Waking
Alyxandra Harvey-Fitzhenry
waking
O
RCA
B
OOK
P
UBLISHERS
Copyright © 2006 Alyxandra Harvey-Fitzhenry
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Harvey-Fitzhenry, Alyxandra, 1974-
Waking / Alyxandra Harvey-Fitzhenry.
ISBN 1-55143-489-X
I. Title.
PS8615.A766W34 2006Â Â Â jC813'.6Â Â Â C2005-907811-1
Summary: Haunted by her mother's death and struggling against an overprotective father, Beauty has lost her desire to be an artist. Then she meets Luna and everything begins to change.
First published in the United States, 2006
Library of Congress Control Number: 2005938905
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP), the Canada Council for the Arts, and the British Columbia Arts Council.
Cover design: Lynn O'Rourke
Cover photography: Getty Images
Orca Book Publishers
Box 5686, Stn. B
Victoria, BC Canada
V8R 6S4
Orca Book Publishers
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Custer, WA USA
98240-0468
Printed and bound in Canada
09 08 07 06 ⢠5 4 3 2 1
For my parents, who have always encouraged me to keep writing and never once tried to convince me to work in an office, thereby saving both me and said office.
For Jess, who always wants to read more. “Picture this...”
And for my husband Khayman, because he woke me up when I hadn't even realized I was asleep.
Contents
This dream is new.
For months now I've been dreaming of my mother lying in the old claw-foot bathtub my dad tore out of the bathroom after
the accident
. I wish I'd known. I wish I'd paid more attention. But this isn't like the other dreams; this one is something else entirely. I still wonder, though, what's the use of dreaming true, of sleeping stories that really happen, if I can't prevent them? If only I'd said something, anything.
But I didn't.
That must be why I'm here now, quiet and dead inside, and in a new place. This isn't my bed. It's not even my room, with the fading wallpaper and the smell of roses. This is someplace entirely different, a forest at twilight with dark trees poking bare branches into the indigo sky. It's stark here and cold.
The stars are far away and the moon is touching someone else tonight. The only sound is the wind and dry leaves crunching under my feet.
I wish I was alone, but I'm not. She's here, in her black black dress with its long beaded train, watching me, following me. The Shadow Lady.
And I'm lost.
The sun was pale behind
the birch trees. It wouldn't be long before the air filled with yellow leaves. Beauty knelt in her garden, her back to the road, her eyes full of roses. They climbed the low stone wall, curled around the painted trellises and gathered on either side of the steps. Soon they would cover the front door.
She remembered how her mother used to spend long Sunday afternoons in the garden, picking roses to leave all over the house and sneak into Beauty's lunch bags. The petals fell on the grass and stuck to the windows when it rained. It always smelled like summer in the house.
After
the accident
, as her father called it, Beauty was the only one left to care for the garden. Her dad knew nothing about flowers and didn't have the time, anyway. But she loved it, loved the feel of cold wet dirt and the ladybugs that landed on her hands. It made her feel closer to her mother somehow, made her remember the good things.
Her mother had planted the first rosebush, red as raspberries, shortly after Beauty was born. It was still blooming, under one of the windows, reaching tall leggy stems out to find the sun. It was nearly lost in the wild jungle of roses Beauty had chosen mostly for their names:
The Fairy, Dream Weaver, La Belle Sultane
,
Legend
and
Blue Girl
. She remembered picking them out of her mother's seed catalogs every winter when she was young and then planting her own roses when she was old enough to help out. These days she often sat in her room when it was dark and repeated the names to herself over and over again like some Tibetan chant.
She wiped her forehead, pushing her long hair back. It touched the ground when she leaned over to pick some nightshade. The vines choked her roses if she let them. The sound of footsteps on the stone path leading up to the house distracted her. She turned and shaded her eyes from the sudden glare of light. A long shadow stretched over the ground and touched her. She blinked.
“Hi,” Luna said.
Luna was the New Girl and would probably still be known as the New Girl when they graduated in two years. Briar High was like that. She grinned around a lollipop that smelled like watermelon. Her short blond hair stood up in its customary spikes, dusted with glitter and the odd pink streak. It was as if she didn't even know she was named after the moon and burned just as brightly in the darkness.
Beauty smiled at her even though she suddenly felt plain Beauty smiled at her even though she suddenly as a dandelion with her boring hair and lip gloss.
Luna surveyed the flowers, her eyes widening. “Wow,” Luna surveyed the she said. “Impressive.”
Beauty stripped off her gloves. “Thanks.”
“Did you do this all yourself?” Luna asked, stepping up to run a finger over the unfurled petals of an
English Garden
rose the color of apricots. There were freckles on her nose.
Beauty nodded. "My mom taught me. She planted most of it, but I've been adding a lot."
Beauty and Luna shared a few classes, but they'd never really talked. It had barely been a month since school had started up again. Beauty wouldn't have thought Luna even knew where she lived. Everyone knew where Luna lived, thoughâin the old Victorian house on Thorntree Avenue. It was painted indigo and rust and lavender. All of the younger kids in the neighborhood said it was haunted and dared each other to ring the doorbell on Halloween.
Luna bent to smell the flower. She didn't settle for a discreet sniff but instead buried her entire nose right into its center. “I love picking them,” she said, “but it seems so sad to kill them just so I can look at them for a day.”
Beauty shrugged. “The plants grow bigger the next summer when you cut them back a little.” She snapped off the stem of the rose and handed it to Luna. Something about the other girl made her bold and nervous and relaxed all at the same time. She felt like it might rain, suddenly and without warning.
Luna grinned, tucked it behind her ear. Beauty counted seven earrings. Her father wouldn't even let her get a single set of holes in her ears. It just wasn't fair.
“Thanks,” Luna said around the chunk of candy in her mouth. “Listen, I dropped by to talk about our English project.”
Beauty nodded. She'd nearly forgotten. Mr. Kingsley had paired them up. Having to work with a partner was bad enough, and she still wasn't entirely certain how she felt about being put with the New Girl. It could have been worse, though, much worse. She could have been put with Poe, and then she would have drooled all over her chin and not thought of a single intelligent thing to say. He just did that to her.
She recalled a vague rumor that he'd been out with Luna once or twice, but that they weren't seeing each other anymore. She decided to pretend she hadn't remembered that. Besides, Luna had already dated a couple of other guys since then. And it wasn't like Poe even knew Beauty existed.
“Kingsley didn't really give us a topic,” she said instead. “He said to pick a literary movement or something, right?”
He said to pick a literary movement or something, right?”
Luna nodded. “Yeah, he seems pretty nice. Any ideas?”
Beauty shook her head. “Not really.”
“We could do it on the Pre-Raphaelites.”
Beauty blinked. “Who?”
“They were this totally cool bunch of artists and who did all this stuff using myths and fairy tales.”
“Oh. Okay, sure.”
“Great. My mom's an artist and our house is
so
Pre-Raphaelite it's ridiculous. It'll be easy to do research. Too bad we couldn't do a tour or something as our project.”
Beauty thought of the unfinished paintings in the basement. “Your mom's an artist?” Her tone sounded wistful, even to her own ears.
Luna shrugged. “Yeah. We usually have artists and writers and musicians staying with us. No ghosts yet, though, which sucks. Why don't you come over this week and we can start researching?”
“Okay.”
“Cool.” She reached into the pocket of her jean jacket. The fringe of beads around the edge jingled softly. “I have something for you.”
Beauty frowned. “For me? Why?”
Luna shrugged. “I don't know, why not? Here.” She handed her a brooch with a pale carving of a hand holding a rose on it. The lines of the carving were narrow and delicate, every fingernail and petal sharply delineated. The edge was ruffled, as if the arm was clothed in an old-fashioned lace sleeve. “It just seems like something you should have.”
“Thanks.” She didn't know what else to say. She felt like giggling but didn't want to seem totally uncool. She wasn't used to people just giving her things; most people barely knew how to talk to her anymore.
“It's a reproduction of Victorian mourning jewelry.” Luna wiggled her eyebrows. The left one had a small silver hoop through it. “That doesn't creep you out, does it?”
Beauty shook her head, ran a thumb over the carving. The last of the sun caught the silver pin, flashed like water. Her father would freak out if he saw it. She slipped it into her gardening glove. It was the easiest way to sneak it into the house.
“Are you sure?” she asked. People didn't just give gifts to girls they barely knew. It was weird, but she loved it. She was suddenly glad there was a New Girl.
Luna nodded, grinned again. “If there's one thing I've learned it's that girls with weird names have to stick together.”
After dinner was finished
and the dishes loaded into the dishwasher, Beauty took her cup of rosehip tea outside onto the back porch. It was still mild out and the stars were just beginning to glitter in the sky. Her dad was puttering around in his workshop. He'd been working on a new cabinet for the kitchen since last Christmas.
She lit the candles she'd stuck in old jam jars and tilted her head back, waiting. The moon was slowly creeping over the tops of the houses and there was a moth behind her, slamming into the screen door. Crickets called to each other in the bushes. It wouldn't be long now.
She'd learned the routine during the summer, had caught on by the end of June. She was glad her father liked to fiddle about with hammers and saws on Sunday evenings, because she liked nothing more than to sit in the warm night air and listen, just listen.
She heard a back door slam a few houses away. The neighbor's sprinkler system clicked on and water fell like dew into the leaves of the old maple by the fence. Over the steady sound of the dripping trees, she could hear the brush of fingers on guitar strings and a dark voice filling the space between her and a long-haired boy.
Poe sang, as he sang every Sunday night, alone in his backyard. He didn't know his voice carried to a long-haired girl drinking tea and dreaming. His eyes were closed, and he didn't hear the raccoon on the roof or the cats fighting across the street or even his own heartbeat. He only heard the music in his head, pouring out like wine from a fallen goblet.
Beauty knew he didn't know she could hear him, barely knew they even lived on the same street. She was too shy to say anything, too convinced he would laugh at her or, worse, ignore her completely. Too convinced he would be afraid of her.
Better to be quiet, to be another shadow at dusk listening to him sing.
She drank her tea and his honey-dark voice. She wondered what he would think if he knew how it made her feel. Like she was alone and not alone, like there was nothing between her and the trees, like she was a candle burning, like she was rain falling from a pink sky. She could forget there was a desert inside her.
