Shades of rust and ruin, p.22
Shades of Rust and Ruin, page 22
Inches away from the roof, the slats begin to move, manifesting as something alive and circuitous. The waxen smoke clears, and giant white vines—carbon copies of the door handle—open like a curtain. They must belong to the same plant … or creature … that guarded the entrance.
Just before we slam through the opening, one long, winding tendril forms a chute beneath us. We plop down; Clarey first, then me on his tail. Our butts bump over scales and leaves on a progression toward the depths of the orchard.
I catch glimpses of trees, both frost and blossoms somehow simultaneously weighing the branches. Familiar fruits I recognize from bakery shipments burst through in mouthwatering increments. An opening appears in the thick canopy, and our chute spins us downward like a curly slide. The view of the trees vanishes, obscured by swirls of white stalks and pearlescent leaves.
We’re hurled off toward grass and dirt. Clarey hits ground, drops the duffel, and scrambles to his knees to try to catch me. Unable to slow my momentum, I slam into his chest. Gripping my wrists, he thuds onto his back and drags me with him.
Tiny lights hover around us. For an instant, I worry we’re being attacked by microscopic sprites. Instead, it’s floating seeds not much bigger than dust motes—incandescent and flickering in soft blues and oranges. In the dimness, the effect is both magical and disorienting, as if we’re locked within a fiber-optic snow globe and someone has shaken us up.
Dizziness swarms my head, as though I’m still spiraling down the slide. Then Clarey wriggles and reminds me that he’s pinned beneath me. All my senses grind to a halt, focused only on us: my body pressed against his, chest to chest, belly to belly, leg to leg, just like Flannie earlier; but I’m not having the calming effect she did.
The tension I’ve always stretched between us to hold us apart now constricts and tethers us together, tighter than the vines that dropped us here. Our faces almost touch, my nose inches from the carved tip of a mask that’s mostly converted to flesh now.
My bangs undulate each time he inhales and exhales, and his salt-and-pepper curls do the same beneath my own frazzled wheezing.
“Anything hurt?” He breathes the question, sending several floating seeds on a trajectory toward my face.
“No. You?” My response, just as husky and winded, volleys the teensy lights back to him.
“I’m good.”
“Good.” Propped on my elbows, I debate rolling off, but every muscle in my body locks in refusal. Clarey’s clutching my ribs, and I don’t dare move and break this spell. The expectant silence expands, disrupted only by the leaves confining us in a tentlike stasis—shuffling to the same breeze that carries scents reminiscent of Uncle slicing fruit and preparing recipes. Yet there, somewhere behind it, lingers something so cold it burns.
I’ve no desire to find the root of it all … even to see the orchard on the other side. I’m too grateful to be shielded from everything, to finally be cloaked from the orb overhead, to have quiet, with no one or nothing watching us, because this pocket of enchanted seclusion should belong to just Clarey and me.
No one else needs to know how his body reacts to mine, the attraction I’m always avoiding undeniable by the changes in us both, the strain of his muscles and the heat radiating everywhere we touch.
Clarey’s gaze holds me transfixed, even more dazzling than the magical drifting seeds, aglow with an intensity I’ve seen in the past but never dared to decipher. His fingers find their way over my T-shirt, grating along the bumps of my ribs, then easing over my leather jacket and bared neck, stopping to push my hair from my face.
A gasp slips from my mouth. I wince at the ineptness of the sound, and my cheeks flush.
What’s wrong with me? I’m not some chaste little prom queen at my first after-party. I’ve had my stints with surface thrills and lust. Ebon taught me a lot more than just how to assemble mechanical components and diagnose a check-engine light. But I didn’t know him inside and out. I’ve never felt this with any other guy: desire tempered by respect—a belonging so bright and real, so pure and lovely—an affection so comforting yet at times so frenetic, that I’m terrified to do anything that could taint or alter it.
Maybe Clarey’s afraid, too, by the way his heart pounds against my own.
“We were going to wait to talk, right?” I finally manage.
“Not sure,” he answers, jaw twitching and rippling to orange jowl lines. “ ‘When all this is over’ feels really far away. Maybe we wait on the talking part and skip to—” He stops cold and tenses up. “A mask seems like a weird precedence for a first kiss.”
I have to smile then, because leave it to Clarey to use the word “precedence” in a moment like this.
“Shut up. We’ve only got a minute to spare, so either you do this thing or I’m giving you a fatter lip.”
He snorts. “Gourd abuse; pretty sure there’s a law against that somewhere.”
“Ugh.” I start to roll off, but Clarey grips my biceps gently, an invitation for me to wait.
“No more jokes. I promise.” He grows somber. His hands settle at my jaw, cradling either side.
The pads of his fingers scrape my skin, rougher than usual, as if some leaves and grass still cling to them from our fall. But it doesn’t matter, because I’m too caught up in other sensations—other points of contact—to care. Every curve and hollow tucked beneath my clothes smolders and softens, conforming to the lean, angular planes of him. I may as well be made of wax and he of flame, melting my barriers to expose everything I keep hidden under the surface.
I skim my hands along the sides of his head, my thumb stroking where his left ear has started to fuse with the prosthesis, wishing more than anything I could touch those soft curls just behind his BAHA instead of carved latex.
I resent the inability to look at his true face—that soft skin, those familiar features. This mask is standing between me and all the endearing parts and parcels of the boy I’ve been falling for since kindergarten. Still, this creation is also a part of him, the incredible talent I’ve watched him hone and master over the years, so I don’t even hesitate when he coaxes my mouth toward his.
His eyes flutter down, thick lashes framing the barest glimpse of ice blue and warm amber. I let him guide me, tilting my head, willing to take this chance … shoving all thoughts—of Lark, Jaspar, masks, Goblin Kings, and time itself—aside. Just for one second. Just for one kiss.
My eyes close. A momentary burst of cinnamon-spiced breath precedes soft, plump lips brushing mine. I moan, ready to take control and seek his tongue, that part of his mouth his costume can’t conceal, when suddenly, I’m shoved aside as he yelps and rolls out from under me.
My back throbs where I hit the ground, and grass pokes my nape—as uncomfortable and itchy as the questions plaguing me. Does my breath stink? Do I stink? I mean … a dunk in the ocean is the closest thing I’ve had to a bath since this morning.
Then the cruelest question trumps them all: Did Clarey come to his senses and realize I’m only a substitute for Lark?
Dazed, with the spice of his breath clinging to my lips, I stare up at him. He kneels with arms lifted and hands opened wide, turning his fingers from front to back and chanting under his breath: “No, no, no. This can’t be happening. It can’t.”
The glowing seeds drift around him, their serene suspension at odds with his agitated tone.
I shake off my fugue, shutting down the tiny fires inside my body and snuffing out my insecurities so I can focus. His hands look like he’s wearing the gloves from his costume: brown and withered, with gnarled-vine fingers that twist and twine. At the ends, where there should be fingernails, leaves begin to sprout.
I bite back a shocked screech. It can’t be. He dropped the gloves on the sidewalk outside the bakery … at the corner of the alley, when Filigree herded him and Flannie my way at Jaspar’s command.
Those are his fingers. His hands.
I scramble up to crouch beside him. He’s struggling to keep it together, but I know that look in his eyes now … the way he clutches his chest and struggles to breathe. I also know how to help. Cold is what he needs; cold will keep him grounded.
Snow. The white frost I saw coating the branches on our way down—Angorla mentioned sun and snow. I turn my attention to the surroundings and slap several pearlized leaves aside to open the view. The luminous seeds drift out on a back draft of wind, sailing away through a canopy of autumn colors and mud-brown branches overhead. The covering is thick enough that I can’t see sky or sun. Yet strands of bright yellow warmth slip through, printing a dappled pattern on the ground that leads to a path covered with snow, mere inches away.
I turn to Clarey, who’s propped his back against a trunk. “I’m not leaving; I just need to grab something to help.”
He tucks his chin to his chest, draws up his knees, and gasps. Hoping he heard me, I duck my head through the opening where several tree branches spread apart, inviting soft flakes to drift down like confectioners’ sugar. The whiteness coats limbs, fruits, and leaves already gilded with shimmery ice, and speckles red, seedy berries sprouting from green bushes thick with thorns.
As I consider the oddity, it begins to make a strange sort of sense.
Keeping my sights on Clarey, I vow to work it out in my head later. I only have to crawl forward a few inches to scoop a handful of snow, and am relieved when it doesn’t change beneath my touch. I retreat back to Clarey. My palm grows numb with the chill as I take his hands and, turning them upward, press the icy clumps into place. He makes fists around them.
His knuckles tighten; the snow begins to melt between the seams of his fronded fingers, seeping onto the lap of his pin-striped tapered pants. His breathing returns, slow and even. Unspeaking, he stares at the leaves along his fingertips, how they’re dotted with clumps of frost, then turns his eyes to me and mimes the word “Thanks.”
Then he drags the duffel over, stopping to look at the watch that now reads 9:20 p.m. Less than three hours left to get out of here.
Tick-tick-tick.
22
the burden of masks
Clarey growls. “I’m sorry I lost us time … and our moment. Gah. I just … I’m not broken, I swear.”
“Of course you’re not!” I kneel beside him. “Who wouldn’t freak out at this?” I grasp his cold hands in mine. The vines and leaves tipping his fingers stretch down to tap the back of my wrists.
He shakes his head. “Yeah, right. You barely flinched at the zippers on your face. You’re a badass. Hero material.”
“Not always a badass. And I’m the furthest thing from a hero.”
“You’re more of one than me.” He sighs then—a colossal intake and exhale so deep, it carries the weight of this weird, wild otherworld we’re trapped in. “That thing Jaspar said … about me not having a backbone in Chicago. I don’t know how he knew, unless he somehow saw my memory in the maze when it played out in a mirror. It was like I was literally back there again, reliving it.”
My pulse kicks up. So Clarey did share my experience; having one of his most painful memories ripped out of his head and reenacted as entertainment for a vindictive faerie.
“I’ve wanted to tell you for so long,” he continues, voice trembling. “But—I was worried you’d think I’m a big ole pantywaist.”
“First off,” I scold, “you hate the word ‘panty’ as much as I do. So let’s go with underwear-band, okay?”
He snorts, then stretches his legs out in preparation to stand. “We can’t do this now. We’re short on time already.”
He’s right. This isn’t the best place or time, but I wouldn’t dream of stopping him. He has to leave this behind to move forward, and he needs all his wits about him for what’s coming next in the game.
I press a hand on his chest to hold him in place. “I told you that’s what friends do. They wait till you’re ready, then they’re there to listen. We’ll make time.” I plop down, my back against the trunk beside his, and nudge his shoulder.
He puffs out his cheeks until he looks like a blowfish, then nods. “All right, I’ll make it quick. There was a girl at my school in Chicago. Kendra. She was obsessed with me, but totally oblivious to it, if that makes sense? She always wanted to touch my hair and my eyelashes. We weren’t even going out or anything, and she’d come up to me at pep rallies or lunch and rake a hand through my white streak, run a fingertip down my forehead. She had a boyfriend, Jackson—a big shot on the varsity basketball team—and she couldn’t even see how ticked it made him when she hung all over me. She sent me texts. Weird ones. Said my forehead felt soft like a puppy’s belly. Asked if there were other puppy patches hidden under my clothes.”
My hands fist instinctively. “Holy crap. That wretch was fetishizing you.” I gnaw on my lip ring, biting back the million curse words I want to spout.
“Yeah. And I’m the freak, right?” Clarey half laughs, but I see the gesture for the coping mechanism it is.
My gut lurches, a surge of sickness for the intrusiveness … the insensitivity. I try to imagine how it would feel to have someone not even care who you are inside. Who treats you like a pet or a windup toy. Like something they could own. And I can’t for the life of me understand how any person could treat another person like that. I wouldn’t even treat a faerie that way.
“So, anyhow, fast-forward to a couple of weeks after the school year ended. Summer break. It was June, when my mom was at her worst. Hospice, you know?” He sniffs, then continues. “She’d always wanted to take me to the annual Blues Festival in Millennium Park there. Since she couldn’t go, I promised I’d bring her back a program, and get it signed by the artists. I was just hoping for enough time, maybe even a chance to frame it, hang it in her room. So I went opening night. Had a couple of friends who were going to meet me at the outdoor amphitheater.”
His shoulders rise on another sigh, then his fingernail frond traces the divot in his eyebrow. It dawns on me that there’s still the detail of that scar, and my nausea surges because this already ugly tale is about to turn violent, and I’m not sure I can suppress all the vigilante justice I’m going to need to expend.
“On the last day of school, I blocked Kendra from my phone. It was so great not to be around her every day after that I almost forgot about her twisted infatuation. Unfortunately, she hadn’t, and neither had Jackson. Since she couldn’t call or anything, I was totally oblivious that they’d broken up over me and he was out for blood. Kendra had stalked me enough to know I liked the blues, but I didn’t know she’d mentioned it to Jackson. So I wasn’t watching for anyone to be following when I stepped onto a quiet path in the trees on the way to find my friends at the festival.”
I hear a leafy rattle as Clarey’s palm quakes. I grip his hand in mine again, anchoring him.
“I felt someone tug me from behind. He dragged me into an abandoned thicket and shoved me down, pounded me, kicked me. Called me a freak show, and a lot worse …” He swallows. “My BAHA busted, my ribs ached, my jaw throbbed, I felt like I needed to puke. I wanted to fight back but didn’t have any idea how. You know my dad hated that about me. I was too skinny, too mild mannered. The only makeup he would’ve condoned for me to wear was the eye-black of football players.” Another half laugh.
I squeeze Clarey’s hand in encouragement. I remember when he first lived in Astoria. How his dad never approved of his hobbies. Mr. Darden couldn’t understand what we as kids already did: that clothes, cosmetics, piercings, tattoos, all those things on the outside … they don’t define a person. They’re just one small fraction of who they are.
“Anyway, I was getting creamed pretty bad. Just laid there like a lump, hoping it would be over soon, that Jackson would wear himself out. I could tell he was drunk, because every word was slurred. Then he pulled a knife and told me he was going to send my skunk patch to Kendra as a present.” Clarey’s entire body convulses.
I lace an arm around him in solidarity.
“I shouted for help, but the music had already started, and no one could hear. He made one cut.” Clarey touches his scar. “That’s when the adrenaline kicked in. I grabbed a fallen branch off the ground and thwacked his leg. I heard his kneecap pop, and he went down. Voices were coming our way, and I knew someone would find him. So I left him there in the dirt … left to get that program for my mom. Pretty sure I was in shock. I was bleeding, it hurt to breathe, my hearing aid buzzed like radio fuzz, and my clothes were ripped, but all I could think was I’d made Mom a promise and intended to make good, because it was probably the last one I’d ever get to keep. I didn’t tell anyone what happened. When my grandparents freaked out about my broken BAHA and the cut that needed stitches, I said I got drunk and tried to climb the stage and fell. Getting punished for underage drinking was better than admitting the truth. It’s not like Jackson ganged up on me. It was mano a mano. I should’ve been able to fight him off. Maybe my dad was right. It would’ve helped to know how to defend myself.”
“But you did defend yourself.”
“Yeah, but maybe if I had learned to throw a punch or two, I wouldn’t have ruined Jackson’s leg. He was never able to go back to basketball after that. Lost any chance for a scholarship. Of course, he didn’t tell anyone, either. We had an unspoken pact. But Kendra figured it out. That’s the one good thing that came of it. She totally avoided me afterward because she felt so ashamed.”
“Nice to know she could act halfway human.”
Clarey huffs. “After that, if anyone stared at me for too long, or seemed overly interested, it would take me right back to Kendra’s fixation, and to that beating in the park. Especially in crowds; that’s when the panic attacks started. My grandparents sent me to a psychiatrist. I used the excuse of falling in front of hundreds of people. That it was why I only felt safe when I wore masks. Because others weren’t scrutinizing the real me. Maybe I shouldn’t have lied, but …” His voice trails off.
