The Rise of the Fourteen (2 page)

“Anima,” a voice croons from down the stairs. Anima groans
and turns on her side, covering her head with a pillow.

“Anima!” The voice is louder this time, and more insistent.
Anima further cocoons herself in her sheets, grumbling.

“Anima Annabelle Meadowlark, you get down here this
instant!” Anima can no longer ignore the commands and crawls out of her bed.
She trips on the stairs going down and lands on her face in a most ungainly
fashion.

“Was that intentional?” her mother inquires, her plucked
brows arching.

“Absolutely,” Anima says, “just how I like to greet the
morning. Speaking of which, Mom, it's three a.m. ; what do you want?”

“Is it?” Her mother glances at the clock. “Oh. Sorry. It’s
around breakfast time in London. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“No problem,” Anima mutters as she stumbles back up the
stairs. This sort of thing is routine for her. Her parents are executives
at Nigh-Nil Beads, a jewelry company specializing in exotic stones. Because of
this, they are often on trips to far-off countries, hence the occasional “3:09
Fun Times.” She is almost at the top of the staircase when her mother calls,

“Oh, and Anima
—
”

“What now?” Anima snaps, turning to look down the steps.

“We’re going on a Mediterranean Stones tour.”

“And?” Anima spits. She knew they would be taking off on
another trip as soon as the sun rose again, but she felt smothered with rage
every time they decided to announce it like it was some big happy adventure.

“You’re coming too. After school. Pack your things, please.
We need to get on the eight o’clock flight this evening.”

With that, Anima trudges the rest of the way to her room and
slams the door shut. After an hour of tossing and turning, she sits up and rubs
her eyes.
No more sleep for today,
she thinks
.
She hisses with
annoyance. Her parents have always cherished her and pampered her, but she
resents their lifestyle.

Now they want to make her one of them, a bright-eyed,
bubbly, all-night business traveler.
Two words: no way.
Nevertheless,
she begins to stuff her suitcase, her face grim and her eyes hard and cold, like
chips of steel. Gradually, her face softens, and she begins yawning. As the sun
begins to rise, her mother comes in to ask if she wants breakfast, but Anima is
sprawled next to her suitcase, fast asleep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Anima wakes up in a flurry of wild movements and ends up falling
into her suitcase. After dusting herself off, she drags herself to her bedside
and turns off her alarm. She then plunges into a cold shower, hoping the water
will make her wake up from this horrible dream. No such luck. She reaches for
the soap only to find that it’s gone.
Someone
must have been up late
packing last night
—
or
should
I say morning?

She grabs the bar of soap by the sink and tries to make do,
but it keeps slipping out of her hands. She huffs in frustration. All her life
she has felt abandoned every time her parents embarked on one of their journeys
but, now that she is finally invited to come along, she just feels angry and
confused.

Why should I be a part of their life when they didn't
want to be a part of mine? I don't even know if they love me. This whole trip
seems … forced. I don't want to go, no matter how much I love my parents and
how much they claim to love me.
She finally gives up the hopeless endeavor
of showering and lumbers out of the bathroom, searching for a towel.

The porridge is lumpy and flavorless as usual. One thing
that didn't come with her mom's business degree was any cooking ability.
Anima's only consolation: the food at school is worse. After depositing her
“sustenance mush” down the garbage disposal, she grabs her bag and races out
the door.

The subway is packed with everyone from well-dressed men in
suits, to uppity college seniors, to fresh-faced middle-schoolers, to those
“unsavory characters” from the bad part of town. Even in this vibrant mix of
moneymakers and money takers, Anima always feels like she stands out.

As she goes through the entrance gates and swipes her card,
she can feel people turning to look at her, their gazes burning like runaway
embers from a campfire. She continues to strut down the platform as if she
doesn't notice. She was very embarrassed about the looks she got the first
time.

She remembers running through the underground to get away
from the groping eyes and the varied proclamations of “beautiful girl,
beautiful girl” from random street bums and businessmen alike. But whatever she
did, people seemed to notice. Now she sashays down the grimy stairs each
morning, casually flipping her ebony hair at the bottom, then swaggers her way
towards a platform.

When she gets on the train, she stands dejectedly, smushed
against a window as the ever-growing hordes swamp in, pushing the train's
capacity to bursting point.
Typical weekday morning.
Luckily, it's only
two stops till her school and Anima gets off the train. After being packed in a
can with hundreds of other sardines, it's nice to breathe the fresh air again, even
if it is the thick polluted air of the train station platform
.
As she
inhales deeply, she feels a tap on her shoulder.

“Excuse me miss, I think you dropped this,” says a female
voice.

The woman has silvery hair that flows like snowmelt,
with eyes of gray mist. In her outstretched hand is a bracelet. Not just any
bracelet. It is silver with intricate scrollwork all around the band. Pink and
red swirls decorate it and a golden heart completes the design.

Anima shakes her head and begins to turn away, but something
stops her. She looks again and sees a man standing beside the woman.

He leans down and begins whispering to the mysterious woman
in a foreign language. The man is tall with short coppery hair and flickering
eyes, like a cat’s. “It’s not the right time. You know who must come first,” he
says, now speaking in English.

 
I’ve never seen people like that before,
Anima
thinks
.
She looks at the couple warily, considering her options. She
meets the blazing eyes that seem to weave in and out of reality and blinks
hard.
Stranger danger it is then.
As Anima walks away, she thinks there
is something familiar about the strangers and turns around.

“Hey wait!”

But they’re gone.

Anima turns and runs out of the station. The last thing she
needs this morning is to have to suck up to Mrs. Divala to get out of detention
for being late.

How brilliant. She makes it to English class on time only to
have the doorway blocked by Adam Holston. “Get lost!” she snarls, and tries to
shove her way past.

He grabs her arm. “Don't you want a piece of this, Anima?
You've got to at least say the magic words.” She tries to wriggle free again,
but he holds on tight, a smirk plastered onto his face.

Stamping her foot angrily, she gives him an icy glare. If
all the hate and malice in the world had been combined in one instant, it would
not have held a candle to the look she gave Adam Holston.

Instantly, his voice changes, he cowers, and holds his hands
above his head like a misbehaving toddler, knowing that he has done something
wrong. “I’m
—
I’m sorry.” The words are
choked out, his eyes downcast. Anima gives him a wicked smile and then sits
down in the front left corner, her usual seat. Everyone else in the class gives
her a wide berth. The desk next to her is never filled.

Two lectures and one algebra test later, it’s finally time
for lunch. Anima has no intention of eating the canteen “food” and plans on
sleeping on one of the benches in the hallway. That
was
her plan anyway
until the Bryson twins show up.

“We hear you beat up our homie, Holston. We’re here for
redemption.”

Anima snorts derisively. “I might take you seriously if you
weren't wearing sunglasses indoors and saggy pants.” She walks off, not waiting
for a response, but isn't surprised when she gets one.

She hears the kick before it comes whistling towards her
face and moves to duck. Bryson One, however, already lies on the floor. His
face and hands are splotchy red as if he had just slammed into an invisible
glass wall.

She stares at him in confusion. He simply stares back, too
sore to move while his brother hangs back, not wanting to get hurt. As Anima tries
to comprehend the situation, she hears the distinct, venomous clicking of high
heels on the linoleum floor of the hallway.
Oh no. Not her.

“Anima dear, we need to have a talk.” Mrs. Divala giggles as
she says it, but her eyes tell a different story, one of punishment and humiliation.
“This,
”
she says, gesturing to the two incapacitated boys “is
unacceptable.”

Anima always thought that Mrs. Divala had eyes that were the
color of day-old road ice, or maybe a dirty, wet dishcloth, but today they are
shards of sea glass, unassuming and smooth, but still sharp. When Anima doesn’t
move, Mrs. Divala forcibly takes Anima's arm and leads the freshman girl into
the English office.

“Sit down, dear, I’m not going to bite.”

Like I believe that
, Anima thinks, but she just
silently clenches and unclenches her fists behind her back.

“Anima, what did you do to that boy? Dear sweet little
Christoph, what did he ever do to you, child?”

Oh, so that’s what his name was.
“I didn't touch him.
He tried to kick me, and I ducked. I didn't see what happened.”
Short,
guarded sentences betray nothing and can’t incriminate you.
She doesn’t
mention the invisible glass door or the red splotches on dear sweet little
Christoph.

“Now, come, come. You and I both know that that’s not true.”
Mrs. Divala titters as she looks at Anima. “Now tell me, when did you first
discover your
gift
.” Her voice has hardened, and her eyes are
glittering.

Anima glances around. “Have I been left a present?” She
cocks her head to one side.
Feigning ignorance is the best option at all
costs.
Except this time, Anima isn’t faking. Confusion fizzes inside her,
but she keeps quiet.

“Don’t toy with me you little insignificant
—
if you’re not even a
mahi
, you have no
chance of holding your own against me,” she says with a disdainful rage. Her
very being
—
even her double chins
—
tremble with fury.

 Anima shrinks into her seat, her bewilderment
growing.
Mahi?
Isn’t that some kind of tuna?
But before Anima can
open her mouth there’s a flash of light and the window shatters, pieces raining
in a perfect arc over Mrs. Divala. The shards are glowing like translucent
embers, and there are cuts on Mrs. Divala’s hands and face. The cuts do not
bleed but are dark thin slashes that form swirling designs. Her teacher stands
silent for a moment, casually examining her torn skin. Her calm makes Anima's
stomach roil.

“It was you, wasn’t it, Anima?” says Mrs. Divala eventually,
turning to face the window. “You made that window shatter, didn’t you?” Anima
freezes in her tracks. She was in the process of slowly inching her way to the
door, and she was rather hoping that Mrs. Divala wouldn’t notice. “Do you
really want to see what you’re dealing with?”

“No, actually I don't, but thanks for asking.” And with
that, Anima slams the door shut behind her and sprints down the hall. Christoph
is standing next to some nearby lockers, eavesdropping. As Anima runs, he
sticks out a foot and trips her. Her head smashes into the ground.
No! I
have to get away!

She gets up and begins to run again, albeit a lot more
slowly as a sneering Christoph looks on.
The office door is still
uncomfortably close,
she thinks
,
turning a corner and continuing her
now-sluggish escape. Christoph hears a scream from within the English office.
And it doesn’t sound human.

“Mrs. Divala, are you alright? He pushes open the office
door and shrieks, horrified by what he sees. His screams are quickly silenced.
When he exits the office later that day, he has no recollection of his
encounter and thanks Mrs. Divala for the lovely tea. Mrs. Divala thanks him
back and then discreetly wipes a smear of blood off her door as she closes it.

Anima's head is pounding by the time she reaches the front
office. After explaining a terrible dodge ball incident in gym class, the
secretary agrees to call her parents. The already inaudible phone conversation
begins to fade away as Anima slumps over onto the desk. A stapler and several
pencils roll to the floor as the receptionist urges Anima's parents to come as
quickly as possible.

The cab smells musty, like old cabbage. Anima lies across
the back seat with her head in her mother's lap. Her dad is squashed in the
front with the taxi driver, who is smoking a cigarette. A beer rests precariously
on the brim of the open glove compartment door, and varied cussing is heard
throughout the ride. Images of exploding windows and demonic faces swirl
through Anima’s head, as the cab chugs through the steady New York City
traffic. When the cab jerks to a stop, Anima sits bolt upright.

“You alright dear?” her mother asks. “The secretary said
that you took a bit of a turn. We had to carry you to the car.”

“Mom, where are we going?” Anima asks, rubbing her temples.

“The airport of course! You didn’t think we were going to
cancel, did you?”

Anima shakes her head. Images careen about her skull,
threatening to burst forth into reality once more.
Am I crazy? Next, I’ll be
seeing fairies and dragons.
She considers saying something to her parents
but dismisses the thought.
They’re crazy themselves, after all.
She
absentmindedly gazes at the roof of the cab, tracing the location of each gray
dot and patch.
No one cares about possibly mental Anima
—
no! It’s always about the stupid trip!