The Rise of the Fourteen (7 page)

The peach bedspread is the first thing that Arden notices,
as he walks into the room. The musty perfumed smell of a coifed old lady
permeates the room.
And what is that? lace?
He runs his hand over the
fraying curtain. He shudders, and yanks the curtain back. The metal rings
screech against the curtain rod. He expects to be washed in a wave of light.
But there is only gray
—
the
gray of dirty laundry and resignation that fades into blackness.
He
remembers Luna’s words.
“I’m sure you’ll get used to it.” What, get used to
this life?
If you think that, you don’t know me at all.

Arden tries his hardest to fall asleep, but the raindrops
will not let him. They are the pesky birds, chirping through the night, luring
sleep away. The scratchy apricot blanket is suffocating, and he throws it off.
His mouth tastes like pasty chocolate cream and humiliation.
Bleh.

He swings his legs off the bed, his feet quivering as he
clomps across the oaken floor.
Is that the bathroom?
The door swings
open with a slight creak. The grimy fluorescent lights come on as he flips the
switch, casting a sea-glass pallor over the ceramic tiling. Arden grabs for the
small tube of spearmint toothpaste. He opens the medicine cabinet and fumbles
around for a bit. His hand emerges and he is triumphant, clutching a yellow
plastic toothbrush wrapped in brittle cellophane.

He pulls off the covering and squirts a generous amount of
toothpaste onto the toothbrush.
Why is it so watery,
he wonders. Only
moments after he begins to brush, he realizes something is wrong. Retching
noises ensue as he clutches at his throat, trying to spit out as much paste as
possible.
Why is it so slimy?
He hears feet coming up the stairs.
No!
No, I don't want to talk to either of you!

“Arden, Arden, honey what’s the matter?” Maybe Arden
imagines it, but there is the faintest sound of sniggers coming from the other
room.
Who knew that spearmint toothpaste could taste so much like defeat.

***

There is sharp clinking and some creative swearing as Arden
breaks yet another cup. If he had been trying to make ceramic snow he couldn’t
have done much better. Arden’s nerves are already shoestring as it is, and
Luna’s constant venomous glares aren’t helping. As Arden empties out the
dishwasher, Luna lazily flips through an ancient edition of
Cosmopolitan.
Apparently vintage is back “in.” Arden chuckles, in spite of himself. His back
is already turned when she looks up from perusing ridiculously thin models in
equally ridiculous outfits. She rolls her eyes but doesn't say anything.

Their relative peace ends with a jangling of keys and the
front door swinging open. Luna winces before the impact. She knows her mother
and anticipates the loud thud that follows as the pine door and the coat stand
collide. Arden, on the other hand, is not so prepared and practically leaps out
of his pants
—
and breaks
another glass.

“I'm back! And I've got the evening post!” Why Ms. Hughes
sounds so disgustingly cheerful, Arden cannot fathom. Neither can Luna,
apparently, as she chokes off a snort of derision. She continues to flip
aimlessly through the glossy pages as Arden carefully places crystalline shards
into the rubbish bin.

“Why the long faces?”

Gee, I wonder,
Arden thinks snidely
.

“Arden, your welcome packet has arrived!”

Welcome packet?
Arden cautiously walks over to his
mother. She is holding a large beige envelope. In the center of the cover,
there are words in a flowing script.

Hurtwood House: Academy of Excellence

 Arden turns the envelope over in his hands then rips it
open. Ignoring the paper cut on his thumb, he slowly removes the sheaf of
papers.
Boarding school?
Arden has a look of mingled shock and horror on
his face. Luna glares at her mother; her jaw dropped open in disgust. Ms.
Hughes's smile starts to fade as she sees the faces of her two, dear children.

“… located just thirty miles from the heart of London in the
outstandingly beautiful Surrey Hills … 344 pupils … best art and drama school
in the UK ….”

The bile rises in Arden’s throat as he reads further about
the wide variety of sports, the stunning dorms, and the stellar teachers, every
word handwritten.
How is this good news?

“Why does he have to go to school with me?” Luna’s rage
coats her words.

A shudder rakes Arden’s entire body.
Whenever I’ve ever
watched a TV show, when a brother and sister go to school together, they fight and
there are tears but, by the end of season three, they’ve created an unbreakable
bond that they will carry through their lives. But going to boarding school
with
my
estranged sister? Something tells me that even Hollywood
wouldn’t want to make this film.

Ms. Hughes starts to yak on about the great location and how
splendid it is that he was accepted. But, Arden isn't listening. He’s watching
Luna and her celestial eyes and the bitter look on her face. Arden's nausea is
overwhelming, but he braves it out, focusing on the precise plum ink,
foretelling his future.

Luna can no longer tell if Arden’s eyes are red from crying
or from lack of sleep. She’s never seen his sobbing, but she can certainly hear
it every night, just from down the hall, day after day, week after week. She
doesn’t try to talk to him. Not anymore. When she does go to his room, he’s
usually lying on his bed, just staring up at the ceiling. When it pours with
rain, he doesn’t even get up for meals.

***

The weeks after the package arrived were the hardest. Arden
was so utterly silent, clutching at his stomach at meals. His jaw was set in a
firm line, only speaking when spoken to. He still doesn’t talk much. But his
tight-lipped grimace, has slowly morphed into a withered smile
.

I don’t know anything about the boy he used to be. I see
this comatose figure, lumbering through the halls, frightened and shocked, with
nowhere to run,
Luna thinks.

Luna lets out a deep exhale of frustration.
Mother
is
humming again.
This time it’s
The King and I
. Every day there’s another
musical. Is she so oblivious to the fact that her golden castle is crumbling
around her? A false smile is permanently glued to her face. At least I hope
it's fake. Whatever.
The humming comes closer. The door on the right opens
then swings shut. Luna scowls then puts her headphones on. The pounding
electronic whines of dub step are the perfect barrier to block out the silence
around her.

***

It’s raining again,
Arden thinks as he lies on his
bed. He had long stopped making his bed, and it has dissolved into a tangled
heap of sheets.
It’s always raining here.
He scrunches his eyes shut.
Don’t
think about home.
Don’t.
It only makes the pain worse.

His head is fuzzy with exhaustion, despite the fact he only
leaves his room out of pure necessity.
Don’t think,
don’t think
.
He coughs suddenly, his throat scratchy.
Water.
His vision goes
fuzzy.
Water?
Arden is too tired to think. He adjusts his pillow
slightly and repositions his head.
Maybe later.
He flinches slightly at
the sound of a door slamming downstairs.
Too much risk.

Mom left some time ago. That’s one less person to avoid.
Arden shivers, despite the numerous blankets. He doesn’t know if the heating
system is broken again or if it is just the perpetual chill in his spine.
I
still need water.

Sometimes, if he sits there long enough, he can convince his
body that he isn't hungry, or that he doesn’t need a shower.
What use would
it be anyway?
He sits there for a while, pondering if it’s worth the
effort.

Arden rolls off the bed, moving an inch at a time.
Mghf
... sleep ...
water
... sleep ...
water.
He drags himself
upright and begins to plod out of his room. His back slowly arches as he
continues walking. His head swims slightly. He doesn't remember the last time
he ate but imagines that it was long ago.
Why are you even bothering? It’ll
be warm water ... too much effort.

Arden trudges on, his legs already aching.
Everything
just hurts.
He winces the entire way down the stairs, his fists clenched.
Bump,
bump, bump.
When he reaches the kitchen, a dim light illuminates the
doorway. Not bothering with the light switch, he rubs his eyes for the
umpteenth time.
If only I knew how to work the microwave.
He spots the
sink, the faucet dripping slightly.
Water.
Suddenly he freezes.
Someone is already in the kitchen, her silver hair gray in the faint cloud light.

Arden can barely make a sound. It has been so long since he
had a conversation, he has forgotten the joy of human contact. Or rather, that
human contact can be enjoyable. Stony silence has been an easier companion. He
winces when Luna admonishes him for not heating the water properly, but her
grin soon quells his worries. As the minutes pass, his tensions thin like the
steam of the teapot and, for the first time in weeks, a half-smile cracks on
his face.

The cup burns his hands, and the rivulets of tea singe his
fingers. He is tempted to stop, but he continues sprinting up the stairs
instead. Behind him, yelling echoes down the hall, reverberating throughout the
house. Shining blisters start to rise, marring his golden brown fingers. He
ignores the pain and flops on his bed, hot tears streaming down his cheeks,
content to ignore the rest of the world.

The sound of glass shattering is so strange. Sometimes it’s
harsh, and sometimes it’s musical. For Arden, it’s the sound of mourning bells.
He knows something is wrong and leaps out of bed. He doesn't notice that his
hands are flexing seamlessly, their aureate hue restored. He does notice that
the door to Luna's room is ajar.
The door to Luna’s room is ajar?

Arden rushes in only to find the sheets thrown aside. A
flickering yellow shadow disappears from the streetlight outside. Then
streetlight fades and the brightness dims to a soulless black. He can no longer
see the asphalt walkway. Everything is murky now. The moonlight casts a gray
tint over the abandoned lilac bedspread.

Arden sinks to his knees and rests his head on the mattress,
still warm from Luna’s lingering heat. He rubs his cheek against the worn
fabric.
Why? You made an effort. Why did she go? It’s your fault. Why is it
so dark and cold? You scared her away. Let me see the light. Please.

As he sits in silence, a small glow begins to emanate from
his palm. His sobs begin moments later, and the glow spreads from his
fingertips, all the way down to his pansy blue socks. Arden looks around
wildly, searching for the source of the glimmer.
Help me find her!
A
radiant amber sheen is now pulsating off his skin.
Let there always be
light!
A tawny flare explodes into the night sky, spearing the ceiling and
scattering the ceiling plaster.

Time comes to a stop. The light flows through the house,
turning all of the surfaces to bronze. He doesn’t turn as glass shatters again,
or when three pairs of footsteps come galloping up the stairs.

“Arden, we need to go.”

Luna? Luna, oh thank god!
He turns his head to
observe the others.
An older version of Luna? This weird dude
?

“Come on! There's no time to waste.” She squeezes his hand,
signaling the urgency.

“Where are we going?”

“There's rather a big party in Greece,” says the man, “and
we don't want to miss it.” Luna and Arden follow the couple into a swirling
vortex. The flare vanishes and darkness returns to the sky, twinkling with
miniscule stars.

Tsss
—
that
sizzling sound when a cap comes off a bottle. Clink, clink. The music is
blaring. Most of it isn’t in Greek. The smell of hundreds, sweaty and too close
together, permeates the air. The large spotlights are on all around the
monument, lighting up the heart of Athens.

The marble columns carved so intricately by ancient hands
are in such contrast to the giant subwoofers and beer being tossed around. The
smell of vomit already bites at the breeze. The pure energy hums with the
chatter of a thousand shouted conversations.

I’ve never felt so alive.

Red Solo cups are being lined up for beer pong at one of the
tables. A large crowd rings the board, but there's still space for more
players. Ámpelos grins and joins in the fun. Someone brings around margaritas
and the drinks just keep flowin’.

An hour later, people start passing the powder.
The
usual. Everyone takes a bit.
Ecstasy ripples through the crowd.
Are
those strobe lights?
Ámpelos can no longer tell. Everything is a fuzzy blur
of people and stone. He nearly trips, but he catches himself, his arms swinging
cockily at his sides, a dazed smile plastered on his face.

Cake happened hours ago, moments before the food fight.
There’s still frosting all over the informational sign. He has no control over
anything. And yet all of these people are only at this party by his request. He
smiles wickedly at the thought, drinking in the night air. Then the matches
come out.

Juggling torches. Ámpelos’s mouth drops open. The fire
creates arcs of embers, sending orange flashes across the party. Even Ámpelos’s
booze-addled brain can process that this is a dumb idea. Embers can become
flames. And flames can become fire.

Napkins, dresses, hair, all of it is aflame. People are
screaming and fleeing the rave. They are leaping over the ropes and running
past the statues. Even the spray painters abandon their work, choking on fumes
as fiery lines creep up the stonework. Ámpelos gets hit in the head by a
passing partygoer and crumples to the ground, his cheek smacking against the
foot-worn cobblestones as he falls.

***

“Well, this sure looks like anarchy,” Luna says. “Are we in
the right place?”

“I thought you said this was a party, not a safari,” Arden
quips, nodding in agreement.

“No, we’re in the right place,” Sorem sighs. “We won’t be
able to do it till morning.”

“Do what?” Arden and Luna ask.

“I didn’t expect it to end this badly,” says Demetri.

“What are you talking about?” Luna enquires.

“Don’t worry, we won’t be sleeping outside,” Sorem says
cheerfully, ignoring Luna’ comment. They continue walking down the hillside,
away from the destruction.

***

 There is a pool of vomit lying next to Ámpelos when he
wakes up the next morning. He's not even sure if it's his. He tries to get up,
but dizziness washes over him. His head is pounding, hammers positively beating
at his skull. He tries to pull himself up onto his knees, but feels a sudden
wave of nausea. Everything is drowned out by the blood rushing through his ears
as he hurls all over the path. The pasty vomit seeps through the cracks in the
weathered stone and flows down the hill.
Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting.

Ámpelos slowly pulls himself up onto a stone slope, blinking
as the sun shines into his eyes, distorting the harsh reality. Ámpelos touches
his cheek, now quite sore, and feels a lump beginning to form.
Awesome.
After breathing for a moment, he takes in the scene around him. Scraps of
twisted metal lie in a gleaming pile of what used to be a crane. The buildings
all have tendrils of scorch marks latticed up the sides. Some of the already
fragile columns have collapsed, and countless statues have been disfigured.
Plastic cups and empty bottles litter the paths. Food is scattered in random
places and beginning to smell. “I can’t believe what I did to this place,”
Ámpelos mutters.

 “Neither can we,” a voice calls from behind a destroyed
drink stand. Four rather strange-looking people step out into the open. A man
and a woman wearing belted trench coats in silver and gold look him over, their
lips curled in pity and distaste as their eyes look him up and down. Behind
them, a boy and girl look on in mingled horror and curiosity. The girl has
tangled curly hair and clumped mascara. The boy's eyes burn bright with an
unearthly fire, but sport dark circles.

“Ámpelos, you’re going to be in a lot of trouble,” the woman
says.

As if I didn't already know that? What kinda cop does she
think she is?
“Just call my dad and he’ll bail me out. He doesn’t want any
scandal,” Ámpelos says nervously.
What kinda cop dresses like that anyway?
He’d
been to and hosted many raves before, but the police had never gotten involved.

“We’re not cops.”

“Then who are you? What do you want? Did my dad send you?”
The man wrinkles his brow in distaste.

“It looks like it will take some finagling to get this one
to come along,” he says.

“I'm not going anywhere with you people,” Ámpelos asserts.
He tries to step back and falls off his stone slab. He keeps crab crawling
until he hits a step, which jabs him in the spine, effectively stopping him in
his tracks. The woman offers him a hand up, her eyes wide and encouraging.
Ámpelos hesitates. What if this is a trick?
I’ll be done for if my dad
catches me
. He thinks back to the previous night, the blaring music and
lights in the middle of the city, visible to all.
Sometimes life is all
about taking risks
. He reaches up and takes her hand.

***

The phone has barely buzzed for a minute before it is in his
hand. “Well, where is he? Was he involved with the tomfoolery last night? Where
did you say? The Parthenon?” His blood runs cold. “I’ll be right there. Thank
you, Officer.” His chest blazing with fury, Stefan Agyris marches out the door
and jumps into his car, speeding down the streets into the heart of Athens.

***

 “Ámpelos, we don’t have much time. With all that chaos last
night, the police will be swarming the site within minutes. Our protective
magic has worn off, and others will be coming. Will you join us, postponing
your fate, or wait for your father?”
Did she even have to ask?
If she
hadn’t been so solemn-looking, Ámpelos would have laughed.

“So what kind of wheels do you have? Let’s bust out of this
joint!” Ámpelos grins, taking a few shaky steps.

“Well, actually ….”

“Ámpelos Argyris! What have you done?” A thin man trembling
with rage comes racing towards them. It is Ámpelos’s father, Stefan. Ámpelos
braces himself for the incoming tirade while his “rescuers” step away, letting
the irate Mr. Argyris pass.

“What were you thinking? Sneaking out when you were grounded
and destroying a cultural site for a night of drunken partying! What are you
doing with your life?”

Ámpelos hangs his head. As he looks down, there is a bright
flash and Stefan Argyris is suddenly frozen, his disapproving finger still
pointed high in the air. Ámpelos stares up at his motionless father in
amazement and relief.

“Well, stop dallying silly, we have to leave!” the woman
urges, grabbing his arm.

As she pulls him through a portal, Ámpelos briefly stares
back at his father.
The tunnel of absconders
, Ámpelos thinks ruefully.

Moments later, Mr. Argyris revives and looks around,
bewildered and searching for his troublesome son.

With a horrifying lurch, the tunnel ends, and Ámpelos finds
himself in the entry hall of a grand building with magnificent arches and
intricate stained-glass windows. The weird kids are looking up too, ogling the
nooks and crannies.
I guess this is new for them too.

“Where are we?” the girl asks, her silver hair glimmering in
the sunlight pouring in from the windows.

“The sanctuary, the last fortress, the lone citadel, and the
remaining stronghold against the Maghta.”