Yet one more nod from me. This is easy. I don’t have to say a word.
“Why were you there?”
“Maybe this would go a lot more quickly,” Anna says, “if you could just tell us what it is you need to know. Do we really need to establish the obvious?”
That grave gaze of Lopez’s pans to where Anna is sitting, but then she gives a short nod.
“You’re right,” she says. She turns back to me. “What can you tell me about the attack on Brent Calder?”
“Excuse me? Have you not seen the mess he made of his girlfriend?”
“We’re investigating that,” Lopez says, “but we’re also trying to understand how Mr. Calder was injured.”
“I don’t know,” I tell them.
I decided when I got up this morning that this is a situation where a lie’s my first best option. Everything depends on what Valerie’s told them—and I don’t have high hopes on that count—but I figure I’ll at least give it a shot at painting myself as the innocent bystander. And no, I’m not trying to deny what I did. Whether the cops charge me or not, I’m going to carry that with me. It’s just that doing it from a juvenile detention center’s not going to make it any easier.
“I was looking for my friend Maxine,” I go on. “We were supposed to hook up after the game, but it turns out she went to the club ahead of me. Only I didn’t know that at the time. So I was walking around the side of the school to the football field to see if she was waiting for me there instead of out front. And that’s when I saw these two guys fighting.”
“Mr. Calder and ...?”
“I didn’t recognize the other guy. He took off when I called out. I didn’t even know it was Brent until I ran over. If I had, I probably wouldn’t have bothered.”
“You don’t get along?”
Here I was going to be honest.
“Not for a moment,” I say.
“So you ran over,” Lopez prompts me.
“And I see Valerie lying on the ground. She says something about Brent beating her up, so I take her to the emergency room.”
“Leaving Mr. Calder bleeding.”
I nod. “Look, I told you. We didn’t get along. I don’t get along with Valerie either, but at least she didn’t try to take a swing at me when I helped her up.”
“Mr. Calder tried to hit you?”
“Didn’t I just say that? He was acting like I was the one who’d knocked him down. So I just got Valerie out of there.”
“And left him. Weren’t you worried that he might have bled to death?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t realize he was bleeding. I mean, there was blood around, but I thought it was from him and the other guy fighting. Was he cut or something?”
“Or something.”
Lopez looks at some notes she has on the table in front of her.
“So you took Ms. Clarke to the hospital,” she says, “and you left her there.”
I shrug. “I told you. It’s not like we were friends or anything. I made sure that she’d be looked after.”
“But you didn’t tell them about Mr. Calder.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’d just finished beating up his girlfriend and then took a swing at me. I figured he could crawl home on his own.”
“Bleeding as he was.”
“I didn’t know it was serious. It was serious, I take it?” She nods.
“I still don’t care,” I say.
“I suppose that explains how you could just go to a club after all of this.”
“I suppose it does.”
Lopez glances at her partner, before she looks back at me. “Mr. Calder says you attacked him.”
I laugh. “Me? Do you think I’m insane? Have you seen the size of him? He’d”—I think of what Brent was always saying to me—“squash me like a bug.”
“He said you had a knife.”
“Oh, please. I don’t get the big deal, anyway. He’s the bad guy in this. Whoever took him down was doing everybody a favor.”
“Assault with a deadly weapon is hardly doing anybody a favor.”
“Oh, I get it,” I say. “He’s the star quarterback. So just because he beat up one of his own teammates for missing a catch, and then used his girlfriend for a punching bag, you’re still going to do your best to keep his sorry ass from doing any time.”
“Are you referring to a Kyle Hanley?” Black asks.
I nod. “That’s what Valerie told me. I didn’t see it. Just like I didn’t see him actually beat up on Valerie.”
“Well, that helps,” Black says. “Mr. Hanley told us that he didn’t recognize his attacker.”
“Because he didn’t want the crap beat out of him again.”
The two of them fall silent. Black’s looking at his notes. Lopez is studying me.
“Is that it then?” Anna asks. “Or do you have any further questions?”
Lopez shakes her head. I can tell she doesn’t believe me, but I guess all she’s got to go on is instinct.
“No,” she says. “Ms. Clarke’s story corroborates what Imogene s told us.”
It does? I think in surprise, and hope that nothing’s showing on my face.
Lopez picks up her notes and stands up.
“Thank you for your help with this,” she says to me. “If you think of anything else we should know, please give me a call.”
She lays a business card on the table, then she and her partner say their good-byes and leave.
“It sounds like you had an exciting night,” Anna says when they’re gone.
She doesn’t know the half of it, I think.
* * *
“Well, that went about as well as it could,” Mom says after Anna has finished her tea and left. “All things considered.”
I smile. “Yes, you were very fierce.”
“Oh, god, I was, wasn’t I? I just get so guilty as soon as I have to talk to a policeman—even when I have absolutely nothing to hide.”
“I know the feeling.”
“Except you probably do have something to be feeling guilty about.”
“Mom!”
“You’re right. Not anymore.”
We look up as Jared mutters a good morning to us from the doorway before he heads into the kitchen to make himself a coffee.
“You took a chance not telling them the truth,” Mom says.
“I figured it was worth a shot, but I didn’t really think Valerie would leave me out of it.”
“Maybe she’ll be nicer to you now.”
“Right. As if.”
“You have to give people the benefit of the doubt.”
“Mom, with her you don’t get any benefit, only the doubt.”
“So why don’t you like her? Is it because she’s a cheerleader—”
“It’s because she’s an asshole.”
“—or because she doesn’t like you?”
“Probably a bit of both,” I have to admit. “At least when we first met.”
“This must have been a pretty traumatic experience for her,” Mom says. “It could well change her worldview.”
“I suppose anything’s possible.”
“And that,” Mom says, “brings us to your original problems.”
“Which are all settled. Like I told you last night, the shadowy guys are totally going to leave us alone.”
“Just like that.”
I nod. “They gave their word, and where they come from, that’s supposed to be sacrosanct.”
“Must be a nice place. Too bad our world can’t be more like that.”
“I guess. But Pelly says they have all the same stuff going on there—lying and cheating and everything. The only difference is, when they give their word, they don’t break it.”
Mom nods. She studies me for a long moment.
“And the blue?” she asks.
“I don’t know. But I’m not going to a doctor and trying to explain how it happened. They’ll stick me in a test tube or something.”<
br />
“I suppose you’re right,” she says, but it’s obvious she’s agreeing only reluctantly.
“Besides, it’s starting to fade.”
I’m pretty sure it is. I studied myself in the mirror this morning before the police came, and it really does seem less intense. Still undeniably blue, though.
Mom sighs and shakes her head.
“I’m living my mothers curse,” she says.
“How so?”
“When I was your age, she wagged a finger at me and said, ‘Just wait until you’re a mother yourself. You’ll find out what it’s like when your own child turns on you.’ ”
“But we’re not so bad, right?”
Mom laughs and gives me a hug.
“You and Jared are perfect Imogenes and Jareds,” she says, “and that’s all I could hope and ask for.”
The first thing I want to do when I wake up is call Imogene.
I have the phone in my hand and everything, but at the last moment I don’t punch in her number. It’s so hard not to. I’m dying to know what’s going to happen when the police talk to her, not to mention how she’s going to explain her new blue look. Mine was easily put aside. The paint washed off, though I did have to do a major rinse of the tub after my shower.
The best part about my “costume” was Mom’s face when I came in—that look of shock when the blue registered. But then all she did was shake her head and ask if I’d had a good time. Either she’s seriously loosening up or she really doesn’t want me to go live with Dad, because she’s being way less anal these days. She doesn’t even come into my room and tidy up anymore. The clothes I was trying on before I left for school Friday morning were still on my bed when I got home last night.
Anyway, I don’t call Imogene. I’m sure she’s got enough on her mind without my sidetracking her right now. When she’s ready to talk, she’ll call.
To distract myself, I go online and write Esmeralda a superlong e-mail detailing the whole of our adventure in the school last night. It’s both easier and harder than I thought it would be, but I follow Christy’s advice. I don’t worry about being writerly; I just set the story down in the same words I’d use in telling it to someone if they were sitting here in my room.
When I’m done, I look it over. With it sitting there in black and white on my computer screen, I find I’m not so much worried about its literary qualities as about how implausible it all sounds.
I hesitate a long moment, then finally hit send. If anyone’s going to believe this besides those of us who were there—which, hello, includes a ghost and Imogene’s not-so-imaginary childhood companion—it will be Esmeralda.
I spend a little time tidying up my room after that. It’s nice being able to decide for myself how I want things to go. I think I’m going to start bringing home the clothes that I’m storing at Imogene’s and in my locker. I’m definitely finding a new home for those dolls, even if it has to be a cardboard box. I start thinking of redecorating, making the room more my own and less little-girly, but then decide, why bother? I hope to go on to university next year and I’m totally planning to live in residence. Or maybe Imogene and I will be able to get an apartment, though I’m not sure we could afford it.
I look at the clock. It’s almost eleven.
I can’t believe how the time’s dragging.
Why hasn’t Imogene called yet? Maybe the police have taken her into custody and she’s used her one phone call to get a lawyer. Maybe I should call Jared or their mom to find out if I need to start baking a cake with a file in it.
I check my e-mail what feels like every fifteen minutes, but in reality is every two or three. There’s never anything from Esmeralda.
Once my room’s tidy, I reread her old e-mails and the transcript I made of our chat and wonder again just exactly what it is that she does. What I do know is I’m interested in it, just as I’m interested in what Christy does: cataloging and trying to make sense out of all the things there are in the world that don’t make sense.
I told Esmeralda that at the end of my e-mail.
Maybe she’s not writing back because she thinks I’m going to turn into some kind of cyber-stalker wannabe-whatever-she-is. And who would blame her? She doesn’t know anything about me, but here I’ve been blathering on and on about my problems and how I’ve not been dealing at all well with the weirdness that has become my life. That s got to instill all sorts of confidence in her.
I sigh and walk over to my closet. Pushing the clothes aside, I study the back wall, wondering again just how Imogene and Pelly did their trick of simply showing up in there the other night. Not to mention how they also used it to leave.
Then finally, when I check my e-mail for the kazillionth time, there’s a response from Esmeralda.
Date: Sat, 1 Nov 2003 10:32:19 -0800
From:
[email protected] Subject: Re: What we did on our Halloween vacation
To:
[email protected] Oh my Goddess, Maxine. If I was with you right now, I’d give you such a smack in the ear for risking your life the way you did. It was so very foolish ... but so brave as well.
And what do I know? You got results. And your friend is a *very* resourceful young woman. Nowhere in oral tradition, or in any of the historical texts for that matter, is there a mention of this particular weakness in regards to the anamithim. Well done and thank you for that!
As to why they didn’t still attack you when they were trapped in corporeal form, you have to understand that such beings, fearsome though they can be, can also be cowards. They don’t have souls, so when they die, they simply cease to exist. The group you faced knew that they could be slain in their paint-trapped forms and obviously weren’t brave enough to take the chance of engaging you in physical combat.
But whatever else they might be or do, you can hold them to their word, so no worries on that front.
I’ve had an exhausting night myself—thanks for asking! There were the usual pixie infestations—if they’re not haunting the phones or the Internet, then they’ll get up to the more traditional tricks, which are just as annoying. There’s always an increase in pixie incidents around Halloween—I think half my life is spent cleaning up after pixies and bodachs—but last night we also had to chase down a half-dozen feral eponies. That’s a kind of malevolent spirit that attaches itself to human ghosts and can cause enormous amounts of havoc if they’re not dealt with immediately. And then there was the giant that almost woke in the middle of a city park ...
Who is this woman? I think as I’m reading this. Her life sounds like it’s been pulled right from the pages of some police-procedural version of a fairy tale.
All of which is to say, I’m in desperate need of some sleep. I hope that, and I’m sure that, we will talk more in the days to come, but to quickly answer a couple of the points you brought up:
Imogene is suffering from vervain poisoning—which, let me quickly add, isn’t as terrible as it might sound.
I’d already looked into her problem before last night’s fun began. Unfortunately, some of the symptoms will be permanent. The dark blue cast to her skin should mostly go away, but a hint of blue will almost certainly remain. The euphoric sense of extreme capability will definitely fade with time. The latter is, no doubt, what had her so readily take on that bully and face up to the anamithim the way that she did.
I don’t mean to take away from Imogene’s obvious courage by saying this, but without the effect of the vervain in her system, she would surely have let common sense guide her actions.
Which shows how totally Esmeralda doesn’t know Imogene, I think.
Vervain, at least the variety found in the otherworld, is also known as a “heal all,” and a rare one at that. It’s an enormously beneficial component of any number of poultices, spells, and such, but like anything, too much of a good thing can be problematic. When only the pollen is being utilized, it is normally in very minute quantities, hence Imogene’s reaction to a cloud of it being
thrown upon her and ingested.
Lastly, I’m delighted by your interest in learning more about the fairy realm. If you are of legal age, we can certainly talk more of your coming to the House to study. I’ll tell you more about us and what we do when I’m not so tired. But since you’ve mentioned that you know Christy Riddell—an old colleague of mine—I’d also recommend you express your interest to him. He and the professor are always in need of able-bodied, open-minded folk to help them with their cataloging and studies, and you could learn much from them.
Now I really do have to go to bed. Try not to have any more adventures before we have the chance to talk again.
Blessed be.
Esmeralda
This is so cool. I know last night I spent half the time being scared out of my mind, but I really do want to learn more about all of this. Of course, I want to write back to her immediately to find out what this House is that she’s talking about and who the professor is, but she’ll be sleeping anyway. Then the phone finally rings, and it’s Imogene asking if it’s okay if she comes over.
Maxine’s mother gives me the once-over when she opens the door. Her eyes only widen slightly, but I guess the surprise factor is mostly gone, seeing how her own daughter came home with a similar look last night.
“Hello, Imogene,” she says. “I take it you liked your costume too much to give it up after only one night.”
I shake my head. “I made the mistake of using dye instead of just blue paint the way Maxine did. I should have listened to her. This stuff just won’t wash off.”
“Somehow, I doubt you dislike the attention it brings.” I raise my blue eyebrows.
“It’s not a value judgment,” she says. “I’m working very hard at not doing that anymore. It’s just that you have your tattoos, you like to put together outfits that are impossible to ignore ...”
I’m actually looking very normal today—except for all my blueness. Jeans and a sweater and sneakers. A toque, a scarf, and one of Jared’s pea jackets that must be small on him because it’s really not that big on me.