I wish I could stop making the mosaics altogether. But it’s a compulsion I can’t deny … and something tells me there’s a reason for that. A reason that keeps me from destroying all six of them—from busting their plaster backgrounds into a thousand pieces.
“Do I need to buy more red marbled gems?” Mr. Mason asks. “I’ve no idea where I got them to begin with. I checked online the other day and can’t seem to find the supplier.”
He doesn’t realize the mosaic tiles were clear when I started, that I’ve been using only clear gems for the past few weeks, and that the scenes he thinks I’m meticulously crafting by matching colored lines in the glass are actually forming themselves.
“It’s okay,” I answer him. “They’re from my own personal supply.” Literally.
Mr. Mason studies me for a second. “All right. But I’m running out of room in my cabinet. Maybe you could take this one home.”
I shudder at the thought. Having any of them in my house would only invite more nightmares. Not to mention how it would affect Mom. She’s already spent enough of her life imprisoned by her Wonderland phobias.
I’ll have to figure out something before the end of school. Mr. Mason won’t be willing to keep them all summer, especially since I’m a senior. But today I have other things on my mind.
“Can you fit just one more?” I ask. “Jeb’s picking me up on his bike. I’ll get them next week.”
Mr. Mason nods and carries it over to his desk.
I crouch to arrange the stuff in my backpack, rubbing sweaty palms over my striped leggings. The hem brushing my knees feels foreign. My skirt is longer than what I’m used to without the petticoats underneath to fluff it out. In the months since Mom’s been home from the asylum, we’ve had a lot of arguments about my clothes and makeup. She says my skirts are too short and she wishes I would wear jeans and “dress like regular girls.” She thinks I look too wild. I’ve told her that’s why I wear tights and leggings, for modesty. But she never listens. It’s like she’s trying to make up for the eleven years she was away by being overly invested in everything about me.
She won this morning, but only because I woke up late and was in a rush. It’s not easy to get up for school when you’ve been fighting sleep all night, avoiding dreams.
I lift my backpack to my shoulders and tip my chin good-bye to Mr. Mason. My Mary Jane platforms clomp along the deserted tiles of the hall. Stray work sheets and notebook papers are scattered like stepping-stones in a pond. Several lockers hang open, as if the students couldn’t waste the extra half second it would’ve taken to shut them before leaving for the weekend.
A hundred different colognes, perfumes, and body odors still linger, interspersed with the faded yeasty scent of rolls from the cafeteria’s lunch menu. Smells like teen spirit. I shake my head, grinning.
Speaking of spirit, Pleasance High’s student council has been working around the clock to tape up prom reminders around every corner of the school. This year, the dance is the Friday before our Saturday graduation ceremony—one week from today.
ALL PRINCES AND PRINCESSES ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO THE PLEASANCE HIGH FAIRY-TALE MASQUERADE PROM, MAY 25TH. NO FROGS ALLOWED.
I smirk at the last line. My best pal, Jenara, wrote it with bold green marker at the end of each announcement. It took her entire sixth period on Tuesday to do it and cost her three days of detention. But it was totally worth it to see the look on Taelor Tremont’s face. Taelor is my boyfriend’s ex, the school’s star tennis player, and the student council’s social chairperson. She’s also the one who ratted out my Liddell family secret in fifth grade. Our relationship is strained, to say the least.
I run my palm across one of the banners that escaped half its tape and drapes like a long white tongue from the wall. It reminds me of my experience with the bandersnatch’s snaky tongues last summer. I cringe and rub the vivid streak of red in my blond hair between my forefinger and thumb. It’s one of my permanent souvenirs, just like the nodules behind my shoulder blades where wings lie dormant inside me. No matter how I try to distance myself from the Wonderland memories, they’re always present, refusing to leave.
Just like a certain someone refuses to leave.
My throat constricts at the thought of black wings, bottomless tattooed eyes, and a cockney accent. He already has my nights. I won’t let him take my days, too.
Shoving the doors open, I step into the parking lot and get hit by a rush of chill, damp air. A fine mist coats my face. A few cars remain and students cluster in small groups to talk—some hunched inside hoodies and others seemingly oblivious to the unseasonably cool weather. We’ve had a lot of rain this month. The meteorologists calculated the accumulation somewhere between four and six inches, breaking a century’s worth of spring records in Pleasance, Texas.
My ears automatically tune in to the bugs and plants in the soggy football field a few yards away. Their whispers often blend together in crackles and hums like radio static. But if I try, I can make out distinct messages meant just for me:
Hello, Alyssa.