When My Heart Was Wicked Page 7

  “Get up,” she says. “You’re late for school.”

  “I can’t go to school. I’m sick.”

  “I’m calling bullshit.”

  I groan. “It’s true.”

  She reaches out to touch my forehead. “You’re burning up,” she announces without any tinge of sympathy. “I thought you were faking it to get out of school.”

  I wish I could burn her with my fever and make her cry. But then she surprises me.

  “Okay, get up. You can lie in my bed and watch TV. I’ll make you soup.”

  I drift in and out of sleep. In my dreams, there are glittering skulls like the ones in Myrna’s kitchen. They laugh and taunt me. Little skeletons hang from their gruesome heads. One has a tattoo on its arm. One has yellowish eyes like a cat. I dream that I am swimming through the underwater tunnels at Bear Hole in Chico. On the creek’s bottom are bloated drowned frogs, their eyes white and swollen. I try to swim away, but I get stuck in one of the crevices and can’t get out. I awaken sputtering. When I sleep again, I dream of the scene in The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy and her friends are running through the field of red poppies. For some reason it frightens me. I try to wake myself up again, to open my eyes, but I can’t.

  The next time I wake up, Martin is sitting on my mother’s bed beside me.

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he is saying. “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey.”

  “Hey,” I say, and I struggle to sit up.

  “Don’t bother on my account.” He waves a handout in front of me. “I brought homework,” he sings.

  “Thank you.” I sink back into my mother’s soft pillows. “That was really thoughtful of you.”

  He smiles, unsure of whether or not I’m joking.

  “I mean it,” I say. “Thank you.” His smile relaxes.

  “Hey, I brought you a present too.” He hands me a green flowered scarf wrapped around something that jangles. I take the scarf in my hands, and the second I touch it, I know what’s inside.

  “Oh my gosh.” I unwrap the scarf and look, confirming what I already know. “It’s your bottle cap collection.”

  “Except for the Dr Pepper ones. I saved them, for sentimental reasons.”

  “You mean because of what happened to your dad?”

  “Yeah. Dr Pepper is my hero.”

  I smile. “You’re crazy. Thank you, Martin.” He kisses my forehead and I close my eyes, and my dreams after that are sweet.

  The moon rises full and heavy outside my mother’s window. Cheyenne checks her makeup in her bathroom window.

  “Did you know that many brands of lipstick contain fish scales?” I ask, watching her blot at her lips. Random science fact. “It makes the lipstick shiny.”

  Cheyenne doesn’t look too bothered by it. “Creepy,” she says. “All right, I’m leaving for work. Do you need anything before I go?”

  “No. Mom, come look at the moon.” She turns off the bathroom light and comes to her bed and bends beside it.

  “What about it?”

  “It’s so big. Isn’t it pretty?”

  “Is it full?”

  “I think so.”

  She stays there for a moment with me, and we look at the moon together.

  “Do you know the story of Artemis?”

  “She was the goddess of the hunt, right?” I ask, thinking back to the block on Greek mythology I did when I was homeschooling with Anna. “Mugwort was named after her. Its botanical name is Artemisia. Random herbal fact.”

  “She was the moon goddess. She sat on a throne made of pure silver and wore a crescent moon as a crown. Some say she wore a coat made from the skin of stags she’d hunted. Once she bathed naked beneath a full moon, and she realized she was being watched by a man named Actaeon. In revenge, she threw a handful of water at him. When the water touched him, he turned into a red deer. Then she whistled for his hounds and they came. Within moments, they had shredded their poor master to bits. But that’s what happens when you betray a woman of magic.” She pushes my sweaty hair back from my forehead and I feel her nails lightly raking my skin. “Good night,” she says softly, closing the door behind her.

  After that, I can’t sleep. I stare at the moon. The man in the moon, forever trapped in a howl, stares back.

  In the morning, I feel well enough to make myself a garlic poultice, which I bring back to my room and lay upon my chest. It helps me breathe and soon I’m feeling even better, better enough to get up again and make myself a cup of red raspberry and peppermint tea from leaves I collected and dried in Chico. I prepare it and let it steep, and Cheyenne comes into the kitchen while I’m drinking it.

  “What is that?” She frowns, sniffing the air.

  “Garlic maybe? Or tea.”

  “My tea?”

  “No, it’s peppermint and red raspberry. Good for headaches and flu stuff. Do you want some?”

  “Oh. No, that’s okay. I just … the tea I make is special. I want to make sure you save it for special occasions.”

  “Okay,” I say, trying to act like hers is a reasonable request. Special occasions. Like we have so many of those around here.

  She spends the day with me, watching bad reality shows on TV from her bed. We heat up chicken noodle soup from a can and make a mess of saltines on the bedspread. Cheyenne just brushes the crumbs off wordlessly. At three, Martin comes by again with my homework. I’m feeling much better by now. I sit up and make introductions.

  “Martin, do you remember my mom, Cheyenne? Cheyenne, this is Martin.” She glances at me, her eyes momentarily cold as stone. She doesn’t like me to call her Cheyenne, but she doesn’t deserve the title Mom, even though I forget sometimes.

  “We met yesterday,” she says. “I let him in.” If she remembers him from when he and I were kids, she doesn’t let on.

  “How are you, Mrs. Fin?” Martin puts his hand out to shake.

  “Fine, thank you.” Cheyenne lets him take her hand, but hers is limp and halting.

  She stares at him, her eyebrows raised.

  “Well, I guess I’d better go,” Martin says. “Do you think you’ll be in school tomorrow, Lacy?”

  “Probably. I’m feeling a lot better.”

  “Oh, good. Great. Well, okay. Bye.”

  “Bye, Martin,” I say.

  After we hear the front door close, Cheyenne looks at me critically. “What is wrong with that boy? Is he retarded or something?”

  “No,” I say, stung. “You know he’s not. Why would you say that?”

  Cheyenne surveys her nails. “Most people who aren’t retarded know that socks are worn on the feet.”

  “Well, he’s not,” I say, still irritated.

  “I thought the gays were supposed to be fashion forward.”

  “The gays, Mom?” And then, I can’t help it, I laugh. And then we’re laughing together. And I called her Mom again, by accident.

  The next morning when I leave for school, a little frog lies dead in the doorway. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. Because I understand. When I brought the dove back to life, I stole life energy, and I stole it from this frog and the others that used to sing beneath the rosebushes. I check my hands, thinking of Lady Macbeth, but they are clean and free from blood. “I’m sorry,” I whisper again, but I don’t pick the frog up. I’ve already overstepped my bounds. I’ve already messed with nature.

  Back at school, I feel like I’m starting all over. I feel just as displaced as I did when I first arrived. Aside from Martin, I don’t have any friends. I miss Shell and Mechelle. They would like Martin. The four of us could all be friends. Martin and Mechelle could be in the school musical, and Shell and I would learn to make dry ice for effects on the stage. They could do Sweeney Todd. Martin could be the sinister butcher and Shell could sing about putting cats in meat pies. Standing by my locker, I smile at the thought. And I think of Zach, and I smile even wider.

  I’m still grinning like an idiot when Olive Santiago passes my locker along with her crowd of worshippers. “Loser,” s
he hisses into my face. I glare at her. She doesn’t know about the demon inside me, the one who can put a curse on a girl that will make her grow old in the night, that will make her hair fall out and her skin wither like an old fruit. Olive should be careful. I have learned to keep the demon girl in check, but she is mightier than the angel on my shoulder. My mother taught me never to let anyone push me around. The Fin women are capable of anything. We can move mountains with our minds. We are dangerous and should be treated as such, with caution and respect.

  Drake MacLachan, the boy with yellow eyes, slows down as he passes, and I glare at him too because he’s friends with Olive.

  “Hi, Lacy,” he says. “You look pretty today.” And then he is gone, leaving behind the smell of cloves and pepper, a strong autumn smell. “Why say fall when you can say autumn instead?” my mother used to say. I spin to watch him as he walks away, and he turns back, one time, and winks at me. He’s probably a total jerk, I am thinking, but I feel the flurry of wings in my chest.

  I am a Gemini, which means, astrologically speaking, there are two sides to me. I am charming and lively; I am superficial and cunning. Or so they say. I am the good twin and the bad twin all rolled up into one. Don’t blame me, blame my evil twin. You won’t have to look hard to find her.

  I believe in ghosts and voodoo and the planets that rule us. The moon affects the tides, so why shouldn’t the stars shape our destiny? Sun signs, moon signs, ruling planets. My starstone is moss agate. My ruling planet is Mercury. It all sounds so beautiful and mysterious to me.

  Anna too believes in astrology, and she always buys those little plum-colored horoscope scrolls in the supermarket. But I don’t waste my money on those things. I could see myself, in some other life, poring through them, looking for meaning. Little orphan girl. Poor sad little me.

  I am what they say about Gemini, though. Two-sided. There is the me I long to be all the time, the one that feels like me, and then there is this other person who is more like my mother, and she is dismal, ugly, and dark. Filled to the brim with tears and muck. Dark, churning inside, like I have swallowed enough quarts of motor oil to fill me. This is the twin, the stranger. She is coming back, invasive and sick. I am afraid she will push the good twin out.

  On the phone, Anna sounds so far away. She puts Mr. Murm on to murm. “Can you hear him?” she asks, and I lie, “Yes.”

  “Did you talk to Cheyenne about Beltane?”

  “Yes,” I say, my body heavy with the lies. “She told me it’s not a good time.”

  I do want to go up to Chico for Beltane. I do want to sleep in the teepee, to see Shell and Mechelle and the Treehuggers, who I miss like crazy. I want to visit my dad’s grave, bring him snapdragons, his favorite flower. But I don’t want to ask Cheyenne for it. She’ll say no, and then she’ll be taking something away from me. I can’t stand for her to take away any more.

  In an effort to be the good Gemini twin, I have decided to stop eating meat. Martin and I sit at school with our lunches under the gray pine tree. Martin is on a “sexy foods diet” this week; his lunch consists of canned asparagus and oysters lifted from Rite Aid, along with a mango. My lunch is carrot sticks and tofu puffs, which are left over from the dinner I made myself last night.

  “Yum,” I say, squeezing a cold tofu puff between my fingers. “Leftover deep-fried bean curd.”

  “Ooh, yummy,” Martin says. “What is bean curd made out of anyway?”

  “Kittens,” I say.

  “Hitler’s brain,” he counters. “Remind me why you’re a sudden vegetarian?”

  “Because I looove animals,” I say, and while it’s true, we both know this isn’t the reason.

  I am smooshing the puff and letting it pop back to its regular form, when Olive and her cronies walk by. Chad Vanner is trying to jump onto Olive’s back and ride her piggyback, and Olive laughs and turns and snaps her gum in his face. Suddenly, they are totally kissing, all over each other, and right next to where Martin and I are sitting. It is gross. I don’t even understand how they can breathe. This is something I have wondered about kissing, and it kind of freaks me out. How do you catch your breath when there’s someone right there sucking it all out? I don’t know and I don’t want to know. Well, okay, I kind of want to know.

  Yeah, it’s true, sweet sixteen and never been kissed. I can’t explain it. It just hasn’t happened. I’ve been friends with a lot of boys, but it’s just never come to that. Maybe Zach and I would have kissed by now if I hadn’t had to move to Sacramento. But let’s face it, probably not.

  I am making a face of disgust to show Martin how ostentatious I think the snotty kids are, and suddenly I feel a hot breath in my left ear. “Fin,” a voice says, “I want to do things to you.”

  “Ew!” I say as I turn and see Drake MacLachan straightening out to his full height beside me. His silhouette is black against the sun. Then he moves away and the sunlight hits his face and he winks. “Pervert!” I shout after him.

  “Uh-oh. What was that about?” Martin asks.

  “I don’t know.” I really don’t. My skin crawls, but not with disgust. With pleasure, and something else besides.

  At home, Cheyenne makes me a cup of tea and it isn’t even a special occasion.

  “What kind of tea is this?” I ask her.

  “It comes from Europe. It’s supposed to support well-being and ease.” It does. It makes me tired, but it does something else, something helpful. It tastes so good and makes me feel so relaxed that I can’t say no when she offers it to me. I hold the warm cup in my cold hands. It is a warm afternoon, a premonition of the hot Sacramento summer to come. One day it is chilly, the next it is sweltering, but my hands and feet are always cold. I lie down beside her on the couch and press my cold feet into her calves. “You can have your guitar back if you want,” she says, and I mumble thanks, grateful but unable to express it. Absentmindedly, she rubs my leg and I feel it, that current that runs between us. Her eyes are slits as she stares out the window onto the hot street. I shiver once, and then I am asleep.

  I am doing nothing for Beltane. No maypole, no flowers, no altar of pomegranates and cherries. I know that Anna is probably driving to the Treehuggers’ house right now. They will raise a maypole and dance beneath it. They will write poems to the earth and send them down the creek in paper boats. They’ll make daisy chains and wear them in their hair. And when the sun goes down, they’ll burn the maypole ribbons in a bonfire, and the Treehuggers will give a private concert. And I’ll be here, alone in my room with my dad’s guitar, which I don’t even know how to play.

  On the second Saturday of every month, Sacramento has an art walk downtown. I don’t remember Cheyenne ever taking me in the past, but she swears she has.

  “You remember,” she informs me in the car. “Someone gave you a balloon, and you let it go and it blew away. You wouldn’t stop crying. You made such a scene that a little boy gave you his to shut you up.”

  “How old was I?” I ask.

  “Who knows. Three maybe? It was during your impossible stage.”

  I don’t know how she expects me to remember an art walk I went to when I was three, but I don’t say anything as my necklace warms my chest and she finds a parking spot and expertly parallel parks.

  Dressed in her silk mandarin top, judo pants, and San Miguel de Allende shoes, she looks elegantly uncomfortable this hot Sacramento day. But Cheyenne doesn’t even break a sweat. We wander into the galleries, looking at altered birdhouses and wire art. Baby heads on plaster and what look like paintings but are really clusters of colored feathers. Cheyenne turns up her nose at the free wine, even though she drinks at home. “That swill,” she says, plucking a grape between her fingertips and popping it into her mouth. “I guess it’s fine for most people. We Fins don’t waste our spit.”

  She narrows her eyes, scanning the room for an artist she knows. When she finds him, she ditches me beside the food table and moves to the back of the room, through the crowds of people, like she
’s being swept up in a cool breeze.

  I take a handful of grapes and cheese crackers outside to where a band is playing U2 cover songs to a crowd of mildly interested people. A little girl lets go of her balloon, but she doesn’t cry as it soars up into the cloudless evening sky, a smear of red against the purple lit-up night. Instead, she laughs and points.

  When Cheyenne comes back out, she is angry. “Let’s go,” she says, breezing past me, and I hop from my seat and struggle to keep up. But on the way to the car, she stops. An attractive man with crazy-white teeth and dimples stands in front of one of the galleries, smiling at her. I watch as Cheyenne’s mask of anger transforms instantly to radiance.

  “Hello,” she says. “Have we met?”

  “I don’t think so,” he says, stammering a little. “Maybe in my dreams.”

  Oh my God, it is just so gross I could throw up, and Cheyenne clearly thinks so too, as her smile turns immediately to scorn. But just then, a woman comes out of the gallery and makes a beeline for us, and she loops her arm through the cheesy man’s arm, and Cheyenne smiles again, enjoying the woman’s discomfort.

  “Let’s go,” the woman says.

  “Um, sure, um, maybe I’ll see you around sometime?”

  “I hope so.” Cheyenne grins and tilts her head to the side. The woman pouts as she looks past my mother, then she begins pulling at the man’s arm. But he stands, mute as stone, nodding like a happy clown. My mother beams. I have heard men call her head gamer. I have heard men call her cock tease. She is a witchy woman, Cheyenne. Not one of us stands a chance.

  That night my cell phone chirps; it is a number I don’t know. I pick up on the third ring.

  “Fin,” a familiar voice says. “What are you wearing?”

  My heart catches in my throat. “Drake MacLachan, you are disgusting.”

  He laughs. “I’m only playing.”

  “Do you want something?”

  “I just wanted to hear your voice.”