THE 33 KEYS: Key 2 - ANSWER THE CALL "Listen for that Perfect Beat"

CHAPTER 29: THE CYCLE CONTINUES

This level of frustration calls for a rooftop dialogue between myself and the person in the mirror who sometimes puts thoughts in my head. But the door is shut tight this time. So I retire to my room and listen to the radio on my phone for the first time since my mother died. Dammit! Somebody definitely has it out for me. One of her hit songs smacks me right in the face as soon as I push the earphones in. This day just can't get any worse. Or can it?

I usually train myself not to ask these silly questions. It's me, Mary Pethiel, daughter of the famed daughter that was robbed of all her royalties. Of course, the day can always get worse. I strip down to nothing and curl up in my customary ball of pity. The tears flow freely, not caring a bit whether that bitch Tessa is listening. Let her hear my pain and laugh if she wants. Tonight I will haunt the corridors and scare her to death; maybe even wear a white sheet. Okay, a dingy sheet that is more like cream. All right, a yellowish cream; and that's all I'll confess to. Who cares anyway? I might not even live to see tomorrow.

Ebony Pethiel had spent all her money on pleasures and pipe dreams. That was the official story the record company had released and everyone ate it up. But I know my mother – er, knew her – and she saved almost every penny her hands brushed against. So how is it that I'm on the verge of spending the rest of my days drifting on street corners, begging for food to stay alive? And why is it that Hazel's angels never visit me? All questions I hope will get answered before my time is up.

A notification yanks me back to the real world. Another friend request. I accept like a robot and take the opportunity to check up on Pete. But for some reason I can't connect to his account. Then it hits me like the Cave Beach bus that never shows up when you need it. I know why I can't find it. Inhale. Exhale. Pete blocked me just when I needed him the most.

To make things worse, the next morning I wake with blood stains on my bed. This means the ocean's aquamarine blue can now hide Hazel from all who laugh at her; and everyone caught during its transition will walk around stained until it recedes. I pour some detergent into my hand and head for the bathroom. If anyone smells it, they'll think I'm washing my underwear. I hustle to get out before the usual Sunday cooks crowd the hallway with pots clanging.

Then a crazy thought jumps into my head as I dry my skin. Maybe I won one number because I wasn't specific enough. Maybe the Universe translated my one dollar spell into me wanting one number. A quick visit to the website goads me along. I drag the blood-stained sheet off and replace it with my dingy one. Then I pull my remaining pads out and put one on.

Another quick visit to my purse intensifies my desperation. I take six dollars out and set it next to the same black plastic bag; then head down to the Matron's herb garden. From the sign of things, she's been there since my last visit. I can tell because those plants I massacred are trimmed down to encourage new growth. But to hell with it!

I pick the few leaves she left behind and head back upstairs just as her snowed-on hair peeps through the office window. She scowls at me then looks over my head at one of her beloved students. My feet move into second gear to avoid the brat. And by the time she enters the ground floor I'm almost on the middle. Then I do a tiptoe run to put two floors between us and slam my room door behind me, for effect.

It doesn't take long for me to do the six dollar spell. But as soon as the last knot is tied I remember that the main ingredient is missing. Well, not really an ingredient; just a superstition at this point. What if the last spell had worked because I was on the rooftop? And what if this one is destined to fail for the same reason? I slump down on to the small bed with a healthy sigh, a cloudy mirror the only thing interested in conversation; so I ask it: do you know when I'm going to die?