The Hierophant (Book 1 in The Arcana Series) (6 page)

— 13 —

Saturday evening, I park my ‘92 ice blue Dodge Dynasty (which Kyla has dubbed
The Nasty
since the “Dy” fell off) in the Patel’s busted cement driveway. Locking my doors against the mischief of soon-to-be-arriving party-goers, I jog up the steps to the front door and let myself in.

The Patel’s house is the same house that Kyla’s mother has lived in since Kyla was born, the same year Amrita and Karanina became best friends and neighbors, when my family briefly lived next door. It’s a rundown split-level, barely hanging on to the escarpment it was built into. From the outside, it looks like a dump. The siding is peeling and sloughing off; the window shutters haven’t been painted in over a decade; the chimney is crumbling. Seemingly, the only decent thing about the Patel’s property is the fact that Ellicott Creek winds its way through the picturesque backyard.

The inside of the house is completely incongruent with the exterior: it’s furnished with dark hardwood floors and thick, ivory shag rugs, sturdy furniture with jacquard upholstery and silk throw pillows, a flat-panel hi-definition television, and a massive entertainment system stocked with every gaming console to emerge in the last two decades. The kitchen alone is a work of art, with sparkling black granite countertops, oak cupboards, a hammered steel double sink, two ovens, an indoor grill. Whenever I enter Kyla’s house, I imagine this is what it would feel like to step inside of an issue of
Pottery Barn
or
Better Homes and Gardens
.

“Hello?” I call out as I enter. As usual, the scent of fennel and spices wafts from the kitchen, clean and sweet, the perfume of the Patel’s home for as long as I can remember.

“Whaddup, A?” Kyla shouts from the stairwell on the right, out of sight.

“Hey. I brought some fancy wine from my Dad’s stash!”

“Sweet! Hey, come up here, help me with the—”
Crash
. “Ladder.”

I set my things on the couch and dash upstairs, where Kyla is struggling to reattach the hall light to its mount on the wall. The drop-down ladder to the attic is unfolded, a crimped steel stairway beckoning into the shadows.

“There we go,” Kyla says, snapping the fixture into place. She dusts off her hands and turns her gaze on me, smiling one of her infectious smiles.

“What’s going on?” I ask, incapable of not smiling back.

“I want to show you something.” Kyla hands me a flashlight. “Ladies first.”

I raise my eyebrows, curiosity piqued, and grab onto the hand rail. But the ascent into the attic is not as simple as a few steps into the dark. The higher we climb, the more nostalgic I feel—the more my memories begin to take over. We spent a great deal of time in this attic as kids; it was our sanctuary when the world had seemed poised to attack.

Reaching the top of the ladder, I flick on my flashlight, boxing the dark into corners. Kyla comes up behind me and the two of us pause, breathing in our ghosts.

The musty smell of the unfinished wood reminds me of
so much
, all at once. Over there, by the caving-in stack of cardboard boxes, Kyla and I used to talk about crushes of the worst kind, unrequited love, and the inability to tuck our hearts back under our sleeves. And over here, by the stack of board games, I told Kyla about my first kiss. And over there, by the metal milk crates, that’s where Kyla told me she was pretty sure that she was gay, and I had been selfishly relieved that we would never end up fighting over the same guy, because, for as long as it had even been a consideration, I knew she would always win.

Behind a pile of old toys, mostly hidden by a stack of boxes, is the nook where Kyla used to hide after explosive fights with her mother, and Amrita’s refusal to discuss the topic of Kyla’s father. I had often been sent by Amrita to calm her daughter, to ply her with warm coconut milk and honey, but I always found that imagination was the key to soothing Kyla’s wild temper. Together, we would fantasize the myriad ways Kyla would one day discover the truth about her father—her father the pirate, the king of a tropical island, the prince of a lost kingdom. We schemed and plotted and imagined until, eventually, Kyla just stopped asking about him at all, happier to imagine than to face the reality that she might never know.

And over there, by the stuffed animal collection Kyla gathered in her childhood and abandoned with the onset of puberty: that’s where I used to curl up on a heap of old blankets and cry until I was certain I would die from it. That’s where I told Kyla about
false remission
, and
gamma knife radiosurgery
, and how my mother hadn’t recognized me sometimes because of the pressure the tumor put on her
temporal lobe
.

“Wow,” I sigh, feeling our past all around us for the first time in a long time. I shine my light on a chalk-drawn séance circle on the floorboards. “How long has it been since we’ve been up here?”

Kyla makes a thoughtful noise. “A while.” She hunches and moves forward, shining her light on the ground as she heads towards the far side of the attic. “So, listen. I remembered seeing this a few years ago when your mom was…well, when she knew she wasn’t going to make it. Remember she asked my mother to hold onto some things for your family? Like, photo albums she didn’t want around the house. Heirlooms. Stuff that might be an unnecessary reminder.”

“Yeah. I remember.” I also remember finding a sketch my father had made of my mother when they were first dating, hidden away in his desk  before Karanina and Amrita could pack it away, to protect him.

“Well, there was also this thing for you.” Kyla reaches behind a stack of books.

“What thing?” I duck to avoid the low angle of the ceiling and come up behind Kyla.

“This.” Kyla turns around and hands me a box.

It’s about the size of a lunch box, rectangular, made of some kind of dark red hard wood that’s been polished and oiled to a low sheen. There’s an engraving on the lid: a labyrinth, with two keys crossed at the center.

“I thought of the box when you pulled The Hierophant card the other day, and then again for Trebor yesterday,” Kyla tells me. “On the card, there are two keys crossed over each other between the two monks by the foot of the throne. I don’t know what’s in it, but I figured I might as well give it to you now.”

I study the box with my hands, testing the surprisingly slight weight of it, tracing its contours, the deep grooves of the winding path around the labyrinth. I slide my fingernail along the sides to find a lip, an edge, some way of opening the box. There is only the smallest of seams. I manage to get my thumbnail into it, but there’s no leverage for pulling.

“I’m not gonna lie, I’ve tried to get inside that thing like a million times,” Kyla says. “I have no idea how to open it.”

I give the box a gentle shake and hear something move inside, just enough to rattle against the interior. “My mom asked you to hold onto this?”

“Yeah. Well, specifically, she asked my mom to. And, specifically, she asked her to hold onto it until you finished school. But I figure the box is way more yours than ours, so if you want it now…”

I frown, looking at the gift with a strange feeling in my heart. What on earth could it possibly hold that my mother had wanted the Patels to hold onto it for the last three years? And would it be wrong to ignore my mother’s wishes, or to take a hammer and wedge to the box and force it open?

“Thanks,” I say, and press the box to my chest. “I guess I’ll take it, I mean, so long as your mom won’t be mad or anything.”

“Nah,” Kyla assures me with a dismissive wave of her hand. “She never liked having it here anyway. She says… well.”

“What?” I’m curious. “What does she say?”

Kyla shrugs. “She says it’s bad luck to hold things for the dead. It’s like you’re waiting for them to come back.”

I consider that, holding my mother’s gift to me from beyond the grave against my heart, and feel the strangest of stirrings inside.

— 14 —

Later, when the party is in full swing, I get a few drinks in me and manage to forget about hooded men and heirloom boxes. Instead, I think about how much I hate going to parties at all.

“Where the hell is Kyla,” I mutter to myself, taking advantage of my height to scan the crowd. As usual, I feel like a giantess, a freak among humans, leaning against the wall while the other kids mingle and dance. If being a girl who is over six feet tall isn't enough to make it hard for me to fit in, my bright red hair is usually a beacon for rude stares. Since I didn’t have my first big growth spurt until middle school, I've spent the last twelve years in public school being identified by this mop. Sometimes I want to cut it all off, or dye it black—but my mother had this same hair. Somehow, it feels like a betrayal to get rid of it.

No one is staring tonight, under dim lights over a crowd much more interested in itself than the girl against the wall—but everyone who passes and bumps into me inevitably does a double-take.

I don't know why I even bothered coming.

But, actually, I do. I came because, no matter how much of an outsider I feel like I am, some part of me craves the feeling of belonging, of being just a normal kid, of being someone accepted and thought fondly of by more than just my best friend.

“Hey, where's Kyla?” Andy asks, sidling up to me and shouting in my ear. I can't blame him though, it's loud in here. He looks me in the eye—he's one of the few guys I know who is tall enough to do that—waiting patiently and pleasantly for an answer.

I shrug. “I don't know, I've been looking for her myself.” I look past him, around us. “Where’s your shadow?”

He smiles. “He said he’d be coming around later.”

Andy’s eye contact unnerves me, and I look away as if searching again. When I glance back at him, he's still staring at me. He looks me up and down—not leering, but studious, as if searching for something.

“Hey, you don't have a drink. Let's remedy that!” He gives me a charming half smile and puts a hand behind my arm, giving just enough of a suggestion of a pull that I find myself detaching from the wall without meaning to.

Andy is sly like that. He'll probably be a politician someday.

“I'm fine,” I insist, thinking of the wine bottle I left with my coat in Kyla’s closet, but since I've already started to follow him he hooks my arm around his and leads me through the crowd. The physicality of it—of him—feels weird. Not forward, not frightening—just
casual
. I don't understand how it can feel so innocent when I know he's using all his charms.

But
why
is he using all his charms?

We emerge from the crowd and spill into the kitchen just as a handful of people are leaving, red plastic cups in hand. Andy takes his arm back, meanders to the counter, and starts to concoct a drink for me from the smattering of half-empty bottles of clear and amber liquids.

It's quieter in here, the roar of the party muted. The swift change in volume is awkward, makes the world too focused, too fast. I wander about the kitchen, pretending to be interested in Amrita’s Indian knick-knacks, anxiously playing with my necklace.

“That's a cool pendant,” Andy says, surprising me. He hands me my drink.

“Oh, thanks.” It's just a bronzy piece of hammered metal with archaic inscriptions on it that my mother gave me when I was young. Supposedly, it’s an amulet for protection.

“Those are runes, right?” His green eyes move between my pendant and my face.

I cock my head. “Yeah. Kind of.” It's not impossible that he would know about runes, but unlikely.

“Kind of?” He peers at the necklace. “Glyphs?”

“Sort of.” I narrow my eyes at him and take a casual sip of my drink.

He laughs. “I'm just curious. I love ancient cultures—my parents are both anthropologists, you know. I was raised on stories about extinct cultures instead of fairy tales. My picture books were ancient grimoires and shamanic cosmologies.” He hesitates. “I've even studied what there is to study about gypsies.”

I clench my jaw and turn away, taking a long drink from my cup. It burns going down, both from too much alcohol and too much compensatory sweetness. Curious and charming Andy might be, but a mixologist he is not.

I nod and look at the pink liquid in my cup. “You know, some people are offended by the use of the word ‘gypsy.’ They consider it a slur.”

Andy’s eyebrows rise. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it as a slur. I had no idea.”

I shrug, feeling like I have no right to discuss the subject anyway because I’m
not
Romani, and I’m not a gypsy, and, really, I’m nothing at all besides descended from people more interesting than myself. “So, what’s the deal? Are you setting me up for a prank?”

“What?” Andy's brow furrows, then realization dawns on him. “Oh. No. No, I swear.” He sighs. “I know a lot of kids have used your heritage as an insult in the past. I get that you wouldn't trust my motives by bringing it up. But honestly, I'm just really curious about that culture. Besides...” He shrugs and glances back at the partygoers. “We're almost adults now. I think most of them realize it's not cool to mock someone else's culture.”

I take a breath and almost roll my eyes, but I manage to laugh instead. There are a lot of things he's said that I could take to task, that I could dwell on and feel anxious about if I wanted. But I have learned over the years to pick the right time, place, and topics for my battles, and this conversation, here, tonight, doesn’t fit the bill.

And anyways, at least he’s being nice—for the second time this weekend, even though he saw me soaked from head to toe and barefoot in the rain the night before. Maybe it's time to take Kyla's advice and open up to some of her friends.

“Maybe some of them,” I agree, acting like I can forgive them if that's the truth. “But there will always be assholes who think that shit's hilarious.” I bite my lip, realizing how crude I sound next to him.

“I've never been one of them,” Andy points out, big-eyed and earnest.

That's true. Andy hasn’t got a single enemy in the world. “Yeah.” I nod. “Well, what do you want to know? I'm not really an expert or anything. I'm first generation
gadje
—I've never even met my clan. In fact—” I stop myself. He doesn't need to know about how they don't want me.

“What's gadje?”

“It's sort of like a ‘muggle,’ I guess. I think our clan—the Ouros—stole the word from the Romani people. It means something along the lines of
outsider
.” I shrug. “My father was gadje, and since my mother went rogue to be with him, that makes me one too.”

“So…you're not actually a gypsy?” He says it with irony, referring to the insults hurled at me since I came to high school.

“No, not really. Just my mother. Which makes using it as an insult
doubly
fucking insulting.” I frown and blush. Cursing again. Seriously, one drink and half a bottle of wine is all it takes these days?

Andy chuckles, unfazed by my cursing. “What would you have preferred then? To be a full member of your clan, or have no association with them at all?”

I blink. I don't know if I've ever thought of it that way. It's not an answerable question though. “My life would have been a lot easier if I had nothing to do with them. But my relationship with my mother...I can't even imagine what it would have been like. It was perfect just the way it was. But then again, if I was raised by the clan, I would have had a lot more answers—a stronger sense of identity maybe. But I wouldn't have had Kyla. Or my father.”

Andy nods, looking solemn, almost ashamed for having asked.

“Oh God, I said that out loud,” I realize, fleetingly wondering if he spiked my drink. But no, I’m just rambling.

He raises his eyebrows. “No worries. I asked. Hey.” He puts a hand on my arm, more firmly than before, and gives me an oddly reassuring squeeze for someone I barely know outside of attending the same school together for three years. He smiles a little. “If you'd rather not talk about it, just say so. I'd understand.”

I smile awkwardly and shake my head, trying to regain some confidence. “No, it's cool. Sorry for being weird about it. It’s just…no one besides Kyla has ever asked me about the subject without
meaning
to offend me. You’re fine.”

His smile widens. “Great. Because I've got a ton of questions—I know you might not be able to answer them, but maybe you can point me to the right books or resources. Maybe we can get answers together.” He pulls his hand back, flushing a little, looking away as if remembering something.

What was that?
I wonder. “Um...”

“WOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Kyla's voice bellows through the doorway as she dances into the kitchen, arms curled around Vanessa. The two of them are laughing so hard their faces are red, eyes watering. Kyla twirls Vanessa around, then pulls her in for a kiss.

When Vanessa sees us, her eyes widen and she pulls back, laughing and blushing.

Kyla turns to see us. “A! There you are! I was wondering where you'd gone off to.”

“The wall,” I mumble, and sip my drink.

She studies the situation and gives me a crooked grin. “I finally got the fire started out back if you two want to head out there. It's way quieter.” She looks directly at Andy. “A is terminally soft-spoken.”

I finish my drink in a few hasty gulps and try to think of a way out of the setup. I’ve done what she’s suggested; I opened up to someone and let them in (a little). It was a lot for one night. Now I need time to recuperate from the shock, and I certainly don’t think an intimate conversation by firelight with Andy Pavlovic will do the trick.

“Actually, I've got to make a phone call,” I lie, tossing my cup into the big black garbage bag by the island. “See you later maybe.” I smile and half wave to Andy—and half glare at Kyla—as I stride quickly from the kitchen, pulling my phone out and fiddling with it along the way.

I see two texts from Kyla.

KYLA:
A, where ua t?

KYLA:
ur not on the wall, im worried lol

I sigh.

When I pass the closet, I stop and shove my phone in one coat pocket and grab the half-empty bottle of wine from the other. I steel myself to move through the crowd, take a deep breath, and head for the back door.