There never was any sunlight (at least not in the dream version of events), but now everything is gray. Including my friends.
When I crash into them, their locked hands shatter.
Literally.
Shards go flying, striking me all over.
That’s when I wake up and, as usual, I actually have to remind myself where I’m at.
I’m safe. I’m in my bed. I just have to get my head straight.
Things are different now. Mama Theo and Paw Paw aren’t down the hall and I’m not a kid anymore. I’m living with the Philipses, in the house on the hill, off of Macleay.
I’m not in the park (and I’ll never go back), but that’s exactly where four kids will stay. They’re still stone statues that I can’t forget used to be flesh. They’re still in that park and I can’t get over leaving them behind.
I don’t get why the dream is never completely true. It always shows me crashing into them (which didn’t happen), and—until today—it never showed the mirage (which did).
I guess the truth isn’t the point. Torture is.
That’s when the guilt sets in.
My life is anything but tortured now. I’m the Philipses’ kid, and I live on the hill. Sure, I can’t have gluten or soft drinks unless I eat out, but I like the way they eat. And sure, when they took me furniture shopping, they said everything was totally up to me until I chose an antique-y wrought-iron bedframe. They got really quiet then, and Miss Gennie, Tav’s mom, asked if I had a second choice.
It made sense later on when I found out what twelve-year-old Tavia had done.
The point is they adopted me. (Basically.) Now I’m in a bedroom three times the size of the one at my grandparents’ house, and I get to share it with someone who shares everything with me.
That’s what the guilt’s about. Tav’s who I should be focused on. The nightmare she’s living, not the one I already survived.
So when I can’t find my keys this morning, I try not to lose it. Not right away, at least. I tell myself I must’ve been more tired than I thought last night. I must’ve forgotten to put my keys on the hook next to the bedroom door.
I check the room’s nooks and crannies. Twice.
Sprites.
“Calm down,” I tell myself through clenched teeth. But Portland is a hub of sprite activity and I don’t lose my keys. Ever. Not since Paw Paw handed them to me.
Plus. Well, this isn’t the first time I’ve been caught in the middle of their game.
Red Rover, Red Rover …
I slide to a seated position on the floor.
Do not overthink this.
Except I can’t help it. Everything takes me back to that park, and that might be PTSD, but this time it’s warranted. Another sprite has chosen me for its mischief, and I’m taking such shallow breaths that I’m getting light-headed.
“Sprites aren’t thieves because they always bring things back.”
That’s what Mom used to say. When I was younger and all my doll clothes disappeared one night and I was crying against her breasts, she said that to me in a singsong voice. It’s one of those things that gets passed down, from parents to their children and then to theirs. Mama Theo wasn’t Mom’s birth mother, but she taught it to her just the same.
Tavia’ll come back from the bathroom any minute, so I get up off the floor and check everywhere again. And I find my keys at the bottom of my swim bag.
I’d checked it at least three times already and I know I was thorough, so I stand there clutching them and feeling like there’s a stone in the pit of my stomach. This is the type of mischief everyone pretends to find amusing so they don’t have to think about the time sprites went too far. I know better.
Tav’s brushing her teeth when I get to the bathroom. I keep my face as blank as I can.
“Find ’em?” she asks around her toothbrush.
I let them dangle from my fingers. “Swim bag. Must’ve forgotten to take them out yesterday.”
She spells out H-O-O-R-A-Y instead of using the gesture and I laugh.
“Hoo. Ray.” I echo, and let the keys clatter onto the counter. Grabbing my toothbrush, I suds up, distracting Tavia from my mood with a heartfelt compliment. “I see you, baby-soft heather-gray cowl-neck turtleneck, perfectly draped.”
Tavia blows me a kiss through the mirror. If she’s wearing it to cover the keloid, it’s too flattering to raise my suspicions. That and few people in Portland know how she got the scar in the first place, but. Maybe she hides it from her parents. Or herself.
“Thrifted these,” she says, giving her broken-in black jeans a pat.
“Noice.” She’s got hips where I don’t, so the pants won’t do me any good, but luckily we wear the same size shoe. “I’ve got next on those brogues,” I tell her, and she nods.
That’s when I catch a glimpse of my own reflection and genuinely wonder why I try.
“But this hideously dry skin, though,” I say through a sigh. Tav nudges me for dragging myself. “A flare-up is the very last thing I need.”
“It’ll pass,” Tavia promises and runs her fingers through my twists reassuringly.
I’m not so sure. I’m poking and pulling at my face and it seriously feels almost scaly. Miss Gennie’s dermatologist said it must be eczema, but she said it like she didn’t want to lose a patient for not knowing what it really is. So I’ve got what must be eczema, what most definitely is stress-induced (which is a diagnosis that works on legiterally anybody over the age of ten, I’m sure), and what is most certainly not a sign of being cursed.
Miss Gennie held my face in her hands and chuckled when I suggested that. But I wasn’t kidding.
Mom’s been gone eight years, and ever since she died I’ve wondered if I am. Even when I alone managed to survive the sprites a year later and people started calling me lucky, I found it hard to believe. Lately I believe it even less, and it’s like my skin agrees: something is definitely wrong with me.
“Here.” Tavia hands me a small bottle of olive oil and I mumble my appreciation before pouring a small amount into my hand and massaging it into my face.
I will exfoliate properly when I get back from the faireground tonight, no excuses. For now, oil hydration’ll have to do.
The gargoyle is still on our roof when we leave, which explains Miss Gennie’s parting instructions. First she wishes us a good day (like always) and then, right before we open the front door, she whispers something about “acting natural.”
Like Tavia or I could draw any more attention to the stone monster on our roof. Her words just make it harder to walk nonchalantly to my car, especially when I can feel his granite eyes following us.
“I almost want to have some of the Ren faire guys over to study him,” I tell Tav.
She grunts. Tavia’s not a regular on the fairegrounds like me, but she’s seen the cosplay gargoyles once or twice.
They’re mostly young guys in silver paint, sometimes with prosthetics to extend their arms so they can mimic the perch, but it’s far from enough. Tav’s bodyguard has a presence I’m not sure we’d want to emulate even if we could, and that includes the gray guards who keep watch outside the hallowed Hidden Scales. Those are just more men in gargoyle costumes, but they’re the “chosen.” The ones whose entire storyline involves keeping the rabble from ever clearing the pavilion flaps. The Hidden Scales tent is made of cloth like all the others, but the flaps are double layered for extra security (and mystique).