On second thought, maybe Dad’s decided to be Mister Busybody.
“No.” The way I snap off the word, it should be clear that the subject is closed. Besides, we went over this a million times after Aldred somehow maneuvered our court date to right before the wedding. Lincoln and I didn’t move our big day then, and we won’t move it now. Aldred would see that as a win. Besides, there’s the fact that our moms and my bestie, Cissy, have been working their asses off on this ceremony. I mean, getting tens of thousands of people into one place? That’s huge. Long story short? We’re not canceling dick.
“So your mood is more than the stress of the wedding,” says Dad. “You hate being apart from Lincoln.”
“You got that right. It bites. Big-time.”
Dad glances at me over his shoulder. He’s wearing some super-fancy sunglasses, so I can’t see his eyes. Still, I know him well enough now to realize that he has his “I’m wiser than you” face on. I know exactly how this will go. He’ll say something that will make me rethink everything, and I’m not in the mood. I decide to try and stop the whole conversation before it starts.
“You are not wiser than me, Dad.” There, that ought to do it.
“I’ve been alive since the dawn of time. I suffered in Hell for twenty years because I traded my life for your mother’s. I believe I know a thing or two about situations like this.”
And there, he did it. Put everything in perspective. “Okay, maybe you do know a few things.”
“You and Lincoln are true partners. That’s what’s most important. Whatever happens, he’ll be there with you at the end of eternity.”
Now, I liked the first part of what Dad said, but the whole “end of eternity” comment makes me think that we won’t meet up again until we’re dead. And that a thought makes my mope-o-meter start to rise again. Still, Dad’s trying to be, well, a Dad. I should encourage it. “Thanks. That means a lot to me.”
“Glad to help.” Dad doesn’t say anything more, and that’s fine with me. Besides, I need to get into the headspace that I’m a high school senior again, not the great scala. Sure, that was my life six months ago. Yet it feels like I’ve lived about three lifetimes since then.
I get lost in my thoughts until I realize the car has stopped. Dad has parked us near a small cluster of wooden buildings that hug the shoreline. Beyond the shore is a pretty sizable lake. And in the middle of the lake?
Hemlock Island.
Way to name it something creepy, Nova Scotia. To my mind, the lake looks dark despite the early morning light. And the island itself seems overrun with trees and shrubbery and who knows what else? We don’t have a lot of nature in Purgatory. It’s mostly old concrete and grubby strip malls. And honestly, I like things that way. Rundown cities I get, but the forest? That’s Lincoln’s world.
Just thinking about my guy has me bummed out, so I try to focus on the mission instead.
I’m in high school, I’m in high school, I’m in high school.
“This way, Myla.” Dad has his sunglasses off, and his face is all sympathetic and smiley. I really wish he would lecture me again. Lecturing I can handle. The sympathetic thing makes me want to cry.
Tamp it down, Myla. Focus.
“I’m right with you, Dad.”
We head toward an old wooden dock. An ancient dude in a heavy fisherman’s jacket stands at the far end. With his blue pea coat and huge gray beard, the guy looks like he belongs on a box of fish sticks. Next to Fish Stick Grandpa (as I’ve decided to call him), there stands a middle-aged man with pale skin, a skinny-ish frame, and golden-blond hair. If the other guy looks like he fell off a fish sticks box, this guy could be an illustration in the Preppy Handbook.
Dad and I step out of the car and march along the dock, our footsteps beating a quick rhythm. I’m wearing jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt. From what I’ve seen on human TV shows, this is standard stuff for a regular human high school student. But it feels really strange not being in my Scala robes or dragonscale fighting suit.
The headmaster smiles broadly at us as we approach. He’s wearing khaki pants, a white shirt, and a blue jacket with some kind of insignia on the pocket. He’s even got one of those cravat thingies at his throat. I decide that if humans ever made a country club edition of their Ken dolls, then that would be this man.
The headmaster extends his hand toward Dad. “Greetings, Mister Cross.” Humans don’t know my father’s real last name, so there was no need to come up with a fake one. I had to leave the name Myla behind, though. That’s a bummer. “I’m Headmaster Prescott.” He then focuses on me. “And you must be Miss Mysteria Cross. How are you, Missy?”