The Zodiac Collector (7 page)

A drum solo drowns out Mom's riff of swears. She must be using her battery-powered radio.

I round the corner and slip into the kitchen. I don't know why I sneak. She can't hear me over her own noise. Yet it seems like angry eyes are shooting javelins at me from another dimension or something.

Like in all the horror books I've read, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge and my stomach sours. A shiver rips down my spine and the nagging feeling of being watched heats my skull. A presence is definitely behind me. I clench my jaw, fighting the urge to run. I'm being ridiculous. It's probably nothing. I shiver again. Pressure builds behind me and a shadow darkens the room.

It's the sun going behind a cloud.

Except it's not.

The air thickens and grows heavy. Something suffocating is closing in.

I spin around, ready to confront whoever or whatever is lurking behind me.

The hallway is empty.

“Stupid. Stop freaking yourself out.”

I shrug off the chill and head to the kitchen. Nothing happens when I turn the switch. I huff. Right, the power is out.

“I wish I could just chant a spell and voila, dinner's on the table,” I mutter.

Even though I'm alone, I can't shake the worry willies that keep skittering across my shoulders. I wipe the sweat from my palms onto my jeans and head to the pantry. Unlike at Gamma's, our pantry is a large, built-in cabinet dividing the kitchen and dining spaces. Inside, I find a loaf of oat-nut bread, peanut butter, grape jelly, and baked vegetable chips. I dump the items on the table and check the fridge for fruit. Pre-washed strawberries and blueberries—score! I toss them in a bowl with some sugar. There's pound cake in the pantry. Drizzle on the fruit and
bam!
—dessert.

Outside, an arc of lightning flashes across the dark, heavy clouds. Thunder grumbles like an old man awoken from a nap. Rain spits on the roof.

Poor Castor and Pollux. They hate thunderstorms.

The dogs, I mean. The Gemini twins, I can't say.

Dad has a sixth sense where food is concerned. As soon as I have the table set, he appears, a smile on his face. “No power, eh?”

“What happened?”

“No idea. Flipped the circuit breakers to see if there was a short somewhere in the house, but no go.”

Old Man Thunder grumbles some more, but a slice of sunlight spears the ground. All talk and no bite.

“Could it be the storm?” I ask.

He shrugs, lathering his greasy hands with hand sanitizer. “Yeah, if it hit a transformer.”

There. A logical explanation. It has nothing to do with the spell.

“You excited for your birthday?” Dad pours himself a glass of milk and sits at the head of the table.

I join him. “Yeah.”

“What are you and Mary going to do?” He drinks half the glass in one gulp.

I inhale, ready to tell him…and my brain flashes the blue screen of death. There's no sense in telling him about our bloated wishes of a birthday blowout to end all birthday blowouts, because, well, he's Dad. “I dunno.”

“You could see a movie with William, or hang out at the faire.” He finishes his milk and gets up to pour another glass.

I rest my case. He doesn't get it. “Yeah.”

Mary joins Dad and me for dinner. Mom doesn't. Her empty place setting is a stark reminder of what it's like when she's manic. I stuff down tears of anger and sneak a glance at Mary. She cuts the crust off her bread and nibbles on a clean edge like a squirrel.

I push the chips toward her.

“No, thanks.” She takes a sip of water.

Dad shovels three sandwiches down his gullet in a matter of minutes. He'd give the funnel-cake-eating contest competitors a run for their shillings. Bits of crumbs and mini-globules of jelly litter his bushy moustache. He wipes his mouth on a discount paper napkin, finishes off his glass of milk, and belches. It used to make us laugh. “Thanks, girls. Great dinner. I'll be in my workshop. I'll also see if I can get the generator going so your mom can work through the night. How ‘bout you? Got your costumes ready for the faire?”

We nod.

“It helps your mom's business when you wear her gowns, you know.” His hooded emerald eyes volley between Mary and me. He always looks so much older when Mom is manic. It's as if she drains his energy to accelerate hers.

I bite my tongue. I hate being a walking advertisement, but that's what Mary and I are. Every year, we parade around in her creations and never get to explore or enjoy the faire on our own.

Mary smiles. “We know, Dad.”

He carries his dishes to the sink, then heads to the fridge and drags out a six-pack. “Tell your mom I'll have the power on soon. That should cheer her up.”

“Right.” I grimace behind his back. Why can't he tell her?

He cradles the beer and leaves.

I put the leftover food away while Mary clears and wipes the table.

As we work, the lights flicker to life and a happy “Whoop!” echoes from Mom's studio all way to the kitchen.

“We should see if she's ready for us to try on dresses now, while she's in a good mood.” Mary shakes the dishtowel out over the trash can and folds it over the bar mounted onto the cabinet door under the sink.

“Good idea.” I suck in a puff of my asthma medicine. If I go in without pre-medicating, I'll end up in a full-blown attack within a minute.

Mom's rocking out to her favorite band while she irons. Her hips sway left to right and her hair bounces around her head like a lion shaking out its mane.

I slip into the living room and Mary stays close beside me. “Hi, Mom. Hungry?”

She whirls, a lopsided grin on her face and a cigarette tucked into the corner of her mouth. “Girls! You're just in time. The lights came back on. Now I have proper lighting to finish your dresses.” She sashays to two dress forms by the bay window. Both gowns are green—one is dark emerald, and the other reminds me of light grass.

“These are really pretty, Mom.” Mary tracks around the edge of the room to Mom.

“I think you should wear this one, Mary. Anne should wear the jewel-toned one.” She removes the lighter-colored dress from its form and holds it up to Mary, who stands as still as a statue. After a short inspection, she says, “Yes, this one. Go put it on.”

Mary clutches the gown to her chest and heads out of the room to change.

Mom gives the other dress to me. “These will be perfect. Well, hurry up. I want to see how this looks on you.”

I follow Mary to the den, where we change clothes. We have to help each other lace up the gowns. They weigh at least twenty pounds and we don't even have our corsets on. A layer of sweat slicks my skin. Wearing this thing outside all day is not going to be fun.

Mom gushes like a fairy high on unicorn glitter when she sees us. “Oh, so beautiful. My best work ever.” Her gaze travels over the gowns, but never to our faces. It's like we're mannequins and our only purpose is to make her dresses look good. “Turn around.”

We rotate slowly on imaginary skewers so she can see every angle. Her eyes burn hotter than any campfire. My flesh sizzles under her gaze.

While she pins various bits to fix, I ask, “We don't have to wear these on our birthday, do we?”

She freezes, holding a pin inches from the hem of my bodice. Her hand shakes a bit. A flurry of rapid blinking stokes the blaze in her eyes. “You know how important it is for you to show these gowns around the faire.”

“Yeah, but our birthday is toward the faire's end, anyway, and it's only one day.”

“It's not ‘only one day.' Don't forget, you're in school this year during the day for your SAT review
and the test itself
and most people are gone by evening, so you're already doing less.” She shoves the pin in the fabric, almost stabbing me with the tip.

I shy away on instinct.

She winds her wiry fingers around my upper arm and gives a socket-tugging yank. “Don't be such a baby.”

“Can you give us the evening off, maybe?”

Mary whips her head back and forth, warning me to drop the subject.

“Why?” Mom shoves us out of the room.

“It's our birthday.”

“Change out of those and give them back to me so I can make the alterations.” She slams the door in our faces.

Mary slugs me in the arm. “Why'd you piss her off?”

I rub my arm. “I didn't do it on purpose.”

“Thought you wanted to keep everything secret.”

“I do.”

She rolls her eyes and heads down the hallway to the den.

The doorbell chimes, and Mary halts.

I walk to the door and pry open the curtain. William and Evan stand on the porch.

William waves at me. “Hey.”

“Hi.” A smile instantly erupts on my face. I open the door and step outside. Mary crowds behind me and I shift to the side so she can come out.

“Wow, you guys look awesome.” William checks out our dresses. He checks out mine more than Mary's.

Heat flames my cheeks from his attention. “Thanks.”

His gaze meets mine and his dimples flash. “Makes your eyes look super green.”

“Yeah?” I twist a strand of hair around my finger.

Evan coughs. “Uh, Mary, I like your dress, too. Reminds me of the color of Mountain Dew. Did you know the term used to refer to moonshine?”

Mary giggles and fluffs the skirt a bit. “That's cool.”

Evan smiles. “Yeah. Another term is white lightning.”

I have to cut this off before they both get their nerd on. “What brings you guys by?”

“Ev and I are watching B-list sci-fi flicks. Wanna join?” He hooks his thumbs through his belt loops. For the love of all that's Elizabethan, he smells
so
good. Clean and fresh, like the park after a warm rain. Or fresh laundry. Or the forest on a scorching summer day.

Let's see—an evening out of the house, away from Mom, plus hours with the cutest boy I know? Tough decision. “Sure. Let us change.”

Chapter Seven

M
orning sun strikes through my bedroom window, searing my eyelids. Birds chirp in a random chorus, fighting to keep their territory. I want to duct tape all their chipper little beaks shut. A torrent of emotion swirls inside me. I ride the wave, floating on the memories of sitting next to William for hours on end, paying more attention to his breathing, laughing, and yummy clean smell than to the movies we watched. Then I sink into a whirlpool, smacked in the face by the eddies of goofed birthday chants and failed negotiations with Mom. Disappointment lingers over my shoulders like a damp wool cloak.

I roll out of bed, disturbing Castor. Poor thing stuck out the night with me, despite my kicking him in the head a dozen times. He hops off the bed and sneezes. I chuckle as he wags his tail and yaps at me. Really, I have no other choice than to pick him up and pet him.

“Where are Mary and Pollux, eh?” I coo into his ear. His tongue laps at my chin. “Let's go find them.”

Castor hops around my legs all the way downstairs, through the foyer, and outside to the front porch. Mary's sitting on the wrought-iron bench Dad built out of scrap metal. White paint flecks off every time someone sits on it because of the years of neglect. Refinishing it is on his to-do list, but everything's on hold until the faire ends. Pollux hovers at her feet—most likely praying for her bowl of cereal to spontaneously capsize so he can snarf it down.

It's a blessedly normal morning, no weirdness in sight. I tell myself a new day means a fresh start.

“Hey, what's up?” I use my
hunky-dory, everything-is-great
voice and sit next to her. A cool breeze rustles the leaves and rattles the rusted wind chimes hanging from the porch roof. It reminds me of the tornado that took over our room yesterday. I shiver, chilled more by the memory than the temperature.

Mary swallows a mouthful of frosty flakes and points with her spoon. “The caravans are here.”

Pollux wags his tail, ever hopeful. Castor joins him and yips a greeting.

A line of cars, vans, and trucks hauling campers whizzes past in a constant stream. Each vehicle is at least twenty years old. Some have duct tape holding bumpers and windows together. Others are painted in patchwork-quilt patterns. An epic fantasy battle between wizards, dragons, and ogres decorates the side panel of one van. It's followed by a van with a haunted cemetery scene. Half the cars are burning oil, and the acrid stench turns my stomach and burns my nose. I should've grabbed my inhaler.

“More cars this year,” I say, stealing a sugary corn flake from Mary's bowl.

“Hey, go get your own. It only seems like more because you're up early enough to watch the whole procession.” She peers at me out of the corner of her eye. “Why are you out of bed, anyway? You tossed and turned all night.”

I shrug. “I had trouble sleeping.”

“Why?”

“Dunno.” Staring at the traffic helps me lie. If I look at her, then I'll have to tell her about my nightmares about pissed-off warrior stars and Mom attacking me with lance-sized sewing needles. Then she'll have more reason to pick on me about the magick spells.

“Uh-huh. Right.”

“And I suppose you slept just fine?” I can't keep the accusation out of my voice. Guilt wags its accusing finger at me, saying I shouldn't be getting angry at her simple question. I should be mad at myself for making Mom angry, for chanting before Gamma taught me how, and for freaking Mary out.

Pollux barks. His patience has expired. Castor simply lies on my feet. He's pretending to be laid back, little faker. Mary surrenders the remains of her breakfast to Pollux. Castor swoops in like a piranha. Pollux doesn't complain. “Look, what happened yesterday—”

“Is my fault. Just like everything else.” I stand and fold my arms.

“Everything else?”

“Yeah, making Mom mad, fighting with you, pretending magick will work…all of it.”