by L. J. Smith
“But it is Mal you’re after—and not Kierlan, right?” Rachel demanded. Neither of the boys in question were in the honors math class. Mal was in regular math and Kierlan—well, he was supposed to be at the junior college for this class.
Pamela spoke indignantly. “Are you joking? As if I would even think about Kierlan after what he did to me last year at the Spring Fling!” Pam forgot to whisper as she tossed her glossy blond hair.
This got the two girls a long, stern look from Mr. Osford. Another student was called up to the blackboard, and Sarah hastily bent over and scribbled the exponential equation from the board into her notebook. Then she frowned, solved the problem, and decorated the numbers with twining vines. Much more elegant.
Math and art were the only two subjects that made sense to Sarah. She could never be a mathematician like Kierlan, but she hoped she could be an artist. In the big art room she had a painting hanging that had recently won a county prize, and she would be packing it up with Ms. Jessup to go to the state competition later that day.
But that doesn’t give me long, gorgeous legs like a model’s, she thought.
“No, no, no,” Mr. Osford was saying to the student at the blackboard. “Like this, not like that.”
Rachel and Pamela barely paused.
“Well, wear a long dress this time, then. He can’t flip that.” Rachel leaned over to pat Pamela’s arm with a sympathetic air that held just a hint of smirk.
Pamela simply moved her arm and looked back haughtily. Pamela had everything a girl needed to look haughty, Sarah thought with sad admiration. She was tall, blue-eyed, a natural blonde, with a perfect, curvaceous figure and those long, long legs.
And Rachel was as perfect in her own way, with thick dark hair, wide dark eyes, and legs that were almost as elegant.
Sarah, on the other hand, was rather slight and fragile looking, with very little on top and nothing at all anywhere else. Coltish legs, no hips, flyaway brown hair … and a face that somehow couldn’t do “haughty” at all, not that she tried.
“Anyway, good luck if you have to ask Mal yourself.” Rachel whispered the words as if Pamela had proposed taking a swim in a river full of alligators. Sarah found herself nodding in agreement, then remembered she ought to want to skewer the girls and barbecue them for being so insensitive. Mal wouldn’t barbecue Pam and Rachel, though, if Sarah told him about this conversation. Mal was the master of the cold stare.
“And that’s supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Rachel said hastily, in a placating voice. “It’s just— there have been other girls who’ve tried, you know. They usually come back frozen solid. But at least if—when he says yes to you, you know you’ll look great together.”
And so they would, Sarah thought. No arguing with that. The gentle rustling of Sarah’s green woods had retreated and Mr. Osford’s voice grew louder, trying to make the power of exponents sound interesting with his inflection. Sarah very carefully drew a design of branching leaves around another sum.
“I just honestly can’t see what they see in that Sarah girl,” Pamela said in exasperation.
Neither can I, Sarah thought, suddenly breathless. She had to really blink to repress a sniff. She started worrying about what would happen when the class was over—would Pam or Rachel glance behind them when they walked out? If they did, it was going to be agonizingly embarrassing for all of them. And what about later? She had art class with Pamela, for pity’s sake. How was Sarah supposed to act then?
Sarah moved ahead of Mr. Osford’s lesson, copying questions from the board and solving them. She scribbled a gigantic Venus flytrap looming over the last equation.
Despite the hurt Sarah felt from Pam and Rachel’s remarks, Sarah knew what was really going to happen. Kierlan, with his dark red hair, tawny eyes, and cheerful face, would definitely be the one to bring up the dance. He’d be sure to act as if they were all going to the dance together, if only as a joke. Everything was a joke to Kierlan. He’d ask when Sarah wanted to head off to “do-si-do” or “get down and boogie.”
And then Mal would ask, coolly, if Kierlan had actually asked Sarah to the dance or if he was just making assumptions again. Sarah could almost hear Mal saying it. Mal was the opposite of Kierlan. Sleek, dark-haired, always perfectly dressed, with eyes that were like windows into the early morning sky, he’d definitely ask if Kierlan was making assumptions.
And then Kierlan would say that he and Sarah were too close for him to have to ask about every little dance. “So if you’re planning to ask her,” Kierlan would say to Mal, one arm casually thrown around Sarah’s shoulders, “go right ahead.”
And then both of them would look at Sarah for justification.
“You’re not really going with this jerk?” Mal would say. “You know I’ve warned you about him. He’s an animal.”
And Kierlan would say, “But Sarah loves animals, don’t you, Sarah?” Except, of course, that Kierlan almost never called her Sarah. He used the nickname he’d given her when she was five.
This nickname would both muddle Sarah’s feelings and melt her heart. Then Sarah would look up helplessly at Mal, who would say that Kierlan was using undue influence, and that Sarah’s decision should be entirely free of prejudice.
And somewhere in all this, the fact that Mal never—ever—actually asked Sarah to go with him, either, would get lost. And it would end the way it always did: with the three of them going together, the guys alternating turns buying Sarah flowers. And the three of them would spend most of the dance talking—and trying to keep Kierlan from slipping “a little something” into the punch bowl.
“So what color are you going to wear? Mal’s not going to have much time if you wait around till the last minute,” Rachel whispered, making it sound as if the deal was done, the arrangements already made.
Sarah thought of the lovely little homecoming dress that she had bought two weeks ago. It was aquamarine, to match her eyes, and she’d bought it knowing—assuming that she knew—exactly how the scene with Mal and Kierlan would play out.
Except … maybe things wouldn’t happen the same way this year. Mal and Kierlan were seniors now; Sarah was only a junior. Maybe being a senior was more serious and things were going to be different this year.
The thought made her heart pound, and Sarah knew she couldn’t stand much more of this. Class was almost over but—what if Pamela turned around? What if Pam realized she had overheard their entire conversation? What would Sarah say?
“I’ve got something in basic black; that ought to be easy to match,” Pamela said. “What about you?”
“I bought something creamy—sort of ivory,” Rachel said with a pat to her long dark hair. “Also easy to match.”
Somehow that did it. That short exchange about the dresses, already bought and waiting—just like hers. Sarah suddenly heard someone speaking aloud, in a conversational voice, and then with a slight shock realized it was her own.
“Mal always wears black—but he doesn’t like it on girls,” Sarah said, watching Pam and Rachel start and turn to look at Sarah. “At least not since—,” Sarah began, but discovered she couldn’t finish her sentence. At least not since my mother’s funeral, Sarah thought.
Now that Sarah was this far in, she turned to Rachel and said, just as loudly, “And if you’re going to wear ivory around Kierlan, you’re going to come home covered in punch.”
There was a moment of perfect silence, and then Mr. Osford rapped sharply on his desk. “Pamela Adams, Rachel Carr!” he called. “Sarah … um, Strange! Are you three looking for a detention?”
Sarah, embarrassed as she was to find everyone in class looking in her direction, felt slightly vindicated.
Then, to her horror, she smelled roses. A shaft of pain shot through her head and she shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Oh no! Not now! She couldn’t have a migraine here.
Automatically, Sarah’s other hand flew up. She lifted her head to see Mr. Osford shaking his head
as if to say “give me a break.” He looked to Rachel and Pamela, as if expecting their hands to go up too, but they sat stiffly, flushed, staring straight ahead like extras in a movie scene.
Sarah knew from experience that she was fighting the clock now. If she couldn’t stop the migraine in the next minute or so, she wouldn’t be able to hold it off at all. Without waiting for permission and with her vision already edged with sparkling silver, she stood up—and knocked her math book off her desk.
Sarah could hear scattered laughter, not really unkind laughter, but she didn’t have the mental balance at the moment to judge fairly. All she knew was that she had to get out of this class.
Abandoning her books, trailing her backpack, Sarah hurried to the end of the row of desks. The pain in her head was coming more and more frequently, and she heard Mr. Osford say, “Sarah, I’m sure you can wait for the restroom for another six minutes.”
Sarah was no longer paying attention. She lunged toward her goal: the door. Someone she couldn’t see caught at her backpack as if to stop her. Sarah stumbled and there was more laughter. Mr. Osford, who had never had Sarah in a class before this year, asked, suddenly concerned, “Is something wrong?”
Someone else, far away, said, “She gets migraines.”
Sarah found the doorknob by touch; the glittering silver aura now covered half her visual field. She opened the door and slipped through, just in time to hear Mr. Osford saying faintly, “Quiet down, everyone. A migraine is just a headache.”
Not my migraines, Sarah thought grimly as she headed more by instinct than by sight through the empty halls toward the girls’ restroom.
Not even Sarah’s doctors could explain what happened when Sarah’s migraines hit full force. They weren’t classic migraines, but they weren’t classic seizures, either. They didn’t respond to medication.
All Sarah knew was that at the peak of the pain, she lost consciousness and had—nightmares. She had these same nightmares when she was asleep. But Sarah never told anyone about what happened in the nightmares, not even her kindly, sympathetic doctors.
Sarah was afraid that her kindly, sympathetic doctors would have her locked up.
Here was the girls’ restroom. Thank God, she’d made it. She needed hot water. She stood at a sink and began running the water as hot as she could get it, ignoring the two senior girls who were putting on their makeup and talking.
Sarah leaned forward, breathing slowly and feeling the steam on her face. When the water was hot enough, she soaked a handful of paper towels and held them on the back of her neck. Sarah lost track of time. But she realized, gradually, gratefully, that the smell of roses had gone away, and that the shimmering silver covering her vision had retreated. She had caught the migraine early enough to stop it.
But she’d also left the hot water running in the sink. The entire mirror was misted over with steam.
Sarah realized that the older girls were looking at her pointedly. Hastily, she turned the hot water off and used her wad of paper towels to make a vignette in the misted mirror. She tried to shut out the glares of the senior girls as they scrubbed at their glass too.
Doing her best to appear casual, Sarah looked in the mirror. Her aquamarine eyes reflected back, their depths somehow giving the impression of being full of unshed tears.
The rest of her features were also all present and correct. Flushed skin that was usually pink, as she blushed easily. A small nose and a small, determined chin with a dimple. A nice mouth, if she thought so herself, and eyelashes that didn’t require mascara. Hair: light brown and always falling in different configurations over her shoulders.
It was … a gentle face, Sarah thought as she turned away from the mirror. Sarah’s mother had had a small, heart-shaped, gentle face, and Sarah took after her in that.
Sarah sighed, and turned to throw the paper towels into the garbage.
And was engulfed by the smell of roses.
CHAPTER 2
Wings
It happened all in an instant: the shaft of pain coursing through her head, holding her frozen again.
The smell of roses filled her nostrils, almost sickly sweet, much stronger than it had been in the classroom.
Sarah clutched feebly at a sink. Oh God, she thought wildly, this isn’t fair! But her vision had already narrowed to a small circle, and she couldn’t ignore the scent of warm, full-blown rose blossoms. They were so real she could almost see them. Sarah was going to have a migraine—right now—and somewhere down there was a very hard tiled floor.
She turned as another lance of agony shot through her head. Sarah was trying to get into a stall where there was privacy, when suddenly both of the senior girls screamed. The door had just burst open and a boy walked inside.
“This is the girls’ restroom!” one of the seniors cried in outrage.
The boy answered indifferently, “Well, that’s what I’m here to find: a girl.”
The two seniors were still shrieking at him in fury and shock as Sarah tried to take a step forward. All she could see, in the center of her glimmering tunnel, was a tall boy with dark hair and chiseled features in a rather pale face. She saw eyes so light gray that they almost weren’t a color, and two arms held out to catch her.
“Mal,” Sarah heard herself whisper, and then, without question or hesitation, she let herself fall forward into the darkness.
And as she went, Sarah realized that today’s migraine-nightmare was going to be a bad one. It started with wings.
* * *
Wings.
Crispy was squatting on her haunches at the far edge of the bone-yard. The white shape she had been staring at for the past few minutes was not some sheet of amazingly clean paper dumped from the Grand House. It was an animal. An animal with wings—a bird. She was proud of knowing that fact, and even more proud of knowing what kind of bird it was.
A pidge-un, Old Useless had told them when she described it. Not all things with wings were Masters, the old woman had explained to them. Not all things with wings meant death.
In the old days, Useless said, there had been lots of birds in the sky, the blue sky. That was before the Masters had purged the animals, of course, and darkened the sky, making it forever gray.
Despite her bragging rights, Crispy was deeply grateful that in the plump, gently curving shape of the pigeon, she could discern no sign of wings at all. Even knowing it was not a Master, she didn’t think she could watch wings unfold without shrieking. And, considering the predators that lived in the boneyard, one shriek would mean her death.
Okay, so you’ve seen a bird. Now get back to work, said Crispy’s mind, or, more accurately, said one half of Crispy’s mind. It was the half that she privately called Smart Crispy, who knew what was really important and what wasn’t. Important was surviving, gathering food, and most especially not getting caught and put back into the fawn pens where the little kids were kept to be fattened.
Important was not a bird.
Still, she sat. It’s alive. It moves by itself, the other half of Crispy’s mind marveled. This part was the part she labeled Dumb Crispy. Dumb Crispy was slow, but stubborn. What does it hurt if I sit here and watch the bird for a minute? it asked.
Crispy tried to remember other things Old Useless had told her about birds. Useless could tell you lots of things if she was in the mood; you just didn’t want to get too close to her mumbling, toothless mouth. Useless’d lived her life in one of the crazies’ pens, but somehow she had avoided the selections, and somehow she had escaped from the pen during the chaos of the Grand Hunt, the Hunt when Crispy had been burned. Old Useless’d cared for Crispy then. Now Crispy cared for her. A debt was a debt: that was an iron rule.
Besides, half the time Old Useless said that they were family. Sometimes she said she was Crispy’s grandmother, sometimes her great-gran, and sometimes even her mother, a clear impossibility. It was probably all nonsense, but the thought that Crispy might really have a relative, even a crazy, white-haired usele
ss old woman, made her feel warm.
And that’s the kind of thought that gets you killed, Smart Crispy snapped. Can you imagine what Roach would say to that?
Dumb Crispy wasn’t completely dumb. She was sampling the twilight constantly, instinctively. She was sniffing the air, opening her mouth so she could smell better, listening, glancing all around her, checking with all her senses for danger.
She hadn’t reached the ripe old age of eight and a half by not paying attention.
Of course, she’d very nearly not reached that age. Crispy grinned, stretching some of the red scars on her cheek, and glanced down at her hands. One was full of graybread, the coarse, springy fungus that grew here and provided most of the food Crispy scavenged every day.
Her other hand was her baby hand. It was curled and stunted by the fire that had given her these scars, and it looked completely helpless. Old Useless was the one who had exercised Crispy’s hand using herbs and poultices to take away the pain. Old Useless also claimed to be a witch and said she’d used the last of her witchlight to help Crispy, but Useless said so many different things that it was impossible to know what to believe.
However it was, by luck or chance or Old Useless’s magic, Crispy had one good arm and one that looked withered but could do everything the other could. Like the two halves of her mind, the two halves of Crispy’s body were divided, one normal, and one puckered with angry burn scars from her dusty towhead to her small, rag-bound feet.
Right now Smart Crispy was coming up with an idea that appalled Dumb Crispy. So you want to watch the pigeon? it said. Okay, I’ll watch too. And I’ll tell you something: there’s meat on that bird’s breast. Meat! Remember how long it’s been since you tasted meat? Can you remember?
Dumb Crispy could feel her heart pound. The bird was harmless; it was free. It could get out of the valley, flying over the boneyard, over the hills that surrounded the Grand House and the farm that belonged to it.