Shades of Darkness (8 page)

The next ten seconds of silence were potentially the most cringe-worthy of my life. Especially because Ethan was leaning forward with his hands clasped before him, a slight grin on his face, like he was about to do a job interview. Thankfully, Oliver came to the rescue.

“You ready for the Russian Lit quiz Tuesday?” he asked, popping a nugget in his mouth.

Chris's face lit up at the bone Oliver threw him.

“Not really,” he said. “I still have to finish the last fifty pages of Tolstoy.”

“Ugh, have fun,” Oliver replied. “At least it's not Nabokov anymore. Guy made me want to shoot myself.”

“Isn't that the whole point of Russian literature?” Chris asked innocently.

I chuckled. “Well played, sir. Well played.”

“Speaking of shooting ourselves, we were just talking about Painting Studio,” Ethan said. “And how excited we are for Tamora's piece.”

Chris laughed—it was one of those laughs that was too loud for the situation, which just made it even funnier.

“I nearly lost it last time,” he said. “I just hope she wasn't using oil paints. Those can damage you.”

I tried to filter out the boys' banter and focus on food. Faux nuggets and macaroni was easily my favorite meal in the known universe, and if I let myself pay attention to the boy sitting a foot to my right, I'd lose my appetite entirely. That would be a grave disservice to the gods of food.

It worked. Right up to the point where Ethan threw a nugget at my head.

“Earth to Kaira,” he said when I jumped back in my seat. “You still there?”

“What? Sorry, zoning out.”

“We noticed,” Ethan replied. “Chris just asked what we were doing tonight.”

“We?”

“You were coming to my concert, right?” Oliver asked.

I nodded, then caught the drift.

“What our eloquent friend is trying to say,” Ethan intervened, “is that you're more than welcome to join us. Kaira and I were going to meet in the Writers' House at six thirty to grab some hot cocoa before braving our way to the auditorium. Sound good?”

“Perfect,” Chris replied. A pause. “You don't really think Tamora painted with her nether regions again, do you?”

It took a moment for my brain to start working and connect the dots, as it had begun to spin on
he's going to a concert with you, he's going to a concert with you
. It made my pulse race, and not in a good way.

“I hope not,” Ethan said. “But as they say, ‘God hates the gays.' This would just be another fitting form of punishment.”

Oliver chuckled and kissed Ethan on the cheek. I glanced to Chris, who was grinning and picking at his food. When his brown eyes darted to mine, I was immediately grateful for that previous stuffing of my face. My heart leaped into my throat, and any chance of food getting past the obstruction was lost.

I know it was stupid, but something in that smile reminded me of Brad.

•  •  •

“You were totally smooth,” Ethan said as we left the cafeteria. “I mean, like, Oscar-worthy performance in there. I nearly cried.”

“Shut up.” I rammed my elbow into him, maybe a little harder than necessary. I wasn't pissed, really, but the fact that Chris made me think of my ex had me on edge. “If I remember correctly, you weren't nearly as eloquent when you first met Oliver.”

“Girl has a point,” Oliver said, grabbing my free arm. “She led that conversation. In fact, she nearly took our first kiss from you.”

“I hate you both,” Ethan muttered.

“Anyway, Chris is cute. And intelligent, at least from what I've seen in class.”

If Oliver hadn't been holding my arm, I might have smacked him, too.

“And talented, which we know is a necessity for you,” Ethan said. “I think he might be just your type, Winters.”

“I don't have a type, Davis,” I replied. There were only two times we used each other's last names: when we were jovial and when we were being deadly serious. I was hoping Ethan could tell it was the latter. “You know that.”

“Uh huh. That's why you jerked when Oliver mentioned him. Someone has a crush.”

Just the word “crush” made me sick to my stomach.
Love is for getting hurt.
“He's cute,” I admitted, because Ethan was incredibly good at spotting a lie. “But in that distant, untouchable sort of way.”

“She's already talking about touching him,” Oliver said with a chuckle.

“Can it,” I warned him.

“Let me guess,” Ethan mused. “This is another topic we add to our no-no list.”

“Your what?” Oliver asked.

“The list of things we don't talk about. It's a very short list, to be fair.”

Eager to change the subject, I jumped on the topic.

“Like ‘thesis,' which you still haven't seemed to grasp.” I made sure to direct that last bit at Oliver, who just shrugged and kicked a bit of snow to the curb.

“And tiny insects that burrow under your skin,” Ethan added with a shiver. “I hate parasites.”

“And . . . actually, that's about it. Not much else is off topic.”

“So Chris is definitely going on the list?”

“Definitely,” I said. “Call me cat lady all you like. I will never crush on an Islington boy. Or girl,” I added, before either could beat me to the punch.

“If you say so,” Ethan said. “Though we'll see if you change your tune after the concert.” He chuckled to himself. “See what I did there? It was a pun. You know, a music pun. Because I said ‘tune' and we're going to a concert and—ow!”

The last part was compliments of Oliver and the snowball he launched at his boyfriend's face.

“And now we know why you aren't in the writing program,” Oliver said. Ethan just dusted off the snow from his peacoat and glowered.

•  •  •

I parted ways with the boys outside my dorm and headed inside to gather my things and my wits for the last run of the day. There was another half hour before class began, which was
just
enough time to check e-mail and all that other social media junk. And apply some makeup, because even though Chris just saw me without, I needed my warpaint to tackle an intensive four hours of playing eye avoidance with him. Yes yes, it was a complete one-eighty from my stance this morning, but I was allowed to be fickle on some things when I had to be rigorous about everything else.

Out of habit, I checked my cubby for mail. A little blue slip sat inside, which was pretty much like discovering a hidden twenty in your pocket. It meant I got a package, and seeing as I hadn't ordered anything, it meant a care package from home.

Which meant cookies.

Elisa would be pleased. Our weekend was just made.

I took the slip over to the front desk and handed it to Jessica, another RA.

“Score,” she said when she handed the large package over. “Are these more of your mother's delicious baked confections?”

Like Maria, Jessica was fresh out of college and sweeter than honey. Which was kind of funny, seeing as she usually wore black and had a tongue piercing from her “wild days.”

“Looks like it,” I said, giving the box a cursory shake. It was very obvious this was from home and not from a shipping department: There were heart and star stickers all over it, and the return address said
MOM
with her address in tiny parentheses below. “
Don't worry, l'll save you some.
”

“You're a gem,” she said with a wink. “And you just got a week's pass on room inspection.”

That didn't mean much, seeing as the RAs only glanced into seniors' rooms to make sure we weren't living under garbage. But it still made me grin.

Elisa wasn't up in the room, which was kind of a relief. I always felt awkward opening presents when she was around. Not that she didn't get her fair share—her side was practically littered with photographs and mementos sent from home—it was just . . . something about this was insanely precious to me. A moment to be savored. It still blew my mind that Mom was willing to spend twenty bucks on shipping just to send a box of cookies and some handwritten notes. I definitely cried the first time she'd sent me a package, a month into my first year here. And Elisa had definitely been sitting there, pretending not to watch while she typed on her computer. She never asked a question.

I sat down on my bed and glanced around. Yeah, her side of the room was more homey, with silk scarves draped from the shelves and a plethora of photos of her and her family on vacations. There were even a couple of shots of her and Jane on their West Coast trip—a collage of them in the car, standing by a large concrete troll, the Space Needle, a forest. My side was a little more bare, though I'd been trying to make it a nest this year. Mostly, it was sketches either Ethan or I had done. I had a few photos taped to the wall of Ethan and me at the mall in one of those photo kiosks, as well as some shots from when I had visited him in Chicago last summer. Mom knew I was lacking in the personal decor department; I'm pretty certain she'd made it her secret mission to fill my room with knickknacks without my knowing.

I took a deep breath, trying to preserve the moment of anticipation, and then opened the box.

Purple and blue tissue paper rustled inside, hiding the contents, and I carefully dug through it. Mom often hid little notes and letters between the layers, and I didn't want to miss a thing.

Sure enough, between one fold and the next, I found glitter stars and sequins and intricately folded lines of poetry. Each one made me miss her just a little bit more.

Farther in was a plastic container of chocolate-chip cookies, probably three dozen. There was also a handful of parcels wrapped in starry paper (Each of Mom's boxes had a theme, I'd learned. This one apparently was the cosmos. The last had been dinosaurs; Ethan had stolen all the stickers, though, the tool.), and some bags of miscellaneous candy. And yes, even the candy was moderately star-themed, right down to the jelly alien eggs.

I unwrapped the smaller packages one by one, a stupid grin plastered on my face. The first gift was a photograph of her and Dad and me at a picnic, all of us smiling. Mom and her black hair and pale skin and curvy frame, Dad and his pencil-thin stature and short graying hair and skin as dark as mine. And me, not quite as crazily dressed as I was now, with a smile on my face and a spark of hesitation in my eyes.

The next was a miniature constellation globe, the stars inked in silver and linked to show the major formations. She tacked a note on the bottom, her curving script so perfect and familiar:
So you can always find your way home.

There were a few more toys—a plushie star, an egg of glowing cosmic goo, glow-in-the-dark star stickers—and some staples she sent in every box: sachets of homemade tea, gemstones, a feather that made her think of me. I placed each of the items on my shelf, one at a time, and hid the tea in my drawer and the mystic items on my makeshift shelf altar. And then there was the small box with a note attached saying “
Open Last.
”

Which, of course, I did.

It was one of those boxes that lockets came in, roughly three inches by three inches, and a note was folded up inside.

Kaira-Love,

The winds tell me you're having troubled dreams.

This should help keep the dark ones at bay.

The tea is chamomile and mugwort—it will ease you into a more peaceful sleep.

Remember, where there is the deepest darkness,

close by lies the greatest light. You are my Star.

Much love,

Mom

Inside the box, covered in thin velvet, was a piece of clear quartz wrapped in silver wire, smaller lapis lazuli stones threaded over it in an intricate cobweb. It reminded me of stars spiraling around a galactic nexus. The stone was warm in my hand and gave a faint electric buzz. Resting beneath it was a Tarot card. The Star.
Guidance, hope, a beacon in the dark.

Another reason I preferred being alone when opening gifts from home: Mom was pagan and the high priestess in her local coven, which meant many of her gifts deviated from the norm. I suppose most kids would have felt awkward about that, but it was one of the many things she and I clicked on. But it did lend a sort of privacy to these gifts—magic was often meant to be kept secret, and although Elisa never prodded too far, there were certain things I didn't want to try to explain.

Like my Mom's uncanny timing. Did she know what I'd been dreaming? Or just that I needed to be shielded from the shadows in my own mind?

I kissed the quartz and visualized her face, whispered
thank you
before hiding it beneath my pillow. I could only remember fragments from last night's dream, which was probably for the best. Every time I tried to summon it, I felt like I was choking. I just knew it had to do with Brad, and ravens, and that was more than enough reason to want to forget it had ever happened.

I placed the card on the windowsill. Outside, another set of bird prints lingered like a curse.

It made me want to call Mom now, ask her to do a reading or something, but I didn't want to worry her. Whatever this was, I could handle it. I had before. I would again.

I just had to get through critiques first.