PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  “I just like it,” I said. “I like dark things, so I like dark makeup.”

  “Yet your skin is painted white.”

  “Not white. Pale. White is you. Porcelain is me.”

  “Porcelain is white.”

  I fought the urge to frown. I didn’t want to smudge my eye shadow before I was done putting it on. “It’s for contrast, all right? The skin is pale so the eyeliner looks darker.”

  “The eyeliner can look darker than black?”

  I almost sprayed him in the eyes with my perfume. But then he’d just spray me back, which would be bad.

  “Go away,” I said, then kicked open the door to my adjoining room. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  He leaned back against the mirror that covered the wall. His tail swished and wiped away some of the remaining fog that still lingered. “What color is your real hair?”

  “This is my real hair.” The style was Bettie Page. My face was too round for it, but I didn’t care. Mom wanted me to grow it out so I could wear a more ‘slimming’ style that framed my face better.

  “Before it was black, what color was it?”

  “Brown.” And not even a pretty brown with highlights. Flat, turd brown.

  “And black is better?” When I didn’t answer him, he asked, “Do you wish to be perceived as evil, or are you trying to attract an evil mate?”

  “Neither, shit.” Why couldn’t he just leave? I didn’t ask for this, I didn’t want him in my house, and I damn sure didn’t want to play twenty questions with him again. “Why do people always think dark means evil? I just like dark. It’s prettier to me. It’s familiar. I hate bright light and pastels and puppies and kittens and hearts and all that crap.”

  Rigel regarded me with a contrite expression. He must have practiced to make it look that cute. It almost made him less annoying.

  “You hate puppies?”

  “Most days. Look, are you going to let me get dressed or what? You’re distracting me.”

  “My presence does not hinder your ability to do anything you need to do.”

  “I’m serious. Get out.”

  “As you wish.”

  With his accent, I could almost imagine Westley replying to me, the man in black, in all his beauty, stepping from film to reality. But unlike Buttercup, I knew Rigel was not secretly telling me he loved me. In fact, if I told him to fetch me a pitcher, he would probably bring back a hog-tied baseball player just to be obstinate.

  Clothes on and hair dried, I emerged from my bathroom to discover Rigel sitting inside my open bag on the bed. “What are you doing?”

  “I want you to take me with you.”

  I laughed. “That’s not happening, Pepe.”

  “I could just follow you.”

  “I’d scream you have rabies.”

  “For all you know, that may be true.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  I tried to stand there and look angry, my arms crossed against my chest and my foot tapping impatiently on the carpet. He was unmoved.

  “We can do this the easy way or the embarrassing way,” he said, “but I am going.”

  “Why do you want to go? School is boring. And full of assholes.”

  “And your friends.”

  “Who are mostly assholes.”

  “If you do not like them, why are you friends with them?”

  “Because I’m an asshole, too.” I threw my arms into the air and added with flair, “We’re all a bunch of assholes. We thrive in Assholia. We’re teenagers. Didn’t you get the memo? You should probably stay here so you don’t get trampled on. Or, better yet, why don’t you go do what you’re supposed to be doing? Preventing a tragedy or whatever.”

  “I need you for that.”

  “And yet, you won’t tell me who, what, where, when, why, or how.”

  “Do you need to know all of those?”

  “It’s the rundown. You know—the five Ws and the H? The top six questions? Never mind. At least one or two would be nice.”

  I sat down next to him to tug my boots on. I would be late if I kept arguing with him.

  “In time,” he said, looking up at me. “I cannot tell you anything too soon.”

  “If this is date sensitive, maybe you should have held off until the time to do whatever it is was closer. You’re not holing up in my room for too long. I need my space.”

  “It will not be for long. I swear.”

  “I’d ask for a pinky promise, but I guess that’s out.”

  He hunkered down into my bag with a hopeful expression on his little mammal face.

  “Okay, fine.” I zipped my bag closed. “Try not to piss all over my stuff.”

  “I shall give it my best effort.”

  8: Encounter with the Holy Roller

  Rigel was a heavier carry than I expected. I made him get out and hide in my locker. He had his own way of popping around wherever he wanted to be, so it’s not like he’d be trapped. In fact, I didn’t see any reason I needed to carry him to school. He probably only asked to see if I would.

  My stomach pitched a hissy fit. I hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before. The remnants of the money Josh had given me were snug in my pocket, so I headed to the lunchroom to buy a baked good from the lunch ladies.

  I joined Aka at his usual table. There were several sketches in disarray, his notebook open in front of him with stanzas scribbled down, and a short stack of schoolbooks. Aka was a writer, musician, photographer, artist, and lyricist. He reserved his unspoken words and spilled them all over the page. Whatever emotions he wished to convey, he did so with his acoustic guitar or paint brush. He excelled in school, and would probably have his pick of colleges. At times I envied him.

  “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I said.

  “Awesome.”

  “Well, you don’t have far to go.” I reached forward and pulled a charcoal sketch from the mess. It was a person lounging under a tree with a book. “But career-wise, what do you want to do?”

  “Hunt vampires.” Sometimes it was hard to tell whether Aka was joking. He never smiled when he teased, nor delivered a punch line with a change in pitch from his deep monotone. Many thought he was never kidding because of this, but he actually cracked jokes all the time.

  “There’s not a lot of money in that.”

  “Unless you kill the rich ones and take their stuff.”

  “TouchÉ,” I said. I held off saying any more because Macey Trindle approached our table. I thought she was headed for a table behind us, but she stopped at ours.

  “Good morning,” she said, then put two pamphlets on our table. “Do you believe in God?”

  I hate Bible-thumpers. I don’t wander around trying to save them from their religion. They should have the common decency to do the same. It’s insulting to be perfectly content with your own faith and have someone come up and tell you it’s wrong. If I want to pray to the Great and Noble Bunny of Necrosis, I should be able to without people trying to ‘save’ me.

  “I guess so,” I said. I doubted God’s existence most days, unless I felt bitter—then I assumed the Divine used me as a plaything.

  “You guess so?” Macey said. The unhappy expression she wore didn’t surprise me. “Belief isn’t guessing. Faith is knowing in your heart.”

  “Oh. Well, I don’t have one of those,” I said, then added to Aka, “Maybe that’s my problem.”

  Macey’s scowl of displeasure was one I was long accustomed to among my so-called peers. “You always have a clever remark.”

  “Better than a dumb one.”

  I should have gotten up and walked away, being the better person. To argue with an imbecile is to be imbecilic yourself.

  “Is it?” She studied me with the same unease someone might show a scorpion under glass at the zoo. “You might try laughing at yourself more often than at other people.”

  “Don’t Yoda Master me,” I said. I sat back and crossed my arms. “I don’t tell you to stop suckin
g up to teachers by day and sucking up dicks by night, do I?”

  Perhaps that crossed the line—the forever elusive one that I could never see until I turned around and spotted it a mile behind me. But sometimes my internal editor’s on a coffee break, and my thoughts just pop right out of my mouth.

  Macey looked so furious I thought she was going to hit me, but she pranced off instead. Though I regretted my words the very instant I said them, I did not have the common sense to try to retract them.

  “Bit harsh,” Aka said, his pencil still composing stanzas in his tidy scrawl.

  “Eh, she pissed me off.” I hesitated, then shot Aka a wry smile. “Obviously I need you at my side at all times or else I would destroy all around me like a monsoon of ill fate.”

  “Oh, depth,” Aka said without looking up from his writing. “Don’t drown.”

  “Unlikely.”

  There was a voice inside my head that told me I should follow Macey and apologize, but there was a bigger voice in my head named Self-Preservation that refused to let my legs move.

  ***

  The rest of my day pretty much sucked. One class bled into the other with my only break from the masses being my short sanctuary in the newspaper room during fourth period, followed by lunch in the same room. I considered tracking down Aka to see if he brought me any food again, but he knew where to find me if he felt like sharing. Since he didn’t pop in, I was free to assume the lunch-for-twos would be sporadic.

  I sat with the lights off. The sun invaded through the energy conservation-challenged panes, which was more than enough light for my gloomy mood. Sometimes I wanted to hide away from everything and pretend I was the only living thing in the vicinity. No, that wasn’t quite it. I wanted to sit there and not care about the things in my life that were wrong. It got harder every time.

  No matter how hard I tried not to, I did care. The kids in my school, my mom and dad, boys, teachers, internet acquaintances, my sister, and everything else that riled me up and convinced me I would be gray by twenty-five; I didn’t want it to matter.

  I tucked it into my chest, burying it way down deep where the verbal jabs and tactless indifference couldn’t cut me anymore. I was sick of holding it all in. I wasn’t Buddha. I wasn’t sitting on some mountaintop. I was just a girl trying to suck it up and stamp it down.

  God, Aka. Where are you?

  I needed someone to vent to about stupid boys, evil mothers, crappy love notes, and irritating British skunks. Not that I could tell Aka about any of that anyway. He would think I was nuts for making deals with Josh or just for writing something against my principles. Aka would never do that. He knew who he was and what he wanted. He was complex and incredibly simple, and I think he did it on purpose.

  No, I couldn’t really vent to Aka. But he could at least distract me from thinking about these things. I knew he would believe me about Rigel, but I hesitated telling him. The contrary critter was a pain in the ass, but he was my pain in the ass. Rigel chose me, for whatever reason, and I was intrigued by the covert mystery of it all. To share the secret of him would spoil the magic. Or maybe I was just being a selfish bitch.

  I hadn’t seen Rigel for hours. What could a skunk possibly find to do in a place he had to hide constantly? He would have been better off lounging in my backyard, enjoying nature like a regular little beast.

  Instead of Aka coming to rescue me from my own self-appointed gloom, I got Josh. Dressed in his usual denim, leather, and t-shirt, he was a carbon copy of every other teenage boy in a band. It’s hard to be original in an ocean of social monochromatic whirlpools that suck you under. I’m honest enough with myself to know there’s nothing original about me.

  “You write it yet?” Josh said as soon as the door clicked shut.

  “I’m working on it.” I gestured towards the notebook on the large teacher’s desk I sat at. I left all my scribbles regarding Macey piled on my bed at home, so I hoped he didn’t want to see what I’d written so far. If he opened my notebook, he would find nothing but my Aka sketches. My friend had a nice symmetry that begged to be duplicated.

  “It’s been a couple of days already,” he said. He leaned against the door, blocking the little window in it with his back. “What’s taking so long?”

  I arched a brow. “You in a hurry, Romeo?”

  “No. I just don’t want you to forget.”

  “Well, I won’t.” So maybe I was procrastinating, but I didn’t want to do it anymore. Especially after my encounter with Macey. If I still had Josh’s money, I would just give it back. It was the dumbest idea ever, and I couldn’t believe I agreed to it.

  “She’s giving out pamphlets today.”

  I don’t know why Josh thought I would want to talk about Macey. I didn’t have a positive thing to say at all, so he was pretty much setting himself up for anger if he was trying to bait me into an isn’t-she-so-cute banter.

  “I know.” I hoped he would take a hint from my short answer and realize I didn’t find Macey an interesting conversation topic.

  “Her dad’s church is in trouble, I think.”

  “It’s probably too boring.” All churches were boring. I’d never been in one, but in movies it looked like a crappy way to pass the time. “Maybe your band could play there. Liven the place up a bit. Draw a younger crowd. One that’s less jaded and more naÏve.”

  Josh snorted. “I don’t think that’d fly.”

  “Never know until you ask,” I said. “Or are you afraid it’ll ruin your bad boy image?”

  “I don’t have an image. I’m just me.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  “What about you, Gothica?” The glower I was most familiar with during our talks arrived. “It’s not like you’re original or anything. You’re trying to be something you’re not, too.”

  Too? I smirked. The only thing I ever wanted to be was rich. Everything else was just frivolous surface matter. I didn’t want fame or even notoriety. I just wanted money. With enough money, I could afford to be a hermit and escape the spiraling death march of society. My hermit cabin must have internet, though. And be in easy distance to fast food or delivery.

  “I am?” I said, playing along. “What do you think I’m trying to be?”

  “A vampire or zombie or whatever.” It was kind of sad how serious he looked when he said that. I almost felt sorry for him.

  “That’s . . . pretty stupid,” I said. “I’m no more imitating a creature of the night than you are a knock off of the latest boy band.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means people assume too much about each other.” We also make quick judgments and are biased against those unlike us, but I kept it simple. Josh had already used his brain cell allowance for the day. “I’m not saying I’m perfect. I do it, too. We’re a hypercritical species.”

  “Well, whatever.” His last word must be about the only large word he knew, hence his need to repeatedly use it. It was very annoying. “I’m gone.”

  When he turned and walked out of the room, I figured it was safe to assume that was awkward-guy-speak for, “Goodbye.”

  “There's no cupcake in the world that justifies this sort of aggravation," I mumbled to myself. My eyes dropped to my notebook. I needed to finish the letter, if for no other reason than to stop the uncomfortable conversations with people I didn’t like.

  ***

  It's funny how you can be so sure of something for a very long time, as if nothing in the world would convince you that things are otherwise. Then a simple gesture—or a simple word—can completely undermine everything you believed.

  I believed, for example, that words have power. Words are how we communicate, after all. How can we know what someone is thinking without having an exchange of words? But the absence of words is just as powerful as too many of them. Plus there’s deception, omission, avoidance, and hesitation. These all hinder communication—hinder the power of words.

  I don’t think words have power. The true power
lies in our ability to believe them. I may say I like someone’s hat, but it’s meaningless if they think I’m lying. Someone may say they’re my friend, but then their actions—that I interpret through the inaccurate resource that it is—may make me think they lied to me.

  So, as important as I always thought words to be, I think it boils down to three simple concepts: belief, trust, and faith. Do I believe the other person? Do I trust the other person? Do I have faith in them? Words are meaningless without these conditions.

  But the written word is different. It’s not speaking to me personally, but merely expressing a thought, an opinion, or an idea. That has power. They are there for my interpretation, to have as much power over me as I am willing to let them have.

  Which was part of the reason I was loathe to write a letter to a girl I didn’t like on behalf of a boy I didn’t like either. It was speaking to her personally, and it was so deceitful. But it wouldn’t hurt anyone. That’s what I kept telling myself as I worked on the stupid letter. Josh liked her. If she liked him, then she’d write him back or something. If not, no harm done.

  I was at my desk when I heard the rattle of keys, then the door close. It was probably Mom, but it could have been Dad. With a small amount of hope I headed downstairs, but it was dashed as soon as I saw Mom at the coffee pot.

  “Dad coming home tonight?” I said.

  “He’s in Milwaukee.”

  That didn’t answer my question. They had planes there. Planes were fast. I turned to walk out, but paused when I saw three black roses wrapped in baby’s breath and cellophane in the trash can. “What’s with the flowers?”

  “They were on the porch.”

  “So why are they in the trash?”

  “They’re ugly.”

  “I think they’re pretty,” I said, fishing them out and shaking the damp coffee grounds off the cellophane. It didn’t work that great, so I went to the sink to run water over it. “Who left them? Was there a note?”

  “No note.” Mom turned and frowned at me when she saw what I was doing. “What are you doing that for?”

  “I like them. But no note? That’s weird. Who do you think they were for?” There was no reason for someone to give Mom flowers, especially black ones. Dad would have gotten her white lilies, if anything. But there wasn’t a reason for someone to give me flowers, either, and Karen was off at college.