Bailey Morgan [2] Fate

Life.

Life.

Life.

Love-hate-like-break-want-need-scared-no-yes.

Miss her—want him—-giggle-new-now.

Life.

Life.

Life.

The pressure of souls skating along the insides of my bones increased rapidly, until every human on the planet was as much a part of me as I was, every aspect of every person an open book for my eyes only. Their hopes and dreams, the things they wished for. The things they dreaded.

In a state of divine ecstasy, I threw my head back. This was Earth, the mortal realm. These were humans. This was life.

I was Life.

Giving in to the unbearable pressure within me, I moved my hands in a silent, expressive dance, and soul light burst from my pores. I watched, mesmerized, as the light condensed into webs before my eyes. Some were so densely woven that they appeared as solid fabric; others were thin or sparse, a tangled mess.

It was time.

Like a pianist whose fingers knew a melody better than her mind did, I gave in to the familiarity and undeniable energy of the moment, allowing my hands to carry me through the mind-boggling task. Deftly, instinctively, I crossed this path with that, melded threads together and tore others apart. The fabric was cool to the touch, but white-hot sparks leapt off my body as I wove.

Life.

Life.

Life.

“Good morning, Oakridge! I'm Craaaaazy Mike, and you're listening to K-K-K-KHITS! It's seven in the a.m., and I a-m in the mood for some lovin', some badda bing, if you know what I mean …”

I rolled over in bed and slapped at my radio alarm. I really didn't want to know what Crazy Mike meant any more than I already did, and I definitely didn't want to give him the chance to elaborate. I narrowed my eyes at the clock, and the time stared unapologetically back at me.

Seven a.m. Time to get up for school.

“Just five more minutes?” I asked. Since I'd turned
the alarm off, there was no beeping reply to my question, and I took that silence as permission to snuggle into my covers and close my eyes. This time, there was no weaving, no mystical plane to claim my spirit.

Peace at last.

“Bailey Marie, don't tell me you're still sleeping.” My mom cruised by my bedroom door, not even bothering to stop as she made use of my middle name. It was a drive-by scolding, one of her many maternal specialties.

Mumbling under my breath about stupid Crazy Mike and my stupid alarm and my stupid middle name, I managed to get my body halfway vertical. A minute or so later, I actually made it out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom like some kind of deranged zombie in search of sweet, sweet brains. Once I'd managed to shut the door behind me and was positive that even my mom's superhearing wouldn't allow her to decipher my mumbles, I extended them to include two more subjects.

“Stupid Mom. Stupid ancient birthright.”

I really wasn't a morning person.

I sought refuge from the horrors of things-that-happen-before-noon in the shower. After the water beat against my skin for a few minutes, I started to feel more human, which—given my nightly activities—was a wee bit ironic. I finished showering, and as my mood improved, little by little, I begrudgingly took back most of my “stupids.” If I was being honest, I didn't really have anything against my alarm, my middle name, or what I'd just done in the Nexus between this world and the next.

Not ready to part ways with the shower but knowing I had to, I reached to turn it off. As I did, the overhead light hit my hand, casting a large, strangely fluid shadow near my feet. For a moment I stood there looking at the image, which wavered as I clenched the knob, shades of silvery purple fading to gray as I turned my hand. The stream of water pelting my face subsided, and I dropped my hand to my side and stepped out of the shower, leaving it—and the
très
creepy shadow—behind.

It was times like these that I regretted not dreaming anymore. Without a nighttime outlet, my subconscious and imagination had a tendency to go overboard during my waking hours; hence the funny shadows and the nagging feeling that something in the world (not to mention the shower) wasn't quite right.

I shook my head, and water flew off my sopping hair to join the steam beaded up on the mirror's surface. The condensation distorted my reflection, but I could still make out my not-brown, not-blond hair and my undeniably average body. For someone who held the fate of the world in her hands—literally—I sure wasn't much to look at. I probably should have been used to it by now, but even after two years of waking up to find that no matter what I did in other realms, I was just plain old me in this one, I still hadn't quite wrapped my mind around it.

Bailey Morgan, Third Fate. Not to sound too seventies, but that was just objectively trippy. Mythology wasn't supposed to be fact, and I wasn't supposed to be a part of it, but it was, and I was, and no matter how
many days I woke up thinking the whole thing was crazy, it didn't change that it was all real.

I was the Third Fate, the Fate of Life.

“I'm single-handedly responsible for weaving the lives of the entire world,” I said quietly, watching my lips move in the mirror as I said
world,
“and yet, I can't even fill out a B cup.”

When it came to awe-inspiring power, I was good to go, but when it came to cleavage, I was hopeless.
Surreal
didn't even begin to cover my life.

“Bailey!”

This time my mom refrained from telling me that I was going to be late. She just yelled my name. I was pretty sure that in her über-Mom mind this passed for cutting back on the mothering and giving me a taste of the independence college would offer in another year.

“Bailey!”

I forced my eyes away from the mirror and my thoughts away from fleeting memories and awe-inspiring power. Forget the lives and destinies of the world as a whole. This was high school, and I wasn't even dressed yet.

Five minutes later, I was clothed and ready to go. Makeup was a luxury reserved for people who didn't mind getting up when their alarms told them to, and besides, I knew Delia well enough to know that even if my face was makeup free when I left for school, it wouldn't stay that way for long.

I grabbed my backpack and flew down the stairs, taking them two at a time. My mom was waiting at the
bottom, and with pinpoint accuracy, she managed to land a kiss on my cheek as I rushed past.

“Have a good day, sweetheart. And don't forget to ask Mr. McMann if he thinks you should—”

I shut the front door behind me before my mom could finish telling me what exactly I should ask the school guidance counselor during our meeting that afternoon. My mom was what most adults referred to as “involved” and most teens referred to as “crazy.” She was perceptive, she asked lots of questions, and she'd taught herself how to use internet search engines. Believe me, it was all downhill from there. Her obsessive Googling came in handy on rare occasions, but still. I was seventeen, and I was not a morning person. Now was clearly not the best time to be imparting life advice, especially the kind of advice that involved what the College Board recommended asking your guidance counselor during the application process.

“Don't forget to ask Mr. McMann if you should let me give you layers. On the DL, I think he's going to say yes.”

That voice definitely wasn't my mom's, and even as I rolled my eyes at the unsolicited advice, I smiled at the way Delia had finished my mom's sentence. The idea of asking the school guidance counselor about hairstyles was patently absurd. Mr. McMann's idea of fashion was an oxford shirt and—if he was feeling particularly daring—suspenders. I was pretty sure he wouldn't have feelings one way or another about whether or not I should get layers.

“Morning, Delia,” I greeted Delia Cameron: fashion goddess, connoisseur of boys, and one of my best friends for pretty much as long as I could remember. “Your car still broken?”

Driving wasn't really Delia's strong suit. As a general rule, the rest of us felt that the world was safer without Delia behind the wheel, but because we were friends and it was a somewhat sensitive subject, I used the term “broken” as opposed to “wrapped around a telephone pole somewhere.”

“I prefer to think that my car is getting a makeover,” Delia hedged. “But since it's not quite ready to reveal its new look to the world, I thought I'd catch a ride with you.” Delia smiled charmingly, and as the two of us climbed into my car, she reached into her purse and pulled out her holy trinity of cosmetic products: lip gloss, powdered base, and mascara. I took the gloss and started the car.

As I backed down my driveway, Delia dangled the rest of the makeup in front of my face, clearly trying to tempt me.

“Come on, Bay. You know you want to.”

“I can't put on makeup while I drive,” I told her.

“Sure you can. It's easy!”

And that was why Delia's car was in constant need of a “new look.”

“So, any news on the guy front?” I changed the subject from makeup to boys. One of the bonuses of being friends with the same people your entire life is that you know their weak points. Delia's were (in order)
fashion, boys, and sticky foods. She was a big fan of pudding.

“I actually had a revelation last night,” Delia said, sounding for all the world like some yogi who'd spent the entire night meditating on the meaning of life.

“What kind of revelation?”

Delia was a fount of knowledge when it came to the opposite sex. If she'd had a boy-related revelation, it could very well affect the state of the world's dating circuit as a whole.

“Geeks.” Delia shared her hard-won wisdom. I waited for her to elaborate, but she just sat there, smiling, thoroughly pleased with herself.