"That's really nice of you to say, Mrs. H.” He turned to go.
"Tom?"
He didn't want to, but he turned around.
"Can I ask how you got this idea?"
He shrugged. “Just kinda came to me."
* * * *
As he meandered to his locker, Thomas kept chewing the inside of his cheek. “Wounded Rider” was the best story he had ever written. He was sure of it. But Mrs. Hayes said it needed context, and none of his dreams ever had any context. That meant he'd have to come up with it on his own. That sounded a lot harder than just cleaning up a journal entry.
He was just as certain that whatever he added would be terrible. It would be untrue to the dream, and so it would ring hollow. So what could he do?
The hard, sinking feeling returned to his stomach. C'mon, it's not that bad. I'll think up some back story. That weird feeling I got from the new girl just has me a little gloomy, that's all.
He frowned. But why did she affect me at all?
Thomas shrugged his shoulders and headed to his locker to get his biology book.
* * * *
"Very funny."
Brendan rebounded Thomas's third straight free throw. “The point of HORSE is to make a bunch of different shots,” Brendan said.
Thomas grinned. “Man, you gotta get better if guys like Crittendon are gonna foul you all game.” He released his shot, which rattled around the rim and fell out. “Crap. Now I'm a HO."
"I was gonna say something about those skanky habits."
"One crack about Mariah and I'll kick your ass."
Brendan laughed. “Chicks, man.” He made a reverse lay-up. “Can't live with ‘em, can't get laid without ‘em."
Pinprick stars dusted the clear black sky, and the crisp desert air cooled the boys’ lungs as they chased the basketball around. Thomas wondered how many hundreds of nights they'd played in Brendan's driveway, how many times they'd talked about girls, or movies, or rock groups as they dove to keep the ball out of the street.
He grinned at his friend. “Hard to believe you're the same gangly kid that used to bounce a basketball all the way to and from elementary school, man.” He repeated Brendan's shot, and the ball swished through the net.
"Yeah, and you're the same kid with a strange dream-story for every single walk."
"Yeah, I was a real weirdo. You know,” Thomas said as he rebounded Brendan's baseline shot, “I'm really going to miss this."
"Dude, I'm tellin’ ya—come with me to UC-Santa Barbara. You could walk on. You know the game and you work hard in practice. Any coach would love to have you on his team."
Thomas shrugged. “Yeah, but there'll be other five-foot-nine guys trying to walk on. Only they'll be faster, and have a better three-point shot. And they'll have actually started on their high school teams."
Thomas bricked a hook shot.
"You should give yourself more credit,” Brendan said, watching. “You're a great team player."
"Yeah, maybe. But we don't have the dough to pay for out-of-state tuition for a school in Cali. And I doubt Santa Barbara has plans to offer me a scholarship. Southern Arizona's about the only place I can afford to go."
Brendan didn't say anything as he banked in a close-range shot. He tapped the ball to Thomas, but Thomas flipped it back to him. “I'm outta here. I got some stuff to finish up. I'll see ya tomorrow."
"All right. See ya, man."
"Get some sleep!” Thomas called from the street.
By the time the ‘86 Escort's engine turned over, Thomas's fake smile was gone. As he drove home, he remembered riding his bicycle down the same dark streets when he was younger. It was hard to believe that in a few months they would both be gone, Brendan to Southern California, Thomas to nearby Maldecido.
I guess that's just what happens. We all move away from home, leave one life and all the people in it as we start another.
He parked his car and stared up at the streetlight that stood outside his house. The light had never changed. It had just shone, every night, guiding him home from Brendan's house for years.
How can everybody be so okay with this? How can I be the only one that feels so lost?
Thomas's throat tightened up and his heart sank into his stomach. The feeling reminded him of English class, and that girl with the odd gray eyes. He wondered how long he'd stood there staring at her.
When he climbed into bed that night, patiently awaiting another vivid dream, Thomas wondered how he could feel so bad for a girl he knew nothing about.
After all, he didn't even know her name.
Chapter 2
Stop thinking about it.
Warrenna saw it in her mind: wedged just beneath her heart was a hard sphere, like a marble. It throbbed with every heartbeat, swirling black and orange.
She imagined her blood flowing through the marble, every drop emerging a shade darker, a trace more contaminated.
Stop it. That doesn't help the craving. You know that.
Still, she couldn't help but wonder if the marble had been there on that playground in Denver when that wonderful smell had brought her lips to the gash in Scottie Templeton's leg.
She remembered the stunned faces of the other children, how they quickly turned to ridicule. Their singsong chants echoed in her mind: “Ren-na's a blood-sucker! Ren-na's a blood-sucker!"
Gee, Mom. Thanks for sparing me that humiliation ten years ago. Oh, that's right, you didn't! Instead you just lied to me. “There's no such thing as vampires, Renna. You're just different."
Warrenna rolled over, further entangling herself in her ball of blankets. Her gaze fell upon the pale blue light leaking around the curtains across the room. Morning had finally arrived.
"Warrenna,” her father's voice came from the doorway. “It's time to get up, hon."
She rubbed her eyes. If she wasn't going to sleep in her bed, maybe she could do so at school. The drive out of the canyon was hypnotic enough. Then she'd just have to find a desk in the corner.
"Come on. You have to go."
She sighed. “Fine."
The shower cleared away some of the stickiness in her eyes, and her pale skin sucked up the moisture like a sponge. But she knew it would just matter of time before the skin on her elbows flaked and peeled like a snake shedding its scales.
When she finished bathing, Warrenna brushed her short, thick, reddish-brown hair. She combed it partway down her face so that some of the auburn locks hung peek-a-boo style in front of her right eye.
"All right, Renna,” she told the tired gray eye in her reflection. “Let's survive another crappy day."
She pulled on a pair of men's dress slacks, slipped her bony arms into a long-sleeved violet shirt, and then eyed her figure in the mirror. She wondered if the loose material made her small breasts look even smaller.
She rolled her eyes. Why should I care?
Her father waited in the kitchen, idly buffing his fingernails against his black silk shirt as he leaned against a counter. “Eat quickly or you'll be late."
Warrenna yawned. “I'm not hungry."
"Try anyway."
She sighed again and started on a banana. The fruit was fresh, but tasted bland and flavorless. She choked down a swallow. “Where's Mom?"
"Sleeping.” Richard wiped his black goatee with a napkin. “I'm taking you this morning."
Warrenna nodded. Dad wasn't a talker. Maybe she could get some sleep in the car.
The drive north from Tebon Canyon to Chiricahua High School took forty minutes, half of which was spent climbing the twisting road partway up, then all the way down Burnham Peak. Both of Warrenna's parents drove slowly and carefully, and her eyes glazed over each time they went down the mountain. She imagined the Volvo's smooth ride and soft leather seats had a great deal to do with her drowsiness.
Her eyelids were drooping shut when her father spoke. “Have you made any friends yet?"
"Oh, yeah, sure,” Warrenna muttered. “I'm the most popular girl in
school."
"Are you trying?"
She shook her head. “These kids have known each other all their lives. I don't think any of them are eager to hang out with the weird new girl. And if you ask me, the fewer people I have to lie to, the better."
"Your mother and I aren't asking you to lie. We're asking you to keep others out of our personal business. You know they could never understand our struggle."
"Whatever, Dad."
She stared out of the dark-tinted window. We shouldn't be talking about this, because I shouldn't be here. I should be back in Bellingham with my friends.
They reached the bottom of Burnham Peak and turned north onto Highway 20. The tall pines and Douglas firs gave way to scrubby mesquite, spindly yucca and endless barbed wire. Mountains filled each horizon, some nearby, some in the distance, but all brownish and baked. The morning sun shone brightly on the high desert, giving each cactus its own long shadow.
"I don't see why I'm still going to school,” Warrenna muttered. “It's pretty pointless, considering what we are."
"I've explained this before, Renna,” Richard replied. “If we are to find infected people, we have to be part of society. We'll never help anyone if we live like hermits. It's why I have my night job, and why you're going to high school like a regular kid. You have to get used to being around humans."
Warrenna cringed at the word humans.
Like I needed another reminder of how different I am.
"How are you feeling?"
"How do you think?” Warrenna snapped. Normally conversations with her father lasted two minutes at most. She definitely preferred his old silence.
"Listen, Renna. I'm sorry we had to move when we did. I know it's been hard for you."
"I'd finally made some friends, Dad,” Warrenna said sadly. “I liked Bellingham. There was green grass, for one thing. And we had rain, and the ocean, and Seattle was just down the road. Look at us.” She waved at the yellow fields of deer grass dotted with brown clumps of mesquite: “We're in the middle of the desert here."
"I know it's been hard,” Richard repeated, “but we're not going back. It isn't safe. Bascomville may be small and isolated, but we're safe here, and that's the most important thing."
Warrenna bowed her head. “I know."
If only Mom had avoided that car accident. I'd still be cursed, but at least I'd be home.
They reached the stucco façade of Chiricahua High School, and Richard pulled up as close as he could to the main entrance.
Warrenna opened the door. “Who's going to pick me up?"
"I will."
"Is Mom all right?"
"She will be. Have a good day. Make some friends."
"Yes, sir,” she muttered, and started her quick walk to the entrance.
As she strode down the bright concrete path, Warrenna felt the familiar pressure of sunlight on her skin, like a dull butter knife scraping every exposed inch. But she was more concerned about the heat. It was barely March, and yet she didn't need a jacket. What would July be like?
Then she noticed the denim jackets and satin windbreakers on the students slowly shuffling by. And then she remembered.
I don't feel the cold like these kids do.
She folded her arms and held them close to her sides so she would look as cold as the next girl.
Before she reached the building's shadow, a man in a white suit stopped her and asked for the time. She smirked, then pointed at the giant clock above the four sets of double glass doors.
"Of course.” he said, then tipped his white fedora and walked toward the parking lot.
Warrenna shook her head. Guess some people are just dense.
The relief of shade faded quickly as the prospect of another boring, lonely day of school emerged in Warrenna's thoughts. She wandered down the wide hallway toward her locker and tried to look at the bright side: in her second-hour art class, she could work on her paintings all period. Maybe Ms. Coleman would let her work in the art room during lunch again.
Suddenly her breath caught in her throat. A bitter, mouth-watering scent filled her nostrils. Human blood.
Warrenna's stomach rumbled and her vision sharpened. A quick look revealed a boy holding a fistful of dripping tissue to his nose as he leaned against a wall.
The black marble inside her pulsed. Her sides quivered. The tips of her fingers burned and the gums around her eyeteeth tingled in anticipation.
She took a deep breath and bent over, pretending to tie up her boots as she fought off the excitement.
"Come on, Renna,” she whispered. “Fight it. Like Mom and Dad say, ‘You'll live with them all your life. You can't let the craving consume you.’”
Warrenna closed her eyes, but the black marble appeared in the darkness. Orange swirled in her vision, like lava flowing down a black mountain.
Release me.
Her own voice growled inside her.
Let me show us what we are capable of. You will see. There is no sound more pleasing than a scream of fear. No taste that comes close to young, living blood. It is joy, it is rapture!
No. She forced herself to take a couple of steps, fighting the voice. If I set you free, I'll die. And so will my parents, and everyone else who fights the curse.
Eager to think about something else, Warrenna looked around as she moved away from the compelling aroma. Students crowded the hall, most chatting and laughing in groups.
A girl in a cheerleader outfit walked near her, happily chatting with another girl about which boy she hoped would ask her to the prom. Her eyes were bright, her hair vibrant and bouncy. Nothing like Warrenna's would ever be.
"Clueless,” Warrenna whispered. “Here you are walking five feet from a vampire, and you're worried about some stupid dance."
But Warrenna knew she had that same conversation, once upon a time. Only it was about homecoming, and about Corbett.
The memories had a fuzzy feeling, like she was trying to remember a dream from a lifetime ago. She shook her head, and more than ever wanted to be back in Bellingham. I also don't want to be cursed. I guess what I want doesn't really matter, does it?
"Hey."
A boy from third-hour English stood before her. His short brown hair didn't want to stay in place, and his eyes were blue as the pale desert sky.
He smiled, which immediately brought Warrenna's guard up. “Hi,” he said. “I just wanted to apologize for yesterday."
"Apologize? For what?"
"For staring. During third hour. I didn't mean anything by it."
"You were staring at me?"
"Um, yeah. Remember when I passed around the handout? When I stopped at your desk I felt kinda weird and just sorta spaced out.” He trailed off, and his bright eyes fixed on her shoulder.
Warrenna wondered why he wouldn't look at her face. But then she felt something spark in the left side of her chest, just beneath her heart.
It was that imaginary marble again. But it wasn't black anymore. In her mind, it was blue, like the boy's eyes.
And it was warm.
Relief swept over her, like a cool ocean breeze on a hot, muggy day. The feeling reminded her of her childhood, of wandering around groves of oak trees in a neighborhood far away from this lonely desert. She remembered how safe she felt when she saw the pallid headstones of the Benzel Street Cemetery. That meant home was just around the corner.
She blinked. The boy was looking at her. “Um, what?” she said.
"I mean it. I really am bad with names.” He gave her a weak smile. “Ask any of my friends. You know, in one ear, out the other."
"Oh. It's Renna."
He cocked his head. “Is that short for something?"
"Yeah. For Warrenna."
He squinted, so she added, “Like Warren, with a ‘nuh’ at the end. War-ren-nuh."
"Oh.” He grinned. “That's an interesting name you have there."
"I didn't pick it."
"No, I guess you didn't.” His smile vanished.
&nb
sp; "What name did your parents pick for you?"
"Oh.” His eyes were shiny with sudden tears, and he looked away. “Thomas. My friends call me Tom."
"Are you okay, Thomas?"
"Yeah.” His voice was rough now, and he sniffed. “I just think I'm having that feeling again, and it's a little freaky, and, uh, I gotta go."
Thomas hurried away with his head down and his hand covering his eyes.
"Nice to meet you, Thomas."
She wondered if he was crying, and if she had done something to provoke his tears. She shrugged. What do I care?
At least the marble was cold and black again.
Chapter 3
Even as she held him in the soothing waters of Telikiva Stream, his eyes smoldered like a nighttime forest fire glowing on the mountainside.
She held his back as the water washed over him. His teeth were set in a grimace of pain, the same one he wore every day and every night of his journey.
With one hand, she gently peeled the bandage from his thigh. The cool water flowed into the blackened wound, but his expression never changed.
"Does it hurt?"
His angry eyes stared at the sky. “It always hurts. It will hurt until it kills me."
She said nothing. The thin white trees, barren of leaves, reached to the sky like skeletal fingers.
Suddenly his hand clutched her arm. His eyes were wide, and his grimace was gone.
"Mother-to-Doves,” he gasped. “Have you ever heard the Sky-God?"
She nodded. “I have heard the Sky-God in the rumbles of the summer storms, and in the silence of the winter snowfall."
"But has She ever spoken to you?"
Mother-to-Doves shook her head, her long braid swaying back and forth.
"She just spoke to me,” he said. The fire in his eyes was gone, quenched to smoke. “Her voice is soothing, like the rain among the trees. I have heard it before, but I did not know it till now."
"What did She say?"
He looked back to the sky. “She told me that it was all right to be afraid. She said my fear does not make me a coward."
He pulled himself to his feet, and stood beside her in the stream. Tears spilled out of his eyes. “I'm afraid, Mother-to-Doves,” he said. “I'm afraid I won't complete my journey. I won't return to the land."
The Cure for the Curse Page 2