Jennifer Murgia: Leminscate

“What do you mean ‘first weekly’? We’ve had pizza on Fridays before.” I leaned down to tighten my cross trainers. Gym day. I stole a glance at the clock over the sink. Four more minutes to go until Garreth would arrive.

Mom’s head emerged from around the door, lunch meat in hand. “No, I meant the four of us. You know, a weekly thing. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

She turned her back on me purposefully, reaching for the bread on the far counter.

“The four of us?”

“Uh huh.”

My mother was busying herself, avoiding the stricken look surfacing across my face.

“Did you have to ruin my whole week by bringing this up first thing? Now I have nothing to look forward to this weekend.”

“I thought I just gave you something.” Her face fell. Mine on the other hand felt permanently scowled as my grumpiness dug in deeper.

“You can still see Garreth this weekend; like you’re ever apart from that boy for too long. I’m sure he’ll be here in a few minutes anyway. That kid’s like clockwork. ”

She was attempting something she never had to do before, trying to sound strong and authoritative, and it didn’t seem to fit. She knew deep down that I hated the idea.

Abhored it.

Despised it.

It was worse than catching black lung or that creepy flesh-eating disease.

One minute to go … way too long.

Come on Garreth. Where are you?

I looked my mother square in the eye. “Why can’t the fourth person be Garreth? A nice little family dinner. Like a double date.”

Mom sighed deeply, returning the stare.

“It would make us so happy if you two would just try to get along.”

“She’s not even his daughter!” My stress level was skyrocketing. Not a good thing for a Monday before school. I could hear my calculus grade flushing down the toilet already.

“She’s his stepdaughter. And it still makes her family.”

“Well he’s not family yet, either.”

Oops. Without looking at my mom I knew I opened my mouth a little too wide with that one. I heard the refrigerator door open and the plastic salami bag slap forcefully against the back, where it would probably stay now, rotting. Then I heard the loud tapping of her shoes make their way into the small powder room in the hall.

Conversation over.

With perfect timing, Garreth appeared on the back porch, umbrella in hand, to escort me to school. I could hear the faint idling of his Jeep in the driveway.

“Hi.” He leaned over to kiss my forehead, then leaned his head and shoulders into the door frame to call good morning to my mom.

“Don’t bother. It’s not a very good morning.”

“She tried again, huh?” Garreth’s eyes met mine as he noted my sullen attitude. I felt guilty this time. Well, maybe not that much.

“I guess I laid the resistance on a little too thick. You ready?” I asked, grabbing my books and my house key.

I closed the back door behind us, with my mother sulking inside. I knew things would be better when I came home this afternoon. We would eat dinner.

She would try again. I wanted to make her happy, I really did, but sometimes it was hard. Dr. Dean was the first man to seriously sweep her off her feet since my father, and I had to be the one to put a glitch in things.

Garreth opened the door for me and ran around to his side, avoiding the puddles in our neglected and uneven driveway. I looked over at him and forced a smile. Being with him made me beyond happy; it was just taking a little longer this morning.

He shifted the Jeep in reverse and his warm hand found mine. I absently traced his palm with my finger, feeling the soft embedded lines that completed a circle with the intersecting points of his star. His mark never ceased to amaze me. There were days I forgot he wasn’t human. It was so easy to take for granted that a person was born with human traits, little identifiable markings that showed they belonged to the human race … blue eyes, green eyes … arms and legs … curly hair, straight hair. And the odd little markings to distinguish one person from the other, fingerprints for example. No two were alike. Like a snowflake or birthmarks.

But when it came to the palms of our hands, I was still blown away. We were born with markings, but angels were created with their own, too. An octagram engraved in the palm of an angel’s hand. It was the mark of a guardian.

I flipped his hand over, then turned mine over as well. I had my own mark. It wasn’t an octagram because I wasn’t a guardian, but it was just as rare and made me feel special. Garreth called it the Circle of Unity when it first appeared on my hand last spring. Circle of Unity sure sounded a lot better than what I originally thought it was, since it started off looking like an ugly, raised welt—a sure sign of some variety of poison.

I wasn’t quite sure what my mark meant or why I was chosen to have it, but it didn’t scare me. I’ve seen too much to scare easily and it was a relief knowing I’m destined for something else. Something important. Something that will never cease to exist … like my human life.

But human I was for now, and a stubborn one at that.

“I just wish Dr. Dean didn’t come as a package deal. It really would be easier if it was just him,” I said, trying to rationalize.

“You mean it would be easier for you if it was just him. So what you’re really saying is things are difficult enough with just one teenager for them to deal with.” Garreth smiled sideways at me, keeping his eyes fixed on the slick streets on the way to school.

“That’s not what I meant.” I bit down on my tongue. I was only digging myself deeper. “I know I’m no angel.”

Garreth looked right at me, keeping the car steady, and raised his eyebrows inquisitively until they disappeared beneath the lengths of his sandy blonde hair.

“You know what I mean. She’s trouble, that’s all.”

Trouble.

That didn’t even begin to cover it.

I stared at the tiny drops on the windshield in front of me, not saying another word until we pulled into the student parking lot of Carver High School. It was bad enough I had to go to the same school as Brynn Hanson, but to spend every Friday now, scarfing down pepperoni and mushroom pizza with her, was pushing it.

The Jeep stopped. The rain came down heavier in large, inflated drops. Garreth made a grab for the umbrella, but I stopped him. This time I was the one to reach across and touch him. He looked at me and a warm smile formed across his lips, and then I kissed him.

“Ready to go ace calculus?” he asked, still leaning in my direction.

“Yeah, ready to fail it.” I joked half-heartedly.

He rolled his eyes at me.

Miraculously, the rain was letting up a little, and by little I mean little. But it made me feel hopeful, not just that maybe I could make it to the front entrance without soggy sneakers, but hopeful about things in general. Reluctantly, I made a silent vow to not get too pissed off about Fridays—or Brynn for that matter.

Garreth’s locker was on the third level, since he was a transfer student last spring, so we split up by the main staircase and I proceeded down the hallway toward my locker, which was next to the library this year. Nothing was out of the ordinary, just a typical Monday morning: yawning students, the techno-pings of text messages being sent and received, lockers slamming in frustration. My shoes were squeaking with every step across the gray and white tiled floor, but so were everyone else’s.

Then, just as my mood began to lighten, it darkened. Gone. Just like that.

It was the clicking of heels in perfect unison that penetrated my morning routine. I reluctantly turned my head to catch a glimpse of the evil foursome, quickly approaching my stretch of hallway. Lauren Atkins and Emily Lawrence were smiling, their chins held high, members of the school’s royal court.