Starfall

by Michael Griffo

  I suppress my laugh out of some warped desire to respect my elders, but as an elder herself, Elkie isn’t hampered by such guilt, and soon the hallway is consumed with her deep, throaty laughter. I think I’ve found a worthy replacement for Essie.

  “Elkie,” I say. “You and I are going to get along just fine.”

  Still laughing, she replies, “I knew we would, dear.”

  I suddenly feel like skipping down The Hallway to Nowhere. It’s rare that I’m so happy at The Retreat, and unfortunately the feeling turns out to be not only rare but short-lived. Mixed in with Elkie’s laughter that’s still wafting through the air, I hear voices coming from my mother’s room.

  Outside her door, I listen, but nothing, only silence. Perhaps my wolf ears are picking up voices in another room? I don’t typically get confused or bombarded by different sounds, as I can easily tune them out, so when a noise breaks through, it’s usually trying to capture my attention. Or I’m just hearing things that aren’t there.

  Inside, my mother is alone, the same way she’s been for the past decade. I pull the bottle of Guerlinade, her favorite perfume, out of my bag, and spritz some into the air. We’re in a field of lilacs, the tiled floor replaced with grass and the walls torn down to make way for sprawling oak trees.

  “Hi, Mom, how are you?” I ask like I’ve asked her every time I’ve seen her since I was a little girl. Sometimes I’ve actually gotten a response; most of the times, like today, my greeting is met with silence. That’s okay because that’s why I came here, for silence and peace and just to look at my mother’s unnaturally beautiful face.

  Unless I get close to her to see some lines around her mouth and the corners of her eyes, she looks like she’s in her twenties. My mother wasn’t vain about showing her age—she’s French after all—and I know it’s way too early for me to worry about my own wrinkles, but it’s nice to know I probably won’t have that problem for many decades to come. I have enough problems as it is. Like why is there a silver light in the corner of the room? I blink, and the light is gone.

  First I’m hearing voices that aren’t there, and now I’m seeing things that don’t exist. No, things don’t happen to me without good reason. Jess may be right; not all coincidences turn into bombshells. But this isn’t a coincidence; this is a premonition, and my premonitions come true. Plus, my senses are excellent, so someone or something was here.

  Gently I tap my mother’s hand as I walk toward the corner where I saw the light. Just in case she’s aware of my presence, I want her to know that I’ll be right back. Stepping into the corner of the room is like stepping into a meat locker: It’s ice-cold. When I breathe I see a cloud of cold air emerge from my mouth and float up to the ceiling. Shivering violently, I cross my arms, and I swear icicles are forming on my body. I hear something hit the ground. My first thought is that I’ll see ice cubes scattered on the floor. What I see frightens me even more. My mother’s compact.

  I bend down, and I’m amazed to see my mother’s Little Bo Peep compact, the one her mother gave her, my grand-mère. What is this doing here? I locked it away with the few other family heirlooms I have in my box, which is now in the back of my closet. I bend down to pick up the compact, but it’s so cold that, when I touch it, it burns my fingers. I kick it with my foot so it slides near my mother’s bed and hopefully out of the Arctic Circle.

  Gingerly I touch it again and as expected it’s warmed up; its temperature is perfectly normal, and so is mine for that matter. Wherever the cold zone came from, it’s relegated to only a small portion of the room. It has to be a gateway, some sort of time tunnel or dimensional port, to be able to reach out to my bedroom, grab the compact, and bring it here. But why?

  It’s definitely the same one that my mother gave me. Silver border, Little Bo Peep’s worried profile against a shimmering purple night sky that’s filled with three stars.

  Three stars! What? Were there always three stars on the cover or is that new? Think, think, Dominy!!

  “Yes, Dominy, think.”

  Luba.

  “Get out of here!” I shout.

  I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t seen Luba in a few months or because of her close proximity to my mother, but I’m not afraid to be in her presence. In the past, there was always a sense of dread and fear when she stood before me, despite how courageous and defiant and powerful I tried to appear. Or maybe I’m garnering strength from my mother, because this is what it must feel like to be a parent; you’ll calmly stare evil in the eye in order to protect your child.

  “Is that how your mother taught you to treat a guest?” she asks.

  “You are many things, Luba,” I reply. “A guest of mine or my mother’s is definitely not one of them. Now get out!”

  Ignoring me, Luba floats toward me, her feet several inches from the ground. She doesn’t bother to land when she reaches me; she hovers in the air so she’s taller than me, and I have to tilt my head if I want to look her in the eyes when I speak with her. Not sure if it’s a tactic to make herself feel superior or if she simply has more energy now that she’s taken over Rayna’s spirit. Sadly, she looks like she’s taken over the poor girl’s wardrobe too.

  Luba’s sporting a pair of green cotton capri pants and a pink tank top trimmed in matching green lace. Hand-me-downs from Rayna’s preppy whoredrobe when she was dating Jeremy that was designed to look innocent while exposing the maximum amount of flesh possible. If you knew Luba’s real age, you’d think she looked ridiculous, but if you saw her for the first time, you’d think she looked amazing.

  Her skin is still pale, but gone are the bluish veins and bruises that were visible underneath her flesh; her hair is deep black and vibrant, still parted simply in the center and falling way past her shoulders, to the middle of her back. Her face, however, has made the most prominent and disturbing transformation, because now her smooth, wrinkle-free complexion reminds me of my mother. Both their looks are death defying.

  “Three stars,” Luba hisses. “I wonder where I’ve seen that before?”

  Her laughter begins slowly, a mere chuckle, but soon she’s laughing maniacally with her fingertips pressed against her lips. This gesture looks even more sinister and grotesque and indecent than it did before when she was emaciated and withering, because it’s now out of place. Luckily I know exactly where I am, and even though I’m literally standing in Luba’s shadow, my defenseless mother at my side, holding a trinket that may be a message to warn me about what’s going to happen next in my life, I’m still not afraid. It’s not foolhardy; it’s learned. I know that I’m not the one who should be afraid; Luba is.

  “You don’t frighten me anymore,” I announce.

  My proclamation only makes Luba laugh harder.

  “Don’t confuse being arrogant with being courageous, child,” she warns.

  “And don’t confuse me with a child,” I reply. “I’ve grown up quite a bit, thanks to you.”

  Her laughter stops, and she bends toward me, her body arching so she can gaze into my face and get a better look at the young woman she’s helped create. Her hair falls forward to create two black walls on either side of my face that hinder my vision. All I can see are Luba’s preternaturally youthful features, and all I can hear is her voice.

  “You’re welcome.”

  She breathes such hatred into each word that I wince. The smell and touch and sound of her words cut right through me; it’s a disgusting sensation, but not nearly enough to make me back down. I don’t know where I’m getting my strength from—maybe it’s this silly compact; maybe it’s being next to my mother—but whatever the source, I’m well-armed.

  “So don’t make the same mistake your granddaughter’s made and underestimate me,” I say. “You and what remains of your family may live to regret it.”

  Suddenly, the freezing cold travels and consumes the entire room. At first, I think that I’m the only one who senses it, but Luba feels it too; whatever it is, she isn’t immune to its power
. Landing on the ground with a thud, Luba jerks her head to the left, to the right, searching for the origin, desperately trying to find out why she feels the deep freeze that’s taken over the room, what’s making her react like a mere mortal. All she has to do is look at my mother.

  “Something is coming.”

  Those are the same words Jess said to me, the same words I used before my last transformation, and it’s the same feeling that’s been haunting me for weeks.

  “Something is coming,” my mother repeats, “that will change everything.”

  My mother’s voice is soft, her body is calm, she’s unaffected by the cold, but it’s clear that Luba is terrified by her words. When my mother speaks again, Luba’s artificially youthful face turns even whiter.

  “And Luba,” my mother says, opening her eyes and turning her head to face my enemy. “It’s getting closer.”

  Chapter 7

  First day of senior year to-do list:

  Rule the school.

  Pass calculus!

  Try not to miss Caleb too much.

  Protect my best friend’s soul.

  Wait for something to come to help me defeat Psycho Squaw.

  Items one through three are doable. I’m a cheerleader, I’ve got a boyfriend in college, and I’ve got gorgeous hair; that’s enough to garner an underclassman’s respect. If I maintain focus in calculus and beg Mr. Dice for a little Omikami intervention, I’m guaranteed at least a B minus. And as long as I don’t lose my smart phone, I can keep texting and FaceTim-ing Caleb until he comes home for the holidays, when he and I will finally share some much anticipated private time. Numbers four and five are a bit trickier.

  I don’t know what scares me more: the fact that Archie’s soul needs protecting, or that something is coming to town that frightens Luba. Neither thought fills me with the warm fuzzies or even the lukewarm fuzzies, but maybe I should stop dwelling on the fear factor that these commands ignite and look at the flipside of what they mean—both of them offer hope.

  If Archie’s soul needs to be protected, it means that Nadine hasn’t completely destroyed it yet. She might have stained it, she might have tarnished the edges, but there’s still more white than black, still more good than evil, still a chance for Archie to remain the person he was before he was touched by Nadine’s spirit.

  An even better thing is that I may soon have a weapon to topple Luba from her bloodstained pedestal. What that thing is, I have no idea, but I’ve had a premonition that something is coming to help me in my fight against the Cursemaker and her tribe, a feeling that has been seconded by Jess and now my mother, who really only speaks when she has something super-vitally important to say, so I’m convinced that whatever is on its way is definitely something good. I’m not ready to do the paperwork and change my name from Dominy to Pollyanna, but maybe that something will serve a dual purpose and help me fight Luba and protect Archie’s soul at the same time. Personally, I don’t think that’s too much to ask for after everything my friends and I have been put through. I just hope it gets here soon, like before Nadine gives birth. The problem is, I have no idea when to calendar doomsday. Neither do my friends.

  “Any idea how to convert Nadine’s baby bump into a due date?” I ask Archie and Arla over lunch.

  “Any idea why she’s wearing her pregnancy like a badge of honor?” Arla retorts. “Instead of being embarrassed by her quote unquote ‘situation.’ ”

  “Why should she be embarrassed?” Archie replies.

  What?! I’m not sure if I scream that out loud or if my inner voice bounces off the insides of my skull. Why is Archie once again meandering over to Team Nadine? Sounds like I’m not the only one who’s mega-confused.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Archie,” Arla begins, “but what the ef are you talking about?”

  Speaking with a mouthful of mashed potatoes, Archie doesn’t sound like he’s upset by either spoken or silent questioning.

  “Nadine shouldn’t be ashamed,” Archie states calmly. “She got pregnant, and now she’s doing the right thing by taking responsibility for her actions.”

  If Nadine were to take responsibility for her actions, she’d excuse herself from school, visit Louis at the police station, and confess to committing murder. Then again, what’s good for the bee is good for the wolf, so I’d have to be the next in line. Maybe I should adopt Archie’s nonjudgmental stance and not judge Nadine.

  “Well . . . I guess when you put it that way, you’re sorta maybe kinda right,” I verbally fidget.

  “You two are missing the point,” Arla says. “Nadine isn’t some normal teenager who’s found herself on the receiving end of a broken condom and accidentally wound up with a bun in the oven, as they said back in the day. She deliberately planned this pregnancy.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Archie replies, a bit less calmly.

  Looking at me with bugged-out eyes before speaking, Arla is having an even harder time staying calm than Archie is.

  “I do,” she states. “Nothing Nadine does is accidental. The only thing we don’t know is if she’s going to be a single mother or a single mother slash father.”

  I grab hold of this chance to veer the topic onto safer territory and share with them Jess’s comment that not all coincidences turn into fact. It does the trick.

  “Really?” Arla pouts. “But it’s the moon jellyfish; it’s so perfect.”

  “I know! I was very disappointed to find out that Nadine isn’t asexual,” I reply. “But then again, despite her pregnancy glow I still find her unattractive, so I guess she still is.”

  And I should have known, if we kept talking about Nadine, it would only be a matter of time before Archie would steer the conversation back into the danger zone.

  “Regardless, it makes me sad to see her sitting all by herself.”

  It’s a powerful comment, because within the absurdity of his words lies some truth. If I didn’t know that Nadine was a psychopath, I’d think she deserved pity. She’s sitting alone in a corner of the lunchroom eating a sandwich, every once in a while placing her hand on her belly and rubbing it, as if to make sure that her unborn child is still there, afraid that it’ll abandon her like everyone else has. As long as she isn’t alone, she has the strength to ignore the judgmental stares and hushed commentary. Archie and Arla can’t hear the nasty whispremarks, but I can.

  “Can you believe she came back to school looking like that?”

  “She could’ve left town over the summer, and no one would’ve known she got herself pregnant.”

  “One kid dies, the other gets knocked up—her mother must be flipping out.”

  “It’s like the Jaffes are cursed or something.”

  Damned is more like it. Yes, keep reminding yourself of that, Dominy. Don’t forget that Nadine Jaffe and the rest of her relatives aren’t the hunted; they’re the hunters. Don’t let Archie’s soft heart cloud your thinking, because you can’t protect your friend if you go soft too.

  After Archie leaves for a football meeting to discuss very important football matters, Arla proves that nothing Archie says could make her soften her opinion of Nadine. Even when it’s not her voice doing the talking.

  “There’s something wrong with him.”

  I haven’t heard Napoleon’s voice in a while, but it’s instantly recognizable, even when his words tumble out of Arla’s mouth.

  “Nap?” I whisper-ask. “Can you maybe be a little more specific?”

  “He’s changing.”

  Yes, into a Nadine sympathizer.

  “This is only the beginning,” Nap adds. “There are many more changes to come.”

  Glancing around quickly to make sure that no one is listening to our conversation, especially the dead speaker’s sister, I grab Arla’s hand. She feels the same, not too warm nor cold, hard nor soft. Yet it’s so incredibly off-putting, even for me; there’s a supernatural being inside of her, taking control of her body, and Arla still looks and feels exactly the same.
It’s not like she goes all zombie and her eyes roll back in her head; she’s staring right at me and talking to me, only she’s using another person’s voice. Or more accurately another person is using her voice.

  “What do you mean the beginning?” I ask. I stare directly into Arla’s eyes, amazed that Napoleon is looking at me from the other end.

  “The arrival,” he replies.

  Old news. I’ve received the warning and the confirmation. I know that something’s coming, but tell me what it is so I can greet it when it drives into town!

  “I need more than that, Nap,” I say. “Stop being like Jess and give me details.”

  Be careful what you wish for.

  “You’re going to do things you never dreamed you could do,” he replies. “Things you never thought you were capable of doing.”

  I asked for details, not some kind of cryptic omen!

  “What are you talking about?” I demand.

  “Ow! Why are you squeezing my hand?”

  Dammit! It’s Arla’s voice; Nap’s gone. And so is any chance of finding out what or who is about to arrive. Or what I’m about to do.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I was trying to get Nap to tell me what he was talking about.”

  “You were talking to Nap?” Arla asks.

  I don’t know why I’m surprised that Arla’s surprised, but I am. I know that Arla’s transformations are different than mine. She doesn’t get a warning. When Nap takes over, he does it instantly, and Arla kind of blacks out without the embarrassing slump to the ground. But I thought that while Nap was in control she knew she was losing time. Guess not.

  “Where exactly do you go when Nap takes over?” I ask.

  “I call it the Quiet Place,” she replies. “I can’t hear or feel a thing, but it isn’t frightening in the least, very peaceful, almost womb-like, I imagine.”

  “So you know when Nap takes over?” I question.