“That’s all in the past,” I declare. “Unlike your huge nose.”
Examining his face in the mirror, Barnaby turns to the left and then to the right. When he’s done he looks directly at his reflection, and his smile is filled with teen narcissism. “I like my nose.”
Whatever happened to teenage angst and self-criticism?
“You do not!” I pout.
He keeps his face pointed straight ahead so I can get a good look at his profile, but turns his eyes toward me. “It’s got character,” he states. “And unlike most of your features, it’s not hidden behind a bush of unruly hair.”
Where are the bees? Where are the deadly, Nadine-propelled bees so I can be engaged in a fair fight? Give me thousands of poisonous stingers instead of my brother’s zingers that are admittedly kind of witty, but, worse than that, steeped in truth. Because against his comments I really have no defense and feel that I, in fact, didn’t graduate last in my class at SGA, but graduated with honors.
“So tell me, manboy,” I start, hands literally on my hips in a bad imitation of a bad tween actress from some bad Disney Channel sitcom. “Does Louis know you stole his razor so you could play grown-up?”
Smirking, Barnaby shoves the electric razor in my face, and I have to step back for fear that one of the three rotating wheels will cut off my eyelashes. Big-sister stance is ruined when I bang into the door behind me, lose my balance, and my left hand has to fly out to press into the wall to steady myself from falling. When I see what’s engraved on the razor, my big-sister bad attitude is ruined too.
BMR. My brother’s initials, which stand for Barnaby Mason Robineau. Just as I have Jess inside of me, my brother will always have my father. And if he doesn’t have our father in the physical sense to teach him how to be a man and guide him through the complicated rites of manhood, at least he has Louis.
“Louis gave it to me for my birthday,” Barnaby beams. “Man to man.”
Staring at my brother, I’m conflicted. Part of me wants to crack up in his face in response to his silly, melodramatic comment, but the other part of me wants to hug him tightly and tell him how grateful I am that he has Louis in his life now that our father’s gone. I opt to straddle both sentiments with a response that can be construed as either sarcastic or sugary, depending upon how Barnaby chooses to hear it.
“Well, it’s nice to know that one of you is finally growing up,” I say.
It’s also nice to know that our little makeshift family is getting more familial all the time. Downstairs my slippers make scuff-scuffing sounds on the hardwood floor that I’m sure announce my arrival before I enter the kitchen, but Arla doesn’t look up; she’s too interested in whatever she’s reading on her cell phone and too busy eating her breakfast. It’s her usual ultra health food cereal, a concoction of soy milk, fruit, oatmeal, and granola. Normally it looks like inedible gruel to me, but this morning it looks appetizing.
“Yum, that looks scrumdillyishesque,” I gush. “What’s a girl gotta do to get a bowlful?”
“Step one, open the fridge,” Arla replies, her mouth full of gushy froatola. “Step two, figure the rest out for yourself.”
When Barnaby and I first moved in with the Bergerons, even though we’ve known them our whole lives, we felt more like guests, completely wanted, but with an expiration date. I kept having the feeling that Louis was going to greet us at the door one day after school with all our bags packed, announcing that we were going to be shipped off to some Dickensian locale like the Weeping Water Orphanage. Unwarranted thought, because he and Arla have shown us nothing but kindness and patience and support during our transition from someone’s child to someone else’s ward. Now that Barnaby and I have been living here for well over a year, we’ve matured into someone’s family, which is an incredibly comforting feeling. Just as comforting as Arla’s borderline snarky comment.
Sitting next to her at the kitchen table, my own health-soaked cereal in a bowl in front of me, I take advantage of our alone time and start to tell her about last night’s escapade.
“Sounds buzzworthy,” Arla jokes without smiling.
“More buzz than worthy,” I add. “Especially since Jess didn’t show up.”
Scrunching up her forehead, Arla tilts her head and looks at me. Even first thing in the morning, even with no makeup on to cover the faint scar over her left eye, even with a super-short, close-cropped Afro, Arla is beautiful. Her words, however, are not as pretty.
“Maybe your relationship with Jess is changing,” she suggests. “Just like ours.”
So she senses it too! The problem is while my relationship with Arla is changing in a good way—we’re moving closer to being sisters than being just friends—my relationship with Jess is moving in the opposite direction.
“But I don’t want things to change with Jess,” I say.
“Dominy, haven’t you realized by now that there is very little in this world that we can control,” Arla replies. “And since Jess is technically part of another world, the chances of your being in control of anything that includes her are automatically cut in half.”
Hmm, that’s quite profound so early on a Saturday morning.
“Hence the reason I wear my wigs,” she adds.
Hmm, from profound to perplexing.
“I may not be able to control my future,” Arla says, “but I can control my futylesensiny.”
“Your what?”
“Sorry, my future style sense,” she clarifies. “I’m not good at making up new words like you are.”
“We all have our strengths,” I say. “You should’ve gone with something like fufashionista.”
“Subarashi!” she cries.
Jess may not be around, but her Japanese slang remains.
Slurping up the last bits of her breakfast, Arla asks me if last night’s transformation held any more surprises, other than it turning into a remake of Attack of the Killer Bees. Before I can elaborate on how the evening ended, the front door slams. Either Barnaby’s finished shaving and has gone out to partake in some manly Saturday morning activity or Louis really has finally come home after partaking in his all-night hunt for the Full Moon Killer. Four seconds later when Louis bounds into the kitchen we know Barnaby is still preening and Louis is pissed.
Grunting something that resembles a “good morning,” Louis yanks open the refrigerator door, grabs the container of orange juice, and bangs the fridge shut. Next, he opens up the cupboard over the sink and slams that shut too, only to open another cabinet door that houses what he’s looking for, a glass. He pours it full of OJ and takes a huge swig, swallows, and repeats.
The refrigerator door is abused once more as Louis opens it, rummages around inside for a few seconds, grabs some yogurt, and slams the door shut yet again. A kitchen drawer is pulled open, its metal contents jostling against each other, making more noise as Louis searches for a spoon, and is clanged shut, the noise of wood hitting wood making the harshest sound of all.
Since this is uncharacteristic behavior, Arla and I are stunned into silence. We don’t know how to respond to Louis’s aggressive actions. His back to us, Louis is shoving spoonfuls of yogurt into his mouth and making really gross swallowing noises that are so loud he probably wouldn’t hear us if we spoke, but we don’t risk it; we mouth our words.
“Melinda?” Arla silently asks.
My eyebrows arch in shock-guilt at the non-sound of her name. Arla and I may not be psychically connected like she is with Napoleon’s spirit, but the same uneasy thought is ricocheting in our brains. Maybe Louis ran into Melinda Jaffe, his ex-girlfriend, last night or early this morning and was reminded of his very public breakup, which I just happened to orchestrate, and that’s what has put him in this obviously foul mood.
“Ask him,” Arla voicelessly instructs.
I am not going to ask my sort-of stepfather if he stumbled upon his homicidal maniac ex-girlfriend! That is so not appropriate breakfast conversation.
Shaking my head wildly from side to
side, I hope to convey to Arla that her instruction is absurd and will not be followed. The girl, however, won’t take a silent no for an answer.
“Ask him what’s wrong,” she silently over-annunciates.
Different question, same response. Arla’s become so desperate she resorts to whispeaking. “He won’t yell at you.”
Arla may be smart, but she has terrible short-term memory. “He yelled at me the other day,” I remind her.
Waving her hand in the air, she now whisscoffs. “You ruined his best white shirt.”
If it was his best white shirt, it should’ve been protected underneath one of those plastic dry-cleaner-covering things and not laid out on the couch just asking to be drenched in somebody’s midmorning blueberry shake. I had to spend most of the day using every stain-remover product known to mankind to try and get it out, and I have to admit I was quite successful. No one will notice the stain as long as Louis wears a really big tie and leans to the right so the tie can dangle a bit.
Just as I start to explain this to Arla in a voice that I know will more closely resemble a yell than a whisper, Barnaby’s voice cuts me off.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I can tell by the way Arla is looking at Barnaby that once again we’re sharing the same thought: Unlike us, he’s not afraid to go to the source. I’m a bit annoyed that my brother has guts that I lack, but again it’s nice to know that he and Louis have a friendly, open relationship.
Louis drops the spoon into the sink, and once more metal clinks against metal. Avoiding all our gazes, he crosses to the garbage can and tosses the empty yogurt container into it. Unable to think of any other way to stall for time, he finally speaks.
“There was another attack last night,” he announces.
Shocked by this statement, Arla actually turns to face me, wearing a classic “Was there something you forgot to tell me?” expression. Luckily, Louis is staring straight at the kitchen floor and Barnaby is staring directly at Louis, so neither of them witnesses Arla’s faux pas.
“Who?” Barnaby asks.
“Officer Gallegos,” Louis answers.
“So the whole full moon thing is more than just a joke,” Barnaby states, his voice sounding deeper and so much more masculine than I ever realized.
Shrugging his weary shoulders, Louis throws his hands up before he replies. “I don’t know, but maybe, yeah,” he stammers. “Things have been quiet for the past few months, so I was hoping it had just been a stupid coincidence, but now this.” He stops talking to focus once more on the floor. We know there’s nothing interesting about the linoleum; he’s just choosing his next words carefully. “The town is going to go crazy again.”
I want to keep my mouth shut; I want to let this be the last word, but I must know.
“How is Gallegos?” I ask. “Was he hurt, you know, really bad?”
It feels like forever before Louis replies.
“He’s incredibly lucky,” he confirms. “The doctors said he’ll make a full recovery.”
I keep my relief to myself, but Arla senses it. She also knows that I had something to do with Gallegos’s accident.
As Louis starts to leave the room, he says, “I have to take a quick shower and get back to the station.”
“Can I hitch a ride with you into town?” Barnaby asks.
“Sure,” Louis says. “But you can’t play with the siren.”
Good to know he hasn’t lost his sense of humor even though he’s about to lose control of the entire town.
The moment Barnaby and Louis leave the room, I start to ramble on about how cute they are and how happy I am that they seem to be developing a deep bond and a sweet relationship despite all the heartache they’ve both been through. I mean every word I say, but it’s only filler talk and Arla knows it.
“Bees,” she says.
“What?”
“All you tell me that happened last night is that you were chased by a bunch of bees and you leave out the part about attacking a cop,” Arla lays out.
“Deadly . . . um, killer bees,” I reply.
Based upon her reaction, Arla doesn’t get my sense of humor. But the truth is she does get me.
“Dominy! Haven’t you figured out that our relationship is changing?” she says. “Friends, sisters, whatever we are, you know that you can tell me anything. I’m not going to judge you; I just want to know what’s going on so I can help you.”
She’s right. Maybe it’s human nature to want to keep secrets, but now that I’m only part human, I should really try mastering the art of disclosure.
“I attacked Gallegos last night because he was going to kill me,” I admit.
Unfazed, Arla seems greatly satisfied. “Now was that so hard?”
Actually, it wasn’t.
“You defended yourself, totally understandable,” she says, fully supportive of my actions. “And the doctors said Gallegos is going to be okay, so obviously you restrained yourself. The girl didn’t let the wolf have copfood.”
Vulgar and blunt, but at the same time reassuring.
“That’s right! That’s exactly what I did,” I cry. “I defended myself against Nadine and her insectisidekicks with the help of my inner-Jess, and I fought off Gallegos without doing any permanent damage.”
“You should feel really proud of yourself,” Arla says, shoving one last spoonful of cereal into her mouth.
It’s a feeling that proves fleeting.
“Gallegos has slipped into a coma,” Louis announces after bursting back into the kitchen and grabbing his car keys. “He might not make it.”
Louis rushes out of the house with Barnaby and my pride right behind him.
Chapter 2
Two days later, and my victim is still in a coma. Me? I’m in a bikini.
While my attire might be appropriate for an end-of-summer party on the banks of the Weeping Water River, which looks incredibly ordinary in the daylight, my attitude is completely inappropriate for someone who is responsible for assaulting a police officer.
“That’s because it was self-defense,” Arla declares for I think the forty-second time, though I can’t be certain because I’ve stopped counting.
“That’s right, Dom,” Archie agrees. “You did what any self-respecting wrrgrrl would have done in the same situation.”
“Did you just call Dominy a wrrgrrl?” Arla asks.
“Yes, I took out the vowels like a fast-talking sassy urban youth would,” Archie replies. “Do you approve?”
Arla thinks for a moment and smiles before she answers. “I guess Dom isn’t the only one with a way with words.”
Archie and Arla are sitting next to each other on a huge, silver-gray king-sized bed sheet that Archie swiped from his house. Typically, the sheet covers an ultra-firm mattress or the sleeping bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Angevene and not the grassy landscape leading down to a river, so it probably feels as uncomfortable being here as I do. My friends look perfectly at ease, and their encouraging attitude toward me and my involvement in this latest development engulfing our hometown should make me feel the same way, but it doesn’t. Maybe it’s their appearance that I find a little off-putting.
After Napoleon’s death, Archie withdrew, kept to himself for a while, which was to be expected once the shock wore off and he had to accept the fact that he was a teenage widower and his Winter Wonderland had lost one of its cofounders. When he reemerged from his self-imposed isolation, I was grateful for two things: His eyes, although not as vibrant, were still violet, and he had not lost his sense of adventure; he shaved almost all his hair off. So now instead of white hair he has white fuzz.
Alone, he looks great, as if he’s a clean blank slate from head to toe, a guy about to embark on a serious do-over. Lounging on the sheet next to Arla, he looks eerie. Her close-cropped hair is undyed and back to its natural color, the same shade as her skin, so it’s a kind of dark mocha and a stark contrast to Archie, who’s all albino-white. Together they look like the negative and p
ositive resolutions of the same photo. To me they look like twins, except that one is good and one is evil. Just like Napoleon and Nadine.
“And if you hadn’t fought back,” Archie adds. “Gallegos might’ve killed you.”
“Wrong,” Caleb announces.
I thought my boyfriend had dozed off, but it seems that he’s been listening to every word we’ve said. He doesn’t open his eyes or lift his head from our supersized beach towel, which makes his proclamation that much more intense. No need to back up his statement with any extraneous movement to make his point.
“What do you mean I’m wrong?” Archie asks. His body language mimics Caleb’s; he’s similarly relaxed. It’s just that the tone of his voice is now much more agitated.
“Not might’ve,” Caleb corrects, finally opening his eyes and rolling over. Boy, does he look beautiful when the sunshine blends in with his blond curls. “If you hadn’t fought back, Domgirl, Gallegos would definitely have killed you.”
How quickly beauty dies.
I wish I could disagree with him, but he’s right; they’re all right. During our confrontation Officer Gallegos had bloodlust in his eyes. Even without my ESP—enhanced sensory proficiency—I would’ve been able to see his rage. But he only wanted me dead because he didn’t know it was me. I know they’re all coming to my defense and trying to make me feel better for putting a man in a coma, but why can’t they see that I acted harshly? I’m the one who’s wrong.
“Of course he wanted to kill me; he thought I was a killer wolf,” I say. “But if he had known it was me underneath all that fur, he would have acted differently.”
“No way,” Caleb says, now sitting up, suddenly energized. “He still would’ve wanted you dead.”
I am wrong. They’re not trying to defend or protect me; they’re trying to educate me. I feel as stupid as I do in any class that falls under the math-o-sphere. The only difference is that in class I feel dumb because the left side of my brain somehow got left back a few years while my right side continued to matriculate. Now I feel dumb because I’m avoiding reality.
“You really think so, Caleb?” I ask.
Starfall Page 3