Liquid Death (The Edinön Trilogy Book 1) (4 page)

              But the argument never reached an end. I finally stood up and walked upstairs to investigate, worried that they were arguing about me.

              Another crash. It sounded as though a glass vase fell and shattered on the tile floor in the kitchen. I halted at the top of the stairs and listened cautiously through the door.

              “You told me you'd call him as soon as you had the chance! You promised, Jeremy!”

              “Yes, and I apologize. Just... stop throwing things, honey. This does not warrant such aggression!”

              “Are you insane? Our
lives
depend on it!”

              “I
cannot
call him.”

              “Don't give me that again! Of course you can!”

“Talia, I told you before!”

              “You're serious. You're seriously giving me this excuse right now? Oh my heck, I can't look at you right now! Give me that! No, stop it! I will call him! Hey! Let go!”

              Another crash. Tears sprung in my eyes.

              “Stop it!”

              “Put that down!”

              “I will not let you hurt this family again! I have worked hard to keep us together!”

              “If you had but an inkling of the measures I have taken to preserve this family...”

              “From what? I don't understand! You're always saying you're trying to protect us, but you never tell me why!”

              “The truth would
break
you, Tal.”

              “So you haven't been telling the truth all this time?”

              “Had I been completely truthful with you from the beginning, you would not have married me, and Traci never would have been born! There are greater things than truth in this world.”

              “What is the truth, Jeremy? What is it? Tell me!”

              I fly out of bed and rush to the bathroom, where I dry heave over the toilet until I have so little energy that all I can do is sit on the floor in the bathroom in a daze, unable to move or think... I just exist.

              At about 8:30, I stumble back to my bedroom, lightheaded and ravenous. I blackout for about two seconds and come to on the floor, groaning.

              That's when I hear my uncle's raspy voice call my name. “Kandi, Kandi, Kandi” over and over and over. I know I should get up, but I don't. We've been out of food for two days now. I haven't eaten a thing for two whole days, which isn't much less than the amount I ordinarily eat, so the effects of forty-eight-hour starvation are even more detrimental.

              I lie on the floor, thinking of my father, the man who changed my life forever, the man who stole my dreams and ripped my heart and soul from me.

              I am an empty shell. Nothing more.

             
“Kandi! Open it! Open it!” Traci squealed, grinning to display the holes in her mouth where her two front teeth used to be. She jumped up and down beside me as I quickly tore the paper away from my last birthday gift.

              I smiled and poked Traci in the stomach, causing her to squeal even louder and finally give me some space. I twisted the gift around and around and looked up at my parents. My mother was smiling with a fork full of cake slowly approaching her mouth; my father was also, but the smile didn't quite reach his moss-hued eyes.

              I fidgeted a bit, uneasy. Fortunately, I was able to shake it from my mind and focus on my party. My mother had told me I could invite friends over... but I didn't have any friends. I never did, and I suspected at the time that I never would.

              I was right.

              Traci gave me a makeup kit for my ninth birthday. We played with it for the rest of the day, and our mom styled our hair for us. We dressed up as princesses and my dad took pictures.

              It was a good day. A normal day.

              I recall pulling Traci into my arms when she was three after a mean girl stole her doll. I can still smell her sweet toddler shampoo and the fresh scent of grass on the lawn where we embraced. I can still feel the tears on my shoulder that fell from her eyes. She lost her most precious possession, and I was there to comfort her.

              Memories of my mother coaxing me to make friends in school bring me to tears once again. Those memories are still so fresh in my mind, so crisp, like I am staring at photographs taken just the day before.

              Every moment of my life is that way. My dad always said I had an eidetic memory – just like him. We are like twins. He often told me stories of his own friendless childhood where he would be strictly controlled by his father. Those stories always made me feel better knowing that my father was able to pull through it all.

              But, now that I think about it... Maybe he never did.

              I abruptly return to consciousness the moment my uncle picks me up by the arms and shakes me like a rag doll.

              “What are you doing asleep on the floor? I've been calling you for fifteen minutes!” He throws me down in disgust and shakes his head. “Get in the kitchen,
now
. I bought food. Whip something up for me while I pay the rent.”

              He bought eggs, milk, flour, cheese, a variety of vegetables, a 12-pack of beer, and bread. I almost pass out merely by exerting the energy required to look at it.

              Still half asleep and moaning miserably, I cook two omelets and set the table for the two of us. Memories of similar nights long ago pour into my brain, almost summoning more tears.

              Jim returns with a hungry look in his eyes, takes the food from the table to the living room, and plops in front of the television. My heart plummets to my stomach. Nostalgia gone. We're going to eat separately as usual.

              Quietly, I sit at the table and, with as much discipline as I can muster, slowly piece at my omelet. When I am finished, I take my dishes, place them in the dishwasher, and saunter into the living room.

              I gather Jim's dishes and look at the TV. My uncle is watching the news. He
never
watches the news.

              “... who, seven years ago, killed his wife and his two daughters, has escaped Utah Valley Prison...”

              My brain doesn't give me the option to listen any further. I drop the dishes I'd been holding and look at the screen, unable to see anything beyond it. An icy blanket constricts my lungs so they can't expand. A tremendous amount of pressure builds up behind my eyes and in my throat. A soft, high-pitched buzz pierces my skull.

              My head explodes. I lean my weak body against the corner of the wall between the kitchen and the living room and sob, the pressure only building as the tears flow. Dad is back. Dad is still in my life.

              Jim turns off the television and grunts as he rises from the sofa. He awkwardly pats me on the back and leaves.

              My father is still in my life. I am not okay with that.
Not. Okay.

              Later that evening, as I am staggering into my room clutching my clothes in my arms, I remember the gift Doctor Boon gave me. It is still sitting on my dresser, unopened, untouched.

              I can't wait any longer. I rip the paper off the box and carefully remove the lid. Inside, to my astonishment, is a note written by my mother the day before she died.

April 17, 2009

              Dear Kanidie,

              If you are reading this, I am already dead. I never wanted this to happen. I wish I could be there to hold you and tell you that everything is going to be okay. But it turns out I did not know your father as well I as I thought. I hope you can forgive me.

             
You have probably concluded by now that you are very special. Your father was too when I met him. He always knew what I was thinking and seemed to pass his stunning intellect down to you. I only hope you can use your intelligence for good and halt the corruption your father instigated. You are more gifted than you realize. Many people will want to use your gifts for nefarious purposes, but you cannot let them. Our survival depends on you keeping your true identity a secret.

              I love you more than life. Though dead, I have not left your side for a second. My sole dying wish is that you will awaken to your full potential and stop your father’s plan from succeeding.

              Love always,

              Mom

              I fold the note and return it to its box, then cover my face with my hands and bawl my eyes out. Without thinking, I sob, “I miss you, Mom.” It is not until I am able to breathe normally again that my blood runs cold with the realization that I still have a voice.

***

The Girl

              Jan. 2, 2017

                           
I spent most of my Christmas
break alone, working out, eating, playing video games as promised, or watching TV with Grandpa. I have never had such an uneventful two weeks in my life. In California, I was often with my friends, looting stores, stealing cars, breaking into homes, or fighting with other gangs (maybe reading a book or two in my spare time). In Blue Skys, I wasn’t aware of how bored I was.

              As unchallenging as my break seemed, however, I am still not cheerfully anticipating school. In fact, school and Blue Skys are the two items at the top of my list of Places I Want to Avoid for Eternity. The third item on that list is Hell.

              My aides, whose “names” are apparently Tim and Mac – very original – come by in a large white van to drive me to school. I don’t know why
they
have to take me when my grandpa has a functioning vehicle. I won’t be able to tolerate their act much longer.

              Tim, or Goon 1, cuffs my wrists and hauls me into the back of the van, securing the cuffs to a chain in the floor.

              “Guys, is this really necessary?”

              Mac gives me a dull look.

              I wonder if they’re aware I could break through these chains like butter.

              In Spanish class, I don’t see the kid who bothered me on my first day. In his place is a
niña bonita
with smooth black hair, heavy eye makeup and a low-cut, form-hugging top. Thank goodness.

              “Hey,” I whisper in her direction, “what’s your name?”

              “Eliza,” she answers while texting on her phone.

              I turn around and offer my hand. “I’m Juan.”

              She takes it slowly, brown eyes lighting up with intrigue. “
Hola
, Juan.”

              “Are you new here?”

              She shakes her head, earrings clinking. “No, I just switched classes. You’re the new kid everyone has been talking about, right?”

              “Everyone has been talking about me?”

              “Yeah.” She props her elbow on her desk and rests her chin on her fist. “You are the hot new
muchacho malo
from San Diego.”

              “Oh. Well…” I say, grinning humbly, “I would like to get to know
you
better. What lunch hour do you have?”

              Eliza simpers. “First. Same as you.”

              I narrow my eyes with pseudo suspicion. “Have you been stalking me?”

              “Chavez, eyes up here, please.” I abruptly face forward toward Mr. Brown, who is sporting a green sweater over a gray-striped tie and brown slacks. Quite an appealing combination. “That is your final warning.”

              I nod and pick up my pencil. The clock on the wall appears to be ticking backwards.

              In Geometry, a class I share with one other senior, ten juniors, and fourteen sophomores, Mrs. Edwards’ monotonous lecture is blessedly interrupted by a voice on the intercom: “Juan Chavez, please come to the office. Juan Chavez.”

              I rise out of my miniature desk and nod an apology to the teacher on my way out. I feel Tim and Mac breathing heavily down my neck and roll my shoulders uncomfortably.

              I see nothing unusual as I stroll to the office. I wonder why I was called down. My nerves ratchet up the panic level in the stillness as I recall past dealings with school authorities. I hardly attended middle school because I was constantly given detention for misdemeanors I never committed. I attended a school dominated by full-blooded Latinos who liked to blame everything on the half white kid. It wasn’t until I joined a gang and made a name for myself that my peers began respecting me. I was finally able to improve my academic performance as a freshman in high school, although I never passed my freshman year because I was arrested before finals.

              Doctor Hendricks is waiting for me in the office with an austere countenance, clad in a black suit, her atrous hair in a severe bun. She is in the middle of a conversation with the receptionist when I grace the counselor with my presence.

              She straightens from the counter separating the waiting area and the receptionist’s desk and smooths invisible folds from her tight skirt. “Juan,” she acknowledges pleasantly. “I apologize for pulling you out of your math class. Would you mind stepping into my office?” She walks past me to a door just outside the waiting area. Tim and Mac enter first, then she invites me to sit on the leather sofa.

              The counselor maneuvers around her desk and drops into her throne. After scooting her chair closer to her desk, she clears her throat and looks directly at me. “A couple of weeks ago, you described a situation with a girl you witnessed on your first day in this school. I need you to recount what you saw to me, please.”

              “What happened to doctor/patient confidentiality?” I inquire, crossing my arms defensively.

              “It doesn’t exist here. We just want to help you. Now tell me what you saw.”

              “I didn’t see anything. And how is telling you the little I saw supposed to help
me
?”

              “I’ll sign you up for detention if you don’t cooperate, Mr. Chavez.”

              Ah, so we’re off first-name terms. “Fine. I saw a man with a girl about my age. The woman had a bruise on her face the shape of a man’s fist. That’s all.”

              “And this was your first time seeing the girl?”

              I give her a baffled expression. “Of course.”

              “Okay.” She wipes the corners of her eyes and breathes tiredly. “Have you told anyone else besides Doctor Eddington and me what you saw?”

              “No,” I answer in annoyance. What is the big deal, anyway? So I saw a girl with a mark on her face! It hadn’t been the first time. “Why are you asking me these questions?”

              “That is none of your concern.” She motions to my aides with a slight jerk of her head, “You may take him back to class now.”

              I growl with irritation and show myself out.

              Lunch does not come soon enough. Fortunately, my grandmother is an avid kitchen-dweller, so she packed a lunch for me. I don’t have to stand in line and wait for inedible garbage.

              I find a spot closest to the exit and open my paper sack. Gran packed a sandwich on white bread, some baby carrots, cookies, and a granola bar.
Ha-ha
, I feel like I’m in kindergarten again.
Thank you, Gran.

              I am two centimeters away from biting into my sandwich when someone loudly loosens the phlegm in his esophagus. I glance over my shoulder and set my sandwich on top of its container. “Can I help you?” I ask Surfer Boy. I peer around him to find a very timid girl staring at the floor and vigorously rubbing her arms.

              He nods. “Yes, I am afraid you must move to another table. This one is reserved for Kandi.” He gestures to the girl behind him.

              “Oh! Sorry.” I quickly repack my lunch and head over to the adjacent table, in a position where I can observe the odd pair. I figure Surfer Boy must be her aide, because he doesn’t seem like a boyfriend or a friend. And he looks slightly too old to be in high school. Of course, so does the girl.

              While chewing, I watch her cautiously approach the seat I had previously occupied and sit next to it. Her aide sits a few seats away and hands her a couple of pills across the table, which she shakily covers with a delicate hand and drags closer to her side. The guy says something to her and leaves. I watch him move to the end of the lunch line, then return my gaze to the girl.

              I find myself struggling to swallow as she lifts up one of her sleeves and examines a deep cut on her left forearm. Her eyes seem weighted with a ton of bricks. She looks exhausted and anguished. I glance around the noisy cafeteria and am astonished by the light contrast between her and everyone else. While the rest of the room absorbs the fluorescent illumination, she appears to repel it. A dark aura of sorrow surrounds her. Her depression is rubbing off on me and wrenching my insides. I can’t take it.

              Ignoring the strange looks from Tim and Mac, I rise from my table and cross the ten-foot space between happiness and misery. Aware that she seems to prefer solitude, I take Surfer Boy’s seat and pass her the rest of my lunch.

              “Here,” I whisper hoarsely. “You need this more than I do.” And before I even have the chance to see her reaction, two monstrous shadows roughly grab my shoulders and hoist me off the seat.
Okay, I’ve had enough of this
. I nudge their grimy paws off of me and dare them to touch me again.

              “Boy, get back to your table,” Mac warns, poised to strike with a needle in his belt.

              “We don’t want anyone to get hurt,” Tim states calmly.

              “Neither do I, morons,” I deride, shoving them out of the way with such force they lose their balance and fall back on their rears.

              All sound in the cafeteria whooshes from existence as my aides scramble to their feet, their mouths gaped in shock.

              “Really? You’re going to try touching me again?” I taunt furiously.

              Mac means to snatch my shirt before I kick him in the stomach. He thuds to the floor, unconscious. Tim approaches me slowly, assessing his options. He reaches for the needle in Mac’s belt and lashes toward me like a viper. I grab the arm wielding the weapon and snap his bones in half with a single twist. He screams and collapses, cradling his fractured arm, face scarlet with wrath and pain.

              The students and staff in the room gasp simultaneously. I spot a security guard in my peripheral and turn to face him. He is pointing a dart gun at my chest.

              “Shoot him,” Doctor Hendricks orders from the entrance. The guard takes aim and pulls the trigger.

              But the dart never reaches its target.

              Another collective gasp ensues as nearly one hundred people witness the dart halt midair and clatter to the floor. The guard fires again, and the same phenomenon occurs. Nothing hits me.

              I look at the tortured soul in the corner. Her eyes mysteriously glow electric green as they focus on the third dart, which comes closer to my chest than the first two. Then I look at the counselor, whose attention has also diverted to the girl. As the final dart clatters to the floor, the girl’s eyes diminish to normal, and her shoulders relax.

              No one moves for several awkward seconds. My breath catches.

              “Mr. Chavez!” Doctor Hendricks yells, her shrill voice a defibrillator to our hearts. “My office!” She looks at Surfer Boy. “And Kyle!”

              “Yes, Ma’am?” he steps out of the line, mouth still agape.

              “Bring Kandi to my office as well. Have security assist Mr. Knight and Mr. Hunter to the infirmary.”

              He gulps and nods, glancing sourly in my direction.

              Rebellion within me dissipated, I obey the school counselor, skin crawling as one hundred eyes burrow into my back. What have I done?

***