Mystify (3 page)

“That’s way weird,” Lindsey says in a quiet tone. She’s holding her books in one hand, but the other hand moves to her temple where her fingers are massaging. “I hope they’re all right.”

The second warning bell rings, and we all start walking to class. At first, everything seems routine just like any other school day. Except I know it isn’t. I feel it deep inside. I have a sick sense that nothing is ever going to be the same again.

The
dining room and half the veranda that wraps around the first floor of our house had been transformed while I was at school. Mouse brought me straight home as per my mom’s instructions. Coming through the front door, I hear the sound of crystal clinking as the caterers prepare for the party.

There are at least twenty people dressed in black pants and black polo shirts with the catering company logo milling around the house. Strangers, is all I can think, as I bypass my usual trip to the kitchen for a snack. Casietta always has something for me to eat after school, something that isn’t precisely on my mom’s list of healthy diet food. Hey, I’m all for healthy, but every once in a while I’d like to eat something that really tastes good.

My mother’s ban on any food that’s remotely appealing is killing me. I love cheeseburgers, absolutely adore them. Casietta knows this, and at least twice a month she makes sure she fixes one especially for me. In Casietta’s mind, if she fixes it, there’s no way it can be unhealthy. Now, I don’t know exactly what she puts into it, but it’s pretty good. However, nothing beats a value meal, which Jake and I order most of the times we visit the one and only mall near Lincoln.

Today I’ll have to forgo the snack. My mom’s home. I hear her voice trilling through the rooms downstairs. She’s giving orders, making arrangements, all the things she does best. I’m
going to my room. In less than four hours I have to put on this stupid outfit she purchased and go downstairs to mingle with people I barely know and probably won’t like. I guess I shouldn’t say that since I really don’t know who’s coming to this party. Lincoln’s rich and famous is what Mom had said. The classy and elite is what Dad called them. I’m thinking they’re probably all stuck-up and snooty and boring as hell.

I slam my door closed and drop my books to the floor. Homework is a thought, but I can usually do that in the car on the way to school. I just plop down on my bed staring up at the ceiling instead. Before long, it’s time to shower and change my clothes. I do this reluctantly, moving as slow as I possibly can, until ultimately, it’s time to go and get this night over with.

So this is it. Taking the stairs one at a time, I cringe at the sound the black taffeta hoopskirt is making. After putting it on, I realized it didn’t look as bad on me as it did hanging on the closet door. I think it’s the extended one-inch hem of turquoise crinoline that peeks from beneath the dark skirt that stops just below my knees. Still, it’s noisy. The blouse is a wraparound, turquoise, of course. My mom’s great at coordinating outfits. That’s probably why my closet is overflowing with clothes. That’s one gene I can proudly say I’ve inherited from her. I like shopping for clothes too. And since there isn’t much else to do in Lincoln, I spend a lot of time shopping online or from catalogs. A couple times a year, my mother goes to the city with my father and brings back carloads full of clothes, but I’ve never gone with her. I’ve never been out of Lincoln, not since they brought me here when I was a little baby.

I don’t have any more time to think about clothes or what’s outside of Lincoln. Guests have already started to arrive. I see
two couples stepping into the front door, Casietta dressed in her best pressed black-and-white uniform, dutifully taking the women’s wraps and directing people toward the dining room.

My parents are going to freak. They wanted me downstairs and by their side with a polite smile on my face at ten minutes after seven. It’s now seven thirty-five. I was dressed at seven o’clock and purposely waited in my room, wondering if either one of them would come to get me. Obviously not.

Ignoring Casietta’s warning glare, I fall in step behind the two couples. The men are older with salt-and-pepper colored hair. The women are older too but more vain about admitting it, so their faces are pinched and lifted and tucked. They’ve definitely paid their plastic surgeons a bundle of money. The one lady has a deep V in her dress showing more cleavage than should be legally allowed at her age because, while the silicone breasts are plump and riding high, the liver spots marching across her collar bone are kind of disgusting in contrast.

They’re already whispering, probably about the house and all the expensive paintings and furniture. That’s exactly what my parents want. It’s kind of sickening to think I come from two such shallow people, but I guess we don’t get to pick and choose our creators.

That thought has me thinking back to the Mystyx, which seems to be a constant on my mind lately. There’s so much I don’t know about this power I have. So much I want, no, actually
need
to know. I feel like there’s this part of me that’s foreign, like another person or entity entirely lives inside of me. For that reason alone I have to find answers to my questions or risk losing my mind.

I’m drawn to the moon. I know this. I’ve always been drawn to the moon. I wonder if that means something.

“Sasha! I’m soooo glad you’re here. The thought of having
to go through this entire evening alone with the adults was frightening.”

The sound of her voice could probably be judged as equally scary. Of course I don’t say that out loud. Instead, I turn in her direction, giving the best smile I can muster.

“Hey, Alyssa. Glad you could come.”

Lie.

Well, not exactly. I mean Alyssa Turner is an okay girl, if you’re into her type, which I’m not generally. Still, we’re the same age and like some of the same things, i.e. shopping, shoes and handbags. But I think that’s where our interests end. In the last few months, Alyssa has shown her truest snobbish colors. She’s absolutely obsessed with keeping the social wars alive and kicking in Lincoln. While, I think social and any other type of segregation is straight B.S.!

Other than her obsession with who should sit where and who is and is not worthy of her company, Alyssa could be cool at times. I’m probably remembering more of our middle school days than the time we’ve been at Settleman’s because it seems like our progression into high school inflated her head just a little more—if that were even possible.

The visual of Alyssa’s inflated head makes my smile more genuine. Her long micro-braided hair is pulled and stacked high on top her head tonight with a few loose strands, I guess to give a softer look to the hairdo. It’s okay, I mean I think braids are nice. Except on Alyssa they seem to give her the impression that she’s a goddess instead of just wearing the styled goddess braids that she purchased at the Hair Gallery in the mall.

“That outfit looks divine on you.”

Are you kidding—“divine”? What fifteen-year-old says that? “Thanks,” I say because it’s polite. “You look nice, too.”

Now that’s true, and it is most of the time. Despite her
personality flaws, Alyssa definitely has a flair for fashion. Her dress is name brand—I know that for sure even though I don’t know the name exactly. It’s just that if it doesn’t have a name, Alyssa doesn’t wear it. Her dress is a little too snug for my tastes but hugs her curves that look years older than her fresh fifteen. It’s purple with cap sleeves and about a three-inch slit on both sides, and the hem comes just below her knees. Her shoes, again designer, probably Italian leather, are black and square-toed, so she doesn’t look overly dressed, but certainly well-dressed.

“This dress is so old, but yours is just great. Hey, we should definitely hit the mall sometime. God, can you believe we have to go in there with all those boring adults? This is so lame.”

She’s mirroring the thoughts in my mind. The ones about this being boring and lame, not about going to the mall with her. While I’m game for shopping, I don’t know that it’ll be that great of an experience to go with her.

I must have had a strange look on my face because she quickly starts shaking her head, loose braids swishing around, and I think instantly of Medusa. The goddess with snakes for hair whose stare, if returned, would turn you into stone. This Greek stuff is really starting to stick in my mind.

“I didn’t mean anything bad about your parents or their little open house. It’s just not my idea of fun.”

I realize she’s talking and figure I’d better start paying a little more attention to what she’s saying. “Ah, no, no problem,” I say, hoping that covers it.

“So maybe we should stick together tonight,” she suggests.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mother approaching. She’s dressed all in cream, a long skirt with a split up to her knee on the side and a jacket with her diamond pelican
broach on the lapel. Her dark hair has been straightened so that it’s hanging down her back, held away from her face by two diamond barrettes.

“Actually,” Alyssa says, moving closer to me and lowering her voice like she’s about to tell me something scandalous, “I’ve been thinking you could help me with something.”

“Something like what?” I probably shouldn’t have even asked.

“I’ve seen you with that new girl Krystal. God, I can’t stand her. She thinks she’s better than everybody when she’s really nothing. You know she was the reason Camy moved away.”

First, what is the saying—something about the pot calling the kettle…? Second, what the hell was she talking about? Camy Sherwood and her family moved out of Lincoln about two weeks ago. Now, while I will admit that Krystal’s little friendship with the ghost of Ricky Watson sort of brought the whole sordid incident to a head, Krystal certainly didn’t push Camy to the brink. Camy Sherwood and her I-wanna be-like-Alyssa attitude did that to herself. She’d started posing for nude pictures and who knew what else with that pervert teacher Mr. Lyle (who by the way is probably in some prison cell getting the same treatment he dished out to those young girls). So once again, Alyssa is way out of line.

“Krystal didn’t make Camy move,” I say in the most restrained voice I can manage.

“She’s just such a pain. And now she’s walking around with Franklin on her heels like they’re some love-struck couple. It’s sickening.”

I shrug. Krystal and Franklin were like glued together at the hip lately. “Well, Franklin pursued her, if you must know.”

She is twirling one of those braids around her finger and looking around the room as if searching for someone. “Yeah,
well, guys don’t know any better. He probably took one look at her mixed hair and got all flustered.”

What did her hair have to do with anything? Alyssa is definitely in a world of her own.

“Anyway, it’s time she was brought down a notch. Put in her rightful place, and you and I can make that happen.”

I am about to say something else when we are interrupted.

“Well, look at you two, don’t you look lovely,” my mom says, coming to a stop, touching one hand to my shoulder and the other to Alyssa’s.

“Hello, Mrs. Carrington,” Alyssa says politely.

“Hi, Mom,” I say in a tone that just doesn’t match the general excitement coming from the two of them.

“You’re both just what we need. You’ll be the spokespersons for the youth of the Oaks Club.”

I don’t like the sound of that.

Alyssa, on the other hand, smiles prettily, her amber eyes just about glittering with anticipation. Alyssa likes a title, and I can tell this is going to take her ginormous ego to another level.

“Sure, we’d love to, Mrs. Carrington. Just tell us what you’d like us to do.”

Hoping she’ll say, “change your clothes and go out for a cheeseburger” is wishful thinking.

“Well,” my mom begins in her sugary sweet voice, the one that makes me grit my teeth every time I hear it, “what I was thinking is that you two can rally up some of your friends. You know, get them excited about the club and all the possibilities.”

“What are the possibilities?” I ask because I still can’t figure out why our little town even needs an exclusive club.

I mean, really, there are about four thousand people living
in Lincoln. Maybe fifteen hundred of them are well off like we are. (That’s just a guess because it’s not like I work for the Census Bureau and actually know the statistics.) But anyway, we’re a small town, in Connecticut, of all places. We’re not in Beverly Hills or Dallas or any other metropolitan city. Our town sits right on the edge of Connecticut, just beneath West Haven. The larger part of the town is sided by the Atlantic Ocean and the other part runs right along the highway.

We aren’t like hillbillies or anything, but we’re far from the sophisticated city life. Far from being big enough to split off into specific social groups. Looking around me, I can see my point—if vocalized—will go unheeded.

“We want the youth to be involved in this venture. You are our future, after all.”

Oh please, that line is so played out.

“You two will be responsible for recruiting all the teenagers in our little circle. Get them excited about the club and all that it will offer them and their futures.”

Brainwash them basically, is what I figure she means.

Alyssa, on the other hand, is happier than a pig in slop, clap ping her hands together and smiling enthusiastically. “That’s a great idea, Mrs. Carrington. We’d love to help.”

We would?

“Don’t you worry about a thing. Sasha and I will start recruiting right away.”

We will?

“Thanks, girls.” My mom gives us another award-winning smile and leaves us alone. Finally.

But just when I’m about to turn and tell Alyssa she’s crazy for agreeing to this stupid little task, I see something—or someone, I should say—that stops me cold.

I can see into the dining room, and, just as a group of adults
walk away, I can see a man and a boy from school. A boy who just happens to be the boyfriend of my fellow Mystyx.

“Who’s that man with Franklin?” I ask Alyssa, still wondering why Franklin Bryant would be here in the first place.

Alyssa follows my gaze. “Oh, that’s his dad. Don’t you recognize him from television? He does the weather on channel eight.”

That’s right, he does. Walter Bryant is the local meteorologist, and he and about three or four other reporters at the station are the closest thing Lincoln has to TV stars. But what is he doing here? I’m sure that even though he’s on TV, he’s not making Hollywood-type money, which is exactly what the other guests of this party and the hopeful sponsors of the club are.