Dangerous Creatures (47 page)

That was the point.

As long as my hand kept moving over the page, my problems disappeared, and I was somewhere or
someone
else for a little while. My drawings were fueled by a world only I could see—a boy carrying his nightmares in a sack as bits and pieces spilled out behind him, or a mouthless man banging away at the keys of a broken typewriter in the dark.

Like the piece I was working on now.

I stood in front of my easel and studied the girl perched on a rooftop, with one foot hanging tentatively over the edge. She stared at the ground below, her face twisted in fear. Delicate blue-black swallow wings stretched out from her dress. The fabric was torn where the wings had ripped through it, growing from her back like the branches of a tree.

I read somewhere that if a swallow builds a nest on your roof, it will bring you good luck. But if it abandons the nest, you’ll have nothing but misfortune. Like so many things, the bird could be a blessing or a curse, a fact the girl bearing its wings knew too well.

I fell asleep thinking about her. Wondering what it would be like to have wings if you were too scared to fly.

I woke up the next morning exhausted. My dreams had been plagued with sleepwalking girls floating in graveyards. Elvis was curled up on the pillow next to me. I scratched his ears, and he jumped to the floor.

I didn’t drag myself out of bed until Elle showed up in the afternoon. She never bothered to call before she came over. The idea that someone might not want to see her would never occur to Elle, a quality I’d envied from the moment we met in seventh grade.

Now she was sprawled on my bed in a sea of candy wrappers, flipping through a magazine while I stood in front of my easel.

“A bunch of people are going to the movies tonight,” Elle said. “What are you wearing?”

“I told you I’m staying home.”

“Because of that pathetic excuse for a guy who’s going to be the starting receiver at community college when we graduate?” Elle asked, in the dangerous tone she reserved for people who made the mistake of hurting someone she cared about.

My stomach dropped. Even after a few weeks, the wound was still fresh.

“Because I didn’t get any sleep.” I left out the part about the girl in the graveyard. If I started thinking about her, I’d have another night of bad dreams ahead of me.

“You can sleep when you’re dead.” Elle tossed the magazine on the floor. “And you can’t hide in your room every weekend. You’re not the one who should be embarrassed.”

I dropped a piece of charcoal in the tackle box on the floor and wiped my hands on my overalls. “I think getting dumped because you won’t let your boyfriend use you as a cheat sheet rates pretty high on the humiliation scale.”

I should’ve been suspicious when one of the cutest guys in school asked me to help him bring up his history grade so he wouldn’t get kicked off the football team. Especially when it was Chris, the quiet guy who had moved from one foster home to another—and someone I’d had a crush on for years. Still, with the highest GPA in History and all my other classes, I was the logical choice.

I just didn’t realize that Chris knew why.

The first few years of elementary school, my eidetic memory was a novelty. Back then, I referred to it as photographic, and kids thought it was cool that I could memorize pages of text in only a few seconds. Until we got older, and they realized I didn’t have to study to earn higher grades than them. By the time I hit junior high, I had learned how to hide my “unfair advantage,” as the other students and their parents called it when they complained to my teachers.

These days, only a handful of my friends knew. At least, that’s what I’d thought.

Chris was smarter than everyone assumed. He put in the time when it came to History—and me. Three weeks. That’s how long it took before he kissed me. Two more weeks before he called me his girlfriend.

One more week before he asked if I’d let him copy off me during our midterm.

Seeing him at school and pretending I was fine when he cornered me with his half-assed apologies was hard enough. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Kennedy. But school isn’t as easy for me as it is for you. A scholarship is my only chance to get out of here. I thought you understood that.”

I understood perfectly, which was the reason I didn’t want to run into him tonight.

“I’m not going.”

Elle sighed. “He won’t be there. The team has an away game.”

“Fine. But if any of his loser friends are there, I’m leaving.”

She headed for the bathroom with her bag and a smug smile. “I’ll start getting ready.”

I picked at the half inch of black charcoal under my nails. They would require serious scrubbing unless I wanted to look like a mechanic. The giant Band-Aid on my arm already made me look like a burn victim. At least the theater would be dark.

The front door slammed downstairs, and Mom appeared in the hallway a moment later. “Staying home tonight?”

“I wish.” I tilted my head toward the bathroom. “Elle’s making me go to the movies with her.”

“And you’re okay with that?” Mom tried to sound casual, but I knew what she was worried about. She had baked brownies and listened to me cry about Chris for weeks.

“He’s not going to be there.”

She smiled. “Sounds dangerous. You run the risk of having a good time.” Then her expression changed, and she was all business. “Do you have cash?”

“Thirty bucks.”

“Is your cell charged?”

I pointed to my nightstand, where my phone was plugged in. “Yep.”

“Will anyone be drinking?”

“Mom, we’re going to a movie, not a party.”

“If for some reason there is drinking—”

I cut her off, reciting the rest by heart. “I’ll call you and you’ll pick me up, no questions asked, no consequences.”

She tugged on the strap of my overalls. “Is this what you’re wearing? It’s a good look.”

“Grunge is coming back. I’m ahead of the curve.”

Mom walked over to the easel. She put her arm around me, leaning her head against mine. “You’re so talented, and I can barely draw a straight line. You certainly didn’t get it from me.”

We ignored the other possible source.

She looked at the black dust coating my hands. “Earth-shattering talent aside, maybe you should take a shower.”

“I agree.” Elle emerged from the bathroom, ready enough for both of us in tight jeans and a tank top strategically falling off one shoulder. Whoever she planned to flirt with tonight would definitely notice her, along with all the other guys in the theater. Even in a tangled ponytail and barely any makeup, Elle was hard to miss.

Another difference between us.

I wandered into the bathroom, my expectations for myself considerably lower. Getting rid of the charcoal under my nails would be a win.

Mom and Elle were whispering when I came back out.

“What’s the big secret?”

“Nothing.” Mom raised a shopping bag in the air, dangling it by the handle. “I just picked up something for you. I thought you might need them. Evidence of my psychic powers.”

I recognized the logo printed on the side. “Are those what I think they are?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.…”

I pulled out the box and tossed the lid on the floor. Resting in the folds of tissue paper was a pair of black boots with leather straps that buckled up the sides. I’d seen them a few weeks ago when we were shopping. They were perfect—different, but not too different.

“I thought they’d look great with your uniform,” she said, referring to the black jeans and faded T-shirts I wore every day.

“They’ll look amazing with anything.” I pulled on the boots and checked myself out in the mirror.

Elle nodded her approval. “Definitely cool.”

“They’ll probably look better without the bathrobe.” Mom waved a black tube in the air. “And maybe with a little mascara?”

I hated mascara. It was like fingerprints at the scene of a crime. If you cried, it was impossible to get rid of the black smudges under your eyes, which was almost as embarrassing as crying in front of everyone in the first place.

“It’s only a movie, and that stuff gets all over my face whenever I put it on.” Or hours later, something I learned the hard way.

“There’s a trick.” Mom stood in front of me, brandishing the wand. “Look up.”

I gave in, hoping it might make me look more like Elle and less like the girl-next-door.

Elle leaned over my mom’s shoulder, checking out her technique as she applied a sticky coat. “I would kill for those eyelashes, and you don’t even appreciate them.”

Mom stepped back and admired her work, then glanced at Elle. “What do you think?”

“Gorgeous.” Elle flopped down on the bed dramatically. “Mrs. Waters, you are the coolest.”

“Be home by midnight or I’ll seem a lot less cool,” she said on her way out.

Elvis peeked around the corner.

I walked over to pick him up. He froze for a moment, his eyes fixed on me. Then he tore back down the hall.

“What’s the deal with the King?” Elle asked, using her favorite nickname for Elvis.

“He’s been acting weird.” I didn’t want to elaborate.

I wanted to forget about the graveyard and the girl in the white nightgown. But I couldn’t shake the image of her feet hovering above the ground—or the feeling that there was a reason I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Blackout

T
he house was dark when Elle dropped me off five minutes before curfew, which was strange because Mom always waited up. She liked to hang out in the kitchen while I raided the fridge and gave her a slightly edited play-by-play of the night. After my self-imposed exile, she’d be amused when I reported that nothing had changed.

Elle had dragged me around the lobby with her while she flirted with guys she would never go out with, and I got stuck making awkward small talk with their friends. At least it was over and no one had asked about Chris.

I unlocked the door.

She hadn’t even left a light on for me.

“Mom?”

Maybe she fell asleep.

I flipped the switch at the base of the stairs. Nothing. The power was probably out.

Great.

The house was pitch-black. A rush of dizziness swept over me as the fear started to build.

My hand curled around the banister, and I focused on the top of the stairs, trying to convince myself it wasn’t that dark.

I crept up the steps. “Mom?”

When I reached the second-floor landing, a rush of cold air knocked the breath out of my lungs. The temperature inside must have dropped at least twenty degrees since I left for the movies. Did we leave a window open?

“Mom!”

The lights flickered, casting long shadows down the narrow hallway. I stumbled toward her room, my panic increasing with every step. The memory of the tiny crawl space in the back of her closet fought to break free.

Don’t think about it.

I edged closer.

This end of the hall was even colder, and my breath came out in white puffs. Her door was open, a pale yellow light blinking inside.

The stench of stale cigarette smoke hit me, and a rising sense of dread clawed at my insides.

Someone’s in the house.

I stepped through the doorway, and the wrongness of the scene closed in on me.

My mom lay on the bed, motionless.

Elvis crouched on her chest.

The lamp in the corner flashed on and off like a child was toying with the switch.

The cat made a low guttural sound that cut through the silence, and I shuddered. If an animal could scream, that was what it would sound like.

“Mom?”

Elvis’ head whipped around in my direction.

I ran to the bed and he leapt to the floor.

My mother’s head was tilted to the side, dark hair spilling across her face, as the room pitched in and out of darkness. I realized how still she was—the fact that her chest wasn’t rising and falling. I pressed my fingers against her throat.