Nocturnal (8 page)

Her eyes blinked over and over. I watched the emotions on her face, like waves carving sand. I am used to watching faces as they die. They get so still, freeze in a mask that is impossible to change. She paged through so many feelings, fear, anger, frustration, amusement. My own face was still. I've forgotten how to make my face move like a mortal. It unnerves your prey when they cannot read what you are thinking on your face. 

She had so many questions. I didn't feel like answering them, so I didn't. She couldn't understand anything about me. I think she wanted to try. 

I focused on her smell, which was as strong as any human. They had no idea how much they gave off. Sweat and dirt and blood and skin and cologne and deodorant and soap residue and food and smoke. Everywhere they'd been rubs off on them, so I could tell what they'd done that day, and sometimes the day before. It clung to their skin, even when they try to wash it away. The scents layer, making each person have a signature.

She was a little scared of me, and she smelled of sleep , smoke, alcohol and sweat. A soap that smelled of artificial coconut. She must have had chocolate earlier. And cooked vegetables. Meat is a strong smell, but I didn't smell it on her. There was a residue of her house there as well. Paint and fabrics and wood and plastic. The people she lives with were on her. A woman with flowery perfume. A man as well. Men and women smell so different. Pheromones. Science hadn't discovered them yet when I was alive.   

Underlying it all was her blood. So warm and active, being pushed and pulled through her veins. I wanted to take it away from her.

Her eyes are green. They widened as she made contact with mine. I didn't mean to, but I tried to hold the contact for a few seconds. She broke it and I saw she was scared. Not enough to run. 

She knew that I was different, not human. Asked me what I was. I told her nothing. 

The want to kill her stayed with me, like a word whispered in my ear. A kiss that promised of something else. Something better. If only I would give in. I didn't.

We said goodbye to each other. She used my name. Such a simple word, goodbye. 

Insomnia

“We need to talk.” Dad accosts me in the kitchen the next afternoon when I go for an apple. I've been camped in the living room doing massive amounts of homework, but I needed some sustenance. It's the first time in six days Dad's really talked to me. Mostly he's talked at me, and only when my mother is around. She's out in her garden. He glances out the window to make sure.

I wait for him to start. I'm not initiating this, because I know where this is going before he says a word. He's easier to read than one of those Dick and Jane books from first grade. See Dad. See Dad talk. See Dad yell an wave his arms. I fiddle with the sticker from my apple so I don't have to look at him. His face is doing that thing where he tries to look all superior. It makes me want to scream. 

“You need to help your mother out more. She's taken on so much and you need to contribute more. It isn't right for her to work so hard when she should be resting.” What he's not saying is that soon she's not going to be around, so someone needs to pick up the slack. Someone named Ava. Not that he's going to say any of that out loud. I'm supposed to be smart enough to understand that it's implied. Lucky for him, I'm not a moron.

“I will.” I'm not the only one who hears the whiny teenage edge to my voice. I could have controlled it, but I chose not to. Now I'm going to pay. He opens the fridge to get some cream for his coffee. Like he needs to take a second before exploding on me.

“No, don't say that you will. Just do it. This is a hard time for all of us, and we need to make it easier on her,” he says, shutting the fridge with so much force the ketchup and salad dressing bottles rattle against each other.

“I know.” Does he think I don't know? That I'm trying to be difficult? That I want to make my mother's life harder? Yeah, I'm just that cruel and self-centered. 

“Ava, you're not listening.” He's the one who's not. “I don't want her upset. So I want to do everything I can to make sure that nothing like that happens.” He's about as subtle as a hurricane. 

“I know,” I say again as he comes around the counter. I try not to flinch as he touches my shoulder, like he's going to hug me. Instead he pulls his hand away, as if I've bitten him. I pretend not to notice and take a bite of my apple, hoping he's done, but knowing he's not.

“I want to make this a peaceful time for her. Which means if she asks you to do something, you do it.” Why does he keep telling me this? 

Whenever she needs something, I get it. I'm always bringing her coffee and baking her favorite cookies and offering to do the dishes and making sure she's not cold or hot or uncomfortable. She hates asking for things, but I know her so well she doesn't have to. His way is to pester her constantly, until she makes something up she doesn't really need just to make him happy. Like giving an overactive child a useless chore to keep them busy. 

We're too busy glaring at each other to hear her coming in. I'm surprised when she doesn't slam into the wall of tension Dad and I just put up. Either of us would need a sledgehammer to break it down. She walks right through it.

“Everything okay in here?” She brings with her the whiff of fresh dirt. It's all over her clothes and there are leaves in her hair. She has a smudge on her nose and a glowing smile on her face. She looks better than she has in days. 

“Just talking about the camping trip,” I say, putting on a smile. The lies seem to come easier and easier. Dad puts on his own smile and hers widens. She gathers us both in her dirt-covered arms. 

“I love you both.” I don't look at Dad as we hug. Anyone looking into our house would see a lovely family moment. How wrong they would be.

Avoiding Dad was my goal for the rest of the day. I spend it wrapped in a blanket on the couch, my face stuck as far into a book as I can get it without crossing my eyes. Most of the time I end up reading the same sentence over and over and not remembering which chapter I'm on or what the love interest of the main character's name is. My mother senses the tension and suggests in a soft voice that she has a hankering to take a walk. He jumps right to concern mode, making sure she wouldn't be overdoing it. She kisses his cheek and tells him not to worry so much. Good luck with that. Of course he acquiesces and she says they'll be back later. I go back to my book, trying not to feel nervous about being alone. 

They come back hours later with pizza and we spend the rest of the evening planing our camping trip, sans tension. Dad seems a little more calmed down and I can talk to him without wanting to roll my eyes or scream.

I am not a big fan of sleeping on the ground, being eaten alive by mosquitoes and going to the bathroom in the woods, but my mother loved it, the whole shebang, so we were doing it. If she'd wanted to picnic on the moon, we would have found a way. Bought space suits and learned how to moonwalk.

“It's been so long since we went. I hope I can find all of our gear.” She picks an olive off her pizza and pops it in her mouth. She always gets extra olives. I can't stand them, but I've eaten three slices covered in them. Don't rock the boat, I say. 

“Don't worry about it. Ava and I will take care of it. You can plan out our hikes and make the menu.” Dad kisses her on the nose, making her giggle. My smile is almost painful, my cheeks cracking under the pressure.

“This trip is just for you to relax.” She holds her spare arm out and I climb under it.

“You guys spoil me.” 

“You deserve to be spoiled,” Dad says, putting his arm around both of us. Two family hugs in one day. Not since I was little have we hugged so much. Dad and I aren't huggers by nature. It's natural for her. Like calling me by silly nicknames and being so good with children. 

Tex interrupts the Kodak moment via my new phone, causing Dad to give me another glare as I answer it. How dare I spoil the perfect moment?

“Hey, you've been MIA. What's up with you?”

“Nothing, just busy,” I say, mouthing her name to tell them who I'm on the phone with. My mother nods and makes a shooing motion with her hands. Dad keeps his glare on. I follow her and ignore him.

“Doing what?”

“Homework.” It was true that I had a ton of reading for my AP English class, but I'd done it already. She didn't need to know that, though. I stub my toe on one of the steps and bite back a curse.

“You are such a dork.”

“Yeah, says the girl who's in AP history.” Using my foot to shut the door, I breathe a sigh of relief that I can talk without having Dad glare at me. Which he's probably doing through the floor. 

“It's not my fault I have a freakish memory for dates.”

“D-Day,” I fire at her.

“June 6, 1944.” She says it through a mouthful of something without even thinking about it. “Give me something that's a challenge.” At least I think that's what she says. It's hard to tell.

“I can't believe you got out of working this week,” she says with more crunching. 

“It helps to know people.” 

“Yeah, right. So, I am totally making a pilgrimage to Portland next weekend to go shopping. I thought we could make a day of it.” My heart sinks as she says it. I would love to go shopping with Tex. Spend an afternoon just walking around the mall and talking and eating giant pretzels and staring at cute boys. Like we used to do. I miss it. How could I not have realized I missed it?

“I can't. I have to go camping with my parents.” 

“Uh, okay. What are you, five?” The slurping sound is probably her licking whatever it is she's eating off her fingers. I really hope.

“It's my Dad's idea. Family bonding and all that. What are you eating?”

“Salt and vinegar chips mixed with cheese doodles.” Uh, excuse me while I hurl. Tex loved to mix her snacks. I hear her licking her fingers.

“Ugh, I hate family bonding. My parents keep trying to do that, but it always ends up with Coby sulking in the corner and me getting yelled at for trying to cheer everyone up.” Of course she forces all the blame on her younger brother. Like she's all innocent.

“That's because you make a scene.”

“I do not make a scene!” The crumply sound must be her rooting around in the bottom of the bag for crumbs.

“Um, do you remember Applebee's?”

“What was I supposed to do? That drunk guy dared me.” What an understatement. She'd hopped on top of the bar, and suffice it to say, she was banned for life from Applebee's.

“My point exactly.”

“You're such a pain in the ass.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Well okay, if you can't come shopping, can you at least visit me at work tomorrow? I can't stand talking to Toby all day. He's going to ComicCon, and if I hear one more word about his hobbit costume, I'm going to scream.” The thought of it makes me shudder, but I'd really be a horrible friend if I leave her to deal with it.

“Fine, fine. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Thanks, bitch.”

“See you later, ho.” My mother is going to die. The words try to struggle their way out, like I've got that disease that makes you yell nonsense words and swears. I swallow them back for the hundreth time.

I didn't want to go to the cemetery that night. I didn't want to see Peter, to hear his strange voice. To feel the way I did when he was around. Like I was seconds away from death. Did that make me a masochist? Or suicidal? Or one of those freaky people who was into whips and chains and pain?

I paced my room instead, the pizza I'd consumed churning around like a storm of cheese and sauce. Ew. 

I really don't want to go camping. If it were just me and Mom, I'd be there in a heartbeat. For some reason adding Dad to the mix just threw everything off. She used to say it was because we were too much alike. Which I think is insane. The reason we argue so much is because we don't understand each other. I can follow the twisted logic of his mind, but I don't see the point in it. 

I wish I had someone I could talk to. The one person I could always talk to was her, and I can't talk to her about her. 

But there is someone who'd understand. At least I hope so. 

***

“Don't you sleep?” I say when I'm close enough for him to hear me. As usual, he's standing there. Like he's been waiting his whole life for this one moment. For me. 

That's ridiculous. He's not waiting for me. He's just... always here. 

“No.” I click on the lantern I'd brought with me. Dad had found it in the basement when he went looking for the camping stuff. It's old, but still works, casting a slightly blue light over everything.   A moth flutters toward the light as I crash against the broken angel.

“Aren't you tired? Don't you have something better to do than hang out with me?” 

Silence. 

“Probably.” He flows into a sitting position as I try not to stare. When he moves it's like he isn't made of bones and muscle, but water. I've never seen anyone move like that, not even dancers are that smooth. Something else that tells me he's not what he seems. The thought has been building in my head since that first night, and everything I've seen has only done more to confirm my suspicions. I just don't know what he could be. And what's with the whole suicide thing?

“I don't get you.”

“What do you mean?”

“This whole thing,” I wave my hands around, indicating his person. “When I surprised you, that one time, you seemed sooo, I don't know. I thought you were in a gang or something. You seemed dangerous.” I try to look into his eyes, but I feel so foolish, I can't. “And then all that stuff went down and I have to say, I was really freaked out. By you and your brother and then you saying you wanted to kill yourself. I don't know why I came back here. Maybe I'm just nuts.” I bang my fist against the angel's foot. 

“You were correct the first time.”

“You're in a gang?”

“Of sorts.”

“No way, do you have one of those secret handshakes?” His head tips to the side, as if he's confused. “Never mind.”