The Crescent

Chapter 21

Zacari's father was just stirring when she got back from breakfast. Breakfast was free of charge for Javier and his plus one, but even so he'd tucked a five beneath his empty plate for the waitress before awkwardly asking Zacari for her phone number in that winsome, jumbled manner she was coming to adore. They skirted around the notion of a hug, but in the end Javier gave Lela a squeeze and handed her back to Zacari.

Her father sat up and stretched, his hands furling and unfurling like two calloused flowers. "Where'd you run off?" He swung out of bed and pilfered through his bag, pulling out an impeccably folded pair of socks. How did she manage to be such a slob when she had such neat parents? She kicked off her flip-flops next to her pile of clothes and set Lela down on the bed. Stuffed with bits of eggs and sausage, Lela curled up on one of the pillows. She rather liked Javier.

"I told you," Zacari said irritably, flopping down next to her. "To eat breakfast."

"Oh, yeah." He pulled on a uniform pair of work jeans. "Did you bring me back anything?"

"No. Order room service," she shrugged. Then, a bit venomously, "Or go out to eat with my step-mommy of the month, Allison." Even as she said it, it sounded unfair. She could practically hear her mother chiding her. She never got jealous of Zacari's father's alleged girlfriends.

Her father chuckled. "So, just you and Googles then?" Lela opened one eye and wagged her tail.

Zacari considered her answer. "Yes" would be a lie. But would anything come of a "no?" Boys simply weren't a topic between the two of them, and she didn't see a reason to make it one now. "Maybe."

"Cari."

"Fine. I ate with a friend."

"That dorky Mexican kid?" he grinned. Zacari crossed her arms. "There's that frown-dimple. I'm not wrong, huh?"

"He's Salvadorian, actually. Not that it's any of your business."

He grabbed his toothbrush from the side of his bag. His belongings unfailingly in place for a quick getaway only irritated her more. "No, I guess it's not," he replied, heading to the bathroom. "Until you decide it is."

Fresh out of scathing replies, she peevishly pulled out a random Harry Potter as running water sounded from the bathroom. Her father was surely preparing for a day of vague, miscellaneous errands. Or hanging out with Chris. Whatever, she thought. I have to learn more about Baker and his patients anyway. He stepped out of the bathroom and slipped on his boots, and left the room with a, "Be good," and Zacari was alone. Again.

She started a shower. The steam rolling out of the bathroom reminded her of the frost sealing the exits every time she encountered Baker.

"It isn't to keep you in, it's to keep others out."

Still, it perturbed her. She gathered clean clothes and turned the water to cold anyway and the steam diminished. Her skin was still raw with sunburn anyway. The cold water took some getting used to, but it stripped the leftover sleep from her. Which was just as well because she didn't want another six-hour dream leaving her bruised. She tapped the purple on her wrist. Had the dream anything to do with Baker? Somehow, she felt the dream was all her own, separate from him. Not that she could remember anything more than scraps. The tumor creature. The bare trees. The hardly-grave. Whatever that was. She turned off the faucet, toweled off, and reapplied aloe vera to her burns.

Sleep, it turned out, could not be so easily avoided with a cold shower. With all the intention to explore and learn more about Baker, Zacari slipped under the covers next to Lela. She imagined herself giving a presentation in the history room on him. Maybe she could ask Javier to help. But it was doubtful that people would believe her. She hadn't even graduated high school, and last semester she'd barely made a B in U.S. History. It had been one-sided anyway.

Zacari was nearly asleep when Lela's wet nose prodded her awake. She pushed up onto her elbows and watched as Lela paced to the edge of the bed and sat. She was staring at something, tail wagging. Zacari reached for the camera on the bedside table. Lela might have eaten her own feces a time or two, but she never seemed to be wrong about the supernatural. Zacari swung out of bed and looked through the camera's viewfinder.

The young man from The Crystal Ballroom, in his stuffy clothes and obnoxious bow tie, sat on the lounge in the very spot Baker first had. But while Baker took up space in places he didn't even occupy, the young man was perched on the edge of his seat like a finch, his body tense and timid, as if he were trying to disappear into himself.

Zacari gasped and pulled back from the camera, and the young man sat there.

"Who are you?"

His eyebrows shot up into his mess of unruly hair.

"Oh, hello," he stammered. "I didn't want to wake you." He stood abruptly and offered his hand. "I'm Will Drachman. I'm a journalist."