Shifting (10 page)

14

You would think that after the horse incident I would stop experimenting. But obviously I hadn't learned my lesson.

It started because of my skin. New Mexico is dry—the air, the ground, everything. Including my skin. It was dry to the point of looking a little scaly, and when I looked at my skin, I could almost feel the forked tongue fluttering against my teeth. So I thought,
Why not turn into a snake? I have an hour to kill before work.

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, closed my eyes, and imagined sleek, green, pearly scales instead of skin, a forked tongue, and eyes with long, narrow pupils. Then I tried, very gently, to change.

My tongue thinned and split, darting out between my smiling lips. My skin changed next, turning from dry and semi-pale to metallic green scales that shimmered in layers of thin, translucent disks. I leaned closer to the mirror and studied my eyes, waiting for them to change, too.

They didn't. I was stuck. Again.

“Crap!” I hissed through gritted teeth, fervently trying to change back into myself. I glared at the freaky scales covering my entire body and tried to visually force them back beneath the surface. They didn't budge. At closer inspection, I realized the problem might be washed away—I was coated in a silky powder, as if the scales were slowly deteriorating into a fine, pearly dust. It floated off me in shimmering clouds and drifted down to the floor.

I stripped and got into the shower.

With half a container of body wash squeezed onto a washcloth I vigorously began scrubbing. Milky white water dripped from me, water that reflected the bathroom light in translucent rainbow colors, like motor oil in a parking lot puddle.

After scrubbing my body at least eight times, my skin looked halfway normal and the slit in my tongue was substantially smaller.

I toweled off and groaned as puffs of opalescent dust wafted from my skin. A bottle of lotion would have been ideal, cementing the powder to me. Unfortunately, I didn't have any; otherwise I never would have gotten into this mess in the first place. I tried applying a thin layer of conditioner to my skin—bad idea—and got back into the shower.

Five minutes later, I got my black T-shirt from the bedroom floor and pulled it over my wet hair. “No!” I groaned, looking at my reflection in the mirror. My shirt was no longer black. It sparkled and gleamed dark bluish silver. Even the
A
on the front looked rosy pink instead of scarlet. I rolled my eyes. I was such an idiot!

I pulled a brush through my wet hair and slicked it into a high ponytail, grabbed my house key, and went to the living room.

“You ready to go?” Mrs. Carpenter asked, peering over the top of a romance novel. Her eyes grew wide and she closed the novel. “What in heaven have you done to yourself?”

I took a deep breath. “Don't ask,” I grumbled, the
s
in
ask
coming out in a hiss. Her eyes moved over my entire body and she started laughing.

“Maggie Mae, you have a knack for finding trouble,” she said, standing.

“I sure do.” I followed her out the front door.

The afternoon sun gleamed, making the snake-scale residue glow in shades of rose, baby blue, and grass green.

“You are such an idiot!” I whispered.

Mrs. Carpenter peered at me over her shoulder. “Did you say something?”

I shook my head and was blinded by my own glow. And that is when my toe caught on a knobby tree root and I crashed to the ground in a giant cloud of snake-scale dust. I sneezed once and climbed back to my feet.

“Maggie Mae!” Mrs. Carpenter clasped my elbow. “Are you hurt?”

“I'm fine,” I muttered. My palms stung and my knees felt bruised. I looked down at my jeans and groaned. This really wasn't my day. My jeans, the only hole-free pair I owned, now had tears over both of my scraped, bloody knees, and, yes, even the blood oozing from the shallow scrapes shimmered like gold. Brushing myself off, I climbed into the truck.

As we drove through town, Mrs. Carpenter kept glancing at me from the corner of her eye and laughing under her breath.

“You don't mind if I drop you off across the street from the restaurant, do you? It's hard to make a U-turn in rush-hour traffic.”

I peered out the window at the busy road. “No problem.” Mrs. Carpenter pulled to the side of the road. “Have a nice night,” she called as I climbed from the truck.

I smiled and shut the door, watched her merge with traffic, then walked half a block to the crosswalk and waited for the light to change.

Every single person on that city block stopped what they were doing and pointed at me. Their scrutiny made me sweat, and, with that sweat, dust seeped out of my pores. The sun magnified the effect, giving me a full-body halo. Cars slowed and people rolled down their windows to stare. I pulled my hair out of its ponytail and let it hang around my face, shielding my identity from view.

The light changed. I kept my head down and crossed to the other side of the street. And plowed into Yana.

“Maggie Mae!” she blurted. She clutched my shoulders and shoved me into the cramped space between two buildings, staring at me with wide brown eyes. Scared eyes.

“It's only glitter dust,” I began to explain self-consciously, brushing my arm for effect, but she didn't notice.

“Someone's looking for you again,” she said, peering toward the road. “A stranger—same guy that I called you about. He's sitting in a Cadillac parked in front of the restaurant. He's been there all afternoon … waiting. Naalyehe is nervous.”

I stared at her, dumbfounded. “Who is it?”

Yana rolled her eyes. “Didn't you hear what I said? My grandpa is afraid of him. Afraid! And he can sense things about people.” She bit her lip and studied me.

“What does he look like?”

“Totally normal—your average middle-age man, someone you wouldn't look at twice. Not too tall, thin, brown hair, receding hairline.”

I shrugged. “Whatever. I don't care. He's probably got me mixed up with someone else.” I stepped toward the street.

Yana grabbed my bicep. “Naalyehe is afraid of him! You can't come into work,” she insisted. “At least not yet. José just called the cops and reported the guy for loitering. As soon as the cops pick him up, you can come to work. Go to the park and hide out for now. I'll come get you when it's safe.”

Yana pulled me into an unexpected hug. A shiver of fear danced down my spine. That hug scared me more than news of the stranger. I had the sinking suspicion she was hugging me in case this was the last time she'd ever see me.

“Be careful,” she whispered into my ear. When she let me go, her black motocross T-shirt shimmered with color. She dashed back to the sidewalk.

“Thanks,” I called in a shaky voice, darting glances all around.

I slunk out from between the shops and peered both ways down the street before sprinting back the way I had come, dust trailing after me like a rainbow-hued comet's tail. I covered two blocks before the dust settled, then circled back another two blocks before making my way to the park.

With spring warming the air, the park was packed. I sighed with relief—where better to hide than out in the open, camouflaged by other people? College students partied at one end of the park; at the other end the playground bustled with children and people crowding the winding cement. Cotton fell from the giant trees lining the park and filled the air with the illusion of snow.

I wandered past the college party, ignoring the catcalls and invitations to join them, and found an empty section of sun-flooded lawn close to the playground. I looked in all directions, making sure no one could sneak up on that spot, then sat, trying to ignore the anxiety making me feel like the ham sandwich I had for lunch might make a messy return.

A thousand questions were shifting uneasily through my head: Was I in trouble? Had someone in town seen me naked and tracked me down? Was it someone from my past? A previous foster parent? Did he ask for me by name, or show a picture, or what?

I was so wound up in my thoughts, I didn't realize anyone was sitting beside me until he spoke.

“You're glowing. It's beautiful.”

His voice was little more than a whisper, but I was on my feet, staring down at him and ready to sprint.

“I didn't mean to scare you. Are you going to run away from me again?” he asked with mild amusement. Curiosity danced in his dark eyes.

I swallowed a lump of fear and answered, “Someone's looking for me.”

He stood. “What do you mean?”

“Someone was at the restaurant today looking for … me?” I said uncertainly, wondering if that was a piece of information I should be sharing with Bridger. “Never mind. It's no big deal.”

“You're glowing,” he said again, reaching out to touch my dusty cheek. His fingertips came away from my skin alive with reflected sunlight. “Wow. Where did you get this stuff?” He blew on his fingers and the dust sparkled a hundred different colors in the air before settling on his jeans.

This
stuff
?
Oh, I tried to turn into a snake with scales and a forked tongue this afternoon and it backfired
, I thought sarcastically. I wondered how long he'd stick around once he found
that
out.

“I don't remember,” I mumbled, turning my back to him.

“So, you want to go get something to eat?”

I looked at him over my shoulder. “You mean you and me? Together?”

“Yeah, you and me. Remember, we're friends.” He glanced at his leather-banded watch. “I know this place—”

“I'm working tonight.”

“Where do you work?”

“The Navajo Mexican, with Yana.”

“What time do you get off?”

“Sorry. I've got to go,” I blurted, striding away. Yana was on the other side of the park looking for me.

“Creepy dude's gone,” she called. “Police came and picked him up. They'll hold him overnight while they do a background check.”

My shoulders relaxed as if the weight of the world had been lifted from them. As Yana and I walked toward the restaurant, I glanced over my shoulder. Bridger was staring at me, a frown on his face. I felt a feathery touch on my skin and forgot about him—Yana was running her fingers over my forearm.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“This glitter crap is really freaking me out. It looks like it's coming
out
of your skin.” She brushed her fingers over her eyelids and they shimmered.

“Pretty,” I said, wondering how she'd feel if she knew she was putting disintegrating snake scales on her eyelids. “What's the occasion?”

She blushed. “José hired a new dishwasher. He rides a motorcycle and has a tattoo of a tarantula on his hand,” she said with a smile.

15

It was a bad night. Not only did I drop a tray of drinks on myself, I slipped on the spilled soda and beer and landed in it. The liquid soaked into my freshly torn jeans, clear to my panties. I also managed to crash into Yana while carrying a scalding plate of fry bread smothered in refried beans and greasy cheese. The beans and melted cheese clung to my shirt, burning me through the fabric. I tore my shirt off in the middle of the dining room. The college boys I'd been waiting on cheered and clapped, and left me a really good tip.

I got orders all wrong, accidentally giving a child an alcoholic margarita, serving a vegetarian college professor the mutton platter, and serving lukewarm coffee—I had forgotten to put the pot back on the hot plate.

To make matters worse, I'd been too busy to ask Naalyehe about the stranger.

At a quarter past ten, when most of the patrons were gone and no more were coming in, I made my way to the kitchen.

José, Naalyehe, and two part-time cooks were cleaning up the dinner rush, talking and laughing.

“Can I talk to you, Naalyehe?” I asked.

All four men turned to me and their mouths snapped shut.

“Maggie Mae,” Naalyehe said. He put down his washcloth and steered me out to the dimly lit parking lot behind the building. José's car was the only vehicle parked in back.

Naalyehe studied me for a moment before asking, “Are you hiding something I should know about?”

I sighed, blowing loose wisps of hair away from my face. I was hiding all sorts of things.

“You do not need to fear me,” Naalyehe said, his voice soft. “But I need to know why that man is looking for you.”

“I don't know why.” That question had been running laps through my brain all night. “Did he tell you his name?”

“I asked. He refused.”

“Well, what exactly did he say?”

“He said, ‘I'm looking for a young woman, goes by Maggie Mae Mortensen. She has black hair and pale eyes and is eighteen years old. I was told that she works here. Have you seen her?' ” Naalyehe repeated in monotone.

“What did you tell him?”

“I said no one by that name works for me,
Magdalena
, and my only employees with black hair have dark eyes.”

I ran a hand through my faded plum-colored ponytail and smiled. “Thanks.”

“Are you sure you do not want to tell me anything?” Naalyehe asked again.

“I'm an orphan. Is that what you want to hear?”

His lips thinned. “I am sorry. That must be hard at your age.”

Yeah
, I thought bitterly.
But not as hard as it was when I was a little kid.

“You wear the
yo-ih
?” he asked. I held my left arm up for him to see. “Good. Do not take it off.”

He opened the door and I walked into the steamy kitchen, Naalyehe a step behind.

“
Gringa
,” José said. “Yana restocked the condiments before she left for the night, so you get to empty the trash. Then go home and put your feet up. You worked hard.”

“Sure, boss,” I said, faking a smile. I hated trash duty. My feet dragged as I went back into the restaurant.

Since I was already covered with soda and beans, I figured it was only fair that I tackle the trash. The bags dripped soda and beer as I dragged them out back. The smell of old Mexican food, stale beer, and rotting meat wafted from the Dumpster. I held my breath and slung the trash up over the side.

Light flickered beside the Dumpster. A face, red against the small flame of a lighter, glowed to life. I stumbled backward and almost tripped.

“
Hola
,” a stranger said, taking a drag on a cigarette. The lighter died and his face went dark.

“Hello,” I squeaked, ready to run to the restaurant.

“I'm Tito. The new dishwasher.”

“Oh!” Yana's motorcycle guy. I took a calming breath. He chuckled and took another long drag on his cigarette, the end glowing red.

“Nice to meet you. Have a nice night,” I said, turning to leave.

Back in the kitchen, I studied myself in the bright light. Refried beans plastered my shirt, mashed into the fabric. The drinks I'd spilled and then sat in were almost dry and getting stiffer by the minute, and the scale dust, though hardly visible on my skin anymore, clung to the sticky fabric, making the spill brilliantly obvious.

“Ugh. Thank you for sending me home, José,” I whispered.

Just then Penney and José burst into the kitchen, José speaking about a mile a minute in Spanish, fanning his face with his hand.

“I
already
gave him a seat in the best booth!” Penney interrupted, flinging her hands about as she spoke.

“Well, go out there and see what he wants to drink … and don't mess it up!” José barked.

Penney nodded, put her hands on her curvy hips, and hurried out the door to the dining room.

“What's going on?” I asked. Naalyehe watched us from the other side of the kitchen.

“An important customer.” José's voice was a little too loud. He looked at Naalyehe. “If the town knows he's eating our food, this will be the most popular restaurant around!”

“I thought it already was,” I said.

José smiled, walked over to the sink were I stood, and gave me a one-armed hug, squeezing the air from my lungs. “Oh, you sweet little thing! If only my sons weren't already married …”

Just then the kitchen door burst open. Penney walked in with her hands on her round hips and stared at me like I'd stolen her favorite lip gloss. José let go of me.

“What?” José and I asked at the same time.

“He wants
Maggie Mae
to wait on him.”

José took one look at my filthy clothes and started spewing Spanish again.

“Who wants me to wait on him?” I asked.

“Bridger O'Connell,” Penney answered.

“What?”

“Don't panic, Magdalena,” José said in obvious panic, handing me a damp washcloth and motioning to my filthy shirt. “You've become a fabulous server. Just don't mess up! And don't drop any drinks on him!” He turned to Penney. “Can you fix her up a little or is it a lost cause?”

Penney studied me and yanked the washcloth out of my hands. Pulling the hair tie from my ponytail, she let my hair spill around my shoulders. She tugged her fingers through it a few times, fluffed it around my face, and then looked at me.

“Better,” she said. “But wait!” She fished in her jeans pocket and pulled out a tube of glittery red lip gloss—as if I didn't have enough glitter on me. Without a word, she coated my lips. “Hopefully he won't notice the stain on your pants,” she mused, cringing. “On second thought, hopefully he won't care.” She smiled apologetically at me. “All right,
chica
. He's in the booth by the window. Go take his order.”

My hands were trembling as I stepped into the nearly empty dining room. I felt like José and Penney had thrown me out to appease a hungry pack of wolves. The booth by the window is the one farthest from the kitchen. Bridger sat facing the front window. I approached slowly, studying his back.

He was wearing black pants and a dark blue button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled around his elbows. He must have seen my reflection in the window, because he turned around.

“Hey,” he said. I watched his eyes slip from my face to my shirt to my spattered jeans, and my cheeks started to burn. Then his eyes lingered on my name tag. “Magdalena?” He studied me a moment before I remembered to speak.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked nervously.

“Coke.”

I nodded and headed toward the kitchen. Penney and José were peering at me from the kitchen door.

“So far, so good!” José said, giving me a thumbs-up.

“What does he want to drink? I'll get it for you,” Penney said. I wondered if she was afraid I'd spill it.

“Coke. But why are you guys freaking out? He's my age.”

“He is an O'Connell,” José snapped. “His family owns the old mine.”

“There's an old mine in Silver City?”

“Why do you think it is called Silver City,
gringa
?” José answered, tugging his mustache. “Now go back over there and recommend my fish tacos.”

I strode over to Bridger. He'd been watching my reflection in the window with an amused grin on his face. “Do you want to order, or would you like to try our chef's specialty?”

“What's your favorite entrée?” he asked.

“The fish tacos. They're awesome.” And the only thing I'd ever eaten.

“All right. I would like two servings of fish tacos. And another Coke. I'm expecting company.”

My shoulders slumped. I looked at him, so gorgeous and dressed to kill. Of course he'd be expecting a date.

“You're frowning,” he said.

I forced a smile to my mouth. “Two fish tacos and another Coke coming up.”

“Wait. May I speak with José, please?”

“Two fish tacos, one Coke, and one Hispanic chef, coming right up,” I amended and hurried to the kitchen.

“José, he wants to see you. And he wants fish tacos. Two plates. He's expecting company.”

“Ah! Good girl. Penney, go home. Magdalena will finish up tonight,” José said before removing his apron and hurrying out to the dining room.

Penney looked at me and shrugged. She removed a wad of tips from her apron pocket and crammed them into her jeans pocket. “Good luck with Bridger,” she said, pulling her denim jacket from a coat hook on the door.

“Thanks.”

She studied me for a moment. “Yana told me about the creepy dude. Be careful.”

“Don't worry about—” I started to say, but José came running into the kitchen all frantic and out of breath.

“Change of plan!” He gasped, tugging the jacket from Penney's shoulders and handing her a clean apron. “Penney, you stay and wait tables. Magdalena, go talk to Señor O'Connell.” Without a word, he untied my apron and set it on the counter.

Penney and I exchanged confused looks. “Well, go on,” she prodded.

My palms turned cold and damp as I approached Bridger's table. When he saw my reflection in the window, he stood and watched me. I stopped in front of him.

“Maggie?” he said.

“What?”

“I was hoping you would have dinner with me. I've taken the liberty of ordering your favorite entrée.”

I swallowed hard and studied him for a moment. “Are you serious?”

“Totally.”

“Did you get stood up? Am I your last resort?”

“No. You're my first choice. And José said you're done for the night.”

He was so gorgeous, I would be a total idiot to say no. And it had been hours since I'd eaten. But on the other hand, I didn't want to get attached. I looked down at the
A
on my shirt and felt the sting of tears in my eyes.

I bit the inside of my cheek in an attempt to stop the tears and turned my back to him, blinking furiously. I turned back around.

“Thanks, but I really don't think dinner would be a good idea,” I said. “I'm tired.”

“So … we'll eat fast and then you can go home to bed,” he reasoned.

“Look, I don't want to … I don't want to date anyone.”

“Anyone? Or me?”

“Anyone.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

“Because I don't want to get attached. Every time I get close to someone, I get hurt.” And I didn't mean cute boys. Every time I got close to a foster family, I was removed from their house, never to hear from them again.

“And what makes you think that eating a meal with me is going to hurt you? All I want is to get to know you a little better.”

Well, that right there's the problem
, I thought. Knowing me better is what makes everyone despise me. All right, I told myself, just dish and he'll never want to see me again. I rushed in before I had time to chicken out.

“You want to get to know me better? I'm a dirt-poor orphan that has been passed around to more foster homes in the past thirteen years than I can remember. I had fifteen run-ins with the law before the age of eighteen. Yana is my first and only friend. I've never had a boyfriend. The only date I ever went on, my date was so miserable he
ditched
me and left me standing on the dance floor. The scar in my eyebrow? I got it from an abusive foster father. Wanna know why I stayed with his family for two years even though he hit me? His wife was southern and cooked the best food I ever tasted … on a regular basis. You think I look like a nice person, and I am nice, but I come with a lot of nasty stuff.” I crossed my arms and hardened my face into my best “I won't take crap from you” look.

“Interesting. So tell me the part that is going to make me hurt you,” he said sarcastically. “Don't you realize that everything you've said makes me think you have the potential to be one of the most interesting people I've ever met?”

I struggled to keep my jaw from hitting the floor.

José arrived with two steaming bean-and-cheese-covered plates of fish tacos. My stomach rumbled.

“Sit, Magdalena!” José ordered, setting a plate down on the table.

“Come on. Just one painless meal,” Bridger coaxed, sliding into his seat.

I looked between José and Bridger, then gave in and sat across from Bridger. I didn't know what else to do. This totally hot, smart guy wanted me to eat dinner with him, even after I gave him the dump truck version of my past? Well, minus the turning into an animal. Maybe I hadn't made it clear enough?

“So, if you've never had a boyfriend, have you ever been kissed?”

I caught my bottom lip in my teeth and shook my head.

“Huh. If the
A
on your shirt is for ‘Adulterer,' but you've never even been kissed … isn't that the slightest bit contradictory?”