Sunblind

by Michael Griffo

  Archie’s violet eyes retain their beauty, but they lose a little bit of their sympathy. “You don’t even know what reconnaissance means,” he accuses.

  “I do too!”

  “Define?” Archie challenges.

  Suddenly I’m twelve years old again, and I’m in front of Miss Kelleher’s class, and I have to explain the difference between i.e. and e.g. I say to Archie what I finally said to Miss Kelleher. “May I be dismissed because I really have to pee?”

  “Cross your legs,” Archie answers back, which, ironically, is the exact same thing Miss Kelleher told me.

  Ignoring both of us, Arla backtracks. “Dom, what were you doing out of your cage?” she asks. “I thought that nonsense with Luba unlocking it had stopped?”

  There’s no way I can tell them the truth; they won’t understand. Involuntarily, my mind races back to my past again, and I decide to give Arla the same answer I gave Miss Kelleher. The only difference is that back then it was the truth, now it’s a lie. “I don’t know.”

  Archie, for one, isn’t buying it. “I thought you said you now remember everything about your transformations?”

  “Most everything,” I say confidently, because I’m finally speaking the truth. “Not every tiny, micro-cific detail about the entire night.”

  Then I do something I don’t like to do, something that doesn’t make me feel proud, but I concoct yet another lie. This time, it’s one that plays upon their sympathies.

  “Barnaby probably confided in Luba about what he and Louis were going to do,” I start. “And she seized the opportunity to make the night a victory for them by unlocking my cage again.”

  This does the trick; I can see it in their eyes. They feel bad, ashamed for verbally attacking me when just last night my brother, Arla’s father, and their band of merry avengers were hoping to attack me physically. My, um, fabrication of last night’s events has served its purpose: Arla and Archie think I’m telling the truth, so they’re embarrassed when I’m the one who should be ashamed.

  “Kind of gives new meaning to the word awkward,” Archie says, now playing with his food instead of eating it. “What with your new sister’s father trying to kill you.”

  “My dad isn’t trying to kill Dominy,” Arla objects. “Per se.”

  “Is that French?” Archie asks.

  This time Arla doesn’t ignore Archie’s comment, only his tone. “Yes, it means that my father wouldn’t be spearheading the witch hunt if he knew the witch was Dominy.”

  “Dominy is definitely not a witch.”

  Three heads snap in the same direction, and we see Nadine standing at the end of the lunch table looking like a very perturbed hall monitor. Draped over her de rigueur Two W polo, she’s wearing a pink cardigan sweater that’s held together by a jeweled clasp in shimmering sapphire. I’m a little surprised by Nadine’s choice of accessory since a) her sweater is pushing the school wardrobe policy, b) normally she’s a by-the-books kind of girl, not an envelope pusher, and most important, c) she’s not a fashion trendsetter. Maybe it’s simply that everybody got the memo that the first day of school was Retro Day except me.

  That’s not the only surprise. Even though the decibel level in the cafeteria is at an all-time high, since everyone is catching up with the exciting things they did on their summer vacations, we were speaking in really low whispers in case someone decided to listen in to our conversation. Obviously we need to take a remedial class in Whispering: 101 to fine-tune our skills, since Nadine had no problem overhearing us. And by the way she’s glaring at us, it’s obvious, though unreasonable, that she doesn’t like what she’s heard.

  Sitting in the seat next to Archie, Nadine is gripping her lunch tray tightly, and I can hear her white sneakers squeak underneath the table. I’m not sure if she’s nervous or if she has that weird restless-leg syndrome disease that I personally thought was a Saturday Night Live skit when I first saw the commercial. Or more likely, having to deal with my affliction on top of all the nutcases she has to work with at The Retreat is finally getting to her.

  “Dominy isn’t a witch; she’s a werewolf,” Nadine explains unnecessarily. “There is a huge difference.”

  “And thank God for that!” Arla exclaims. “Witches are evil.”

  Slowly, Nadine turns to look at Arla as if she’s getting ready to tell off a guy who’s just made a pass at her even though I don’t think Nadine has had any experience in that department.

  “Does the name Glinda the good witch ring a bell?” Nadine asks, in a smug, patronizing voice.

  Pointing a forkful of chocolate cake in Nadine’s direction, Archie is still playing with his food, but this time it’s because he’s excited, not embarrassed. “I j’adore Glinda!” he cries, trying to sound as French as Arla. “I mean how can you not j’adore someone who travels by bubble?!”

  My friend’s got a point that I can’t argue with, but my other friend wants to take her point and burst Archie’s bubble.

  “Glinda is just as evil as the Wicked Witch of the West and every other spell-casting, hook-nosed, demon-worshipping witch in real life and on the printed page!” Arla sermonizes. “In fact she’s worse!”

  Judging by the ominous way Nadine is now glaring at Arla, she clearly finds Arla’s hypothesis incomprehensible. I would be alarmed if Archie didn’t share Nadine’s opinion.

  “How is Glinda worse?!” Archie asks, chocolate cake spewing out of his mouth. “She’s Glinda . . . the good! It’s right there in her name.”

  “Wrong!” Arla cries. “She should be Glinda the apathetic and passive aggressive.”

  I have no idea what Arla is talking about, but I’m grateful that Witchgate has steered the conversation away from Cage-gate.

  “Arla, you’re very pretty,” Nadine says, even more condescendingly than before. “But you sound like an idiot.”

  Dumb move, Nadine. Arla’s a fashionista and an athlete, but first and foremost she’s a straight A student and prides herself on being intelligent. She doesn’t mind if someone questions her wig choice, but she gets very defensive when anyone questions her thought process.

  “Are you going to sit there and tell me that Glinda’s modus operandi wasn’t to have Dorothy do her bidding and kill the Wicked Witch of the West for her?” Arla asks.

  The question is both so insightful and so absurd that none of us can respond or rebut.

  “Glinda could have told Dorothy to click her heels three times and go home upon Kansas Girl’s arrival in Oz, despite her claims that such an easy resolution would’ve been met with disbelief,” Arla rants. “But noooooo, Glinda instructed her to follow the yellow brick road, which she knew would lead Dorothy to the faux wizard, who she knew would ask Dorothy and her cronies to bring back the witch’s broom, which they could only do if they killed her.” Arla stops only because she has to catch her breath.

  “I hope you’re satisfied!” Archie cries again. “You’ve totally ruined it for me. Now I can see right through Glinda’s bubble.”

  “And what you can see, Archibald,” Arla replies, “is that all witches are evil.”

  “And werewolves aren’t?”

  Nadine’s question is very simple, but also very severe. Not to mention direct and cruel and honest, which, I’m learning, is Nadine’s modus operandi. Where Arla and Archie try to sugarcoat my situation, Nadine sprinkles salt into the wound. Just a pinch, but just enough. She may not always say what I want to hear, but she always says things that I need to hear.

  “Yes, Nadine, they are,” I answer.

  “No, they aren’t!” Arla and Archie reply a second later in my defense.

  “No, she’s right, werewolves are evil.” I add, “If they don’t learn to control their instincts.”

  Arla and Archie appear to be surprised by my comment; Nadine is intrigued.

  “And you’re learning to control yours?” she asks.

  I don’t even have to look at their faces to know that Archie and Arla are shocked and consider Nadine�
�s question and tone unacceptable and harsh. I find it a relief. How wonderful to have found someone who, like Jess, will always speak the truth. Someone who will always confront me so I can confront my own reality. Without getting too sentimental, her arrival in my life is a godsend.

  “I am, Nadine,” I admit. “I’m not all the way there yet, don’t know if I’ll ever be able to control such primal urges, but I’m getting better at being the stronger one in this interspecies relationship.”

  When Nadine smiles, her face softens and her body relaxes. Maybe it’s an East Coast thing, but she really is high-strung and always takes longer to calm down than the rest of us. Too bad, because when she lets down her guard she’s pretty. Even if she’s still pretty blunt.

  “So nothing against your father, Arla,” Nadine starts, “but how in the world did he even figure out that last night was a good night for hunting?”

  “That’s something else I missed!” Arla shouts, pounding her fist on the lunch table. “Maybe I’m not as smart as I think I am?”

  “No, maybe your dad isn’t as non-smart as we all think he is,” I say. “He probably did his detective thing, connected the dots, and realized all the killings took place on nights when there was a full moon.”

  One cotton-candy-colored fingernail moves back and forth in the air. “That doesn’t make sense,” Arla remarks.

  “Sure it does,” Archie continues. “Your dad is Creole, so he not only has a lot of mixed races in his blood, he’s got superstition too.”

  Shaking her head and scrunching up her face, Arla isn’t buying Archie’s logic either. “My father is Creole in the kitchen, but he’s no Sherlock on the clock,” she starts. “I really don’t think this is something he would’ve deduced on his own.”

  “But he’s desperate to solve the murders,” I say.

  I feel a hand on mine; it’s Arla’s. When she continues speaking, her voice is as soft as her touch.

  “With your dad being one of the victims, my father is too close to the situation to think clearly,” she whisper-states. “Plus, he wants to solve this case so badly he wouldn’t act on such a bizarre clue on his own for fear of being ridiculed. No, someone else must have convinced him that the full moon holds the key.”

  So who is Louis’s confidante? Who is his very own Iago? Before I can suggest my brother as a prime candidate, I feel a gentle breeze, like someone blowing warm air across my earlobe. It’s a wonderful feeling, soft, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wings.

  I look up, and the good feeling is crushed, replaced with the icy sensation of dread, because standing in the archway to the cafeteria is Napoleon. When he sees me staring at him, he turns and flutters away. He might have fled, but the dreadful feeling remains.

  Chapter 2

  Just like a wolf I control my primitive urges and keep silent. I don’t throw Napoleon’s name into the suspect bin for group discussion. I keep my suspicions to myself. But very quickly I regret my decision. A wolf may be a very patient animal; a sixteen-year-old girl not so much.

  Two class periods later I’m standing in the gym wearing the standard Two W gym uniform—white T-shirt with the words Weeping Water spelled out in navy lettering and navy shorts with white piping—finding it difficult to maintain both my fashion sense and my composure. I can’t do anything about my lame wardrobe, but I have got to get Nadine’s attention to ask her if she thinks her brother could be Louis’s informant. The problem is Miss Rolenski takes gym class very seriously, and even though it’s day one of the new school year, she’s already starting to prepare us for some recently implemented state-wide athletic test we have to take before the end of the semester. I guess government officials have given up trying to improve our minds and have shifted their focus onto our bodies.

  She’s split up the class into several groups that are supposed to be random, but were clearly organized by physical abilities. Of course Miss Ro has put me in Group A. I’m not complaining; it’s just that I can’t help feeling like a fraud. I’ve never been as naturally gifted as Arla when it comes to sports, but as a side effect of my transformations, my athletic prowess has increased dramatically. So my inclusion in this top group is a bit of a hollow victory, sort of like winning a gold medal at the Olympics because you’re steroidinal. Earned or not, there isn’t anything I can do about my current top-tier placement without drawing extra attention to myself. Anyway, my problem isn’t with Miss Ro; it’s with Nadine.

  Most days, Nadine shows up to gym class with a pass from Nurse Nelson allowing her to skip gym due to some undisclosed medical reason or she gets to leave school early to volunteer at The Retreat. She’s one of those girls who spends more time in the bleachers during gym class than actually participating in an activity, and she has not given Miss Ro any reason to think she has mastered eye-hand coordination. The one day I need Nadine to sit on the sidelines so I can have easy access to her, she’s decided to actively participate.

  As expected, Miss Ro has put her in Group C, the group of the physically unfit, which is super annoying, because now Nadine and I are separated by an entire group of mediocre B-level athletes, so there’s no way I can speak with her. If only Nadine considered physical skills as important as a superior intellect, if only the state didn’t feel it necessary to give us yet another test to pass, and if only I hadn’t tried to be Miss Congeniality and had asked Nadine about her brother when I had the chance, then I wouldn’t be so pissed off.

  But sometimes wolf-like patience has its benefits and opportunity falls right into your lap. Or right next to you.

  After blowing on her whistle louder than necessary, Miss Ro makes the three groups form a circle around the circumference of the gym. Defying all tenets of popularity and mathematical logic, Group A winds up standing right next to Group C. It’s royally unheard of, but the stars align so the Two W starlets are right next to the losers, which is exactly what I need so I can finally talk to Nadine and ask her the question that’s been burning a hole in my brain since lunchtime.

  Meandering to the left end of Group A, I try to catch Nadine’s gaze, but she must have decided to turn over a new leaf this year, because she appears to be truly interested in physical fitness. She has to pick today of all days to pay attention to Miss Ro?! She’s not looking at me, and if I didn’t know better I’d say she was deliberately ignoring me. Maybe she’s actually embarrassed to be in GOT-PU, the Group of the Physically Unfit, not that she knows that’s what we A-listers call it. Then again she is really smart; she might have figured it out on her own.

  Shaking my head I try to clear my thoughts, rid myself of my internal monologue so I can concentrate on getting Nadine to work her way over to the right side of her group, so we’ll be next to each other. Leave it to The Hog to save the day.

  Standing in the middle of the middle group, Gwenevere Schültzenhoggen, known to the student population as The Hog, raises her hand in the middle of Miss Ro’s speech about how we need to fight obesity before obesity makes us unfit to fight. First of all, who raises their hand in gym class? Second of all, since The Hog is almost as broad as she is tall, she just has to breathe to be noticed; hand-raising is superfluous. But her father is German and her mother is Korean, so she’s had a very strict upbringing; adhering to rules is in her blood.

  “Miss Rolenski?”

  “Yes, Gwenevere,” Miss Ro replies, unable to hide her displeasure at being interrupted.

  “What kind of a test is this going to be?” The Hog asks. “Qualitative or quantitative?”

  “Says Quasimodo!”

  Ouch! That’s even more brutal than The Hog. Leave it to Rayna Delgado to make me see the error of my ways. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t like Rayna; she really is a superbitch, and she’s made me see that I’m not that far behind. Gwen—as the girl formerly known as The Hog will henceforth be dubbed—cannot help that she inherited her father’s strong, brawny, and unfortunately unfeminine German DNA. She’s a good kid, and even though she’s 5’11”, she’s got the con
fidence to wear high heels. For that reason alone she should have my support, and if I didn’t have my own problem to solve I would come to Gwen’s defense, but luckily Miss Ro is already lecturing Rayna about mutual respect, female-to-female support, and the fact that Rayna should work better at covering up her neck pimples before she makes fun of someone else.

  While the rest of the class is laughing and joining in the impromptu and unorthodox girl-power assembly, I make my move.

  “Nadine!” I power-whisper.

  How can Nadine possibly be more interested in Gwen’s plight than mine? I don’t care if she doesn’t know that I have a plight; she’s supposed to be my friend, and friends come before the downtrodden.

  “Naaaa-diiiiiiine!”

  Still nothing! All she’s doing is staring daggers at Rayna, who’s freaking out because she swears her neck was pimple-free at the start of class and now it looks like a Jackson Pollock painting if, of course, the man only used red paint. I’d feel sorry for her if I wasn’t so determined. I pull a barrette out of my hair—placed there this morning because I’m having an extra-frizzy hair day—aim, toss, and hit my target. Grabbing her shoulder, Nadine finally turns in my direction, wearing an expression that can only be described as one big scowl.

  “Come here!” I order.

  Bounding over to the far end of Group C, Nadine won’t let go of her shoulder. She’s acting like she’s pressing down on a gunshot wound. Seriously, the girl is weak; she should know what it feels like to have every limb break and then point in the opposite direction. That’s pain.

  “What did you do that for?” she whines.

  “I was trying to get your attention, and you only had eyes for Rayna,” I snipe.

  For a second Nadine’s eyes cloud over as if she didn’t hear me properly or as if she did hear me and hates me for what I’ve said. Repeating the statement silently to myself, I realize she might have gotten the impression that I think she’s kind of hot for Rayna, which she might not consider a compliment. The noise quotient around me is starting to dissipate since Miss Ro, as usual, is taking control of the situation, which means my time is running out. I hear a very loud voice reverberate inside of my skull, and its tone is not pleasant: Ask your question, Dominy!