The Elementals (6 page)

“Ariel,” he would whisper into my ear as he tugged on my ponytail. “Ariel, like
The Tempest.
”

Ever since that night at the concert I thought about him constantly, almost as much as I thought about Jeni. I thought about the smell of his hair and the feel of his hand holding mine and the frown line that formed between his eyes. I thought about the angular shape of his cheekbone and chin and throat contrasting with the softness of his mouth and eyelashes. All I had to remember him by were those marks on my abdomen—they looked like fingertips. The marks were real—I could see them—but I wondered if I had imagined the man. It seemed as if something was wrong in my head now, as if all the stress and drinking and the two events that changed my life had started to do things to my mind. My parents had sent me to a school counselor, Ronnie Wang, a cheerful young woman who let me ramble on about the pressure I put on myself to get good grades, the weirdness of living in a dorm after being an only child and the general loneliness of being away from home. Once I broke into tears about global warming and the smile left her face as she leaned forward to look me in the eye.

“Is there anything important going on that you’re not telling me, Ariel?” she asked.

“The planet is in danger. I don’t think much else is significant.”

“Anything with your family?”

I stood and hefted my backpack onto my shoulder. “I’m just kind of emotional about it,” I said.

*   *   *

That Saturday night I got back to the dorm safely—no apocalypse, no serial killers, no John—and went to sleep early. But I didn’t really rest; it was like I was running in place in my bed the whole time.

I woke sharply from the head-pounding, half-sleep haze to hear Lauren’s moans and Dallas’s whispers.

“Go get a fucking room,” I said as I jumped from the bed, pulled a jacket over my pajamas and grabbed my shoes.

“This is a room,” Dallas mumbled.

“This is my room.”

“What a coincidence, it’s mine, too!” Lauren said and they laughed.

I put my sneakers on in the lounge and then I sprinted down the eight flights of stairs to the lobby. It was past midnight and the air felt silent and chill. I just started to run.

I didn’t know I was going toward the house where John Graves lived—not that I hadn’t wanted to before, but I didn’t think I’d be going there that night. Not without brushing my teeth and hair and putting on lipstick, not without thinking what I’d do when I got there. But I kept running north up into the hills.

I was standing in front of the house the way you are suddenly somewhere in a dream—without really realizing how you got there. The oak trees surrounded me, leaves like giant hands holding the darkness. Candlelight shone through the windows like wine bottles shine in a dark bar and I could hear music and soft laughter but there wasn’t a big party going on this time. I crept up to the window and looked inside.

Three people were dancing in the room where a fire burned in the grate. The woman had short blonde hair and wore a black velvet gown. I recognized her from the table on the street—the tarot reader. Of course, that was how I knew her voice. The woman behind the door. She was moving gracefully in the arms of two men wearing satin smoking jackets, and sharing a bottle of wine with them. One of the men had curly brown hair and the other had black hair, slicked back from his face. I recognized John Graves.

They looked like the perfect friends I dreamed of having, I had dreamed of having since I lost the only real friend I had ever had. But I was not part of this world, I told myself. Why even try? John held the blonde as if she were his lover. They had no need for me. It was worse than the world of the dorms. At least I didn’t care if I was rejected there. So I turned away from the house where part of me still remained.

*   *   *

When I got back to my dorm room, Lauren and Dallas were gone—they must have decided to sleep in his room instead. I sat down on my bed, still out of breath from my run. There was something on my bedspread. I pulled back, my stomach turning. It couldn’t be that …

There was a note that said,
Watch how you dispose of your rag. It made us want to vomit. Love, Your Secret Admirers.

And, yes, it was a tampon there. Apparently a used one. I picked it up with a paper towel and almost put it on Lauren’s pillow … but threw it in the trash instead.

I’d been wrong.

It was worse here. Treacherous beauty, even morbid beauty, was better than real-life shit.

9. What you first fall in love with

Before Thanksgiving my parents asked me what Bean was doing for the holiday and I knew something bad was coming by the tension in their voices.

“Oh,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “She’s going to be with her family. She has this huge family in Marin. I told you she’s from Marin, right? She invited me to join her if I wanted. Why?”

My dad cleared his throat. “It’s just that, your mother isn’t feeling great. She has to go through some treatments.”

Didn’t they want me there? I chewed at my lower lip; my mouth tasted like metal.

“It’s really up to you,” my mother said. “We want you to know that. But I didn’t want you to see me like this, baby. I want to be stronger for you.”

“I want to be strong for you,” I said, but I knew I wasn’t.

“I know,” said my mom. “I know you do.”

My dad went on. “Your mother and I do want you with us, Ariel. But when things are a little calmer so it’s easier for everyone.”

I tried, unsuccessfully, to swallow the tinny taste away.

“We were wondering if we could put the celebration off a little,” he said. “If you could maybe go with your friends for the holiday? Just this time.”

I wanted to tell them I didn’t have friends, that I’d be spending the holiday looking for
Jennifer Benson,
but instead: “Sure,” I said. “I can see you at Christmas.” It wasn’t just a taste now; I could hear the metallic edge in my voice.

“We’ll make it up to you, baby,” said my mom. “I promise. I’ll get well and make it up to you.”

I wasn’t sure if this was true and even though she was still very much alive, I felt the change; a death had taken place.

*   *   *

The day was gray and bleak. The dorms were so quiet; almost everyone had left. I sat in my room reading and every now and then looking out over the empty streets. The tarot reader had said that Berkeley was built on sacred burial ground, some kind of power spot, but that day it just looked like a grim, deserted college town and when I finally went downstairs in the evening the lounge smelled like last night’s spilled beer and urine.

I couldn’t face the pressed turkey and jellied cranberry they were serving in the dorm to the scattered few who remained. Maybe I’d take a walk outside.

I noticed I had a text and checked the message. It was from a number I didn’t recognize.

do u have plans 4 late txgiving dinner john graves

My heart had never felt so full of blood. He had invited me to come to him.

As I ran down the stairs I saw Coraline Grimm through an open door, standing on the bed in her dorm room tacking flyers on her wall.

“I saw you at Halloween Hotel,” she said. “I’m all, that’s the girl from the dorms.”

I made myself stop even though my body was still running downstairs. “Oh. Yeah.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.” She turned the rest of her body so she was facing me. Her shoulders stooped forward in her black vintage dress. “That guy you were with? I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“He’s a heartbreaker. Literally. They all are. You should be careful.”

“Careful how?”

“There’s some weird shit in that drink they serve.”

I was going to ask more but she turned back to the wall behind her and I saw what was there: missing-person flyers, including the one I had given her.

“What’s all that?” I asked.

“Oh. It’s a project I’m working on. It’s called Missing. Do you want to come see?”

Fucking weird.
“No thanks,” I said, more sure than ever where I wanted to go now, in spite of Coraline’s interdiction.

*   *   *

I went among the trees, up the steps, onto the porch, to the door of the house, and knocked.

My heart beat in my mouth like a piece of hot fruit as I waited. And then the door opened.

It wasn’t John but another young man.

“Sorry to bother you. I’m looking for John Graves,” I said.

He grinned so the gap between his front teeth showed. I remembered reading somewhere that a gap between the teeth signified sensuality. He was wiry and shorter than John, with curly brown hair and brown skin, light eyes. He wore a formal if slightly tattered black suit and a white dress shirt.

“Johnny’s not back yet. Who should I say stopped by?”

“Never mind.” I started to back away. I could hear the wispy sound of Coraline’s voice in my ear. She was probably crazy, “heartbreaker” wasn’t exactly a sinister term and I wanted whatever “weird shit” was in their wine, but Coraline seemed to know something about John Graves that I didn’t.

“No, wait. Why don’t you come in? He’ll probably be home soon.”

He was still grinning at me and I could smell the house behind him—that intoxicating scent from the party. Beeswax and pollen and the brew they’d served—spicy, herbal and sweet. There was also something new—the smell of food cooking—a complex blend of flavors that made my stomach cramp with hunger for the first time in weeks; food had more and more been losing its taste.

At that moment I didn’t care that I was walking into the lair of perfect strangers. I had been here once and I wanted to return. I stepped through the door.

It is hard to remember what you first fall in love with. Usually it is an expression in the eyes, an exchange, or a gesture or the sound of a voice, a word spoken. Those things can get blended with the atmosphere around you at the time—a fragrance in the air, a play of light, even music—so that they become almost one with each other and when you see or smell or hear the memories of a place you feel the love again, but as a pang of loss. Sometimes the feelings get connected so deeply to your body that even your own skin, your own eyes in the mirror remind you of what you no longer have. Sometimes it only takes a few things for someone to attach the way I did—enough hunger, enough loneliness, enough loss, someone who will feed you and touch you and listen. Sometimes attachment—call it love—is more complex than that. When you are in the state I was in, love can be tied up with other things, like excitement and danger and the desire to know what really happened, what actually took place.

I walked into their house as I had walked one time before, but this time, no party. Candles were lit, as I had seen through the window, and they burned on every surface, dripping scented wax. I thought for a moment of fire hazards and then forgot. There were vases of roses everywhere—not the store-bought kind but wild garden roses, blousy and very sweet—I remembered stepping out into the garden behind the house: that smell. Music was playing but this time I didn’t recognize it. It was mysterious and soft with a beautiful female voice singing words I didn’t understand.
Mellifluous,
I thought, glad to be able to apply the word Melinda Story had used in class about Spenser’s
Epithalamion.
I followed the man into a large formal dining room with a long table covered in worn damask—shiny blossoms against a matte background of the same creamy color—more roses and candles and green vines. A delicately branched chandelier of white iron vines and flowers, and missing a few large crystals, hung from the ceiling. I smelled the food more strongly now and my stomach cramped again; all I’d eaten that day was a bowl of cornflakes and half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

The woman stepped into the room through the kitchen door. She was taller than I’d realized, with broad, perfectly sculpted shoulders, long thin arms and legs and full breasts, all shown off by the red vintage Chinese silk dress she wore. She was the girl on the flyer the giant had given me. She was the girl on the bed. The tarot reader. The dancing girl.

She looked me up and down. “We’ve met before.”

“On Telegraph. I’m Ariel.”

“Like
The Tempest.
” It gave me a queer feeling when she said that; I didn’t understand until I realized that it was exactly what John Graves had said. She took my hand. Her skin was hot.

“I’m Tania.”

“Hi.”

“De la Torre.” She looked over at the man in the suit. “She just appeared at the door?”

“She came looking for John.”

“He invited me,” I said, wanting to check the text to make sure I hadn’t imagined it.

Tania nodded. “So you met Perry?”

I waved lamely at both of them and tried to smile. I steadied myself by holding onto one of the dining room chairs. It had a wooden back carved with flowers and vines and was upholstered in faded green velvet.

“You can join us for dinner,” Tania said softly. Her voice was almost as compelling as the smell of the food. “But you have to dress for it.” She scowled at my clothes. “Come on.”

She gestured for me to follow her up the stairs. Perry came behind us.

The bedroom was lushly, if a bit shabbily, decorated with a large bed draped in red silk velvet and threadbare Persian rugs on the floor. There was a dressing table and Tania motioned for me to sit. She handed me a cup full of the thick, dark liquid I’d had at the party. I took it, trying not to seem too eager. I’d thought about that drink a lot since Halloween.

“Makeover!” Perry said. I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was limp and scraggly and my skin so pale you could see a vein running blue under the surface of my cheek. I looked like any exhausted freshman but in contrast to the two people in the room with me I was ridiculous.

“What will we do with this?” Tania took my hair out of the ponytail I always wore and ran her fingers through it. The touch soothed me and I closed my eyes for a second, remembering how John had taken my hand at the concert. I surrendered as she expertly trimmed the split ends, feeling suddenly like a little girl, curious and trusting, not reckless, not suspicious anymore.