Waking (8 page)

Beauty turned slowly toward the mirror. She'd hated her reflection for months now and part of her was nervous and scared of what she might see. Even in borrowed clothes she was just Beauty Dubois, quiet and lonely.

But even she had to admit that the mixture of fabrics and styles made her look like a Pre-Raphaelite bohemian who time-traveled in her spare time. Glitter sparkled on her arms and cheeks. Her hair fell down her arms with a simple braid at each temple, tied off with an elastic and decorated with rhinestone-covered rose barrettes. Silver gleamed at her wrists and she wore an elaborate crystal Victorian-style choker suited to a faery queen or a slightly wild artist. Her feet were bare.

Luna chewed on her lower lip. “Well?” she demanded anxiously. She barely paused. “You hate it. I knew it. It's too much. You should lie down again.”

Beauty chuckled. She wasn't tired anymore, wasn't drained or afraid. The girl in the mirror was borrowed, but she was a step in the right direction. Her smile widened. “I love it,” she said.

9

Beauty flipped through

the journal Luna had finished putting together. Paintings and poems crowded each other. She ran a finger over
The Lady of Shalott
.

“Anything else you need me to do? I feel really bad that you had to finish this on your own.”

“It was fun. You could draw something for the cover though. It's too bland like that,” said Luna.

Beauty glanced at the title, written plainly on the cream-colored paper. It certainly didn't fit the riot of colors and words inside. She quelled the instinctive thought that she wasn't talented enough to draw the cover. It didn't matter if she was or she wasn't. She was going to do it.

“Okay,” Beauty said. “Do you have any pencils?”

Luna snorted. “Are you kidding? My mother has cupboards full of pencils and pastels and all that stuff. And she's got drawing paper too. We could rip the edges of your drawing and then glue it on the cover so it looks old.”

“Cool. On one condition though.”

Luna glanced up at her. “What's that?”

Beauty picked up Luna's phone, which was covered in sequined cloth, and handed it to her.

“Call Kennedy.”

Luna shrank away. “What?”

Beauty had to grin. “My turn to be the bully,” she said. “I'll draw and stand up in front of the class for this project if you call Kennedy right now.”

Luna swallowed. “Geez, get a load of you,” she joked. “A new outfit and suddenly you're the queen of the castle.”

Beauty looked briefly proud of herself. “That's right.”

Luna groaned. “I created a monster. All right,” she continued in a rush. “Give me the phone before I lose my nerve.” She wiped suddenly damp palms on her jeans. “Mom's studio is downstairs, turn left. It's the purple door covered with stars. Help yourself to whatever you need,” she added, not looking away from the phone. She thought it might be laughing at her.

Beauty smiled to herself and closed the door behind her. Luna had already helped her more than she would ever know. She could at least try and return the favor. She went down the stairs and peered at the doors until she found the one she was looking for. The windows were dark, the gardens swallowed by night. More candles burned in bowls all over the empty studio. Beauty was beginning to think Star either couldn't afford electricity or that her best friend made candles for a living. Either way it made the comfortably shabby house even more beautiful.

Beauty stood at the drawing table and ran her fingers over its scarred surface. She wanted a table like this so badly she could taste it. It felt good to want something that badly. Maybe she'd ask her father to build her one.

She found a pad of thick drawing paper, loving the feel of the heavy stock. Tins of pencils and brushes lined the back of the table, in front of the wide window. There was a half-empty box of Conté-crayons by her elbow. She was sure the armoire behind her was full of pastels and watercolor pencils and perfectly sharpened charcoal pencils, but she felt weird going through Star's stuff when she wasn't here.

She didn't resist the urge to stand there in the thin shadows and sketch on the paper, first thinking of the journal and then of nothing except the pleasure of Conté scratching against white paper.

Her eye was caught by a postcard of a painting of a woman lying back in a river choked by bushes and weeds. Her hands were pale as lilies and opened to the sky. Her mouth was partially open as if she had drowned reciting a favorite poem. Her white lace dress was covered with poppies and violets, and her hair was the same color as the brown water. Beauty glanced at the back. “J.E. Millais
Ophelia.”
She thought of the painting she'd been struggling with for weeks, the one of her mother. The one she'd torn apart in a fit of temper.

This was what she'd been trying to capture, this tragic beauty, this pause between before and after.
The accident
somehow made mythic, made to be a story she might understand.
Ophelia, La Jeune Martyre, The Lady of Shalott
.

This was how she would paint her mother—asleep in her white wedding dress and crowned with roses. It might make sense then.

She turned to a fresh page and began to sketch her ideas, surrounded by the warm glow of candlelight. She went through several sheets and it almost felt as if her hands were birds, skimming and darting of their own accord. The images were rough, but they were a good start. She smiled at them before gathering them up and leaving to get some gossip out of Luna.

She nearly screamed when she saw the shadow standing in the doorway, watching her. She recalled the woman in black who watched her, watched her in her sleep. Her heart stuttered briefly before the figure spoke.

“Beauty?”

She nodded and her heart began a whole new dance. She would know that voice anywhere. Poe smiled at her. His hair was pulled back. He was wearing dark jeans, a black T-shirt and holding his guitar case.

“I didn't mean to scare you,” he said.

“That's okay,” Beauty said. “I didn't hear you, that's all.” She wondered how long he'd been standing there.

“You look great,” he added, taking in her clothes and her braids. “Cool hair.”

She wondered if jumping up and down and whooping for joy might be a bit much. She settled for a wider smile.

“Thanks,” she replied with what she hoped was a relatively

“Thanks,” she replied with what she steady voice. “Luna's handiwork.”

He shrugged. “You were pretty before too.”

She really really wanted to kiss him. They looked at each other for a long moment, all silence and candlelight. She loved the way the shadows caught his cheekbones and his dark eyes. His earphones were around his neck as usual. She thought of the dream she'd had of his mouth on hers and struggled not to blush.

“So, what are you doing here?” they both said at the same time and then laughed self-consciously.

Poe put down his guitar case and stepped farther into the room. He leaned against the wall.

“I'm sleeping over,” Beauty explained. “You?”

“I was practicing a new song. I come and play with Eric sometimes. Ever met him?”

Beauty shook her head. “How many people live here anyway?”

Poe rolled his eyes. “Tons. And they keep changing. It's worse than living with all of my brothers.”

She felt suddenly shy and glanced at the room. She wondered if he was just being polite. Maybe she should excuse herself before things got really awkward. She would just die if he got bored and left.

“Are you busy right now?” Poe asked. “Was I interrupting?”

She smiled. He didn't want to get away from her as quickly as possible after all. “No, I'm done. I was just sketching something for our project tomorrow.”

“Can I see?”

She nibbled on her lower lip. “Um, I guess so.” She handed the sketches over to him with a nervous laugh. “They're really rough.”

He bent his head and looked at them, shuffling through each page. When he looked up he was very serious. “You lied to me,” he said.

She blinked. “What?” She was half-confused, half-insulted. “When?” she demanded.

The corner of his mouth curved slightly. “You said you weren't a very good artist,” he explained. “But you are.”

Air rushed out of her tense lungs. “That's an interesting way to pay me a compliment,” she grumbled.

He laughed. “Sorry. Listen, if you're not busy or anything, do you want to hang out for a bit?”

“Right now?”

“Yeah. Unless you can't?”

She could see him struggling not to show disappointment. She wondered whose fairy-tale life she'd fallen into. Whatever the case, she wasn't giving it back any time soon.

“No, I've got some time.”

He grinned. “Great.”

Poe slid down along the wall and sat with his legs crossed. Beauty sat too. The hardwood floors of the studio gleamed with flickering firelight. Part of her wanted to stay here forever and another part wanted to rush upstairs to tell Luna what was happening.

They looked at each other. As the pause lengthened, Beauty grew flustered. She tried to think of a question to ask to get him talking. She wasn't going to be that shy girl who didn't have anything to say and didn't care. She blurted out the first thing that came to mind and hoped it wasn't totally lame. “I didn't know you had a tattoo.”

He glanced down at the black design that poked out from under his left sleeve. “Yeah, my brother took me before school started. Mom was not pleased.”

“Can I see it?” She tilted her head and wanted to cheer herself for her boldness. She wanted to ask Luna if all of her clothes were magic or if it was maybe just the hair dye. Poe lifted up his sleeve and showed the tribal armband on his sleekly muscled arm. Beauty wasn't quite ready to reach over and touch it, but she really wanted to.

“Cool,” she said instead. “Did it hurt?”

“Hurt like hell,” he admitted. “I know it's not macho for me to admit this, but it was the sound of the needle that really creeped me out. It was worse than being at the dentist.”

She smiled. “Well, it looks good.” Her words seemed to hang in the air. She blushed and tried to find something else to say to cover up the echo. Poe let his sleeve drop and looked at her.

“I like your ring,” he said, taking her hand and brushing his thumb over it. His palm was warm against hers. Her stomach did a somersault but in a good way.

“Do you know we've been going to the same school practically since birth and I don't really know you?” he asked, still holding her hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Not much to know, really,” she said. “You've heard the rumors.”

He looked her right in the eye and nodded. She liked that he didn't squirm or pretend not to know what she meant.

“People talk too much,” he said.

“I'd have to agree.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” she said honestly. Something had bloomed today, some little bit of healing, but she wasn't ready to explain it. She was glad Luna knew and it was enough for now.

He nodded. “Okay. Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No.” She didn't want to ask if he had a girlfriend, afraid to ruin the moment, but she did. “You?”

He shook his head. “No boyfriend.”

She rolled her eyes. “I meant girlfriend.”

“Oh.” His eyes twinkled. “Nope. What's your favorite movie?”

She blinked at the rapid change of topic. “I don't know,
The Last of the Mohicans
, maybe.”

“Mine's
The Thing
. Okay, your turn.”

She raised her eyebrows. “My turn for what?”

“Your turn in the question game. Ask me something.”

She tapped the fingers of her free hand on the floor as she considered. She settled for something easy to start with. “Favorite band?”

Favorite band?”

He nodded. “Good choice, good choice. I'd have to say The Tea Party and Radiohead. You?”

“The Grapes of Wrath.”

“Favorite writer?”

“Jane Austen.”

He lifted one eyebrow. “I'll have to remember that.”

“What about you?”

“Not Edgar Allan Poe, much to everyone's surprise.”

She chuckled. “I'll remember that too.”

“Favorite song?”

She thought about all of the nights she'd spent on her porch listening to him practice old songs. “The Doors, ‘Waiting for the Sun.'”

He leaned closer to her.

“One last question,” he said.

“Okay.” She tried not to show her disappointment. She could easily sit here all night with him. “What?”

“Can I kiss you?”

She just stared at him for a moment. She resisted the urge to shake her head to make sure she'd heard right. Her stomach dipped into a full-fledged ballet routine complete with costumes.

“Beauty?” he asked nervously. Her eyes snapped back to his. He was close enough that his breath was warm on her cheek. His mouth was inches from hers as he waited for her to answer. Dream images flashed before her eyes, the way he held his head, the flickering of the candles. It was exactly as she'd dreamt. Even down to the feel of the hardwood floor under her and his hand on her knee.

She closed the distance between them and brushed her mouth against his. She felt him smile against her lips and his hand ran up her arm and tangled into her hair at the nape of her neck. He smelled like soap and leaves, like a jungle.

She was a candle, a torch, a flame.

10

Beauty met luna's eyes

in the mirror of the school washroom on the second floor.

“I don't know about this,” Beauty said. “Ever heard of baby steps?”

Luna applied another coat of glitter lip gloss and shook her head. “I firmly believe in jumping into the deep end. You learn to swim faster.”