “I would have taken anything, you know,” she says softly. “A picture, a piece of clothing, a letter. It didn’t have to be a thing, even. I would have been happy with a few stories about her. You always refuse to talk about her. I mean, are you so ashamed of my mother? Of what she was?”

  “Of course not. You don’t understand—”

  “How can I, when you won’t tell me anything? I don’t even know what she looked like. . . .” She presses the gem to her chest as a white-hot rage crawls up her spine. The anger feels good.

  It makes her feel strong. Powerful. Justified. She looks back at him, staring hard into his eyes. “And now you give me this necklace. The one thing I can have of my mother. But I can’t wear it, and you won’t even tell me why.”

  “Jael, it’s complicated. I don’t think—”

  “No.” Jael stands up, clutching the necklace in her fist. “Go to hell, Dad.”

  She runs out of the kitchen. He yells something after her but she’s just trying to hold back the tears until she’s up the spiral staircase and safely locked in her room.

  Jael lies in bed, dangling her necklace in front of her eyes, staring absently into its dark, cloudy center.

  She cried for a little while. Then she tried to call Britt, but the number was busy. Her stupid old computer wouldn’t even boot up, so e-mail was out. By the time she’d gone through all that, she was tired. She decided that she wasn’t going to do homework. It was her birthday present to herself. She got in her pj’s and went to bed ridiculously early. So there.

  But now she can’t sleep. The window is open next to her bed, and she can hear the cool early evening wind rustle through the leaves outside. There’s a strange light in the evening sky, a slight tinge of yellow that makes the familiar view of rooftops out of her window seem almost magical. The air smells electric, and the whole sky gathers its strength, waiting for the signal. A thunderstorm is coming.

  Jael loves thunderstorms. She can’t say why, exactly. Maybe it’s yet another weird demon thing her father never bothered to explain. But there’s just something about thunderstorms that she finds soothing. And even though it rains nearly nonstop from October to May in Seattle, thunderstorms only happen once or twice a year. This storm, on this day, almost feels like a birthday present.

  The first few drops of rain hit the window screen and stick in the tiny black squares, creating odd pixilated patterns. As the rain picks up speed, the patterns expand until the entire screen is drenched and begins to drip. A little spray makes it through, and drops prickle her face.

  Then the lightning and thunder come, emerging from seething purple clouds. They roll and flicker in a soothing rhythm, lighting up the sky in quick bursts. Jael holds her necklace up to see how the lightning reflects off of it.

  But it doesn’t. Instead, it almost seems to absorb the light. In fact, there’s something about the center that plays tricks on her eyes. It almost looks like something is moving in there.

  She turns on the lamp next to her bed. Then she squints back down at the center of the gem. No, it’s no trick. There really is something moving inside. She squints hard, trying to make it out. Gradually the tiny swirling shapes within sharpen and come into focus until she’s staring at a red-tinted, miniature version of her kitchen.

  There’s a moment of dizzy vertigo and the world seems to lurch forward. Then it’s as if she’s in the tiny kitchen herself, hovering like a ghost.

  Her father sits at the table, just like she left him. But now there are other things in front of him: a small ceramic bowl, a bottle of alcohol, gauze, surgical tape, a knife.

  He picks up the knife and looks at it for a moment, turning it slightly so the light flashes along the edge. He positions the bowl of water in front of him and holds his hand over it. Then, whispering something quietly under his breath, he draws the knife slowly across his palm until a thin trickle of blood runs down and dribbles into the bowl of water. He continues to mutter under his breath as he squeezes his hand into a hard fist so that a little more blood drips into the bowl. He carefully cleans his hand with the alcohol and wraps it up in gauze. Then he stares back at the bowl of blood and water, waiting.

  The surface of the liquid shivers and gradually the swirls of blood coalesce into a perfect ring. Something that isn’t exactly a voice, but more like an audible ripple in the air says, “Yeah?” It’s a harsh, deep, masculine sound.

  “It’s done,” says Jael’s father.

  “You gave her the necklace?”

  “Yes.”

  “Strange. I didn’t hear anything. Didn’t you release it?”

  “I gave her the necklace,” says her father. “That was all I promised her mother I would do.”

  There is a pause, while the blood in the bowl writhes for a moment. Then it reforms.

&
nbsp; “You are such a little shit. You might as well have spit on your wife’s grave. You know she wanted you to—”

  “If she wanted me to do anything more, she would have told me,” says her father.

  “What happened to you? I never liked you, but I at least used to respect you. Now you’re nothing but a pathetic, cringing mortal.”

  “That’s enough, Dagon.”

  “You think this is the end of it?”

  “Yes, I do.” He turns away, gazing up at the uncovered lightbulb.

  “You know you can’t avoid this. There are greater things at work here than just you and your cowardice.”

  “Right, your grand dream of reclamation,” says Jael’s father, his voice bitter and mocking. “You hold on to that, Dagon. I know it’s all you have left.”

  “And what do you have left?”

  “I have her. She’s real. And you’ll never drag her into your bullshit.”

  “Bullshit? I believe in the reclamation and so did your wife.

  You did too, once. But when it came down to making a real sacrifice, you just couldn’t—”

  Her father backhands the bowl off the table, spilling the watery blood onto the kitchen floor. He stands and looks down at the puddle, his fists clenched so tightly that the knuckles are white. Then he clasps his hands behind his head, closes his eyes, and takes a slow breath. He gets some cleaning solution and a sponge from underneath the sink. Then he scrubs the bloodstained floor on his hands and knees. He scrubs harder and harder, and his shoulders start shaking like he’s crying, but his eyes are dry and filled with rage. . . Jael can almost taste it, metallic and hot, coiling itself around him, tighter and tighter, until . . .

  There’s another dizzy lurch, and she’s back in her bed, staring at her necklace. But it’s empty now.