Бри Деспейн - The Dark Divine

But tonight, it was too quiet to eat. I scraped my leftovers down the disposal and went to bed. I lay there for a while until those phantom voices found their way into my head. But then I realized the loud tones came from my own home. My parents were shouting at each other down in the study. They weren't violent shouts, but angry and annoyed. Mom and Dad occasionally disagreed and argued, but I had never heard them fight before. Dad's voice was low enough that I could hear his despair, but I couldn't understand his words. Mom's voice got louder, angrier, sarcastic.

"Maybe you're right," she yelled. "Maybe it is your fault. Maybe you brought this on all of us. And while we're at it, why don't we add global warming to the list? Maybe that's your fault, too."

I got up and closed my door all the way, slipped back under the covers, and pulled a pillow over my head.

Chapter Seven

Obligations

TUESDAY MORNING

Dad usually went jogging early in the morning, but I didn't hear him go out while I was getting ready for school. The light was on in his study as I passed the closed doors on my way to the kitchen. I almost knocked but decided against it.

"You're up early," Mom said as she shoveled a stack of chocolate chip pancakes onto my plate. She'd already made two dozen of them even though none of us--except

Dad--usually made our way down to breakfast for another thirty minutes. "I hope you slept well."

Yeah, with a pillow over my head.

"I have a meeting with Mr. Barlow this morning."

"Mm-hmm," Mom said. She was busy wiping down the already glistening counter. Her loafers reflected in the sheen on the linoleum floor. Mom had a tendency to get a little OCD when she was stressed. The harder things were for the family, the more she tried to make things sparkle. Like everything was perfectly perfect.

I poked my finger into one of the melting chocolate chips that formed a symmetrical smiling face in my pancake. Mom normally only made her "celebration pancakes" for special occasions. I wondered if she was trying to soften the blow for a discussion about Maryanne--prep us for one of Dad's sermons about how death is a natural part of life and all. That is, until I saw the look of guilt in her eyes when she placed a glass of orange juice in front of me. The pancakes were a peace offering for her fight with Dad last night.

"Fresh squeezed." Mom wrung her apron in her hands. "Or would you rather have cranberry? Or maybe white grape?"

"This is fine," I mumbled, and took a sip.

She frowned.

"It's great," I said. "I love fresh squeezed."

I knew right then that Dad wasn't coming out of his study this morning. We weren't going to talk about what happened to Maryanne. And Mom certainly wasn't going to talk about their fight, either.

Last night Daniel had made me feel guilty for having a family that sat around the dinner table and discussed our lives. But now I realized that we never actually talked about anything that was a problem in our home. It's why the rest of my family never mentioned Daniel's name or discussed what happened the night he disappeared--no matter how many times I'd asked.

Talking would be admitting that there was something wrong.

Mom smiled. It looked as syrupy and fake as the imitation maple drizzled on my breakfast. She flitted back to the stove and turned over a couple of pancakes. Her face fell into a frown again, and she dumped the barely over-browned batch into the trash. She still wore the same blouse and slacks from yesterday under her apron. Her fingers were red and chapped from hours of cleaning. This was perfection overdrive, big-time.

I wanted to ask Mom why she would hide her fight with Dad by making ten pounds of pancakes, but Charity came stumbling into the room.

"What smells so good?" she yawned.

"Pancakes!" Mom shooed Charity into a seat with her spatula and presented her with a heaping plate. "There's maple syrup, boysenberry, whipped cream, and raspberry jam."

"Awesome." Charity dug into a container of whipped cream with her fork, "You're the best, Mom." Charity gulped down her pancakes and went for seconds. She didn't seem to notice Mom practically scrubbing a hole into the skillet.

Charity grabbed the raspberry jam and then froze.

Her eyes suddenly seemed glossy, like she was about to cry. The jar slipped out of her fingers and rolled across the table. I caught it just as it went over the edge. I looked at the label: FROM THE KITCHEN OF MARYANNE DUKE.

"It's okay," I said, and put my hand on Charity's shoulder.

"I forgot ... ," Charity said softly. "I forgot that it wasn't a dream." She pushed her plate away and got up from the table.

"I was just about to start some fried eggs," Mom said as Charity left the room.

I looked down at my plate. My smiling breakfast stared up at me and I didn't know if I could stomach any more. I took another sip of my orange juice. It tasted sour. I knew I could convince Jude to give me an early ride to school, but I didn't want to stick around and watch my mother's display of perfection start all over again when he came down for breakfast. I wrapped a couple of pancakes in a napkin and got up from the table. "I've got to go," I said. "I'll eat on the way."

Mom looked up from scrubbing. I could tell my not eating hadn't helped alleviate her guilt. For some reason I didn't care.

I walked the few blocks to school in the cold and donated my breakfast to a stray cat I met along the way.

LATER, BEFORE SCHOOL

The clock in the art room ticked its way to 7:25 a.m. and I cursed myself for giving Daniel only a five-minute window for lateness. I closed my eyes and prayed silently that Daniel would come, just so I could prove Barlow wrong about him. But with every tick of the clock I started to think I was the one who was going to be disappointed.

"Worried I wasn't going to show?" Daniel flopped into the chair next to mine just in time. He wore the light blue woven shirt and khakis I'd left for him, but his clothes were crumpled like he'd had them wadded up in his pack until only a few minutes before.

"I don't really care what you do." I fell tiny pricks of red-heat forming on my neck. "It's your future, not mine."

Daniel snorted.

Mr. Barlow came out of his office and sat at his desk. "I see Mr. Kalbi decided to join us after all."

"It's just Daniel. No Kalbi." Daniel pronounced his last name like a cuss word.

Barlow raised an eyebrow. "Well, Mr. Kalbi, when you become a famous musician or the Pope you can drop your last name. But in my class you will go by the name your parents gave you." Barlow looked Daniel over like a critic appraising a new work in a gallery.

Daniel leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

Mr. Barlow clasped his fingers together on top of his desk. "You are well aware that your scholarship is contingent on your behavior. You will act and dress appropriately for a Christian school. Today was a nice try, but you might want to invest in an iron. And I highly doubt that is your natural hair color. I will give you until

Monday to do something about it.

"As for my class," Barlow went on, "you will be here every day, on time, and in your seat when the bell rings. Every AP student is required to compile a portfolio of twenty-three works on a specific theme and ten more projects to show their breadth. You are coming into this class late, but I expect you to do the same." Mr. Barlow leaned forward and stared into Daniel's eyes like he was challenging him to a game of chicken--daring him to glance away first.

Daniel didn't blink. "No problem."

"Daniel is quite proficient," I said.

Barlow stroked his mustache, and I knew he was about to deliver the catch. "Your portfolio will consist only of work done in this class. I will monitor each of your assignments at the beginning, middle, and end of their progression. You will not turn in anything you have done previous to now."