Part 1 (1/2)
Luminous.
Dawn Metcalf.
For Mooma and Dad, who always believed, and for Jonathan, who made it come true.
chapter one.
”I believe that myths, like every living thing, are born, degenerate and die. I also believe that myths come back to life.”
-OCTAVIO PAZ.
CONSUELA wrestled with an armload of jeans, trying to catch the hangers on insufficient hooks. Squeezing into the tiny dressing room, she tugged on the first pair. No good, she pulled them off. Tried another pair. And a third. Step-step on, step-step off. It was as if the room had been specifically designed to make her feel big. Consuela hated shopping for jeans. It made her want to eat a donut.
Eventually she found two pairs that weren't too bad; the question was whether they were worth buying or not. Consuela compared price tags. She didn't like them enough to buy both. It was tough to feel good when clothes were made for size-four white girls. She felt heavy, unsuccessful, and annoyed-the exact opposite purpose of her coveted shopping therapy break.
Screw it.
Consuela pulled her T-s.h.i.+rt over her head, unhooked her bra, and posed for herself a few times, half naked in the dressing room mirror. She flashed a smile over her shoulder. Perfect white teeth-no cavities-her smile was her best feature. She spanked her hip, feeling better than she had all morning.
Getting dressed, she decided to keep one pair of light denims and hand the rest back with the two plastic, yellow ”6” cards. She hung the remaining eleven hooks neatly in her palm for easy counting. The baggy old attendant lady had glared at her earlier as if she suspected Consuela of shoplifting. Like she could hide a pair of True Religions in her cleavage. She could all but hear her best friend's voice in her head: You know, you probably could! Allison could always make her laugh.
Consuela held her head high as she stopped at the dressing room exit. The old woman lifted her hangdog eyes.
”Find anything?” the woman asked, only because she had to.
”Yes, thank you.”
The gnarled, arthritic hands took the jeans as a sudden lurch of vertigo brought Consuela to her knees.
Hangers clattered against the floor. Head spinning, Consuela groaned; nausea kneaded her throat and her vision slipped sideways. The three-way mirror in the corner bent out of shape. Points of light winked and wobbled like candle flames. Consuela tried to focus on her reflection and saw surprised eyes looking back-but they weren't her own. Dark eyes, wide with urgency, had appeared just inside the gla.s.s.
* Know thyself. *
It was an electrified sound, like synthesized violins given voice.
Consuela blinked.
The bizarre image and dull pain shattered.
She slapped a hand to her forehead, squinting against the sudden needle-stab p.r.i.c.kles in her eyes. She heard distant voices and felt soft hands touching her back and face. She shrugged them away and fought the wash of cold sweat crawling over her skin.
”I'm all right,” she mumbled, embarra.s.sed and shaken. ”I'm fine.”
Several strangers helped Consuela to sit.
”Are you sure?”
”Sit here.”
”Did you faint?”
An employee hurried over. ”Hang on, I'll get you some juice.”
The old dressing room attendant remained on her stool behind the pressboard podium. She glanced down at Consuela and shook her head.
”Gotta watch them mirrors,” she advised in a croaky voice. ”They'll play tricks on you if you're not careful. I see it all the time.” The old woman looked away. ”Mmhm. All the time.”
Speechless, Consuela sat numbly on the floor. She drank the small bottle of orange juice, fumbled with her cell phone, and hung up when there was no answer at home. Someone shoved a clipboard at her. Fl.u.s.tered and self-conscious, she dutifully signed the accident report, scribbling her name and forgetting to give back the pen.
Consuela waved off any more offers of help and hurried to take her place in the checkout line, nervously brus.h.i.+ng her hair from her face and folding the jeans over her arm. She wanted to pretend that everything was normal, that nothing weird had just happened, and go straight home.
She took out her credit card and adjusted her necklace over her collar. She felt the clasp catch.
”Ouch,” she grumbled. Consuela tried untangling the snarl of gold and fine baby hairs.
She rubbed the back of her neck and felt something move.
TENDER dropped to a crouch, rising slowly as the Flow ebbed and swirled around him like a cloak. He looked back to where the window had appeared between worlds. He wasn't used to looking over his shoulder. Others were usually watching their backs around him.
”Did you see that?” Wish whispered, eyes wonderwide under his greasy mop of hair.
Tender was tempted to say no. Instead he admitted, ”I saw the rift. But I didn't see who was on the other side.” He felt obliged to state the obvious. ”Someone's coming through soon.”
”Never saw that before,” Wish added, tugging his denim jacket covered in old novelty pins. ”Shone like a mirror.”
”Yes,” Tender said. ”I suspect V got a good look. He's always somewhere lurking about.”
”You should talk.” Wish grinned up at Tender. Tender glared through his too-long blond bangs and oppressively thick, black eyebrows. Wish tapped one of the b.u.t.tons on his left pocket that said IF YOU CAN READ THIS . . . YOU MIGHT AS WELL INTRODUCE YOURSELF! and winked. Tender sighed and readjusted the heavy silver belt buckle riding low on his hips.
”Come on,” Tender said, jerking his head into the void. ”I've got things to do. Whoever it is will get here soon enough.”
Tender strode away, the Flow twisting in impossible directions as the world bowed beneath his feet. The gray-and-opal mist parted. Wish wiggled his loose tooth and broke it off with a snap. Blowing a long, cool breath through his fingertips, he pushed a dusty white moth into flight. Both boys turned away as it flew jaggedly up into black nothingness, slipping like a satin ribbon between pages of night.
CONSUELA walked around her room, absently rubbing the back of her neck and trying to figure out what was wrong.
She ran a finger over the skin again: it gooshed under pressure.
Prodding experimentally around the base of her skull, she thought the lump was about the length of her little finger and the width of her thumb. It was soft and squishy, following the line of her spine. It didn't hurt, but touching it made her feel uneasy. Still, she couldn't stop. Like picking a scab.
Her mother handed her two small white pills and a tall gla.s.s of juice. Consuela stopped rubbing her neck as Mom watched her swallow. The citric acid tasted like vomit.
”I called Dr. Cooper,” her mom said, stroking Consuela's hair. ”He recommends heat, rest, and a double dose of ibuprofen. If the lump is still there in the morning, we can make an appointment.”
”Great,” Consuela mumbled.