Nightmare (6 page)

“I don't know.” I say, just for something to say. I hope this is over. I just wanted to make sure I hadn't done too much damage yesterday. “You're okay? Really?”

“Yes and no.” She sounds like Peter.

“But –” I start, but she waves her hand to dismiss me. “You can go in now. Interrogation over.” I snap my mouth shut and walk backward to the porch. “You're not as scary as you think you are.” I'm trying to keep it light.

“That's all part of my secret identity. Mwahahaha.” I laugh at her attempt at an evil chuckle. She could never pull it off. 

I leave her to her plants. Well, they're not here yet, but there are lots of things to prepare. I should probably learn more about gardening. Because there's no way those plants are going to die when she's not here. I'll hire a Carlos before that would happen.

Dad's tucked away in his office, doing loan officer things that he likes to put off until the weekend so he has an excuse to hole up in there. He's so transparent.

I have the living room to myself, so I crash on the couch. I could go out and have an impromptu date with Tex, but I'm having one of those days when I don't want to do anything. I want to eat ice cream or pie (or both) and watch stupid movies I've seen a million times. I also want to cuddle with Peter, but you can't have everything. 

I call a local car place and get a quote about how much it would cost to do Jamie's truck. I nearly fall over when they quote me $300. I thank them and hang up. Yeah, I'm definitely going to have to put in some more hours at the bookstore. I send a message to Tex and she responds with about a million exclamation points. Anything to save her from being alone with skeevy Toby and his weirdness.

I could get dressed. But I don't want to. I'm missing Peter and feeling frumpy. 

I grab an extra pillow and an old quilt and curl up with them, a box of crackers, a glass of ginger ale and a few peanut butter cups I'd hidden away in the pantry for chocolate emergencies. I grab the DVD remote and my lazy Sunday is off and lazing.

The clock ticks away slowly, and I'm bored. Mom had been dragged back inside by Dad mere minutes after she'd gone out. He'd forced her to take some weird vitamins he'd found and put her to bed. I'd given her a sympathetic look as she walked by.

One movie finishes and I start another. A stupid fluffy girl movie. It wasn't what I wanted. 

I wanted to be in the cemetery with Peter, or baking with my mother. She'd checked off a bunch of items on the list she'd made of things she wanted me to learn before... I still had a hard time even thinking the d word. 

I was going to get used to it real soon. Not that we had a definite timetable. About four months left. I wasn't looking forward to this winter without her. But I'd slay that dragon when I got there. 

“Are you feeling okay?” Mom's voice would have made me jump if I wasn't already so used to being startled by Peter. It probably wasn't a good thing for my self-preservation skills. They weren't all that great to begin with. Exhibit A: Peter.

“Yeah. Just in a funk.” My master plan to lose myself in the pink cotton-candy movie was futile anyway.

“Well, we need to un-funk you. How about dinner out?” She leans her forearms against the back of the couch. She's less pale, but still a shadow of how she'd looked two years ago. The change had been so gradual, I almost hadn't noticed.

“That would mean I'd have to change out of these sweatpants.” I gesture at my attire. 

“You should get some of those jean-legging things. Then you wouldn't have to.”

I narrow my eyes. “I refuse to subject myself to jeggings.”

She picks up a pillow and swats me with it. “Suit yourself. We need to get you out and doing something. Something that doesn't involve sitting around and moping about a boy.”

“I'm not moping about a boy.” 

I'm totally moping about a boy.

She pulls a thread off the pillow. “Well, the definition of boy is debatable, but still. You need sunlight and other people.” I hate how right she is. I'd let myself get sucked into being around Peter, and blamed it all on the Claiming. But I'm still my own person. Only my blood belonged to Peter. And maybe a few other pieces of me. Like my heart. 

“Got anything on your list?” She squints her eyes and taps her chin.

“Well, there is one little thing.” She holds up on finger and crosses her eyes as she looks at it.

“What's that?”

She points the finger at me. “You, my dear, are going to learn how to put on lipstick and eyeliner like a pro.”

“I don't wear make-up.” Mascara didn't count. Anyone could do mascara.

“Someday you might want to. It's a useful skill to have.” She takes my arm, and I have no choice but to comply. Not that it's going to be torture, exactly. I wear make-up sometimes, but I'd never managed that effortless look that so many girls pulled off. I sigh and get my ass off the couch.

To my mother's vanity table we go. It's in the corner of her bedroom, right across from the treadmill my father bought but never uses. The vanity is white and peach to match the rest of the décor, and complete with a frilly white chair she pushes me into. I stare at the array of bottles and jars and containers and pens and pencils. Intimidating. Tex had tried to get me to line my eyes, but I'd been too afraid of poking myself or getting an eye disease. The words,
It is always darkest before the dawn
, hover on the wall. I look away from them.

“Okay, so the first thing to do is pick what kind of liner you want to use.” She holds out three options. A pencil, crayon-looking thing, and liquid. 

“Which is the easiest?” I say.

“The pencil.”

“I'll go with that.” She pulls off the cap with a pop and tells me to close my eyes. The pencil is cold as she drags it across my eye, stopping every now and then to check her work. Her hand is so steady, I can't imagine I'm going to be able to duplicate it. 

When she's done, I check out my eye. It looks so large compared to the un-lined eye. Huge and green and secretive. The kind of girl who would be able to flirt with Peter and make him want her. In other words, a girl who wasn't me. Mom hands me the pencil. I lean closer to the mirror and give it a shot.

I do my best, only poking myself in the eye twice. My lines are jagged and the pencil doesn't move as smoothly for me as it does for my mother. Still, I get it looking okay. 

Then she brings out her tube of berry-colored lipstick and cranks it out. She applies it to her own lips first, and then hands it to me. For some reason it doesn't look the same on my lips as it does on hers. We both pucker and laugh at our reflections. The lipstick is a little too dark for me, but the eyeliner works. I wonder if Peter will like it. I hope so. 

“There you go. All grown up. My little girl.” She puts her arms around my shoulders and squeezes. I'm bathed in her lilac scent.

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

I wave my hand to indicate my face. “For showing me this. Even though I'm probably not going to use it, except on prom or something.” 

“I hope I'm here for prom.” Her hands flutter in my hair, piling it up in the back.

What is she talking about? Prom is only a month away. “Why wouldn't you be?”

“Because this isn't an exact science. There is no way to predict when it will happen. I think I'll know.” She twists my hair up and pulls a few curls out.

“Is it soon?” My smoky eyes widen in the mirror. I didn't want to ask the question, but it popped out anyway.

“Not too soon.” She kisses the top of my head and lets my hair go so it puddles on my shoulders. “You still need to learn how to french braid. That's something we'll tackle soon, okay?” I nod, wishing I could wipe all the make-up off. Actually, I wish I could rub everything off. Rub my skin and my identity and build myself into someone else. It's not the first time I've wished it and it won't be the last. 

“I'm sorry about yesterday,” I say again, worrying at the lace on the edge of the chair. I still can't forgive myself for making her sick. Even though I know I didn't. Cancer made her sick.

“Sorry for telling me the truth? It is better to tell the truth than regret a lie.”

“I've never heard that one.”

She puts the eyeliner back in its place on her make-up tray. “I made it up.”

“I should probably write that one down.” I should write all of them down. So I never forget.

“Don't worry,
ma fleur
. You won't forget. I promise.” She kisses my forehead and looks at both of us in the mirror. I stare at her face and look back at my own. She's so beautiful, even when she's being ravaged by cancer. It could never take that away from her.

Chapter Five

Peter

Ava is quiet tonight. Usually, it means she is thinking about something intensely. Through our connection, I can sense her unsettled thoughts. They rattle and jar me.

She has something on her face. Make-up. It looks different on her. Widens her eyes and makes them like green beams of light that stare out of a fog-filled night. She is both more herself and less herself. I am not sure if I like it. 

“What did you do to your eyes?” Her hands fly to her face, as if there is something wrong with it.

She feels around her eyes with her fingers for a moment. “What? Oh, my mom taught me how to use eyeliner. I forgot to take it off. It looks bad.” An unpleasant feeling flies through her for a moment. She moves to get up. I take her arm to stop her from doing something foolish.

“No, it doesn't. It is different.”

“Different, bad?” Her eyes widen and she blinks rapidly. Worried that I don't like it.

“Different, different. Your eyes are just as green. There is simply more emphasis on them.” I try to word it the correct way. From being around Ava and listening to her friend Texas, I have found that certain girls are easily offended when it comes to their appearance. Ava doesn't seem to be, but I did not want to take the chance that I could upset her. I do not like it when she is upset. It makes me upset, and then she gets more upset. It is a cycle I do not want to start.

She pulls away from my arm. “I'm going to wash my face.” Clearly, I did not say the right thing. I struggle to find what that might be. 

“You are beautiful no matter what is on your face.” She stops and turns around. I enjoy her shocked expression. 

“Really?” She wraps a lock of hair around her finger and crosses one foot in front of the other, twisting back and forth. It strikes me how truly beautiful she is. I am allowed to think she is beautiful. 

“Really,” I say, using her word. She looks down, trying to hide a smile. It is so easy for her to make facial expressions. As easy as waves rolling over a beach. I try to make my face do the same thing. Ava catches me trying to mold my face into a smile. She studies me for a moment before answering.

“Still serial killer, but it's getting better,” she says going into the bathroom and turning on the water. Until I started spending large amounts of time with her, I had no idea how much upkeep the human body required. It takes hours to bathe and feed it and many hours of sleep. I do not remember things like that from my life. Those were the memories I had to let go when I changed. It was enough effort to keep the memories I cherished. My eyes rest on the trunk that stood at the foot of her bed. My trunk. My memories. 

She comes back with her hair in a knot on the back of her head, and her face clear of make-up.

“I don't think I'm going to keep up with the eyeliner. My washcloth was practically black and my eyes hurt from all the scrubbing it took to get it off. I don't know.” She shrugs and gets into bed. Her face is fresh and clean. I like it better this way. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Her forehead contracts, making little peaks and valleys. I want to run my finger along them. 

“I am not looking at you any special way.”

“Sure.” She doesn't believe me. She yawns, and I see the tiredness in her eyes. It has gotten worse the sicker her mother gets. Every now and then she shivers with a little emotion, and I can tell she is thinking about her mother. 

I fold myself into a sitting position. She does not like it when I stand while she sits. “I really don't want to go to school.” Tomorrow is Monday, the beginning of another week of school for her. And another day of running and waiting for me.

“I could come with you,” I suggest. She laughs.

“Yeah, that would go over well. I don't know what it was like when you were alive, but nowadays you have to have a social security card, birth certificate. All that stuff. You can't just show up and go to school. Besides, you look way too old to be even be a senior.”

“I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I could work it out. If you wanted.” It could be easily done, with Viktor's help.

“You would go to high school to be with me.” Her energy is skeptical. A curl flops over her ear. I tuck it away and she blushes. The need for her blood surges, but I push it back. It hovers in the back of my mind, beating its black wings at me.

“Yes.” Of course I would. I experience that soul-tearing coldness every time I am not within twenty feet of her. I have not become used to it yet, but I am willing to go through the pain of leaving her because I do not want to own her. 

“That's really sweet, Peter. But I wouldn't subject you to the horror of modern high school. Even if it would be hilarious.” She giggles, laying back on her pillows.

“You should get to sleep.” 

“I know.”

According to our nightly routine, I pick a book from the stack she gets me at the library. It's the most recent book in the series about the time traveling woman and her Scottish warrior. Time travel intrigues me. 

She is restless, having disturbing thoughts. I can't pinpoint what they are, but I have an idea. Her mother. 

For a moment, I think about my own mother, Ellen. That last time I saw her. I try not to think about that last time. I try to think of her as she was. Putting her pearls on in the mirror before an evening out dancing with my father, her black hair tumbling from many hairpins. I let the memory drift away, like mist.