“That’s a good idea,” Krystal says, her voice bringing me back to the current conversation.
“Can’t,” I add, chewing on yet another celery stick. My mom might not know what classes I’m taking this semester or my favorite color, but she knows what size clothes I wear and will bust a button in her designer suits if she finds out I’m eating anything other than health food.
“C’mon, Sasha,” Jake whines. “This is important. You remember Krystal’s vision. It’s coming for us, for everybody.”
Krystal is a medium. She can see, hear and talk to ghosts. And just recently we found out that she has visions. However, we aren’t all that sure whether those visions are of the past or the future. The Darkness, that’s what we call the black fog and the blackbirds that seem to always flock around us. It’s some type of evil. That much we all agree on. How to fight it is the question.
“I know. I know. But my parents are having this cocktail party thing and I have to be there.”
“You never go to their parties,” Jake argues.
And he’s right. I always try to get out of going to whatever gatherings my parents are having, because I already know I’ll be bored out of my mind. Not to mention they never care if I’m there or not. But a couple weeks ago, right around the time we came into our powers and this freaky dark cloud started surrounding us, my mom started asking me questions about some of the kids at school. Other Richies, of course, because those are the only people my parents care about. The other day I found out why they’ve been asking all those questions. They want me to be some kind of recruiter of the rich kids at school for this new exclusive club they are starting. I don’t want to be bothered, but don’t really have a choice.
“Look, I just have to be at this thing with them or they’ll freak. So Jake, did you bring the journal?”
“Yeah,” he answers, taking another bite of food. He pulls it out of his backpack and pushes it across the table to me. “What do you need it for? We’ve all read it over and over again and agreed there aren’t any new clues in there.”
I was already flipping through the pages, looking for the letter. “I’ve got another lead. Remember we read the letter from Mary Burroughs that seemed to connect us to the Salem Witch Trials.”
“Mary was hanged for being a witch,” Krystal said.
I nodded. “But I don’t think she was a witch at all. I think she was a Mystyx.”
“You’ve said that before.”
Then I find the letter and gingerly pull it out of the book. The paper is very thin and fragile, like it would crumble into pieces at any moment. I lift my arms, tilting back so that the letter is in a direct line with the fluorescent light.
“Wow,” I sigh as I spy what I suspect Fatima wanted me to see.
“What are you doing?”
I look at Jake and Krystal. “I found this practicing wiccan online. She lives in Bridgeport. Anyway, I asked her a couple of questions about our powers and I told her about the journal we found. She wrote back and told me to hold the letter up to the light and to get back to her with what I saw.”
Jake frowns. Krystal put down her soda can. “And what do you see?”
“Look for yourself,” I say, handing them the letter.
Since I already read it I’m mulling over the possible meanings. It reads:
In another time, in another place, power reigns supreme over the entire race.
Yet some were bold, resisting the warnings told.
Now the dark rises amongst innocent cries and only those bathed in the light shall break the ties.
Behind the written words is a watermark—the letter M, which looks exactly like our birthmarks.
“I don’t get it,” Jake says.
Krystal looks as confused as I am. “Did you see the M?”
“I saw it,” Jake says, “but I still don’t get it.”
“A curse? Maybe the Darkness that’s following us is the curse?” I add.
“So now we have a letter from a witch, powers connected to a storm and a curse,” says Krystal, and she’s getting that faraway look she gets when she’s thinking. “What else did the witch say?”
“She said to get back to her with what I found on the back of this letter.”
Jake nods. “So you email her back and tell her. But how do you know she’s safe?”
“Because nothing I’m saying so far is credible. No one will believe her,” I quip. “Look, Jake, I know you’re afraid of people finding out we have powers and the repercussions of that. But right now, nobody is even aware of anything being wrong around here. I’m just trying to get us some answers. The more we know about why we have these powers, the better we’ll be able to fight whatever is after us.”
“I agree,” Krystal says. “Email her tonight and see what she says. Then tomorrow we definitely need to go to the library to see what we can find about curses in Greek mythology.”
“Why about Greek mythology?” I ask, because I’m thinking that maybe the witch in Bridgeport can give us some answers.
“Because it says that the heroes are bathed in the water and in the light. The River Styx,” she says waiting for us to catch on.
“The heroes are bathed in the river?” Jake asks. “That’s not possible. The river circled the Underworld serving as the border between earth and the Underworld. It was like some sort of black ash. Nobody could swim through that.”
Krystal shakes her head. “Not true. Achilles’s mother dipped him into the River Styx. Every part of him except the heel of his foot, and it made him invulnerable to every place the water touched.”
I shake my head, not satisfied with this explanation. “But we weren’t even living during the time of the River Styx. How could this relate to us and our powers in today’s world?”
“I don’t know,” Krystal says. “But there’s got to be a way—genetics or something.”
“I doubt my family tree goes back to the Greek gods,” I say, taking the letter from Jake.
“Mine either. Still, it opens another door. We should check it out,” he says.
Jake closes the journal and puts it back in his bag.
Krystal is nodding in agreement. “Okay, tomorrow it is. My mother wants me to go to Bible study tonight anyway.”
“Bible study!” Jake frowns. “I didn’t know you went to church.”
“We used to. I mean, my grandmother on my father’s side always made me go when we visited her. And my mother joined a church when we were in New York. We haven’t been since moving here. But she started going like two weeks ago and really wants me to join her.”
“Great, your parents are dragging you to church and mine are dressing me up to smile and play nice at a party. I really wish they’d get a clue.”
“Who doesn’t like a party?” Lindsey Yi chimes in. She’s the new girl at Settleman’s High. She joins our table and immediately starts talking.
We met Lindsey the night of the spring dance. That night she was hitting on Jake like he was drenched in honey and she was queen bee. The memory of how exasperated Jake looked as Lindsey was gyrating her body against him still made me giggle.
Ever since that night, Lindsey has been popping up wherever we are, which probably isn’t a good thing because, with all the freaky stuff going on around us, she might see something she doesn’t understand. Although, I swear, the girl never stops talking long enough to see anything other than the words coming out of her mouth.
Case in point, she’s still chattering away even though none of us have said hello or gotten a word in edgewise.
“At my last school we had a dance every month. There was always a theme to the dances like a masquerade ball, a black-and-white party, a slumber party. Like I said, everybody loves to party. I don’t get that Lincoln is like that, though. Seems a little more uptight here than it was in Milan.” She shrugs. “Guess that might be a cultural thing.”
I almost choke trying to swallow my bottled water. Did she just say a “cultural” thing? I’m pre
tty sure she’s Chinese. I’m half Argentinean. Jake’s white and Krystal’s part Native American, part African-American. Could our little table be any more diverse?
“It’s a private party,” Jake says in a tone that’s unlike him. Lindsey makes him uncomfortable. I wonder if that means he likes her—I mean, likes her.
“Just a little get-together that my parents are having,” I say, trying to defuse the tension. Even though Lindsey doesn’t look like she’s bothered by what Jake says at all.
She just waves a hand as if dismissing Jake altogether. “That’s fine. I was just saying that we used to have parties all the time. Anyway, what else do you guys do around here to have fun?”
Fun? In Lincoln? Was there any? Not that I can think of.
When nobody answers right away, Lindsey just shrugs. “I understand how you feel, Sasha.”
“What?” I say because I haven’t said anything, and I’m totally lost as to what she’s talking about.
“You don’t want to go to the party, don’t want to be bothered with your parents and their fake friends. Actually, it’s still a mystery to you why they even want you there.”
And how did she know all that? “Ah, yeah, I guess,” I say, stumbling over my words as I stare at her.
She’s short, I mean shorter than both me and Krystal, which means she’s got to be like five feet two or three inches. Her hair is long and jet black and hangs straight down her back. Her bangs are cut stylishly long so that it looks like she can barely see. Yet she’s looking at me as if she can see right through me. Strange.
The bell rings, and Jake quickly jumps up from the table first. “Gotta go,” he says but then waits for Krystal to get up.
But as Krystal gets up, we’re joined by another student. I’d been wondering where Franklin was. After the spring dance he’d almost become a member of our little clique.
Franklin Bryant is Krystal’s boyfriend now. Most lunch periods Franklin sits with us, his arm around Krystal’s chair while Jake watches them both out of the corner of his eye. Now Jake’s frowning as Franklin’s arm—as expected—snakes around Krystal’s shoulder.
“Hey, ready for afternoon classes?” Franklin asks in that geeklike voice of his. He’s not really a geek just because his father is the local weatherman, and he talks about storms and high pressure fronts more than anything else. I guess they make a cute couple.
“Not at all,” Krystal says, smiling and grabbing her books. “I’ve got American History with Alyssa Turner.”
Lindsey opens her mouth and sticks a finger inside like she’s gagging. “I don’t know what’s worse, history or Alyssa.”
Alyssa Turner is the resident bitch at Settleman’s High. She hates any-and everyone who doesn’t live in Sea Point, the neighborhood where all the other Richies live. Because I live only two doors down from her, I guess that puts me square on her BFF list. Woo-hoo, for me.
“I’ve got Chemistry,” I say, smiling at Lindsey. She’s different from anyone else in Lincoln. And I don’t know why, but I’m starting to like her.
“Oh,” Franklin says, pausing.
He and Krystal are walking in front of me and Lindsey. Jake is lagging behind me. So when Franklin stops, all of us stop.
“Did you guys hear about the kids that are missing?”
Krystal immediately frowns. “No. What are you talking about?”
Franklin sort of shrugs. “I just got a tweet on Twitter,” he says motioning toward his cell phone that’s stuck in his front pocket. “It just said that this bus from Pennsylvania full of kids on some kind of religious retreat was due back two days ago. None of the parents have talked to their kids and the bus driver last checked in with the bus company on Friday afternoon.”
“That’s way weird,” Lindsey says in a quiet tone. She’s holding her books in one hand, but the other hand moves to her temple where her fingers are massaging. “I hope they’re all right.”
The second warning bell rings, and we all start walking to class. At first, everything seems routine just like any other school day. Except I know it isn’t. I feel it deep inside. I have a sick sense that nothing is ever going to be the same again.
five
The dining room and half the veranda that wraps around the first floor of our house had been transformed while I was at school. Mouse brought me straight home as per my mom’s instructions. Coming through the front door, I hear the sound of crystal clinking as the caterers prepare for the party.
There are at least twenty people dressed in black pants and black polo shirts with the catering company logo milling around the house. Strangers, is all I can think, as I bypass my usual trip to the kitchen for a snack. Casietta always has something for me to eat after school, something that isn’t precisely on my mom’s list of healthy diet food. Hey, I’m all for healthy, but every once in a while I’d like to eat something that really tastes good.
My mother’s ban on any food that’s remotely appealing is killing me. I love cheeseburgers, absolutely adore them. Casietta knows this, and at least twice a month she makes sure she fixes one especially for me. In Casietta’s mind, if she fixes it, there’s no way it can be unhealthy. Now, I don’t know exactly what she puts into it, but it’s pretty good. However, nothing beats a value meal, which Jake and I order most of the times we visit the one and only mall near Lincoln.
Today I’ll have to forgo the snack. My mom’s home. I hear her voice trilling through the rooms downstairs. She’s giving orders, making arrangements, all the things she does best. I’m going to my room. In less than four hours I have to put on this stupid outfit she purchased and go downstairs to mingle with people I barely know and probably won’t like. I guess I shouldn’t say that since I really don’t know who’s coming to this party. Lincoln’s rich and famous is what Mom had said. The classy and elite is what Dad called them. I’m thinking they’re probably all stuck-up and snooty and boring as hell.
I slam my door closed and drop my books to the floor. Homework is a thought, but I can usually do that in the car on the way to school. I just plop down on my bed staring up at the ceiling instead. Before long, it’s time to shower and change my clothes. I do this reluctantly, moving as slow as I possibly can, until ultimately, it’s time to go and get this night over with.
So this is it. Taking the stairs one at a time, I cringe at the sound the black taffeta hoopskirt is making. After putting it on, I realized it didn’t look as bad on me as it did hanging on the closet door. I think it’s the extended one-inch hem of turquoise crinoline that peeks from beneath the dark skirt that stops just below my knees. Still, it’s noisy. The blouse is a wraparound, turquoise, of course. My mom’s great at coordinating outfits. That’s probably why my closet is overflowing with clothes. That’s one gene I can proudly say I’ve inherited from her. I like shopping for clothes too. And since there isn’t much else to do in Lincoln, I spend a lot of time shopping online or from catalogs. A couple times a year, my mother goes to the city with my father and brings back carloads full of clothes, but I’ve never gone with her. I’ve never been out of Lincoln, not since they brought me here when I was a little baby.
I don’t have any more time to think about clothes or what’s outside of Lincoln. Guests have already started to arrive. I see two couples stepping into the front door, Casietta dressed in her best pressed black-and-white uniform, dutifully taking the women’s wraps and directing people toward the dining room.
My parents are going to freak. They wanted me downstairs and by their side with a polite smile on my face at ten minutes after seven. It’s now seven thirty-five. I was dressed at seven o’clock and purposely waited in my room, wondering if either one of them would come to get me. Obviously not.
Ignoring Casietta’s warning glare, I fall in step behind the two couples. The men are older with salt-and-pepper colored hair. The women are older too but more vain about admitting it, so their faces are pinched and lifted and tucked. They’ve definitely paid their plastic surgeons a bundle of m
oney. The one lady has a deep V in her dress showing more cleavage than should be legally allowed at her age because, while the silicone breasts are plump and riding high, the liver spots marching across her collar bone are kind of disgusting in contrast.
They’re already whispering, probably about the house and all the expensive paintings and furniture. That’s exactly what my parents want. It’s kind of sickening to think I come from two such shallow people, but I guess we don’t get to pick and choose our creators.
That thought has me thinking back to the Mystyx, which seems to be a constant on my mind lately. There’s so much I don’t know about this power I have. So much I want, no, actually need to know. I feel like there’s this part of me that’s foreign, like another person or entity entirely lives inside of me. For that reason alone I have to find answers to my questions or risk losing my mind.
I’m drawn to the moon. I know this. I’ve always been drawn to the moon. I wonder if that means something.
“Sasha! I’m soooo glad you’re here. The thought of having to go through this entire evening alone with the adults was frightening.”
The sound of her voice could probably be judged as equally scary. Of course I don’t say that out loud. Instead, I turn in her direction, giving the best smile I can muster.
“Hey, Alyssa. Glad you could come.”
Lie.
Well, not exactly. I mean Alyssa Turner is an okay girl, if you’re into her type, which I’m not generally. Still, we’re the same age and like some of the same things, i.e. shopping, shoes and handbags. But I think that’s where our interests end. In the last few months, Alyssa has shown her truest snobbish colors. She’s absolutely obsessed with keeping the social wars alive and kicking in Lincoln. While, I think social and any other type of segregation is straight B.S.!
Mystify Page 3