For Your Heart (Hill Dweller Retellings) (8 page)

    
“If you’re having so much trouble, why not get a tutor?  I thought Celeste was helping you?”

    
Growling to herself, Jeanette rubs her temple as more tears of exasperation seep from her lids.  “Would you just listen?  That’s not why I was late.  And besides, she doesn’t help with anything these days except giving me a headache.”

    
“Maybe you should stop spending so much time with her.”

    
“No way, Dad!  She’s, like, my best friend.”

    
“Best friends don’t let each other fail Spanish.  Honestly, Nett, your grades haven’t dropped this bad since your mother died.  What’s wrong?”

    
“Oh my gosh,” she groans and I hear a distinct
thunk
.  In the back of my mind I visualize her dropping her head to the table in defeat. 
She does that when she’s frustrated
.  I grimace at this imagined detail and peek over the sill.  Sure enough, the girl named Jeanette is bowed over an aquamarine placemat, her hair ballooned around her head.  I can’t help but smile.  I must have seen her do that one morning while doing my rounds.

    
“Why won’t anyone
listen
to me,” she moans.  Her voice sounds strained, tired, and a little muffled behind all her hair.  “What did I do to deserve this?”

    
Her father continues, ignoring her.  “Senior-itis isn’t going to impress a college application committee.”

    
She sighs, her shoulders dropping in resignation.  “I know.”

    
Her father slams a pot on the stove, making Enmire squeak and duck under my arm.  “If you know, then why are we having this conversation?”

    
Jeanette looks up.  Her expression seems every bit like she wants to say, “You started it.”  She’s got a triple line indentation on her forehead from resting on the placemat.  “It’s not like I’m doing this on purpose.  You
know
I want to get into a good college.”

    
Her dad doesn’t say anything as he pulls vegetables out of their refrigerator and lays them on the cutting board.  Jeanette watches him expectantly and when he doesn’t reply she turns and wipes tears off her flushed cheeks.  She stands and moves to leave, but her dad cuts her off with a harsh voice.

    
“Where do you think you’re going?”

    
“Upstairs.” She sounds confused.

    
“I want you to sit and do your homework down here tonight.”

    
Jeanette puts her hand on her hip and sighs.  “Dad, I’m not five.  I can do my homework without supervision.”

    
He lifts the knife off the cutting board and points it at her.  A few chunks of tomato plop onto the counter.  “You want another month of being grounded?”

    
Enmire asks, “You don’t think he’d use that on her, do you?”

    
I shake my head.

    
For a long moment, Jeanette seems petulant, but eventually she sits and riffles through her bag.  I climb the sycamore tree outside the kitchen window and wait, Enmire perched beside me like a gargoyle. 

    
Looking half distracted, like perhaps she’s expecting someone to pop out of one of the cabinets, Jeanette completes her homework for every class before glancing uneasily at the three-inch thick conversational Spanish book. 

    
A marvelous, tangy smell emanates from the exhaust vent and my stomach growls, but I don’t dare move.  With my luck, she’ll duck out before I get a chance to get her payment from her.  She closes her book and, with impeccable timing, her father comes over with two navy blue bowls.  He leans over and kisses her on the forehead before going back to the counter and returning with a basket of bread.  They pray before dinner and he quizzes her on Spanish vocabulary while they eat. I wait.

    
When they finish and she stands at the kitchen sink and washes the dishes, I climb down and ready myself for a visit.  Enmire calls to me, “Will you bring me a treat?”

    
“No, I will not bring you something to eat.  You’re fat and spoiled as it is.”

    
He mumbles in his native
Rhumbrining
, probably cursing me.

    
Ignoring him, I say, “Wish me luck.”

    
“I hope she kicks you in the nads!”

    
Rolling my eyes, I move to the window.  I expect Jeanette to retreat to her room since her homework is complete, but as her father disappears into the living room, she glances around uneasily then trails after him like a frightened puppy.  I switch windows in time to see them settle in to read – her father in a stiff leather chair and Jeanette curled up on the couch with White Cat.

    
Enmire laughs at me, all mockery.  Growling to myself, I pace the edges of the neglected flower beds.  She’s purposely avoiding me.  Stupid Jeanette. 
Stupid Manga
.  Manga?  What's that?  I pause and look through the window.  She's reading a picture book with a dark-clad man on the back cover.  She flips a page in the opposite direction.  She's reading it backwards?  How odd.  Can't she wait for the end?  Is she one of those humans who eats her dessert first? 
Pft, like her mother would ever allow that.

    
Why would I think that?  I don’t know the first thing about mothers.  I scratch my head. Speaking of…Where
is
her mother?  Human family units are similar to
Aos Si
family units – which makes sense since
Aos Si
are part human.  There should be a mother and a father and offspring.  But I’ve never seen Jeanette’s mother.  I see the mother in pictures on the mantle.  Jeanette looks a lot like her – a good thing because that means she'll age well.  Then I remember her father saying something about her mother being dead.  I glance at Jeanette.  The fact that Jeanette no longer has her mother seems very sad to me.  Perhaps because I don’t have one either.

Jeanette

    
As the mantle clock chimes ten, I close my book and glance around the living room.  Dad’s passed out in his chair, snoring.  I look at
Black Butler
, the latest manga that Emily shoved in my backpack this afternoon, and smile.

    
Thank God for Emily.  I don't know what I'd do with my dorky obsession with anime and manga if it weren't for her.  Celeste may make fun of it, but ogling hot supernatural anime guys sure beats trying to find something favorable in the incestuous puddle of hormone-suppressed Catholic boys I've known since kindergarten. 
And now look where your lust for adventure has gotten you, Jeanette.

    
For a moment, my mind conjures Green Man flashing his big, stupid smirk and saying, “I’m one hell of an imaginary man.”

    
Sighing at my own twisted mind, I shove Neko-Neko off of my lap and stand.  Much as I’m not keen on leaving my father’s presence, I know I can’t hide behind him like a frightened child forever.  “Goodnight, Dad.”

    
Startled, Dad straightens and blinks.  “Oh, g'night,” he says through a yawn.

    
Dread pooling in my stomach, I tuck my book under my arm.  Slipping out of the room, I ninja-climb the two flights to my bedroom.  No sign of a stalker.  As I close my door, I hear Dad turn the television to the late night news.  The sound of the weather report cutting through the silence of the house is a comfort.  Sunny with no chance of clouds or rain.

    
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.  “You’re being stupid,” I say to myself.  I file
Black Butler
into the wall-length shelf of books in my room and turn around. 

    
Him
.

    
With a choked gasp, I fling myself backward and smash into the shelf, knocking most of my books to the floor.  For an instant, a scream bubbles up, but I note the presence of both knife and arrows and choke it back.  A scream would bring Dad running and, in the unlikely event he is real, I don't want Green Man to kill him.

    
I swallow hard and try my best to look more angry than frightened.   I half turn to recover my books, hiding my face behind my hair while still keeping an eye on him.  “What the hell are you doing in here?” I demand.

    
Green Man crouches beside me.  “You knew I was coming.  I did tell you.  And you made an obvious point of avoiding me.”  He picks up books and hands them to me.  I shove them onto the shelf, not paying attention whether they’re in alphabetical order.  “It’s very rude to make people wait, you know.  I missed dinner.” 

    
I give a sarcastic roll of my eyes at the book in my hands.  “Pardon me for not being sensitive to your needs.”

    
Green Man picks up a copy of
Nephilim John
and inspects it.  “Angels?”

    
Feeling myself blush, I tear the book out of his hand and cradle it against my chest.  “I like paranormal stuff, okay.”  I move to the side in a protective gesture.  “I refuse to be judged by a sociopath.”

    
“I’m a sociopath, am I?” Green Man asks as he wanders over and sits on the edge of my bed. 

    
“Imaginary sociopath.”

    
His eyes peruse my room with interest, his brows lifting and lowering at each new discovery – especially my Game of Thrones poster.  It must surprise him that he’s not the first person to dress like he belongs in a castle – which he totally does.  One would have thought he’d get rid of the school uniform and go back to his
Snow White and the Huntsman
get-up, but apparently murderous house-calls warrant something more gentlemanly.

    
I bite my lip.  Part of me wants to crank on him about dirtying his lovely outfit, but it’s probably a bad idea to barb the suspected rapist-sociopath-stalker-killer guy.  Even if he’s not real, he might get spiteful and cause a brain aneurism or something.  “Look, you didn't answer my question,” I remind, turning to put
Nephilim John
on the shelf.  “Why are you here?  Why can’t you just leave me alone?”  There’s desperation in my voice.  “What are you?  Like, a cat or something?  Play with your prey before you kill it?”

    
“Much as the idea of playing with you entertains me, Lovely, I’m sort of in a time crunch.”  Green Man's voice sounds amused.  “You know why I'm here.  The rose?”

    
“Oh, right.” I picked a rose.  The Greenpeace advocate wants money.  Well, if that’s all I need to do to get him to leave…  I walk to the piggy bank sitting on my desk.  There's a good amount of cash in it.  I've been saving my allowance and the money I make working at the ice cream stand at the lake over the summers to buy a car.  Goodbye dream Leaf.  “How much do I owe you,” I ask, turning the bank over and pinching at the rubber stopper.

    
“Your heart.”

    
He sounds so sincere that I have to look up to make sure he's smirking.  He’s not.  “My heart?” I scoff in disbelief.  What's with this guy?  First he pulls a knife on me, then he stalks me, and now he wants a date?  “You’re joking, right?”

    
Green Man stands and comes toward me.  His eyes are like bottomless pools of cool Alaskan water – murky grey with gold and green floating in its depths.  He reaches out, takes the bank out of my fingers, and places it on the desk with a
thunk
.

    
For a long moment, he stares at me.  And I stare back, blushing like an idiot.  And then he steps closer, his voice so deep it vibrates the air between us.  “That's what Roxel says.  One human heart for one rose.”

    
“Roxel?” I breathe, suddenly unable to think.  “W-who's that?”

    
He takes a step back, as if knowing his presence is a tease.  “Roxel is the Summer Queen.  She's the owner of the rose you plucked,” he replies without missing a beat.

    
There's that Summer Queen nonsense again.  I'd almost forgotten about it in my haste to prevent myself from being institutionalized and failing Spanish.  “What's a Summer Queen?”  I know the answer, but I'm hoping the prognosis isn’t as horrible as it seems.  If he says what I think he’s going to say, then I’ll know for certain I’m crazy.

    
“She's the
Aos Si
that rules over
Tír na nÓg
, controls the Summer gates between Otherworld and Earth, pays the Summer tithe, and rules over the Summer faeries.”

    
I go a little wobbly.  Yeah, that’s the same Summer Queen I was thinking of.  But I know her as the mythical queen of the faeries.  I’m uncertain about all this other stuff.  Did I make that up subconsciously?  Oh good grief, I really am crazy.  My knees go weak and I sink to the floor.  “Ess-Shee?”