Carmiabell: The Black Apple

Chapter 5

If mid-autumn hadn’t quite surrendered to midsummer, the room felt like a sauna. The air hung heavy and oppressive, mocking my discomfort with every sticky bead of sweat rolling down my back. As I shifted in my seat, I could practically hear the collective thoughts of the café’s patrons: “What’s in that bag?” They all seemed to lock eyes on the sisal-woven backpack pressed tightly against my chest.

Way to go, Carmiabell. As if the bulging bag didn’t scream, "Something's cooking!"

Then there was Phoebi, watching me, a constant reminder of the danger lurking in my cursed backpack. I swear, if I got caught, I wouldn’t go down alone. Misery loves company, especially when it’s about something as enticing as a black apple. If only that feeling came with a warning label: “May induce paranoia, erratic behavior, and weird cravings for forbidden fruit.”

My thoughts spiraled into a playlist of anxiety-driven distractions. I focused on the conversations swirling around me—a cacophony of laughter and chatter that drowned out the stares digging into my skin. It felt unsettling, like being an actor on a stage where the audience decided to dissect every quirk of my performance—except I hadn’t rehearsed this scene.

All morning, I had contemplated how to rid myself of the apple. But every thought spiraled back to that fateful moment I found it: in the trash container outside my house. It was notorious in our neighborhood—a mere receptacle for unwanted refuse, where discarded clothes and broken toys went to die. It was shared among four houses—my own, Mr. Tom’s, and two others whose occupants I hardly recognized.

Our estate was a hotspot for all striped creatures, drawn to the enchanting view of the golden afterglow and the pastel sun-washed buildings during the moment of captivity. But no stranger would be foolish enough to toss a black apple into unfamiliar territory, right?

Thinking deeper, I realized that might be the best way to dispose this unwanted fruit. If I could find a way to get rid of it quietly, I might escape the threat it represented. Nightmares (black dreamers) were rumored to have gifts, and the risk of riding their lanera was lethal unless someone did it deliberately or accidentally.

Could one of my neighbors be involved? The thought sent a chill down my spine. Most people in Ellialand proudly displayed their lanera—crystals and jewelry shining like badges of honor. Yet, now that I thought about it, I had never seen Mr. Tom or either of my other neighbors. Perhaps I had been heedless of their not-so-engrossing lifestyles, but I deserved to know if one of them was a nightmare.

I couldn’t save the shock for later; the realization made me ten times more paranoid. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a black cloak sliding into the café table next to ours. Like father, like daughter—Alma, Mr. Tom’s daughter, was dressed in a matching shade of black and white.

She hadn’t stuck blue poppies in her hair like a bird’s nest—yes I did that all the time—but the enticing aroma of her lanera could waft over, mingling with the smell of coffee. Black apples were rarer than cow’s eggs, if they even laid any, and would surely draw anyone's attention if all that flux in their veins was diabolical.

I swung my bag over my left shoulder, but she didn't react, so nudged my way toward my clique, who were deep in conversation about who would win the next interschool bake-off—serious business, right?

I nearly forgot about my deadly mission until Zuina burst onto the scene like a whirlwind, demanding my attention.

“My money, please, Flamingo Face.” Zuina’s words shot straight to my face like a well-aimed dart, reminding me of our not-so-smart bet from last week. I felt the heat rise in my cheeks, my secret hiding spot feeling like a spotlight on my awkwardness.

I would have placed ten silver coins in her palm, but only if I hadn’t exchanged a word with Damon. Luckily, my miserable luck on Monday had saved me from that one.

“I spoke with him,” I declared, a grin of triumph crossing my lips like I had just uncovered the secret to eternal youth. Surely this would deflect her attention from the lurking apple.

“I didn’t see it.” Her palm remained stretched, and the look on her face suggested she knew how cowardly I could be. Cowardly? Me? Well, I definitely was when it came to boys. But there was something called luck. Like when you meet your crush on a public levitating train, and he starts a conversation that doesn’t involve you tripping over your own feet.

“You mean that guy?” Phoebi interjected, pointing at the masculine figure taking a seat at the far end of the café.

Damon had withdrawn his cloak, and truth be told, those biceps protruding from the velvet sky-blue suit were unlike anything I had ever seen. Seriously, I was pretty sure he could bench press a small carriage.

"I thought you said you didn't like him?" Phoebi quizzed, and Zuina gave me no chance to reply.

“Don’t tell me my coins are gone.” Zuina’s black eyes caught my ocean-blue ones, a sardonic yet almost sympathetic look crossing her face.

Now all she wanted to know was what we had spoken about, bit by bit. She placed her plate of beef, steamed rice, boiled egg, and a glaze of thick soup beside me, pushing away a small pot of flowers and widening her grin.

I couldn’t dare tell her about the new nickname. Believe me or not, her laughter could lead the school to a serious window-murder catastrophe. Not like she hadn’t already given me a nickname that was embarrassing enough. Flamingo face? Did I seriously blush that many times?

Zuina had a way of painting the town red, but there was no way her humor could purge the thought of the black apple in my backpack from my head. I momentarily switched my glare toward it, an unwelcome reminder of my precarious situation.

Zuina knew me better and quickly navigated my gaze. “What’s in your bag?” Her stare stiffened against my face, cuddling my nerves like a cat seeking attention.

“Nothing.” As sheepish as it sounded, it was the best my addled brain could come up with.

“That’s what everyone carrying illegal drugs says.”

She couldn’t be serious; she thought I was into drugs, didn’t she? Apart from the sheen of sweat on my forehead in the cool autumn midday, my shivering hands, and my squirming like a wanted fugitive, there was nothing resembling a drug cartel.

Who was I kidding? I was the real definition of a novice drug distributor.

“If not, can I see it for myself?” The gesture of her stretching her palm had many meanings, one implying she could not be convinced otherwise. “Just a quick look.”

Zuina could be many things, but a snitch was not one of them. Besides, we could use an extra head.

I threw Phoebi a surreptitious glare, which she evaded by switching to her meal. “I’ll show you in the changing room,” I whispered, trying to sound casual.

The three of us followed each other, a mix of excitement and trepidation hanging in the air. Zuina had pulled strings to become the school’s games captain, so our access to the athletics changing room was a breeze.

It was empty—Zuina made sure of that—so we were left to enjoy the reeking sweat of the poorly handled changing room, the odor mixing with our nerves like an unholy blend of fear and gym socks.

I almost choked on a huge breath as I prepared to reveal my secret, the thrill and fear intertwining like a treacherous dance. Regaining my composure, I clasped the zip of my bag, thrusting it open to create a small opening for their view.

Zuina’s eyes were all over the bag, as were Phoebi’s. Each wanted to catch a glimpse of the piece of diabolical art that had me so on edge.

To my distress, the apple was not in their view. I unzipped the bag further, exposing a wider field of contents. A crooked red-brown stone took me by surprise. It wasn’t happening.

I dug my hand in, rummaging impatiently through the haphazard contents. The results were still downcasting. I dumped the bag and sprawled its contents across the not-so-hygienic floor, but there were no traces of the black apple. Instead, I had been gifted the weight of a stone.

Damn, goblins.