The Seventh Sister, A Paranormal Romance Page 2

  Once I pass downtown, I continue up Main Street for about five more miles until I’m relieved to see our mailbox. The fog was starting to wear on me. It’s not the regular wet kind that flows off the ocean. The haze is dry and extra cold, making the air chillier than what the snow has already made it. Not only that, but it’s seriously unsettling.

  It’s toasty inside of the house. The iciness outside has kicked the central heating system on, and it’s been blowing all day long. I drop my full book bag down on the armchair near the front door and call for no one. Deanna is on another long business trip. She does check in every day to make sure I’ve done the shopping, cooked dinner and gotten to bed on time. This must make her feel more like a mother.

  I turn on the television, and there’s no news on reporting what the fog may be so I turn it off. I’m not a big TV watcher. I go into the kitchen and put together a spring salad for dinner. I’m still debating on whether to show up for duty tonight or not. It’s foggy outside for goodness sake. Surely that’s enough to cancel the silly dance.

  After chopping up the tomatoes and cucumbers, I shuffle over to the telephone to make a call to the school’s office, but it rings before I can lift the receiver.

  It’s five-thirty so I know who’s calling.

  “Hi, mom,” I say right away.

  “You’re home,” Deanna says through a hard sigh of relief.

  “Of course, where else can I go? This place sucks.”

  “Yes, yes…” She’s being dismissive and it makes me mad.

  “Plus, this creepy thick fog rolled in and…”

  “What fog?” she cuts me off. Her tone is completely different, like she’s about to miraculously take whatever I say serious.

  I hesitate, debating whether to take this opportunity to voice how much I hate Moonridge and how unfair it is for her to go traipsing off to the exciting parts of the world without me. “Fog—fog,” I decide to answer instead.

  “Isn’t it kind of early for fog?”

  “Yeah,” I mutter. I think I’m pouting a little because we’re not discussing ways of getting me out of Moonridge forever.

  After a long pause she asks, “How does it feel?”

  “What do you mean feel?”

  “When you’re in it, how does it feel on your skin?”

  I frown at her strange question. “I don’t know—like fog. Although, it is colder and sort of dry.”

  She takes another long pause. It’s strange. I can feel the heaviness in the silence.

  “Mom, are you there?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she barely says.

  “Are you okay?” Now I’m worried about her.

  “Listen, Z-cup, stay inside. Don’t go out for anything, not even if the yard is on fire. Understand?”

  She called me Z-cup, which she only does when she wants me to feel comforted.

  “Sure, mom,” I haphazardly agree.

  I mean, I do have the issue of the dance. All I need is for Lowenstein to call Deanna and tell her that I missed homeroom three times last week. When Mr. Pratt, our principal, asked me why I chose to miss class, all I could come up with was the truth: homeroom is a gross waste of time. I think my answer and the nonchalant way I said it really worried him. He sent me over to see Lowenstein right away. After asking me a multitude of questions about friends, which I have none, and activities that I’m involved in, which again added up to zero, she imparted the punishment of me having to work every school event for the next three months.

  “That’s almost the rest of the school year,” I cried.

  “I know,” she said, and then stretched her lips into that smile I hate.

  Of course, I could blow tonight off and fight this sentence. I could use my grades as evidence that I’m doing all right in school and missing homeroom doesn’t affect that. My grade point average is well above three point zero, but words like “missing class” and “punishment” are hot-button words to my mother. She goes way overboard and before I know it, Aunt Jill, a long-time nanny who really isn’t my aunt, will come knocking on the door to announce she’s come to, exact words, “babysit” me. And that’s a whole other experience.

  Before hanging up, Deanna assures me that she’ll be home as soon as possible. She’s in Sydney right now, but she’s taking the first flight out. When I asked, “Because of the fog,” she just hung up without a reply.

  I move forward with my earlier plan to call the school. One of the ladies in the office tells me indeed, there’s still a dance tonight.

  “Great,” I say and hang up.

  There’s no way I’m going to be AWOL. After I eat the salad, I sit down to read the chapters Mr. Lux assigned and then finish up my trigonometry homework. It takes all of an hour and a half. More homework was assigned to me as well. Read The Tempest by Shakespeare and chapter sixteen of the world geology text on Third World industrial products, but this is stuff I’ve already read the first two weeks of the new school year. Back then, I figured why not get a jump on it all because, I felt if I could hurry up and get it done, then maybe it’ll speed up the process of finishing high school. I guess it didn’t work.

  At seven-thirty, I throw on an old pair of loose-fitting jeans and a white tee shirt under a navy blue cable knit sweater. The goal is to look like the help and not the partygoer. I don’t know what to do with all of my hair. Ponytails and tie-ups are out of the question; they’re too binding and I need to be free, always free. Even I must admit I look too much like a Calvin Klein ad with it down. The goal is to blend in, go unnoticed—I wonder when or if that day will ever come. Regardless of how I look, time is ticking away so I grab my green wool winter coat and hit the door.

  When I get outside, I see the fog has lifted. The sky is congested with gloomy clouds. It’s extra dark tonight, which makes Moonridge look even more like one of those tiny deserted towns on the edge of nowhere important. I don’t want to walk tonight because it’s just too depressing.

  Deanna bought me a black Jeep Wrangler with black tinted windows that I mostly only drive out to Whole Foods in Portland, Maine to shop for groceries. I’ll take it tonight because I want to feel like I’m driving far away from this town and not pulling double duty at the local high school.

  Chapter 2

  Fight Night

  The parking lot is crowded tonight. Only in a place like this will an event like the Sadie Hawkins dance be over attended. I park in the faculty parking lot because there is way less cars here, and the plow did a better job clearing out the snow.

  The students are filtering in to the auditorium all dressed up. Some of the girls, who have forgone their coats, are hugging themselves while stomping off into to the building as fast as they can. I shake my head at them wondering, why the sacrifice?

  I check the time on my watch and it’s eight-thirty. Great, I’m late. After taking a deep breath, I shuffle across the icy asphalt. Once I get into the mix just about everyone stares at me. I think they’re shocked to see me, but I keep my face down and weave through the bystanders until I make it to the front door.

  “Tickets,” a little pointy-faced girl asks. I see her bottom lip trembling. It’s cold out of course, and she’s not wearing a coat even while sitting at the table taking tickets.

  “Don’t have one. But I got to go in,” I say, halfway hoping she’ll tell me sorry, no ticket, not entrance. That way, tomorrow I can tell Mrs. Lowenstein, hey I came but the commando you had manning the door wouldn’t let me in so take it up with her. Then I hear the heels of those little shoes go tap, tap, tap and look right through the opened doorway. Here she comes still wearing her tight suit from earlier today

  The look on her face makes me sigh gravely. This encounter is not going to go well.

  “Sorry,” I say before she’s able to get a word out. “Lots going on at home and I lost track of time.”

  She sighs hard. “Well, you’re here now. Follow me.” She turns her back and saunters off, expecting me to keep up.

  I give the girl
manning the door one last glance before starting off behind Mrs. Lowenstein. Funny, I’ve never seen the girl before, or if I have I don’t remember her face—which is not odd for me. I can’t remember more than half the faces or names of the people in this school and we’ve been classmates for the better part of three years. That’s how long we’ve lived here—well, I’ve lived here.

  Inside there’s crate paper and hay everywhere. It’s sort of ironic, a one-horse town and barnyard décor—so fitting. As I pass people, they watch me stride across the glossy wooden floor. It’s ridiculous actually. Shouldn’t they focus on those who want to be here, basically each other?

  “You could’ve worn something a little dance worthy.” Mrs. Lowenstein turns to say thi to me over her shoulder.

  “I’m working right?”

  “Yes, the punch containers.”

  I take steps to easily catch up to her. “The what?”

  She stops, so I stop too.

  “The punch, Miss Decker.”

  “That’s my punishment, serve punch to kids?”

  “Do you mean your peers?”

  “Okay,” I say haughtily, “peers.”

  “Chop, chop, the kids are getting thirsty,” she says before walking off.

  I look over at a table with cupcakes, cookies, all sorts of candies for sale, and then there’s the punch dispenser with Derek Firth standing right next to it and grinning at me.

  “Great,” I say to myself and reluctantly walk off to take my post.

  I thought I’d be moving tables and chairs, setting up speaker systems or something, not serving refreshments.

  “See, I’m your date for tonight after all,” Derek whispers in my ear after coming close.

  I take a step to the side, away from him. “What are you doing here?” I’m a bit snippety.

  “Volunteering.” He’s still grinning.

  I snort. “You should stop, really.”

  While I’m searching the floor, there’s Riley grouped with about four other girls, beaming in on us.

  “You want me to stop volunteering?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  A spikey haired kid steps up to the punch containers.

  “Need a cup,” he says directly to me.

  I pick up a waxy cardboard cup, put it under the spout, pull the knob and fill it up. “Here you go,” I say, but when I look past him, I see a whole line of people eagerly waiting their turn has formed.

  “He’s serving too,” I shout to the guy who’s just stepped in front of me. I shove a cup towards Derek and whip a finger in his direction, telling the kid go there.

  “So you do you want me to volunteer?” Derek asks through a snarky grin.

  “I guess,” I breathe, keeping my eyes on the task at hand as I serve the next person.

  “Two lines,” he shouts, but he’s not even close to sounding as odious as I just did, and the students reluctantly split. “See, I’m not the only one who finds you interesting,” Derek whispers with his mouth too close to my ear.

  I glance up at the line of partygoers who are all looking at me. “That’s because you’re all hicks,” I mutter.

  “Ha, so that’s what you think of the local color?”

  I pour and hand out the next drink while taking a long moment to think about what Derek just asked me. Sure he’s being funny, but the answer in my head is full of rage. Not towards him, he’s just a conduit for what really irks me.

  From sixth to ninth grade, I attended an all-girl’s private school in Manhattan, where being a loner was much easier because there were no boys around.

  I used to hate the way I looked in that blue coat and little gray skirt with knee-high socks. Almost every single guy that I passed would stare at me. It was embarrassing. I knew what I looked like, some video chick who’s only seconds away from tearing out of the naughty school girl uniform. Even in a longer skirt and baggier coat, they stared. However, the girls at school paid me no attention at all, at least for the most part. There were a handful of jealous girls and we had our run-ins.

  But the social structure in this public school has just been so jolting that I’ve turned so bitter towards the entire institution and town at that. I want out. I want far away from here. Yet I don’t want to hate anyone or anything in the meantime—unfortunately, I do.

  “No, they’re not all hicks, I guess,” I say through a repentant sigh and take a glance at him. In my mind, I just did a complete one-eighty and I wonder if he finds that unstable of me.

  “I didn’t think you really believed that anyway,” is what he says.

  Now we’re staring at each other. I want to hold on to how he said that, the tone of his voice. He could not have heard me thinking of being ashamed of my attitude towards everyone here. But—if I were a more intuitive person, I would conclude that he did.

  “Excuse me,” a girl says. We turn away from each other and there’s Riley standing in front of me as opposed to him. “Punch, punch girl.”

  I fill up a cup and shove it at her. “Here you go.”

  She doesn’t take it. “Did you guys come together?” Her eyes are dancing between me and Derek.

  “No we didn’t,” Derek says before I could.

  “Oh,” Riley says, “because if you did then…” We’re both watching her, waiting for the rest. “Well, just…then.”

  Without taking my cup, she cuts in front of the person standing before Derek and leans towards him. “Um, can we talk?” she tries to whisper.

  That’s when I purposely stop paying attention as Derek steps off to oblige Riley’s request, leaving me there all alone.

  There’s a seriously mundane pop music tune playing with a female singer whining in the background. I stare across the room to get the gist of what’s going on in here. Couples dance together shifting back and forth. Some girls dance with girls to keep from being bored. The boys that showed up without being asked are holding up the walls. Most are standing in groups, holding their cups of punch, talking. It looks like no one is having that much fun.

  After a short while, there’s no one standing in front of me waiting for a cup of punch. The dim lights and general boredom in the air makes me yawn. That’s when I hear those little heels go click-click. I turn and there’s Mrs. Lowenstein, wearing that tight-lipped grin.

  “You should go to the kitchen and make another batch.”

  I blink taken aback. “Me, make punch?” I ask.

  “It’s just water and sugary syrup,” says Mrs. Sarcastic.

  “So where am I supposed to go? To the cafeteria?”

  “The front doors are open, and the light is on in the kitchen. You’ll find the mix on the counter.” She scans the auditorium while saying, “You may want to ask Mr. Firth to assist you. Where is he anyway?”

  Probably behind the building playing tongue hockey, or even yuckier, suck face, with his deranged girlfriend who’s not his girlfriend. I think this, but don’t say it. Plus I’m pretty sure she wasn’t looking for an answer anyway because her heels tap away from me when she sees two guys pulling the “SADIE” paper banner off the wall.

  I snatch the plastic container up off the table and stomp my way across the floor and out into the icy night. Snow flurries are falling now. It’s still and quiet out here, so the peace of being away from pop music and teenagers soothes me.

  I carry the container up the cement walk that leads to the cafeteria. Nothing is moving through the flat block buildings that line both sides of the path. I shuffle up the steps to the next level where my destination sits to the right.

  Strange, but I halfway expect to find Derek and Riley making out somewhere between the buildings. It’s a grave feeling, which is unexpected and unwanted. This guy couldn’t be getting to me. There’s nothing about this town that appeals to me, not even the boys—no matter how good looking one may be. I’m forced to admit, Derek Firth is very attractive and even tonight, he’s luring me into him by piquing my interest.

  The cafeteria is
just as Mrs. Lowenstein said it would be, the lights are on and the doors are unlocked. The sound from the thick heels of my black leather hiking boots smashing against the linoleum takes the place of the normal chatter that goes on in here. This scene is what teen horror flicks are made of. I almost expect Jason or Freddy Krueger to sneak up behind me with an axe. I glance over my shoulder just to make sure that’s not about to happen.

  I walk through the metal swinging double doors and into the kitchen where I see the red syrup sitting on the counter in a plastic container just as Mrs. Lowenstein said.

  I go right to work, twisting the cap off the punch dispenser, pouring a portion of the red liquid into it and then walking it over to the industrial sized sink to fill it with water.

  As the water runs, I think about Deanna’s warning. The fog is long gone, so I’m sure she’s calmed down and has already canceled her flight back home. Although I hope she didn’t. It’s time for her to do some time in Moonridge. She hasn’t stayed a full two weeks in three years, and I truly believe after one month without her posh, cosmopolitan perks, she’ll come to her senses and we’ll be packed and back in Manhattan in less than two days.

  I’m simpering over the joys of that possibility when out of nowhere there’s a loud bam and I jump, startled. My eyes search the kitchen, trying to figure out where that sound came from. Now there’s a constant scratching on a wall, I think. I turn the faucet off to hear it better.

  I’m standing still, listening. It is scratching interrupted by intermittent faint knocking.

  Down past the stainless steel industrial-sized refrigerators there’s a door and that’s where the scratching is coming from.

  I tiptoe over towards it. My heart is knocking against my chest. There’s another loud bang and I jump. Then there’s nothing, no sound at all.

  I know what I’m capable of. Most girls should run away as fast they can to go get help, but I am the help. My ears remain on high alert as I move slowly towards the door, carefully twist the bolt on the locks and turn the doorknob.