Sleight (3 page)

As I pushed the curtain back from my bunk, the aroma of fresh bacon and brewed coffee drifted through the tiny open windows, competing with the ever-present scent of animal dung and wet hay.

It smeled like home.

Irwin was hard at work on his latest literary find, fingers flying over the raised surface of the page. “Miz Gemma, good morrow.

How doth the sweet breath of morning find you?” Irwin tried to sound Shakespearean. It came out more like Yoda.

“The breath of morning needs mouthwash,” I said. “How’s the book?” I stepped into the bathroom without waiting for his answer.

The water on my face was a little too cold but did the trick. My eyes were open. I ran the brush through the length of my hair and puled some product in after it to calm the frizz. Now I just needed coffee. Monday. The big day. Welcome to the Viper Pit.

“When did you get up?” I reopened the door and picked up where I’d left off.

“Dunno. About four maybe?”

“Damn, Irwin, that’s nuts.” My eyes felt heavy again.

“I was hungry,” he said, rubbing his hands over the warped scars of his face. He used to wear a patch over the one eye the doctors were able to save; the total white where there was once a colored iris and black pupil frightened people. But he hated the patch, tugged at it al the time and had to put cream on the skin where the elastic strap rubbed against the rugged, healing graft. One day, I puled off the patch and threw it on the ground. He laughed and took me into the big top for cotton candy. That was the last day he wore it.

“I thought I’d come back inside and get a few more pages in before the day got going, see if Dr. Rieux has figured out his massive, tragic conundrum. It’s gonna end badly, I just know it,” he said, feeling around the tabletop for his tobacco box. “Hey, Auntie left you a note.” He pointed toward the fridge to a Post-It stuck to the front.

Marlene’s curly handwriting stretched across its 3x3 surface.

“Gems—dinner with the Dmitri$ tonight. Chores right after school.” Nice touch, Mar, adding a dolar sign in place of the “s.” Dinner with the new boss tonight—or as Marlene might say, the bo$$.

“A ful day of school and then dinner with some self-important ass who’l go on about al of his money while we pretend that we’re grateful to him for jamming a giant railroad spike into our backs?” I wished I’d gotten up early enough to go for a run.

“Me thinks the lady doth protest too much,” Irwin said. He paused long enough to stuff a wad of moist tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. He lit it and sucked in a few healthy puffs, releasing the smel of Black Cavendish into the tight quarters.

My stomach was uptight and twisty and I was in a pissy mood. I had zero interest in sitting through tonight’s dinner, smiling on cue, acting happy.

“You need food,” Irwin said. “Your stomach is growling.”

“Yeah, something like that.” I’d surrendered my chicken breast to the horseflies the night before, and dinner was little more than the ice cream cone Ash practicaly force-fed me. “You’ve got good ears, Irwin…scary good.”

“You know what they say. When God slams a door on your fingers, he opens a window so you can scream for help.” Uncle Irwin Cinzio, listed third in line on my guardianship paperwork. Sorta like being Prince Harry. Third on the list, not likely ever to be king. If something were to happen to Ted and Marlene, Irwin would be responsible for my wel-being. What a pair we’d make—a circus freak show unto ourselves.

“Are we doing anything special or extraordinary to get ready for His Royal Highness and entourage?” I said.

“Nope. Just show up, eat, and smile. Ted’s got a few of the walk-around performers to show off a bit.” He tapped the guts of his pipe into the ashtray. “You nervous about today, little one?”

“No,” I lied.

“You’re gonna be terrific, like you always are.”

“You’re biased.”

“Maybe, but I know you. You’re a good girl. Those kids are gonna be fighting over each other to be your friend.”

“Geeze, Irwin, you sound like Marlene.” I kicked off my jammies and puled on a pair of worn-in Levis and a black turtleneck sweater. No need for modesty in front of a blind man.

“That place is filed with Neanderthals.” The box in the corner caught my eye. It whispered. I reached for the bathrobe at the end of my bunk and covered it so I couldn’t see Delia’s name scratched across the top in bold black Sharpie. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Wel, if it makes you feel any better, you’l get an opportunity to hang out with one of the Neanderthals at dinner. Lucian Dmitri has a boy about your age. He’l be with Our Glorious Benefactor when they come by for chow. Heck, you might even see him at school today,” he said.

“Whatever. I just want to get through the day,” I said.

“I promise you wil survive this, Gemma. You might even have …

fun.”

“Ha.” I said, plopping onto my bed to tie my Converse. As I put on essence of makeup to hide the purple circles under my eyes, I mentaly reviewed my list of classes: pre-calculus, advanced placement literature, AP chemistry, photography, cooking, and philosophy. At the prior Friday’s registration frenzy, the guidance counselor, Ms. Spitzer, an overcaffeinated poster child for adult-onset attention deficit disorder, had deemed this load appropriate. I thought it was too much, considering I was only one class short of the graduation requirements. But Marlene insisted I be given a ful schedule, “to get the bona fide high school experience.” As if the first day of school weren’t enough, we were doing dinner with the money and his son, too? I was sure Herr Financier’s son was a punk—probably some rich spoiled brat who got everything he wanted with a wave of his hand. He’d take one look at us in our fifth-wheel-trailer homes and our bohemian lifestyles, and he’d be on his posh phone to the limo driver to launch a rescue mission before the savages sulied his leather loafers.

I grabbed my green Army-issue coat and backpack and gave Irwin a smooch on the cheek.

“Knock ’em dead, girlie,” he said. As I opened the trailer door to head out, an explosion kicked my heart into my throat. Fire eaters, a husband-and-wife duo new to our team, were hard at work in the courtyard. Scared the crap out of me.

I doubt any of my soon-to-be classmates were greeted with bals of flame or the acrid odor of burned accelerant before their morning Cheerios. Maybe I could stand in front of the blast and incinerate my way into oblivion. Anything to avoid what was coming straight at me in the halowed hals of Eaglefern HS.

:5:

Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.

—Dr. Seuss

As Marlene made the left turn into the high school parking lot, we joined the lineup of other parents and students moving toward the front of the building. Access to student parking was another left turn, obvious by the skid marks on the concrete and the number of students congregated around tricked-out cars. It wasn’t even 8

o’clock yet, but the bass from the stereos vibrated our car windows. Up ahead, standing adjacent to an older set of buildings were three kids—smal, medium, large—dressed in old-fashioned clothing. They were dirty, tired-looking beings. Like they were lost.

They watched the cars going past. The smalest clutched a weathered, stuffed rabbit in her left hand.

When Marlene puled the car up next to them, just before our go at the turnaround, they looked right at me, their faces gaunt, eyes sad.

“What are you looking at, Gems?”

Ah-ha. Shades. Marlene couldn’t see them.

“Nothing.”

I gave them a smal smile, but only the littlest girl smiled back.

The middle child gave the little one’s hand a slight tug and they turned to walk away, folowing the taler boy in the opposite direction of the school. They melted into the side of the old wooden building and disappeared. Maybe they’re here to wish me luck.

Marlene puled up, stuffed a twenty into my palm, and gave my cheek a quick squeeze. I climbed out but felt Marlene’s eyes on me. She only moved the car when another driver honked from behind.

As our circus group made its way to the office, we attracted the expected load of attention—stares, glares, gossip behind cupped hands into the ears of nosy friends, even a few whistles for the girls who had chosen attire comprised of more skin than cloth.

We were to wait in the attendance portion of the office and one by one, “buddies” materialized to escort the new students to their first classes. Junie and Ash were off within moments, folowed out of the door by five other buddy/new kid couplings. Eight minutes in, al of the Cinzio kids had been picked up. Except me.

When the first bel rang, it became obvious that my buddy had caled in sick.

The attendance lady, suitably adorned with a name badge that read “Mrs. Thyme,” noticed me standing alone, stil waiting.

“Can I help you, dear?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess. I was supposed to have been assigned a buddy to get me to my first class,” I said, feeling as awkward as I looked.

“Oh, dear, yes, that is a problem. What’s your name and grade?”

“Gemma Flannery. I’m a senior.”

She flipped through a list attached to a pink resin clipboard, tucking a pink balpoint pen behind her ear. A quick survey of her desk, and her outfit, told me she fancied pink. And Trol dols. A lot.

“One moment, Jenna. I don’t see your name here. Let me double-check with the guidance counselor, Ms. Spitzer,” she said.

“Just have a seat, dear.” She picked up the handset of her phone.

“It’s Gemma, with M’s, not Jenna with N’s,” I said, but she just smiled and gave a little nod as she waited for an answer on the other end of the line. I sat down in one of the fabric institution-grade chairs. They reminded me of those found in the waiting rooms in any number of Delia’s hospitals, the ugly plaid cloth meant to hide stains from mishandled coffee and pop (and worse), the wood bend of the arm rests darker where dirty hands had gripped, one after another.

Layers of filth and sadness and bad news.

After a brief conversation, the counselor appeared from her back office, hippie skirt dragging on the floor, long beled tassels around the waistband jingling with every step, her nose red and swolen, like Rudolph.

“Gemma, good to see you again,” she chirped. Mrs. Thyme handed Ms. Spitzer the pink clipboard, and the two of them pored over the list together, scanning for my name, pausing only for Ms.

Spitzer to sneeze into a wad of tissue. Behind me, the attendance office door opened and in wafted a delicious, masculine scent.

“Wel, good morning, Henry. Need a late slip again?” Mrs.

Thyme said. Both ladies, their eyes puled from the clipboard, grinned at the new face standing next to me. I looked up at him and found myself staring. Dirty-blond, borderline light brown hair almost in need of a cut, greenish blue eyes, bright teeth, perfect skin, 6’, maybe 6’1.” He was gorgeous. And again with the cologne when I inhaled… I felt my cheeks catch fire.

“You know my alarm clock—never works on Mondays,” he said.

“Gemma, this is Henry Dmitri. I think your uncle is friends with Henry’s father, isn’t that so, Henry?” Spitzer looked back and forth between the two of us, as if we should have been introduced prior to this second. He looked down at me and caught me staring. I forced myself to look away. My heart skipped a beat, and al of a sudden, I’d forgotten how to speak.

“Are you with the Cinzio group?” Henry asked.

“Yeah. Ted Cinzio is my guardian,” I said, looking at the countertop.

“Right. I’ve heard about you, from Lucian, uh, my father. It’s cool to meet you. Welcome to Eaglefern.”

“Thanks.” I dared another look at his face. Yup. Hot.

“Henry, tel you what. We won’t record a tardy today if you could just do us a little favor.” As the counselor did her finest to cajole Henry, I noticed the textbook under his forearm: pre-calculus. Oh, no. I knew what her “little favor” was going to be.

“Anything for you, Ms. Spitzer,” he said, smirking just enough to reveal a set of teeth the tooth fairy would covet, protected by a set of lips most girls would covet. I scolded myself for noticing any of this. Less than twenty minutes in the school, and I was already becoming one of them.

“Gemma’s in your first class, and I somehow overlooked assigning her a buddy for today.” She blew her nose. “I swear, I’m gonna do myself in if this cold doesn’t disappear soon.” Ms. Spitzer looked up at me as soon as the words escaped her lips, her eyes wide, her cheeks pinker than a moment ago. Nice. Marlene had told her about Delia.

“It would be my honor to serve as Gemma’s buddy for her first day as an Eaglefern Explorer,” Henry said. He turned to me and scooped his books off the counter. Ms. Spitzer and Mrs. Thyme smiled, and in a symbolic gesture of thanks, Mrs. Thyme tore a late slip in half. I swalowed hard and turned on my heel, head down, to folow Henry out of the office. Ms. Spitzer sneezed again as the door closed behind us.

“I think they like you,” I said, once we were out in the halway.

Henry smiled. It was a nice smile.

“They’re afraid not to like me,” he said. I would’ve asked him what he meant, but we reached the door to our class before I could get the words out.

As if walking late into a classroom of strangers wasn’t humiliation enough, the plump, sweaty math teacher, Mr. Poole, took it upon himself to introduce me to everyone al at once. Then he stumbled his way around the room, trying to find a place for me to squeeze in. When we finaly settled in for his forty-minute lecture, I was relieved to discover that I’d already learned the stuff they were working on. At least that was one in the Gemma Win Column.

The girls in the class whispered to their friends, passed notes, looked me up and down; the guys ignored my presence, save for a few who fixed on my hair. Red, long, frizzy in wet weather but wel behaved today, thank heavens. The hair gods had granted a reprieve. Marlene often told me that besides my brain, my hair was my strongest asset. It was one of those weird compliments that leave a person feeling confused, like when someone tels you that the difference in your appearance without makeup versus with is miraculous. Thank you?