“It’s fine.” It’s not really, but I don’t want to say the wrong thing twice today. Closing the door behind me, I step into the living room and plunk onto the tattered couch. Knots of emotion tighten my throat. Whatever her secrets are, they’re choking the life out of us both.
I straighten my spine. The same Myla Lewis who fights incredibly evil souls can’t give up on finding out who I really am. Bit by bit, I rise to my feet, steel my shoulders and march toward my bedroom. Time to get ready for school.
After taking a quick shower, I hunt through my closet of black t-shirts and gray sweatpants. The Department of Avoiding Quasi Nakedness assigns everyone clothing; for teenagers, it’s sweats and t-shirts. My upper lip twists. What classic ghoul nonsense—like we’d all run around naked if they didn’t tell us what to wear. I throw on my least mangy sweats and t-shirt, then glance at my wristwatch. I can still catch a class before lunch with Cissy. Cool.
Swinging my backpack onto my shoulder, I head off to the nastiest, loudest and least reliable car in the universe: Betsy, our green station wagon.
Betsy’s a massive gas-guzzling masterpiece of awesomeness. She’s huge, green and filled with frayed upholstery accented by the smell of wet sneakers. Her radio doesn’t work, her engine’s unreliable, and someone glued orange pom-poms all around her windows. I love her.
I slip into the ragged front seat and rev the engine. Betsy bucks and thumps as her innards come to life. A heavy column of toxic black smoke rises behind us.
As we putter along the roads to school, I quickly give up on getting Betsy’s radio to work and scope out the landscape instead. Rows of gray tract houses stretch off in every direction. Gravel driveways divide weed-choked squares of yellow grass. Gray clouds fill the sky, as always.
Ahead, there appears a red brick building three stories high with an arched roof. The wooden sign on the yellowing lawn reads ‘DL-19 School for Quasi Servitude.’ I park Betsy in a remote corner of the parking lot. This is it, school. Yuck. It’s always an extra letdown to hit class after the adrenaline rush of the Arena.
Eh, no point delaying the inevitable any longer.
I tiptoe across the yellowing lawns. The rules state that students show up on time, and ghouls follow rules to the letter. Fighting evil souls in the Arena? Cuts me zero slack when it comes to the infamous Tardy List.
With maximum stealth, I step up to a small steel door on the side of the school. If I can sneak in here, I won’t get nailed for being late. Crossing my fingers, I jimmy the door open with my tail. Please let there be no one around. Grabbing the handle, I grit my teeth and slowly swing the rusted door open a crack. Time to peep inside.
Empty. Yeah!
I punch the air with my fist, slip through a few more doors and step onto the school’s main hallway. Students rush by. Everyone’s wearing the same standard-issue gray sweats and dark t-shirts.
Excellent, I caught the break between classes.
I scan the monochromatic crowd for Cissy. After this morning with my Mom, I really need to see her smile.
My best friend stands by her locker. While we’re both tall, I’m more on the curvy side with long auburn hair. Cissy is willowy, her blond hair hanging in shoulder-length ringlets. She has a golden retriever tail, which isn’t good in a fight but sure looks cute on her. Seeing me, her face brightens and her arms open wide. I melt into her hug.
“Good morning, Cis.”
“Hello, sweetie.” She air-kisses my cheek, then flips about to fuss with a mangy old shoebox on the top shelf of her locker.
I nod toward the strange box. “What’s that?”
Cissy closes her locker door with suspicious speed. “Nothing.”
I set my fist on my hip and smile. “What did you rescue this time?”
“Some little cocoons.” She shivers. “Dad’s redecorating our basement again and he was going to kill them all.” Cissy’s father runs our black market. Sure, the ghouls let quasis manufacture a few things, but mostly they foist earth cast-offs on us: huge black-and-white TV sets with wire bunny-ears on top, answering machines as large as a Buick, that kind of thing. Everyone goes nuts for new stuff, which is how Cissy’s family makes their money. It’s also why Cissy’s dad goes bat-shit crazy that his daughter’s more interested in saving strays than shopping. As an Arena-fighting anomaly, I definitely fall into the ‘stray’ category, in her parent’s minds anyway. We mostly hang out at my house.
Cissy pats the top of her locker door and beams. “I think one of the cocoons will open today.”
I stare at her closed locker, my mouth screwing onto one side of my face. We don’t get butterflies in Purgatory so those are… “Moths?” I wince. This is unbelievable, even for Cissy. “You saved moth larvae?”
“False! I saved cute little cocoon thingies.” She puffs out her lower lip. “They need me.” She sniffles.