Second Skin (Skinned)

by Graves, Judith

  Someone killed the lights, the shock of it made Brit and me gasp. We exchanged a mutual eye roll at our edginess.

  “Okay guys, we have a short video to watch first,” Mr. Wilson said from his desk.

  A glow emanated from the interactive whiteboard at the front of the classroom, then, it began. Muzak and a smarmy voiceover announcing: The Reality Babes program is the ultimate infant simulator. It digitally records and monitors how the infant is cared for, achieving the best educational results. We give your students a realistic caregiver experience they will never forget.

  That couldn’t be good. Experiences you never forgot tended to be horrific, awkward, or excruciatingly painful.

  Brit slid her foot out from under her desk and kicked me. She leaned across the aisle.

  “Can you believe this? We get dolls.” She took in the horror that must have been apparent on my face, even in the low light, and sat back in her chair, her excitement dimmed.

  Prozac-smiling teens flitted across the screen cradling Reality Babes protectively in their arms. This was worse than the sex education video they’d made us watch in fifth grade. I had to take a doll home and care for it like a child? Me. With a doll so lifelike you had to feed it, change its diapers, and other atrocities, or it would scream its head off? I’d fail the class if I didn’t wear the micro-chip implanted bracelet (a.k.a. high-tech spy device) that chained me to the thing and recorded my lack of parenting skills for the world to evaluate?

  Lovely.

  Amidst the alternating snickers from the guys and coos of enchantment from the girls—Brit included—I suffered through the rest of the information video, dreading the moment when Mr. Wilson would do the nasty deed. Hand out the Reality Babes.

  All my instincts clamored at me to bolt from the room, never to return. But I’d taken this class, Career and Life Management, because it was a no-brainer. Lord knew, I needed the padding to bring up my landslide average.

  Going to college might not be in my future, hunting made that highly improbable, but I’d be damned if I wouldn’t graduate. Only one more year of school to get through. As a personal life goal, it probably wasn’t much compared to those who wanted to move on to be lawyers, actors, politicians. But for me, the likelihood of it actually happening was about the same as spindly Daryl Simon bulking up over summer vacation and arriving at school looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Simon was seated three desks away, his arms shaking with effort as he slid his backpack straps over his chair.

  We all had to have our dreams, right? The Reality Babe program wasn’t going to get in the way of mine. I thought of the creepy Victorian doll in the library display case. The night mare and how it loved to make me squirm.

  I really couldn’t see a happy ending here.

  Mr. Wilson called everyone forward to claim a babe. Brit and I stood at the back of the line. Well, I hovered at the back, and Brit stayed with me. She chuckled at the horrified expressions on the guys’ faces as they walked out of class carrying a blue car seat and a brand new techno baby tucked under a puffy pink or blue blanket. I, however, met their fear and raised it by a gazillion.

  “This is really freaking you out, isn’t it?” Brit said.

  I nodded, wiping my sweaty palms against my jeans.

  “I’ve got a theory,” she said in a hushed voice. “You don’t like dolls because they represent all that you missed when you were a kid. Being a regular girl, having regular toys, living a regular life. Now you’ve focused all your resentment and regrets upon the epitome of girlishness. The doll.”

  Whoa. Nail struck directly on head.

  “Interesting.” I raised an eyebrow, but refused to look away from Mr. Wilson’s gleeful face as he handed out another demon spawn. Was it my imagination, or did I detect an above-normal teacher-satisfaction moment happening here? Was Wilson getting a bit of payback with this assignment? I elbowed Brit. “Do you psychoanalyze all your friends? Or is there something about me that encourages this behavior?”

  Brit shrugged. “My Dr. Phil hobby drives Matt nuts too.”

  I snorted, unable to resist enjoying anything that threatened to drive Matt to the nuthouse. Our mutual dislike and distrust of one another was something Brit had vowed to fix. But some crayons were broken from the moment you opened the box.

  All too soon it was down to me and Brit. I shoved my friend ahead. She glared over her shoulder, but seconds later was making slobbery gibberish noises over her new babe.

  “I’m naming her Gertrude,” she said to Mr. Wilson. “It’s my mother’s middle name.”

  “Well, isn’t she lucky,” Wilson said in a flat tone. “Next,” he called out, glancing beyond her, catching my eye. “McCain,” he drawled, his thin lips stretching into a smile. I might have only been in the class for a few weeks, but I’d obviously made an impression. As usual, the wrong kind. “Oh, I have just the bambino for you.”

  Crap. Crap. Crap!

  He pulled a doll from the supply cabinet and handed it to me. I held it like scraped-up roadkill.

  “What’s her name?” Brit said. Her eyes alight with mischief. “Spawn of Satan. Devil child. Red Rum.”

  “Oh, those handles are going to give her a hard time when she gets to school.” Brit snorted. “You have to give her a name. Even the guys are naming theirs.”

  Yeah, I’d heard.

  “If Shithead and Lameass qualify as baby names, so do my suggestions.” I stared into wide blue eyes, convinced the pupils had contracted when Wilson first exposed her to the harsh florescent lights.

  Her.

  Damn, I was even thinking about it like it was real.

  Wilson had really saved the best for last. My doll had crazy uncontrolled bed head that someone had dyed a bright orange, and one half-melted hand. This kid had been around. And then some.

  “I hope this damage has been recorded somewhere,” I said. “You can’t charge me for the hair, the hand. Brit’s my witness. I got her this way.”

  “Duly noted.” Wilson smirked. “Now go forth and parent.” Kids gathered at the door, waiting for the bell, comparing the fruit not-of-their-loins.

  I held the doll away from me, my hands spanning its plump, yet solid ribs. It was surprisingly heavy. At least ten pounds. They weren’t kidding when they said lifelike. It felt like baby. Smelled like one. And it really creeped me out.

  Under my fingers I felt pressure. My hands drifted apart as the doll took in a breath, its lungs expanding. Sweet Jesus.

  I let it drop to the floor.

  Brit stared at me like I was Michael Jackson holding his baby over the balcony railing.

  “One count of rough handling, Eyrn. And Doug, I believe that’s shaken baby syndrome. You’re off to a wonderful start, class,” Wilson said, opening the door.

  I scooped up the doll, holding it by one foot, letting it dangle upside down. A witty comeback, something to the effect of it’s all fun and games until somebody loses an eye lodged in my throat as a bloodcurdling scream rang out in the hallway. The class rushed through the doorway, spilled into the hall. Gasps of horror and a tinge of fear filled the air.

  Along with a familiar coppery scent. Blood.

  Lots of it.

  Brit and I shouldered to the front of the herd.

  A girl stood alone in the hall, staggering on her feet. A bloody knife slipped from her hand and clattered to the tile floor. The last bell pealed as she collapsed, a crimson pool building around her head.

  Wilson bellowed for help, blocking students exiting other classrooms. Kids sobbed and turned away from the girl’s body. I stared at the knife, the rusted antique shaving knife from the Historic Alberta display.

  She’d used it to cut her own eyes out. The doll I held began to giggle.

  Sleep with One Eye Open

  I ducked behind the crowd, scanning the area as more kids gathered around the fallen girl. Drops of blood trailed back to the girl’s washroom, a blood smear on the edge of the closed door.

  Dangling my bed-hea
ded Reality Babe by its foot, I reached my other hand into the mass of gawkers.

  “Come on.” I withdrew Brit from the throng and pulled her with me, heading for the washroom. She cradled Gertrude in her arms.

  “Where are we…?” Brit’s question trailed off as she took in the bloody handprint. “Oh.”

  “Once the cops and ambulance arrive we won’t have access. It’s now or never.” I pushed open the door, the zest of blood ripe on the air. I breathed through my mouth, letting the copper scent rest on my tongue. My teeth began to ache and hunger pangs ripped through my gut. My wolf wanted more than a taste. I hesitated.

  Brit skirted ahead, careful to avoid stepping in the lines of blood on the newly waxed floor. She stopped at the row of sinks, at the one wet with blood. She clutched Gertrude to her chest, blocking the doll’s view of the gore. “Eryn, get over here. You gotta see this.”

  I should have been able to shrug this off. After all, I’d seen worse gore, had inflicted it on paranorms myself. But I struggled to keep my head, to observe and assess the situation objectively as my father had taught me. I resisted the urge to get a full visual of the chunks of flesh and hacked out bits of eyeball I saw in my peripheral vision. I kept my gaze high and moved toward Brit. I stood at her side, facing the mirror. And read the bloody message smeared there like a finger-painting toddler had gone mad.

  Sleep with one eye open.

  Brit squinted at the words. “That’s ominous.”

  “Just a smidge,” I said, my heart pounding. “The night mare wants us to know it’s decided to play with others. At this point, I’m guessing anyone is fair game.”

  Brit clutched Gertrude to her chest.

  A few hours later, our gruesome discovery still weighed heavy on my mind. That, and the fact that while ambulance medics and the ensuing drama of ferrying the injured girl to the hospital held most of the student body enthralled, Brit and I had examined the Historic Alberta display case. As I’d feared, the antique razor was missing. No, not missing. Vanished as though it had never been there at all. I hadn’t even been able to detect an imprint on the red silk material draping the shelves. We’d stood in front of the display case for a long and weird few minutes with the Victorian doll observing us from behind the glass, her blue eyes appearing to narrow on our faces. To glitter with suppressed glee.

  I wanted to smash that smug look off her porcelain face.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Brit said now, her face a mask of concern.

  “Oh, I’m doing it all right.” I grimaced and shoved my freaky-looking Reality Babe into my locker. I had to fold her up on herself to make her fit. She squealed in protest. I chucked the chip bracelet in, not caring where it landed. After dragging the doll around and enduring the final two hours of school pandering to its every need, rocking it, feeding it, changing its diapers—in the middle of class—I was through.

  It was one evil baby. I felt it in my bones. That giggle it had let out when we saw the eyeball carnage was just wrong.

  Brit cautioned me against such drastic action. Such a bleeding heart.

  “It will cry all night.”

  “Let it, no one’s in the school to care.”

  “You’ll get dinged for neglect. You’ll fail the course.”

  The slamming of my locker door echoed in the hall. I spun the lock, sealing the doll inside. “I think we have more to worry about than me failing CALM. Like saving people from more live cornea donations. How’s about we focus on the big picture?”

  Brit harrumphed in agreement, but didn’t look convinced. She tucked a pink blanket around Gertrude. I don’t know where she’d gotten the supplies, but somehow between our mini-investigation and the last few classes, Brit had decked Gertrude out in a bevy of pink. Pink blanket, pink rattle, pink bow in her auburn hair.

  I thought a dark sprite would be more progressive in her parenting. Not fall into the princess trap.

  “Spoiled brats aren’t born, you know. They’re made.” I pointed to all Gertrude’s baby bling. “You’ve got one in the making right there, and it’s your own fault.”

  “Speaking of spoiled brats,” Brit said as Paige sauntered down the hall.

  “There you are.” Paige wedged between us and leaned her back against my locker. “Did you hear about the girl in grade nine? Lili Donnel? She…”

  “…cut her eyes out,” the three of us said in unison.

  Paige raised a brow. “I guess you have.” She looked from me to Brit. “Any theories?”

  I was about to respond when I realized Paige wasn’t acting as loop-de-loop as she had this morning. She looked rather…self- possessed, for lack of a better term. Confident. But in a fresh, open way the old Paige would have mocked. So much for Brit and me having to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

  This egg was rocking and rolling.

  “Despite the eye-gouging gossip you’re spreading, you seem quite chipper,” I said.

  “I am.” Paige’s eyes lit up. “Janie and the others were tormenting me in English, and I mean tormenting. I guess you never really know people, you know?” She shrugged. “But then Janie flipped out, knocked over her desk. Shredding her arms with her gel nails and screaming about being covered in roaches. She got sent to the school counselor’s office, escorted by two teachers.” She pushed away from my locker, giving a happy spin. “After that, I wasn’t even on their radar. Then there was the Lili thing, and no one has even looked at me funny since.”

  “I’m glad the suffering of others has worked to your advantage,” I said. Maybe Paige hadn’t changed much after all.

  “I know, isn’t it funny how things work out for me?” She beamed. “And then I got an important text.” She took a deep breath. “From a guy. Someone really, really special.”

  “Nice to see you’re getting your groove back,” Brit said, rolling her eyes. “Not to be a downer, but how do you see that relationship going? Do you know what your favorite color is? Your original hair color? Your mother’s maiden name?”

  Paige worried her lip. “I’m not a real blonde?”

  I gave Brit a dark look. “Yes, you’re blonde. The point is, maybe it’s not the best time to be checking out guys.”

  “Yeah, when you’re personality has checked out. Maybe for good,” Brit said.

  Paige’s chin began to tremble.

  “Did you have to?” I shot at Brit. I took Paige’s arm. “Let’s drop by the café and see if Kate has whipped up a batch of tricks for you, okay?” I guided her down the hallway toward the side exit…to freedom.

  Such as it was.

  Paige drove to Conundrum in silence. None of us felt like talking or listening to music. I had that calm-before-the-storm feeling again. I sat upright in the passenger seat. On alert.

  The streets were busy. Way more than usual, but people were preparing for Halloween. Not that Redgrave would have much festivity. The traditional trick-or-treating part of Halloween with kids going door to door was setup to take place between four and seven. After that, the high school had a few token hours for the Harvest Moon dance, and then it was lights out. All kids under eighteen had to be home before curfew. Or else.

  Talk about controlled madness. The people of Redgrave thought Police Chief Gervais had established the curfew to keep their children safe and protected in their homes. Little did they know it was also his way of making our hunting grounds that much more difficult to patrol.

  Paige tucked the hatchback into a narrow parking space on the street outside the café. Lots of people were standing about, but there wasn’t much activity around Conundrum. The wide windows were dark.

  A closed sign hung on the interior doorknob.

  Weird.

  Brit met my baffled frown with one of her own.

  Paige pulled on the handle. Bells clanged from the charms hanging at the top of the locked door as it shook in the doorframe.

  Locked. At the busiest time besides lunch.

  The hairs on my neck trembled.

&n
bsp; Gertrude let out an ear-splitting whine. The three of us jumped. Paige put a hand to her heart. Brit fumbled for the chip bracket, putting it to Gertrude’s mouth, essentially feeding her. The doll made cooing sounds.

  Even weirder.

  “Let’s go around back,” I said. I led the way down a narrow strip between Conundrum and the next shop. The memory of Kate’s red-eyed, toothy friends lingered. Both Brit and I moved with much more caution than Paige, our steps controlled, our gazes sweeping the alley. Paige tromped through the snow with the dainty tread of Bigfoot during mating season.

  “I don’t know why you guys keep harping about this spell,” she said, arms swinging by her sides. “So what if I’m a bit different? You can’t tell me you don’t like me this way. I like me this way.”

  We reached the alley. The two-story buildings blocked out the fading sun, lending an instant creepfactor. I had a flash of those little cloaked guys with their red eyes and serrated teeth. The buildings closed in, narrowing the world to three girls in an alley now alive with negative associations and a serious lack of warm fuzzies.

  “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you about Wade sooner,” Paige continued. “I knew you’d kill the magic of it all.”

  “Wade?” I said. Brit and I spun to face Paige at the mention of the vamp/ witch who was never far from my thoughts. “He’s the guy you’ve been texting?”

  So much for Kate’s spell doing anything it was supposed to, like making Paige forget she’d even met Wade.

  “See!” Paige slapped her hands on her thighs. “I knew you’d react like that. So what if I have a guy who’s interested in me? Wants to know what I’m doing? How we’re dealing with the night mare?” She glared at us. “He’s concerned about me, and I kind of like that in a guy. You should know, you both have the big brawny Delacroix boys looking out for you.”

  Gertrude slipped from Brit’s loosened grip and fell to the snow.

  “Shit,” Brit said, scooping her up and dusting her off. “Now look what you’ve done.”