by Rena Rocford
She vented her frustration in an inarticulate scream, but I just kept walking, malicious smile firmly in place. My heart pounded in my chest. I would have never done anything like that, but she confirmed everything. We were go for launch.
o or die day came, and my phone blared to life. I grabbed it, tempted to chuck it across the room, but it was my precious phone. I’d saved up for it, and I loved it. The yawn cracked my jaw open, and it lasted longer than I’d hoped. What little light there was at this ungodly hour trickled in through the window. Dawn on Halloween. My smile lit a fire through my mind. Halloween was Hook day for me this year.
It didn’t take me long to get ready. I’d practiced putting on the mustache and the giant fake eyebrows. The shirt and knickers were no harder than usual, but the buckled shoes took an extra moment. I’d had to practice to be able to take them on and off because the latch frayed at one end, the price one paid for getting costume shoes at the second hand store.
I marveled at the coat, all red gabardine and gold trim. There were more tassels, buckles, and buttons than seemed prudent by anyone’s standards, but my mother had gone to serious lengths for my costume. She’d been sewing since June to make it in time. After all, there were only so many one handed people to dress up as for Halloween. The coat fell to my knees, and when I twirled, it flew up like a skirt. One sash, a hat, and wig, and I was ready for the main event. Last year, in the jewelry portion of art class, I’d made a hook.
I had other hooks, but they were all designed to be utilitarian, perfect steel, rounded tip, maybe even a clamp I could rotate to make it work better. I didn’t like them. People stared and they weren’t as useful as having a bit of latex or neoprene wrapped around the stump. But this hook had been wrapped with a silver and gold wire, curls and whorls decorated the edges. Semi precious stones decorated the connector piece that sat on the end of my arm. It was beautiful. And I basically never wore it.
But today, I was Captain Hook. And by all accounts, the Captain was a bit of a fop.
I slipped the sash over everything and slid the sword into its scabbard. Then I picked up the real weapons, the letters. Each carefully crafted, written in my very best calligraphy, decorated with sealing wax and red ribbons.
When I came down the stairs, my mother gasped. “My word, Cyra, I need a picture of this!”
I rolled my eyes but stood there like I couldn’t wait to go skin Peter Pan.
“What do you think?” She held the phone out to me. I really did look like Hook. Not to mention, my thighs were positively small compared to the giant cuffs of the coat.
Then I saw the time.
“Eeep, gotta go.” Half a bagel smeared with cream cheese sat on the counter, and I swiped it as I made my way to the door. Real food would have to wait. I had dreams to create out of ink and paper.
My car looked like a dog with the collar of shame. Fall had come in earnest, and the rains had started. My mother and I had wrestled the hard top into position, and now my cute little convertible was a drafty coupe. At least it wasn’t raining today. When I turned the keys, the car started with a grumble. It didn’t like having the top up for winter anymore than I did.
By the time I made it to campus, I had the songs from the movie soundtrack echoing around me thanks to a pocket speaker and my MP3 player. I was risking getting in trouble, but every good villain had a soundtrack. I slipped them both into the pocket of my unbelievable coat.
The song rose up around me as I waltzed onto campus with a jaunt in my buckled shoes. At the English department, I held the door for one of the aids, but as soon as Jason Talbot tried to slip through, I cut him off. “Bad form,” I called as I strutted down the hallway to Mr. Bartlionus’ classroom. Rochan’s first period was as an office aid. He collected the attendance sheets. When I rounded the corner into Mr. Bartlionus’ classroom, the music seemed to echo out before me, and Mr. Bartlionus watched me.
He squinted, suspicious, as any wise high school teacher is when a villain comes to school. He pointed at me. “What is this?”
I turned the music down, but not off, before affecting my best pirate accent. “I understand ye be taking roll in yer first class o’the day.”
Mr. Bartlionus watched me from narrowed eyes. “Aye, I have a first period.”
“Excellent! You see, I have a most important missive.” I pulled out a letter. “It’s not from me, but from a friend. Would ye be averse to letting it ride the tides with the roll sheets?” I set one of the ribbon and wax creations into the clip.
Mischief caught in Mr. Bartlionus’ eye. “I dare say, that can be managed.”
“Well played, sir. Good form!”
He waved a lazy hand. “Yes, yes, but don’t be late to class, Cyra. And that is a marvelous costume—that hat!”
“I’ll be sure to deliver your compliments to my haberdasher.”
He blinked, but I already had the music back up. Marching down the halls and out of the building, I swaggered like I’d just stolen the goose that laid the golden eggs.
The rest of the morning was like that, me leaving little letters all over campus where they’d be found by Rochan throughout the day.
By lunch, Rochan walked around campus like a man in a dream. His face wobbled between joy and curiosity, and I’d put it there. My letters, my words.
Christine found me in the library. I lurked in a corner, eating an apple off my hook. It was vulgar, but ultimately primal to tear an apple apart bite by bite. Hunting had been good today.
“Seriously?” she asked.
“It’s not every day I get to be my alter ego.”
She nodded. “Yeah, well your alter ego lost to a twelve-year-old boy.”
“At least I don’t aim to keep my body looking like a twelve-year-old boy.”
“Touché.” She sat down next to me and craned her neck to look out the window. “Have you seen him?”
“Who, Rochan? Oh yeah, he’s about yay high, dark complexion, chocolate eyes that glint with gold in the sunlight, as if to warn of the type of heart he has…”
She flung her string cheese at me. I caught it. “I know what he looks like. I meant did he get the letters?”
“He got the letters. He was reading one between classes.”
She reached across the table and grabbed my arm. “But what if they didn’t work? What if he doesn’t come?”
“He’ll come. It’s Halloween, and besides, who wouldn’t want to find out who’s been writing him love letters.” I made goo-goo eyes at her, and she scowled back. “And once you dance for him, it will be in the bank.”
“But what if—”
“A meteor impacts the Earth? I also fear Near Earth Objects and believe that the administration of our nation is simply not doing enough to—”
“Cyra, I’m being serious!”
“So am I. Those things took out the dinosaurs.”
Her face turned red, and she vented a voiceless shriek.
I pointed in front of her face. “There he is.”
She whipped around so fast she smashed into the table and knocked over a chair. “Ouch!”
“You really are the personification of poise and grace. I can really see why Sara thinks you’re a threat to her position in The Nutcracker this year.”
She followed Rochan with her eyes as he walked by. “I already have the part of the Sugar Plum Fairy. They wanted to cast a younger pas des deux partner. He’s talented, but he’s still building into his musculature. I was the logical choice. They haven’t announced Clara yet, though, so she probably has that.”
Rochan paused by the window and flipped through the letters. When he landed on the first one, a smile crept across my face. I could recite them all from memory. I’d written them so many times. I’d perfected the curlicue of each letter so the words themselves were like pieces of art. My hand cramped, and I had the ink stains to prove it, but those letters were like arrows shot from Cupid’s bow.
I sighed. My arrows, but Christine’s name blazed fr
om the feathers.
Rochan’s eyes widened as he read, and I wanted so desperately to know which line he’d just read. He sighed then checked that no one had seen him and hurried away.
“Everything is ready for after school?”
“My dear, leave it to Captain Hook.”
She inhaled, as if the whole world rested on her shoulders. “It’s clear you’ve done your part. Now I just have to make sure I can live up to mine.” When she could no longer see him, she turned back to me. “You’ve done a marvelous job. Those letters are art.”
I twirled my fake mustache. “Yes, they are. Perhaps I’ll list it in my extracurricular activities when I apply to Cal Berkley.”
Christine frowned at me.
“What, you don’t think romantic poetry couldn’t be a real money maker? Not worthy of its own discipline?”
“I think you’re training to fence at the national competition over the summer. You have work to do.”
She had a point.
waited for Christine outside her remedial English class. One bonus to studying the art of handwriting: I could mimic anyone’s penmanship given enough time. Forgery was a piece of cake, really. Still, I hated to pull her from English, but she wouldn’t have time to get into her full costume in time for the last bell, and I’d been informed that one simply didn’t wear a ballet costume except for during ballet. Apparently they cost hundreds to thousands of dollars.
She slipped through the door, eyes wide with nerves. I grabbed her right hand. “You ready for this?”
“I think I’m going to puke!”
“At least you’re taking it seriously.”
She rolled her eyes. “Cyra!”
I dragged her toward the Little Theater.
By the time we got there, our two cohorts waited by the door. They were ballet mutants, but they seemed just like real people. Okay, they turned out to be really nice, and Christine practiced with them all the time. They were only evil when Sara was manipulating them into sabotage. Now they had banded together. Seeing Sara’s inevitable demise had brought out a nicer side to the ballerinas. Even the rats knew to bail from the sinking ship.
The door creaked open, revealing a small lobby with a ticket booth. A short hallway led to the double doors and the house of the theater. We’d spent hours setting up the lights, and last year’s set from the spring play still decorated the stage. Five fake trees, all draped in chiffon and glitter, lined the stage, and one flick of the switch and we were suddenly in a mystical forest. As instructed, I kicked the fog machine to get it started. It needed time to make enough fog by the last bell to get the whole feeling just right.
The dancers all went back to the green room, and I let myself into the sound booth. With a couple flicks of my fingers, I booted up the computer that controlled the lights. Hours of work to set it all up, and now all I had to do was hit a button. Technology, the marvel of my life. Now all I needed was a bionic hand that didn’t cost thirty million.
A wistful sigh as the computer came to full function, and I set it off. Soft, ethereal music drifted through the house, and the first of the ballerinas reappeared dressed as a butler from Downton. The second ballerina appeared with a tray of tea things, complete with two mugs, a couple of artfully arranged cookies, and one letter.
The last bell blared to life, and I tried not to be nervous. He still had to show up. That had been my idea. I didn’t want to trap him. We needed to know if he was actually interested, so we’d left the last step to him. Hours of work, a twist of daring, and all of it could fail for the lack of courage.
The minutes ticked on, and the nerves in the room quadrupled.
“Do you really think he’ll come?” the ballet bot—I’m pretty sure her name was Nancy—asked.
As her words echoed through the house, Christine poked her head out from behind a tree, her pallor as green as the leaves.
Meeting her eyes, I affected my best Captain Hook. “My dear lady, no one, but no one, can resist the invitation of Captain Hook!” I twisted my hook, and the coat sleeve whipped up around my arm in a flare of lace and brocade. A hesitant smile caught on Christine’s face. I winked, and her cheeks dimpled.
A knock at the theater door, and a flash of adrenaline shot through my spine. Eyes wide, I raised my hook in triumph. “It’s a foot!”
The butler answered the door. “Welcome to our showing, good sir. You have your ticket?”
Rochan gazed inside, blinking through the dim light. He handed over a ticket, a thing of conceit fashioned from gold paper and more time than I cared to admit. The butler ripped the ticket in half and pointed to the tea service. “Some refreshments?”
I stood stoic and tall by the door. Rochan narrowed his eyes at me. “What are you here for?”
“To sort out the riff raff. Now find your drink and settle your cargo in one of the prime seats.” I pointed to the seats with my hand. Using the hook for gestures almost always made people nervous.
He watched me for signs of deceit or trickery, but I stood by the door, trying not to look completely smug. He saw the letter. “Is this for me?”
“We were instructed to see it safely delivered.” My dead pan faltered for a fraction of a second, but I managed to smooth my expression back down.
Rochan took the paper and tucked it under his arm as he made a cup of jasmine tea. Rochan unfolded the half desk built into all of the seats in the theater and set down his cup. He carefully unshipped the wax holding the thick paper together. I held my breath while he read my words, all the while pretending to be as aloof as possible, but my chest jumped at each crinkle of a smile and furrowed brow.
When he tore his eyes away from the letter, I used the remote in my pocket to send the stage into its final production. The lights dimmed, and the music changed.
Christine planned to dance Persephone. A simpler piece, she told me, but still one full of heart and meaning.
Not to mention, she didn’t have time to practice up a whole separate piece and dance it. There was a competition tomorrow, and she had to be at her best, since some recruiters were going to be there.
Even this piece was a huge sacrifice of time and effort for her. I knew because we’d spent hours, her dancing, me writing at the ballroom in her house. I’d even done some fencing practice down there—my wrist was convinced it should be low, but my opponents were going to abuse the crook of my arm if I let it. All that sacrifice boiled down to this one moment.
Christine took the stage, radiant with composure and beauty. She floated through the space between her marks, and when she paused, her lines were like art. She twirled, her skirt flowing into a rippling wave around her body. She flowed across the stage, like wind through a canyon, hesitating only long enough to caress the edges before whipping away.
And Rochan could hardly breathe.
His eyes followed her like a man seeing water after hiking across the Sahara. Drink forgotten, letter sitting open on the table before him, he watched her in awe.
It coursed through me before I could recognize the beast. No one had ever looked at me like that. The pit in my stomach grew, and I put all my will into relaxing. My words had brought him here. My words.
My jaw clenched, but this was what we’d wanted. Every second of this was a victory for all of us.
aking the stairs two at a time, I made it to the third floor balcony overlooking the quad just as the bell started ringing. It blared for a solid second. I sprinted down the two lengths of balcony and hit the doorknob just as the bell fell silent.
“You’re late, Miss Berque,” Mr. Connor said.
My chest heaved, and blood rushed to my cheeks. “I tried.”
He looked me over like he wanted to really rake me over the coals, but maybe if we could schedule it for after a nap or something. Students shouldn’t use the balcony side entrance to the top rooms, but the fast route between the parking lot and class went through the back route. If Mrs. Laird caught me, I was doomed to another discussion about how people
are all different, and that didn’t give me extra privileges. After one of those speeches, I once asked her to tie her shoes while holding a pencil in one hand, needless to say, we didn’t have the “privileges” talk again for months.
But today, I was going to cast my hand, and I needed the prosthetic with the hooked clamps just in case. I held up my prize as defense. Mr. Connor sighed at me and shook his hand in the air, like the lesson I should have learned from this episode of tardiness might weasel into my brain on its own.
I arched my eyebrow at him, still panting from the sprint.
“You ready to do a casting?”
I grinned.
A few people gathered around, including Rochan. He looked like a light had been lit behind his eyes. They actually sparkled.
I could puke. Of course, it was sort of my fault. I gave her those letters, and he wouldn’t have fallen otherwise.
My words.
Her face.
Mr. Connor stood in front of the group. “This is just the first part of Cyra’s project, so I don’t mind showing everyone how to do it. Remember, if you are still not certain of your project—Mike, you know what I’m talking about—it’s time to get to it. I need to see some major progress this semester. It’s fine to have some failed attempts, but I want some major progress in Fail Land if you’re going to change your mind five times.”
Mr. Connor put a pie tin on the front table and lined it with some plastic wrap. Next he shook up a box of something that smelled like ammonia and plastic. “Jimmy, push open the door.”
“But it’s cold.”
“Yeah, but Mrs. Laird gets really cranky when students pass out, and this stuff is neat.” He poured the white stuff into the pie tin. “Okay, Cyra, make sure your hand has some oil or lotion or something. And you shaved, right?”
I nodded. We’d already talked about what someone needed to do for a mold. My heart thumped, and it wasn’t from the running. My project was coming along, and pretty soon I’d be able to make a nearly perfect copy of my left hand in such a way that it would be a right hand. But we had to wait for the material to be closer to setting before I stuck my hand into it.