Wayward

by Ashley Girardi

Chapter Eight

  The curtains were pulled back in my bedroom. Morning sunlight streamed through the window. Even in the bright shine of a new morning, the room was cold and impersonal. I didn't have posters on the wall or pictures of friends in brightly colored frames like a normal teenage girl.

  Dark mahogany furniture and minimal decoration did nothing to warm the room. I might as well have slept in a furniture store window display. A trunk at the foot of the bed was the only bit of personalization. It held a few books and papers, keepsakes from childhood. The only bit of me in the entire house.

  I pushed out of bed, my body groaning in protest. Rising with the sun should have been outlawed, it was practically torture.

  A cream-colored envelope sat on the dresser next to single lavender rose in a crystal vase. In a room so cold and pristine, they seemed grossly out of place.

  The paper of the envelope was thick against my fingers. Black slanting script on the front spelled out my name. I ripped open the envelope and pulled out a stiff card. Simple black typeface on a white background. Date. Time. Occasion.

  In less than a month, my parents would host a feast for End-of-Winter. The most important event of the new year, it was a symbolic celebration of the reawakening of spring—life from dormancy.

  This would be the first time the End-of-Winter celebration had been held on American soil in years. The Wayward family last hosted before I was born. It was a time for extravagance and excess.

  Representatives from all of the families would attend, descending on the house like a flock of vultures. Flowing wine and spilled blood. Merriment and mayhem.

  Families vied for the chance to host. It was an honor and a chance to show-off. It couldn't be a coincidence that this year it would be held here.

  My hand shook as I set down the invitation.

  Valentine would be there. I knew it as surely as I knew my own name. Twenty-five days and we would be face-to-face for the first time since I left him. I could only imagine his rage at the betrayal. Would he try to hurt me? Or worse, ignore me completely, his obsession turned to disdain.

  I'd get my answer, whether I wanted it or not.

  My mother sat alone at our long dining table when I came downstairs. She had her back to me but I saw her clearly through the archway between the dining room and foyer. A light buffet was laid out in the center of the table, but only a single slice of buttered toast sat next to her on a small plate. Her fingers clenched around the delicate handle of a porcelain teacup.

  I raised the full backpack higher on my shoulder. If the books inside didn't shift around too much, maybe I could get out of the house without attracting her attention. My feet moved soundlessly on the tile floor.

  "Would you like me to call the driver to take you to school?"

  The front door was within reach and I briefly considered making a break for it. I glanced in the dining room where Leonora was turned around in her chair to face me, eyebrow raised in faintly disapproval.

  I jingled the keys in my pocket. "Thanks, but I can drive myself." My hand touched the doorknob. "Bye."

  "Come sit. You should eat something."

  With a sigh, I trudged into the dining room. My bag fell off my shoulder and crashed to the floor next to the table. Leonora winced at the sound.

  I slid into the chair on her right. Leonora pushed a plate, with a grapefruit half and a single slice of bacon on it, in front of me. To her that was a veritable banquet.

  "Did your first day back at school go well?"

  "Peachy."

  She drummed her nails on the table, a ruby the size of a robin's egg glinted on her ring finger. "Do you have any classes with Cynthie?"

  "No." Thank the gods.

  "I hope you recognize that this is an opportunity," she sighed. "Now is a time for gathering allies."

  Some allies. "Cynthie tried to kill me, remember?"

  "We aren't human, Helena. Don't forget that." She seemed momentarily lost in thought. "There are so few of us left."

  I pushed the plate away and stood. "I'm going to be late."

  My mother rose gracefully and came around the side of the table. She grasped my hands. "You're so strong. Of all my children, you've always been the strongest."

  "Don't be silly, Mother." I gently pulled my hands away. "We both know that's not true.

  Not magic—not power." My mother touched her hand to my chest, my heart beating against her fingertips. "None of the others could survive as you have."

  "Thank you." My voice was soft.

  She retreated back to the table and pulled the dressing gown she wore tight around her thin frame. "I only have one thing to ask, Helena."

  I swallowed. "What?"

  Her finger pointed to the floor at my feet. "I would like to know what those are doing in my house."

  The offending article was a pair of scuffed Doc Martens I'd found hidden in the back of my closet. "What's wrong with them?"

  "I can't be expected to vet your wardrobe every morning. You're old enough now to know what is appropriate." She sank into a chair and flipped the tail of her robe over her knees with a quick swish. "Go and change."

  "Mother—"

  "You will go upstairs and change into shoes that are less atrocious. Go now, before you're late."

  I didn't leave the house for another twenty minutes. It took three tries before my mother finally allowed that I was fit to be seen in public. She agreed on the black Mary Janes but only if they were paired with sturdy nylons.

  Then came the dissertation on the key differences between tights and pantyhose, and their lack of interchangeability.

  It took long enough that my mother noticed the graffiti designs on the t-shirt I wore under my school blazer were made with actual paint and not just designer detailing. The shirt also had to go, to be replaced by a crisp button-down.

  I got outside only to be met with another surprise.

  A motorcycle idled in the loop of our driveway. The good news: the bike was a restored Indian that gleamed in the sunlight and purred like a lap kitten. The bad news: the driver who revved the throttle with hands covered in sleek riding gloves was none other than Zachary Yarrow.

  "Are you stalking me, now?"

  He smiled. "You want a ride?"

  I did a slow circle around the bike. Shiny metal showed no signs of rust. The idling engine sounded clear and low with no hint of buildup. I brushed my hand down one of the skirted fenders, painted red like a fire truck. "Is this a '53 Chief?"

  "One of the last ever made." Zach patted the fender like a proud father. "Replaced the transmission and split the exhaust. Still got the original engine, though."

  "V-twin?"

  "You know it."

  I suppressed a shiver. "It's yours?"

  "My dad's." He gave an embarrassed shrug. "He lets me take it out on special occasions."

  "Is it your birthday, or something?" I started walking down the driveway. The gate at the end stood open, which must have been how Zach managed to get up to the house.

  "Not exactly." He powerwalked the bike beside me, letting pull from the transmission move the motorcycle forward as he came on and off the throttle. "I waited for awhile. Did you spend too much time fixing your hair?"

  I laughed, my curls must have been spiked in a dozen directions. My hair was lucky to see a brush every day, much less any sort of style. "Not exactly," I mimicked him.

  Zach grinned but didn't respond.

  "How did you know where I live?"

  "I broke into your file at school."

  "Really?" I wouldn't have thought he had it in him.

  "No, not really," he admitted. "They actually have these things called phone books."

  "Funny." I kicked a pebble on the sidewalk. "So based on my obvious interest, you came all the way here expecting me to hop on the back of your bike like some bimbo in a music video?"

  He rubbed his leather-clad hands to together. "That pretty much sums it up."

  "You're not so good
with taking hints, are you?"

  "Hope springs eternal."

  "And you're one more overused quote away from the end of this conversation."

  "It's not over yet?" He feigned surprise. "I must be doing something right."

  I blamed the Indian. I couldn't possibly be expected to look past its gleaming, humming glory and it just wasn't right to blame a bike for its rider.

  "Do you want a ride, or not?" Zachary stopped the bike and glanced at his watch. "You won't make it to school on time walking."

  With a start, I realized that we had made it down the winding driveway and out to the street. Keys for the Toyota jangled uselessly in my pocket. I didn't relish the uphill hike back up the driveway.

  I refused to let Zach know he knocked me off balance enough that I forgot the step between walking out of my house and driving the car to school.

  "Tell you what." I grabbed the spare helmet hanging by its strap from the backrest. "How about I give you a ride to school?"

  "What—"

  I stepped off the curb and swung my leg over the body of the motorcycle, forcing Zach to scoot back or get a size-9 to his face.

  My hands slid over the controls. I revved the engine and small shivers ran through my body at the sound.

  "Hang on," I called. "I'm not turning around if you fall off." I released the e-brake and rolled the throttle.

  We were flying. Cold air rushed over my skin as if we forced our way through storm clouds. I wanted to ride forever.

  The bike maneuvered easily through traffic, skirting slower-moving cars and hugging turns like a glove. I floored it through any open space I could find. Each time I came especially close to someone's bumper or scared an unwary pedestrian, Zach's arms tightened around my waist. That made me smile.

  It took every bit of my willpower to slow down for the turnoff towards school and pull into the full parking lot. I slid against the curb in front of the gate and hopped the front tire onto the sidewalk. Zach stumbled off the bike and barely caught his balance enough to avoid falling on the pavement.

  I tossed him the spare helmet so it hit hard against his chest. Warning bell had already rung but I might still make it to class on time.

  "Hey," Zach called as I started to walk away. "You didn't even park it."

  "Don't want to be late," I yelled over my shoulder without turning back. "You can thank me for the ride later."

  Zachary didn't arrive in History until well after roll call. Mr. Biggs met him at the door with a gentle scolding and extra homework for a week. He glared at me as he took his seat.

  Sam leaned across the aisle. "Making friends quick?"

  "I guess the romantic dinner date is canceled."

  She chuckled.

  "Ms. Douglas. Ms. Wayward," Mr. Biggs said from the chalkboard. "Whenever you are ready, the rest of us would like to begin class."

  "Yes, Mr. Biggs," we echoed in unison.

  "Talk at lunch?" Sam asked in a whisper before straightening.

  "Sure."

  Zachary was conspicuously absent in the hallway after class. He'd rushing out the door before the bell even finished ringing. I may have just scared him away for good. Apparently, forcing a guy to ride sidesaddle on his own bike made him lose all interest in courtship. Go figure.

  Sam met me outside of third period English and we walked towards the lunchroom together. Only seniors were allowed to leave school grounds during lunch so both of us were stuck with grainy cafeteria food and bad track lighting.

  "So, Zachary is a definite dead end, huh?" She asked as we stood in line.

  "Most definitely," I responded. "Dead and buried."

  "But he's so cute."

  I smiled at her wistful expression. "He's all yours."

  "Right." She rolled her eyes. "I am not the girl that a guy like that picks out of a crowd."

  "And I am?" My voice was droll. Sam may not have found the right guy to appreciate her girl-next-door sweetness, but I wasn't exactly drowning in offers either.

  "Totally," she said, as if that should be obvious. "You're cool and tough. Guys like that."

  "Not as many as you seem to think."

  Sam grinned. "At least we can drown our sorrows in curly fries."

  "Definitely."

  "There you are, Helena. We've been looking all over for you."

  Cynthie and her loyal followers appeared behind us in line, shoving aside a sophomore who didn't move out of their way fast enough.

  "What do you want?" I asked with a sigh.

  She smiled, revealing sharp teeth. "We have lunch plans. Did you forget?"

  "Must have," I said, rolling my eyes. "Take a rain check. I'm eating with Sam today."

  Cynthie took in Sam with a narrow glance. "Hello, anonymous unimportant person. You're dismissed."

  A bit of power rolled off her in a wave, skin-tingling and nerve-jangling fear creeping over us.

  Sam's eyes widened and I quickly stepped in front of her. "Shove it, Cynthie. No one here is scared of you." Hopefully, she couldn't tell I was lying.

  "It's okay, Hex." Sam stumbled back a step. "I just remembered I have a paper due in English. I have to go to the library."

  I tried to catch her arm but Sam wrenched it away and disappeared into the crowded hallway. I turned on Cynthie with a snarl. "Do you have to be a total bitch all of the time?"

  "Probably not," she replied smoothly. "But why risk it? We have a table at Mode. Let's go."

  I snorted. "You hate me, remember?"

  "That was yesterday. Today we have reservations for lunch. Try to keep up."

  "I'm not a senior. I can't leave school."

  "Don't be such a baby."

  Noelle and Jade stood behind her, their expressions equally empty.

  My mother's speech about gaining allies rang through my head. "Fine," I said tightly. How bad could lunch possibly be?

  Mode was a trendy bistro two blocks from school on Canal, specializing in French fusion and art deco design. It was the type of place where a goat cheese salad cost as much as a blue collar paycheck.

  The hostess led us to a table in the back with a white placard on top marked reserved. I took the seat facing the exit and flipped open the menu. None of us spoke as the hostess filled our water glasses.

  "We need a round of melontinis and a plate of olive oil bruschetta to start." Cynthie spoke to the hostess without looking at her.

  The girl didn't ask for IDs, just stammered something agreeable before scurrying off.

  "It's 11:30 in the morning," I said drily.

  "Live a little." Noelle checked her makeup in the reflection on her spoon. "Hard liquor makes fourth and fifth period go by way faster."

  I looked from one of them to the other. Noelle, who would follow Cynthie off a cliff, just because she was too dumb to know any better. Jade stared off into space as if she found the whole world supremely uninteresting. And Cynthie, herself. I could only imagine what hid behind her devious smile.

  "What is this all about?" I asked finally.

  Cynthie raised an eyebrow. "You need to be more specific." The waiter came around with our drinks and the appetizer. She waved him away impatiently when he asked if we were ready to order. I waited until he was gone to speak again.

  "This make-nice routine. It's starting to get a little weird."

  "You spent too much time slumming with humans. It made you forget how things are supposed to be." She cocked her to the side and eyed me curiously. "Would you really rather be eating cafeteria meatloaf with Samantha Douglas right now?"

  "Leave her out of this," I snapped.

  "Wake up, Helena." Cynthie slapped her menu closed and tossed it onto the table. "We're not here to play house with humans. We're here to learn how to control them. You might not want to admit it, but you're not one of them—" her gesture took in everyone at the table "—you're one of us."

  "Don't compare yourself to me." I stood so quickly that the martini glasses jumped, coming perilously close to tipping o
ver. "I'm going back to school."

  "Running away again." Jade's soft voice carried over the restaurant din of loud conversations and clinking glassware. She folded up the napkin that had fallen into my chair when I stood and set it neatly next to my appetizer plate.

  "What do you know about it?" I asked caustically.

  Jade smiled slightly and took a microscopic bite of bruschetta.

  "Sit down," Cynthie sipped her melontini. "You're making a scene."

  We had attracted the attention of the tables nearest us. The waiter hovered by the hostess stand, watching us with a wary expression.

  I picked up a melontini and brought it to my lips, downing it. The drink was thick and sweet like expensive cough syrup. "This was great, girls. Let's not do it again."

  Cynthie's voice washed over me as she spoke a final warning.

  "It's only going to get worse."