by Rebecca Sky
I don’t bother answering. She knows how I feel about Nan’s matchmaking attempts. My Nani’s an older, wrinklier version of Ma, with even more love for our Hedoness heritage, if that’s possible. We visited her once, when I was thirteen. All I remember of Gujarat, India, is that it’s colourful, and busy, and hot, and it would’ve been the most magical trip of my life if it wasn’t also the most embarrassing. Instead of getting to see sights and experience the culture that makes up one half of me, Nani paraded me around the Hedoness convents, showcasing me to the students who would be my competition for what she referred to as ‘Our generation’s most powerful Hedoness.’
‘It wouldn’t hurt to look through them,’ Ma says, taking a seat across the table, patting her gloves out of habit, before cupping her steaming mug. ‘I know you’re not comfortable turning anyone. The Patel men in Nani’s forms are of the few that know what Hedonesses are. They’re willing and wanting to be with one. To them it’s an honour.’
I think about the envelope of profiles sitting unopened in my room, with a handwritten note from Nani on top that reads, ‘You are nice-looking girl, not too skinny, not too fat, wheatish complexion. You have top choice of biodata.’ Then it hits me. Ma’s siding with Nani – she’s serious. She wants grandkids.
‘Oh no, no, no.’ I wave my hands and lean back in my chair, my mind returning to that frightening phone call I had with Nani on my thirteenth birthday, the day I first found out what I was. She told me I was lucky to be born a Hedoness, and a Patel. She said Patels must stick together, that my bloodline has done remarkable things throughout history, even ended wars. But mostly she said it’s important that I don’t make the same mistake as Ma and marry a non-Patel.
If I was born to a family without the Hedoness gene, I wouldn’t even be called Patel. I’d be like every other girl and take my dad’s last name, not my ma’s – Rachel Madhu Groundwater.
I glance up to find Ma studying her mug and fake a smile. ‘I’m not so sure the whole marriage and family thing is in my future.’ What I don’t say is that the idea of forcing a man to spend his life with me and raise my kids isn’t my dream. I’d love a family – just not the Hedoness way. ‘Besides, I’m serious about wanting to be a social worker, so that’ll take up a lot of my time.’
She looks over her mug, eyebrow raised. ‘I know you want that,’ she says. ‘You’ve brought enough stray children home for me to feed over the years.’
‘They didn’t choose to be abandoned by their parents.’
‘And the gods know why you keep giving Marissa chance after chance.’
‘Well, she is my A.P.’
‘You have a big heart, Rachel.’ Ma smiles. ‘But perhaps you’re selling yourself and your gift short. I graduated top of class and I didn’t turn out so bad. Besides, Eros looks out for his descendants. It’s because of him, I met the love of my life.’
‘The love of your life?’ She can’t possibly mean Dad.
‘You, silly.’ Ma reaches over and pats my hand. ‘Just remember – if you surrender to love, Eros will find you.’
I am wondering if this is going to turn into one of Ma’s ‘embrace your gift’ speeches, but her smile is so big and hopeful, it’s hard not to take her seriously.
‘Right,’ I say, unsure. ‘Speaking of Eros’s version of love, where’s Dad?’ It is unusual for him to not be around Ma – in fact, it’s weird.
‘He’s out in the garden. I asked him to do some weeding.’ She takes a sip of her tea.
‘Gardening? How’s that going?’
Ma glances up. ‘You know your father – the same as usual, I suppose.’
‘Usual’ is glued to Ma’s side. But he’s not here, so that’s got to be a step in the right direction. ‘I’m going to go say hi.’ I stand, pushing out my chair, watching my mother struggle to keep her face expressionless. On my way to the backdoor, I straighten my shirt and fix my ponytail.
‘Hey, Dad,’ I say, pushing past the screen into the small side alley between brownstones that Ma’s turned into a flower heaven.
He doesn’t hear me, or if he does, he doesn’t turn to respond. Instead he stands over Ma’s exotic lily bed, his face in his hands, crying.
‘Dad?’ I call again, this time louder. He raises his head and wipes his freckly cheeks, the same dark brown of my freckles. A smile spreads over his face, and it lifts my mood.
I return it with one of my own. ‘Your garden—’
‘Does your ma want me? Did she send you to come get me?’ His British accent has a sombre cadence to it today.
I should’ve known that smile wasn’t for me.
‘No. I just came to say hi. Why are you crying?’
He runs his mud-stained hands through his thick ginger curls. ‘I miss your ma so much.’ He starts back into a fit of sobs.
‘She’s inside, like ten steps away!’
His answer shouldn’t be a surprise – it’s the exact same every time.
‘It seems so far.’ He collapses to his knees and carries on plucking weeds.
I can’t stand seeing him like this. I run back to the house, to my room, and flop on to the bed. I lie there wondering what Dad would’ve been like if he’d never met Ma, and whether the free-spirited boy from the park is just like my father now too.
My chat dings with a notification. I pull over my laptop to find a new message.
MARISSA: Turn on City News and see what I did to Paisley’s guy in class today. It’s hilarious.
I search for City’s livestream. My heart drops when it loads, and the frightened face of the red-haired boy fills my screen. He presses a blood-soaked cloth to his neck, and Paisley’s alien vampire necklace hangs over his shirt. I turn up the volume as the reporter asks a question.
‘Are you certain that’s what happened?’ He holds the mic out.
‘Yes,’ the boy says, his voice shaking. ‘It bit me. I … I was taken by vampires. Alien vampires.’
‘Did they give you that necklace?’ the reporter asks.
‘Necklace?’ The boy looks down, his eyes widening. ‘Get it off me!’ he screams, clawing at the chain.
A police officer steps in to help, and the camera swings back to the reporter. ‘The latest victim in the abduction cases leaves us with more questions than answers. Are monsters real? Are they in New York? Are they taking our boys?’
The next day, we’re barely ten minutes into third period when Marissa is called to the office. She slowly packs her gold bag, glancing at me with a smug smile that reads, I told you so. I roll my eyes but, truthfully, I’m glad for her. Even though I hate the reason, I haven’t seen her this happy in a long time. Marissa’s smile is a mix of relief and excitement. Her new conquest – or ‘Nice-shoes’ as I’ve taken to calling him – showed up at the office. He’s a day late, but here nonetheless.
The class watches her with an eagerness that makes me uncomfortable. You’d think Marissa just won the lottery or something.
I shake my head, wondering if she’s taking her time to revel in the class’s admiration – only seven girls from our grade have been able to turn someone so far, and this is Marissa’s fifth time. Knowing Marissa, it could also be for the game of it, keeping her guy waiting and wanting, and driving him mad with desire.
The brass tardy bell rings, interrupting Marissa’s gloat. Sister Hannah Marie rises from behind her desk and walks to the door to see who it is. She opens it a crack, then slips into the hall. It’s odd behaviour for a Sister. They don’t normally leave us unattended. The class chats among themselves, a mixture of excitement for Marissa and gossip over My Vampire Alien Life’s latest episode.
I think I’m the only one who hasn’t seen the show.
After a few moments the Sister returns, breaking up the chatter. A serious look has spread across her normally bubbly face. I can’t help but sense something isn’t right.
‘Rachel, pack your things and escort Marissa to the office.’ The Sister doesn’t make eye contact. Instead she rushes to th
e board and hastily wipes the bullet points from yesterday’s class. Marissa and I share a worried look.
‘Am I in trouble?’
It’s a perfectly valid question, but Sister Hannah Marie hangs her head. ‘Just go,’ she mumbles.
Marissa shrugs and I gather my books, following her into the hall. It’s only Wednesday and it’s the second time this week that I’ve been sent to the office – this has got to be a new record for me.
‘I hope he’s as cute as I remember,’ Marissa says. ‘I have a good feeling about this guy. Who knows, I may even keep him.’
I roll my eyes and fall into step beside her.
‘Ooh, what if he has a six-pack?’ She squeals and quickens her pace and I have to speed-walk to keep up. She has her mind on Nice-shoes. But all I can think about is how strange Sister Hannah Marie was acting.
The halls are unusually empty – we don’t even pass patrol nuns ushering first-years between classes. That only adds to my nerves. I bite the inside of my cheek. The closer we get to the office, the more uncertain I feel. Everything in me screams to turn and run. Instead, I stop in the middle of the hall.
‘Something doesn’t feel right.’
Marissa rolls her eyes in her typical belittling fashion. Then she pushes past me, reaching for the office door. She steals a quick moment to straighten her outfit and smooth down her eyebrows, even though they’re perfect.
‘Eyebrows?’ she asks, pointing to them.
‘Good,’ I say.
‘The rest of me?’
Flawless. ‘Also good.’
Satisfied with my answer, she grabs my hand and strides into the office, dragging me in tow. When she stops abruptly, I slam into her, sending us both stumbling into the room. I regain my balance and gasp, staggering back.
In front of us are three police officers, guns drawn, pointing straight at us.
One of the men wears thick red-framed glasses and a wool sweater the same shade of brown as his skin. I only know he’s an officer by the badge hanging around his neck. He pushes his way to the front of the group. His shaky hand clings to a gun. I glance from him to Mother Superior, hoping for some form of understanding. She stands behind the officers and gives a weak smile. When they’re not looking she mouths something, and I’m pretty sure it’s, ‘We’ll get you out of this.’
‘You’re under …’
His words fill the room, and everything slows as the officers grab me and push me to the ground next to Marissa. I fight back every image I’ve seen on TV of police brutality and tell myself it won’t happen to me. But then they yank my books out of my arms, jerk my wrists back to handcuff them, and then lift and shove me against the wall.
Marissa is guided beside me. The difference in treatment is startling. They’ve so wrongly judged which of us is the threat. And Marissa doesn’t even seem to notice how scared I am; instead she looks bored by the whole thing. It frustrates me that her cool, cocky demeanour doesn’t even slip when we’re handcuffed. I fight the need to cry and instead focus on taking slow, deep breaths.
‘Don’t worry,’ Marissa whispers, her eyes darting to the officer holding me. ‘We got this, you ready?’
I can’t believe what she’s suggesting. Still, another part of me is tempted to try using my ability, to see if I can save myself. My guess is the nuns will act like this is a normal Catholic school and turn on us if they need to. Still, I can’t, not even for this. Not only is it wrong, but I’m unpractised. Even if I did somehow manage to successfully turn one of the officers, and Marissa another, we couldn’t fight off the third officer. Could we?
I shake my head no, and she rolls her eyes.
So I do the only thing I can. I lift my chin and try to be brave. ‘What have we done?’
The officer holding me shoves me further into the wall, and the one in the red glasses begins reciting our rights. All I really understand is that we have the right to remain silent. It’s hard to focus on what he’s saying when he’s staring at me like I’m about to shoot laser beams from my eyes. It’s like he’s scared of us.
He wouldn’t know about our ability, would he?
I bite my lip and return the stare, hoping to read something on his face that could give me answers. His eyes bulge through the thick lenses, and he steps back.
‘Take these … these … girls to the holding cell.’
I’m jerked around, landing face-to-face with a large sweaty man.
‘I’m Officer Tucker Johnson, that’s Officer Mark White, and that,’ he points to the officer with the glasses, ‘is Officer Ammon Matos. You two are coming with us.’
The officers thrust us towards the door and Ammon watches, cleaning his glasses on his sweater.
I twist in their grip to look at him. ‘Will you tell us what we’ve done?’
I’m knocked back around.
‘When I find out exactly what you two girls, if you even are girls, have done, I’ll … well, I’m going to make sure you never reach the mother ship, that’s what.’
That confuses me at first, until realization sinks in, slow and painful – they are scared. But it’s even worse than I thought. They think we’re the vampire aliens.
I slide closer to Marissa as the squad car pulls in front of the precinct. Ammon exits, putting on surgical gloves as he comes to the back and opens our door. He waves us out, reaching down for Marissa first. Even with the gloves, he hesitates to touch her, acting like he’s being forced to put his palm on a hot stove instead of a sixteen-year-old girl.
She plays into it, snapping her teeth, smiling proudly at the way he jolts his hand back.
I lean and whisper, ‘Stop that, if they didn’t already think we’re vampires, they do now.’
‘Oh please.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘If he’s forcing me to be here, I might as well have a little fun.’
Ammon pulls on the neck of his sweater and wipes his brow. ‘Careful when you handle them.’ He steps aside for the other officers to get us out.
They look at him like he’s losing it. Still, they grab us and jerk us from the car to our feet.
‘Open your mouth.’ Ammon holds out a long plastic tube, and it’s not until I’m fully yanked around that I see there’s a cotton swab inside.
Marissa smiles wide. ‘Make sure to really get up in my fangs, it’s been a while since they were properly cleaned.’
He pulls back before the swab can make contact, his hand shaking as he tucks the plastic tubes in the front pocket of his sweater. I’m kind of thankful she scared him from swabbing our mouths. I’m not exactly sure what Hedoness DNA looks like.
Ammon waves us forward. ‘Take them to the holding cells. We can process them from behind bars.’
The officers push us into the precinct; the grip on my arm is too tight, but I’m afraid to complain. Ammon hurries ahead, disappearing down a corridor. The men guide us past it, stopping before a glass door. They hold their badges to a camera.
‘He’s seriously scared of two teenage girls?’ Tucker says, not caring we can hear.
Mark laughs. ‘It seems that way.’
There’s a blond officer watching us through the glass divide, his big blue eyes glinting with mischief – something about him is familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. As we’re buzzed through, he winks at me. I frown and glance at Marissa. She’s smiling wide, and that makes me shake with anger – we could end up charged for something. Having a permanent record would affect my chance of getting into the social worker program, and she’s getting a kick out of it all.
‘He’s been watching too many zombie shows on the space network,’ Tucker continues. ‘But he has rank on us, so it’s to the holding cells.’
Their lack of respect for Ammon gives me hope that they might be persuaded to take a small detour from his orders. I hang my head and let the tears I’ve been fighting back freely flow. They come out much faster than I expected and it soon turns to sobbing; my whole body convulses.
‘I … I …’ I struggle to st
op crying enough to form words.
‘Don’t waste our time,’ Tucker says, shaking me harder.
‘Easy now, just breathe,’ Officer Mark says.
‘I … I don’t know what we did,’ I hiccup out, taking another deep breath before wiping my eyes on my shoulder, ‘but I would really like my ma here. Please can I call her?’
Mark glances at his counterpart.
‘We’re to process them from the holding cell,’ Tucker says, firm, squeezing my arm tighter.
Marissa picks up on what I’m trying to do. ‘And I need to call Mother Superior,’ she whines. ‘My mom’s out of town, and she’s my legal guardian.’
I glare at her, shaking my head for her to cut it out, but she doesn’t get it – instead she spirals into the worst fake crying I’ve ever heard. She sounds like a cat in heat.
‘Nice try, lady.’ Tucker pushes us ahead.
I’m about to say something to Marissa but the doors swing open and we hear heart-breaking screams. And among them, a name.
‘Marissa … Marissa, my love …’
It can’t be.
My legs turn to jelly. I glance at Marissa to find her looking at me, eyes full of fear. She’s figured it out too. The police have Nice-shoes and somehow they know Marissa turned him.
We round the corner to find Ammon waiting for us. He thrusts open a large blue steel door and shoves me into the room before him. The screaming increases, and this time it’s directed at Marissa.
‘My love, you’ve found me! I knew you’d come. Oh, my love …’ Marissa’s smart enough to not look at him. But this only makes the guy’s desperation escalate. ‘Marissa, please.’ His hands reach through the bars, his face plasters against them, hoping to gain any distance that could grant him one touch of her arm.
Now that he’s identified Marissa in person, it’ll be hard to argue a case of a mix-up. I take in the officers and the cell-lined room, and notice an old computer monitor with a blurry image of Marissa and me in Central Park frozen on it.
We’re screwed.