Evil Returns (7 page)

S
HE PAUSED WITHOUT LOOKING
in front of her own mirror in the tower. Anything in the tower was suspect, could be corrupted. She kept her eyes lowered. She needed a real mirror, one that would not lie.

How strange, thought Devnee. My lashes feel longer. I can feel them against my cheeks.

She went down the tower stairs to the second floor. There was no need to turn on the light. The dark path lit a way for her. It caressed her ankles and spread a velvet carpet to escort her down.

But the bathroom she shared with Luke was also uncertain. It knew her. She needed a pure, untouched mirror.

Down the final flight of stairs she went. Into the wide hallway with its wallpaper half stripped off. Back toward the kitchen, past the debris of remodeling, the tiles torn off, the lights dangling by wires. She could see as clearly as if it were noon. Through the pantry she went, to the powder room door.

The heavy dark wood of the bathroom door was not flat, like her tower door or the bedroom doors. It had panels of wood, making a raised T. Or a cross. She smiled at the cross. The vampire had not entered this bathroom. This mirror was of the world.

Devnee took a deep breath. She turned the handle. There was no need to step in. The mirror faced the door.

She lifted her lashes and looked at her reflection.

A beautiful girl looked back.

A girl whose dark hair was not lank and dull, but clouds of curling wisps.

A girl whose complexion was not pale and worn, but as fair as springtime, tinged with bright pink energy.

A girl whose eyes were not tired as dishwater, but whose eyes laughed and sparkled, and whose lashes swept mysteries before them.

Devnee laughed, and the new face laughed with her, teasing and coaxing and adorable.

Devnee raised her eyebrows and the new eyebrows were both comic and inviting.

Devnee thought deeply, and the face turned sober and gentle and full of compassion.

I am beautiful.

I have it. I have beauty.

I am not Aryssa. I do not look like her. And yet I have what she has: I have beauty. I have what makes people stop and stare. I have what makes people yearn and love.

I am Devnee Fountain.

I am beautiful.

She stood for a long time facing the mirror; stood, in fact, until dawn had come, and alarm clocks had gone off, and the rest of her family was stumbling into wakefulness.

Devnee, too, awoke.

But there was no stumbling now. No early morning heaviness. No dull resignation about yet another difficult school day ahead.

Tingling with excitement, she danced to the bathroom she shared with Luke, and wonder of wonders, he was still asleep. The floor was not covered with wet towels, and the soap was not lying in a disgusting soppy puddle at the bottom of the tub.

She felt thinner and more graceful.

The water showered down on her as if it were a privilege.

When she stepped out and wrapped herself in a towel, she tugged the pale blue plastic shower cap off and let her hair fall around her shoulders. In the foggy mirror of the hot bathroom, she looked at her reflection.

Clouds of hair, curly with humidity, wafted around her face like a bridal veil.

That’s what I am, she thought. A bride. Today I go to school for the first time with the veil lifted. I used to be covered by a plain dull boring face and body, but now I am what I deserve to be.

Beautiful.

Even my brother wished this for me, she thought, laughing with wild delight. I hope you get what you deserve, he had said, and I have! Her exuberance rose up in her like a storm of fireworks, celebrating from the inside out. She wanted to scream and shout and drive through town honking a horn. Look at me! I am beautiful!

She corralled her exuberance. It would not do. She must look as if she had always looked this way.

The girl in the mirror was still Devnee, but both sharpened and softened. Nature had not quite come through for Devnee at birth, but the essential elements of Devnee’s features had been good, and now because of last night she had been brought into perfection.

Devnee stroked the reflection in the mirror, and even with the fog wiped off the glass, she remained beautiful. She was not a cloud. Not a mirage. She was real, and she was beautiful.

Luke began pounding on the door. “Get outta there, Dev!” her brother bellowed. “You think you’re the only one living here?”

For a moment the insides of her—the person who had not changed—the person who was still the old Devnee—was thrown.

Who
was
living here?

She stared at the mirror and instead of being thrilled, she was terrified and confused.
Who is that?
Pieces of Aryssa, pasted together? Leftover victims of the vampire, summoned from the grave to be reflected in a mirror?

Where did the old Devnee go? Who is Aryssa now? Where is Aryssa now? Is Aryssa all right? What
did
happen last night?

Is this beauty only in my mind? What if the vampire just convinced me there was a trade?

Devnee opened the door before Luke smashed his way in.

Her yucky worthless brother paused in the doorway. A glare remained suspended on his face. The face itself became confused. Her brother was staring at her with awe.

“Gosh, Sis,” he said. “You look great. I like your hair like that.”

Luke, saying something nice?

Devnee walked out of the bathroom and her brother moved out of her way. Didn’t block the door, tweak her hair, call her names or anything. In fact, when she turned to look back, he was still staring at her. “Yes?” said Devnee, curving her lips in a teasing sisterly smile.

Luke shook, his head. “Dunno,” was all he could manage. Then a grin, then a shrug, then once again, “You look great.”

She flew up the stairs.

Lying on the little armchair was the outfit she had laid out early last night: jeans, sweatshirt, and sneakers. She could hardly believe it. Had she actually meant to show up in public in that?

I’m feminine now, thought Devnee, and graceful, and beautiful. I will never dress like that again.

She settled on a black skirt with a filmy black and gold overskirt and, on top, a thin black sweater. A gold necklace picked up the glints in the skirt. She debated for some time between gold curlicue earrings and long gold bangles with crystals. When she flicked her hair back so her ears would show, tendrils of dark hair curled against her cheek the way she had always wished her straight plain hair would curl.

Devnee gathered her makeup. She arranged it in a row in front of the lighted mirror and prepared to get to work.

But this Devnee needed no help. She had lashes so dark and lovely that mascara would have been comic. She had cheeks so high and bright that rouge would have been clownish. She had hair so full that a curling iron would be overkill.

She went downstairs for breakfast.

Her parents blinked. “Darling!” said her mother. “You look so lovely!” A funny excitement spread over her mother’s face, the same excitement Devnee had felt and corralled: celebration; the ugly duckling is a swan after all; I can relax, my plain baby girl is finally blossoming into a lovely woman.

Her father was just confused. “Did you darken your hair, Dev?”

“Daddy,” she said, scolding him gently.

“You don’t have to fiddle with what nature gave you,” said her father. “You look beautiful just as you are.”

Devnee smiled at him. He smiled back. He said, “You look great, honey. I’m so proud of you these days.”

Her mother said, “This year let’s get a family portrait done. We’ve been talking about it for years but we’ve just never gotten to it. You wear your hair just like that, Dev. You look so lighthearted and happy and”—her mother laughed with surprise—“well, beautiful.”

Devnee didn’t even want a sip of orange juice; anything might upset the chemical balance that had caused this.

Her father said, “Why don’t I drive you to school, sweetheart? I’d hate for you to put those shoes into the snow.”

Devnee smiled graciously at her parents.

The high school lobby was impressive. Sheets of marble, hard and glittering and black, were separated by tiny strips of gold. It looked like a state legislature building, where brilliant—or stupid—decisions were made. Not like a school, where brilliant—or stupid—kids hung out.

Long wide marble steps were topped by large planters, filled with greenery that kids either admired or threw crumpled tissues into, depending on their attitude toward life.

Art exhibits filled the long blank wall.

Students were everywhere. This was the room in which to meet, to plan, to wave, to talk, and most of all, to be seen.

Devnee entered the lobby.

And she was seen as she had never been seen before.

Girls turned to look at her. Girls whispered to each other about how Devnee wore her hair. Boys tilted their heads the way boys do when they were thinking about what you’d be like.

Devnee stood on display, turning slightly, bestowing on them a side view, and then a slight smile, and finally a slight wave.

Slight, thought Devnee (her insides wildly excited, her outsides calm and perhaps even bored), because I’m used to this, and I hardly think about it anymore.

Nina came running over. Buddy number three. Mean old Nina with her fabulous car and her magnificent sweaters. “Hi, Devnee!” cried Nina. “I love your hair. You look great, Devnee. What a skirt. Where’d you get that? I wanna skirt like that.”

Devnee had never had a chance to snub anybody. “I forget,” she said, and walked on. Snubbing Nina felt wonderful. She would have to do it often. It was so powerful, so rewarding, to snub somebody.

Devnee’s stride, usually halting and unsure, changed. Now she was a dancer, smooth and easy. She could feel how her hair rested on her shoulders, and how her smile decorated her face.

I didn’t know you could feel being beautiful from the inside! she thought. What an extra treat. You don’t even have to be in front of a mirror. You can see yourself mirrored in other people.

And I thought the vampire was kidding. I owe him. This is fabulous. This is unbelievable! This is life the way it should be lived!

Everybody commented.

Even the teachers commented.

“I love your hair like that,” everybody said to her.

“Gosh, you look great today, Devnee!”

And at lunch, both Trey and William commented. Trey said, “Wow, Dev! Way to go! You look great. Really great.”

William nodded, a smile never leaving his face. “This is your year, huh, Devnee? You look great.”

Nothing about Devnee Fountain had ever been “great” before. Now it was great to see her, and she looked great, and it was great to be in school.

People kept saying, “What did you do?” as if expecting an answer like “Changed lipstick” or “Used a blow-dryer.”

Never in her life had the world come to her.

Never in her life had there been such confidence, such pleasure, in just being alive.

She was not self-conscious. Not worried. Not timid.

She was beautiful.

She ate differently. A beautiful girl did not stuff her face and snatch extras and lean across to grab more, she thought. A beautiful girl spent the entire lunch period nibbling delicately on the rim of a single cracker.

When lunch ended, they all rose, making the usual passes around the cafeteria to dispose of trash, return trays, say hello to people they hadn’t spotted before.

Devnee stood very still, accepting homage. Thinking—this is so fabulous. Having people look at you—not because you’re new, or you’re stupid, or you look funny, or your clothes are weird—but because you are beautiful.

A girl separated herself from the rest and strolled over to Devnee. Devnee knew her. Eleanor. A leader of the senior class. Eleanor was almost regal. She did not seem seventeen, but ageless: like a medieval princess who deserved a stone parapet. “Hello, Devnee,” said Eleanor seriously. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Of course,” said Devnee.

“As you know, the Valentine’s Day Dance is coming up,” said Eleanor.

Devnee had not known this; in fact, she had not thought of Valentine’s Day at all. Now she remembered the holiday: the candy hearts that said
BE MINE
and
KISS ME
; the silly cards you addressed to everybody in your class; the red roses your father gave your mother, and the heart-shaped cake she frosted white and sprinkled with coconut.

“Nominations for Valentine Sweetheart must be made this week, and the Sweetheart will be crowned at the dance,” said Eleanor.

“How quaint,” said Devnee.

Eleanor laughed. “I know. It’s rather embarrassing that we still do that kind of thing. But the peasants like it, you know.” Eleanor cast a meaningful look at the crowd of the plain and dull that filled most of the cafeteria. She and Devnee laughed together.

Eleanor said, “I’d like to nominate you, Devnee, but of course I want your permission first because so many girls just don’t want to be bothered with this beauty queen stuff.”

Eleanor, although lovely, was too stern to be nominated for anything as frivolous as Valentine Sweetheart. If Devnee were to name any girl sufficiently frilly, fragile, and lace-edged for such a title, it would be Aryssa.

But I’m Aryssa, thought Devnee. The pasted-together pieces of her—the old person, the new face, the old memories, the new admiration—they clattered together, and seemed almost to fall apart and hit the ground. Like Cinderella’s glass slipper.

She felt broken and afraid.

Where is Aryssa? Is she me? Is she half me? Am I half her? Is she in school today? Does she even exist to come to school? Has her shadow joined the vampire’s body? Where is my shadow?

Who is Eleanor nominating—the me who is me, or the Aryssa who is me, or the Aryssa who is not anybody now?

Behind her, William said, “I second the nomination, Devnee.”

She turned, trembling, the ice of fear blowing cold between her broken pieces, to see both Trey and William, like a matched pair of horses being readied for a race, steaming and snorting and pawing the ground.