Possessed

Chapter 3

              The weekend passes by in a blur of hazy, rainy days, awkward family dinners and nights with little sleep. It has been one thousand years since our conversation that I can not get out of my head, and I know what you’re doing. I know what you’re doing! Every moment, every second of that night has played over and over again in my head, crystal clear, like a scene from a movie. I dream of the things that I wish I had said, like this instead of that. We haven’t spoken since, so I have no hope of saying what I was supposed to all along. I was so weak, so stupid to come to you that night.

            But I did, and I can’t take it back.

            Monday morning, sometime around eight, Francesca comes and shakes me awake. The pink, orange, purple sunlight from outside filters in through the translucent curtains in my bedroom, and the whole room glows.

            “We’ve got to register you for school sweetie,” Francesca whispers. I get up slowly as she walks out and shuts my bedroom door lightly.

            I must, must, must take a shower.

            I dig around in my trunk for a pair of pink ballet tights and a long sweater or shirt and find a gauzy mini sundress instead. It is the color of a dove; the color of Angel wings, and just as light. My legs are toothpicks.

    I run the heavy mist in the shower until it is blistering hot and step beneath the spray. The water feels amazing on my bare skin, scorching and calming, and I don’t know why I haven’t showered in so long. I wash my dingy hair. I wash my emaciated body, between my fingers; between my toes. I am in the shower much to long, but I don’t care. It feels like I am wrapped in molten silk. I am a pristinely clean, polished girl when I step out. I am a new person.

            I wipe the fog away from the mirror and apply a little bit of mascara from the makeup bag in the cupboard under the sink. My eyes are wide, my lashes heavy. The tights stick to my legs and my white witch dress hangs down to my thighs. I slip on a pair of sneakers after I blow dry my hair and tie it up into a loose ponytail high on top of my head. It frizzes out and hangs past my angel wings. I look in the mirror. Everything looks good. I look good.

            Realistically, I look like a child. But it will do, it has to. Francesca is calling up the stairs to me, checking to see if I am ready. It is almost ten o’clock.

            The weather outside is warm and rainy, so I wear a vintage sweater dotted with flowers and lined with lace. My pearl necklace is a little much, but Francesca smiles at me as I stand at the bottom of the stairs.

            “You look lovely!” She says, and then she comes to me; touches my face. “You look just like your mom.” I manage a small smile and follow her out to the van.

            Lakeshore Academy is but five minutes away. Still, Francesca insists that she will be driving you, Abby and I to school every morning.

The campus is large and covered in fake grass. At least, I’m sure it’s fake because it’s the bright, plastic color of a green wax crayon; much too vivid to be real.

    Scattered about are quads with benches and picnic tables so kids can study and eat outside. The biggest quad is located outside of the main building, with a wishing fountain as the centerpiece. I look at the fountain and at the statue woman, her head tilted back towards the sky, like she’s swallowing the rain.

            Too many memories here, I think.

            Lakeshore looks more like a castle, with wet stone walls and ivy crawling up the side of each building, as though it’s reaching for the sun; clawing at the clouds. On top of the school are single stones shaped and spaced wide apart like gapped teeth, each one sharp and grey.