19 Kate running late

I carelessly rake my hands through my hair and look in the mirror. I do not have time for a shower, so I know this look would have to do. I hope I don’t run into anyone I know, but oh well if I do. I am late. Once again I stayed up chatting online with Candice, and neglected to set an alarm.

Candice was not allowed to talk on the phone after 9, but her mom is oblivious to the fact that she can communicate on the computer in her room. Since Candice and I rarely see each other because we are both so busy with school, sports, and our separate lives, the computer is a great way to chat and catch up, and we use it regularly.

We have been best friends for three years, after meeting at an all-sports summer camp. We only live twenty minutes away from each other, but we go to different schools because Candice goes to a private school. Because sports generally take up our weekends, running for me, and soccer for her, we do not see enough of each other. This also means I frequently do not have time in the mornings because I value sleep over primping. Today, I don’t have a race, so I am going to drive a few hours out of town to watch her play soccer.

I run out of the bathroom, grab my coat and bag on my way and yell my goodbyes to my parents. “When will you be back?” Calls my over protective mother. “Not sure.” I yell back, and close the door behind me to help cease conversation. The vibration coming from my bag less than a minute later, as I pull out of the drive, indicates that is not going to cut it for my mom.

 “What mom?” I say, a little too snappy, and I realize it a moment too late. It is not her fault I am late, and I should be grateful she is letting me drive myself to Rexburg, I am a nervous driver, and my parents are usually pretty cautious about where they let me drive. Since Riley and I are almost always going to same place, I do not drive often. But today, he is going fishing with friends, so I am driving myself.

“Excuse me? That was rude.” She says, and I can just picture her, standing in the kitchen, eyebrows raised, hand on hip, thinking how selfish I am being. She is right, and I should apologize.

“Sorry, I am running late, what do you need?” I sigh and give in. Fighting with my mother is not going to help my day be any easier, the drive be any less nerve racking, or my appearance be any cuter. A little respect from me will, however, make things better.

“What I need is to know when you will be home.” She has the same tone, and no doubt has not yet dropped her hand from her hip. “I am your mother. That is kind of my job.”

I silently count to ten in my head, and commit to getting along with her, wishing it came as naturally as it does with my dad. I try again. “Yeah, I know, I really am sorry. Can I call you when I have a better idea? I really have no idea how long this will take, or if I will be home tonight at all. Candice’s mom said I could stay over with them if the game goes late.”

“That would be great. Keep your phone on so I can reach you.” The edge is gone from her voice, and I know that she is satisfied.

“K, bye mom”

“I love you dear!”

“You too…”

I snap my phone shut, and look up in just enough time to slam on my brakes.

I come within centimeters of smashing the car in front of me. My nerves feel like they are standing on end, and I can feel my heart rate increase. I can’t drive to Rexburg like this, I have to calm down, and regain some composure, or I will be a nervous wreck by the time I get there. I pull off the road, and shut the engine off. I know this is not going to make me any earlier, but I would rather be five minutes later than risk driving distracted and get in an accident. I pull out a notebook, hoping to calm my mind so I can get back to driving.

The car I almost hit pulls off the road a little in front of me. It is a newer car, black, clean, and it looks fast and expensive. As I uncap my pen, I see the driver’s side door open, and realize the driver is getting out.

“Great, just what I need…a lecture” I mutter under my breath. I have a habit of talking to myself, something Riley teases me mercilessly about. I really do not have the patience to deal with some hot shot telling me to be more careful, as if I did not realize that already. I look over at my phone, and think about pretending I am on it so I will have a legitimate excuse for not talking to the person, but then realize it will look like that is why I almost hit them. Even if it is, I do not want it to be that obvious. I decide to grin and bare it. I recap my pen, and lean across the center consol to return the notebook to my bag.

Someone raps on the window, I take a deep breath, and punch the button to roll the window down. Nothing happens, and I realize the car is off, I turn the key slightly, and listen to the whirring noise as the window retreats into the door frame. I take a deep breath and turn, ready to face the music, and instead of seeing the grim face of my near-victim, I see the practically perfect smile of none other than Kyson, the Yankee hat wearing, womanizing, new kid who I had blown a snot covered noodle on, and then snubbed for the past two weeks. We had several encounters over the past couple weeks, but none I could look back on happily. He was a nice enough guy, really hot, but he had the arrogant, frustrating quality about him, like he knows he is good looking, and uses it to his advantage. I can’t exactly fault him for it, but that combined with my embarrassment over the snot-noodle, has lead to an intense dislike of him, fueled by the fact that my friend Lauren talks about him non-stop, and even Braden thinks he is cool. I wanted at least one ally in my quest to dislike this all too likeable guy.

“Hey!” he says. “You okay?”

He is smiling at me, but not in his usual arrogant way. His voice actually sounds genuinely concerned.

“Uhh, yeah, just a little…rattled, I guess.” I take another deep breath, and let it out slowly, hoping he will leave. I have been avoiding him for a couple weeks now, and this is more than a little awkward for me, as I really have no legitimate reason for disliking him other then the fact that he is exactly the kind of guy I despise, and I have humiliated myself in front of him. Just thinking of that scene makes me turn red. I put my hand to my face hoping he will not notice. He has never mentioned it, and I am not even sure he knows it was me.The silence and my nervousness makes me prattle on, “I just…sorry, I can’t believe I almost hit you, I hate driving, but am usually really safe, I guess we all have off days, I mean…well, sorry!”

“Where ya headed?” He asks casually.

“Excuse me?” Here I am prattling away, lost in thought, and forget he is standing just on the other side of the partially down-turned window.

“Hmm, well, how else can I phrase this? Where are you going? What is your destination? Where did you plan to stop? Name the place your journey ends.” He smiles the familiar cocky grin I had seen on his face on more than one occasion over the past few weeks.

“None of your business!” I snap at him, back to my surly, running late, too little sleep self.

“Woah, no need to be edgy with me. You almost hit me, I am just trying to offer you a ride as you are obviously in no condition to drive.” He has his hands up, and is backing away from the car as if he thinks I might physically harm him, but his face holds traces of amusement.

“Sorry,” I mumble through a sigh. My second apology that morning, I am on a roll. I hate to be in the wrong, but I am being rude, and he does have a point. I am distracted, and I am the one who almost hit him, not the other way around.

I see a look of satisfaction flit across his expression before he carefully pulls his mask back on. A slight smile creases a dimple on the lower left side of his jaw. “What was that?” Now he is smiling in earnest. He knows he has won. I am defeated. I am late. I look awful. I am tired. I am not looking forward to a long drive, and, to top it all off, I almost hit him. I have no leg to stand on, and definitely not one that provides arrogance and disdain.

“I said I was SORRY! What do you want from me, a sworn affidavit?” I am certainly sorry, but that does not mean I am going to roll over.

“Nope, no affidavit, just permission to give you a ride.”

“No.”

“No? Why not?”

“Because I am going to Rexburg, which is several hours from here. Not exactly ride territory”

“Rexburg huh?”

“Yeah!” I can’t help but be slightly sarcastic, after all, what is it with all the questions.

“Great, let’s go.” He turns and starts back toward his shiny black car, not even bothering to wait for my answer.

I scramble to get my door open, and call out to him, “What? What do you mean “let’s go”? You can’t drive me to Rexburg!”

“Why not?”

“Because, it is over three hours away, and I hardly know you.”

“Well, I have no plans, and that gives us plenty of time to get to know each other.” With that he gets in his car, and revs the engine.

I stand there, on the side of the highway, I feel stupid, and I am not sure what to do. The prospect of not driving clear to Rexburg by myself is tempting. I really do hate driving. But, this is Kyson. I am undeniably attracted to him, and even more undeniably, I do not want to be. Spending time with him, time alone with him, even if it is in a car, is a bad idea.

“Do I have to pick you up and carry you to the car, or are you coming?” He calls from the driver’s side window.

I feel my resolve shatter, if you can call it resolve since it lasted only a few moments, “Just let me lock up, and let my mom know the change of plans.”

It is just my luck. I look my worst, and he looks…well, incredible, but he usually does. And now, I am going to be stuck with him for several hours. I decide to make the most of it. Lauren is going to be so jealous, she talks about him all the time. Candice will be happy, she hated the idea of me driving all the way by myself, and she knows the whole story about him, from the hideous sweatshirt and noodle, to the locker snooping, and my attempts at ignoring him. I have a feeling she is going to expect some explanations from me.

I call my mom, and okay it with her, she is also delighted, she has met Kyson a few times when he has been by the house with Riley, and she is aware of his family moving in to the town. She is extremely curious about them, as they seem to have money, but have made no attempt to be social. I am sure she will be quizzing me when I get home, so I make a mental note to ask some questions about his history.

#18, Kyson, Firsts

I wake up and imagine it will be another day of long boring classes, lousy cafeteria food, and the same gossip, drama, and hubbub one usually finds on a high school campus. The scene is already growing old, despite this being only the third day I will attend, and my fourth day in Salmon. I wonder if stopping in Idaho was a bad idea, and try to decide if I should go through with it and buy a house, or move on to greener pastures, maybe try college life.

I have never been content to stay somewhere long, even when I lived in the Encante, a beautiful Utopia, I frequently made extended trips to foreign places, often impoverished and dirty places, just for a change of pace.

I arrive at school early, not for any particular reason, other than I had been up for hours already and had nothing better to do. I rarely sleep more than four hours in a day, and thanks to my ancestry and magic, do not need much sleep. When I get too much I grow restless, that is to say more restless than usual. I decide since there is still more than half an hour before the first classes start I will go see if I can talk the lunch ladies into changing up the lunch menu.

I know that when I turn on the charm I can get women to do just about anything I want. I had been eating the cafeteria lunch for the past two days now simply because I do not find anything appealing about making food for myself, in an antiquated sort of way I consider it something women should do. This alone dissuades me from taking an interest, but with the constant bulk, frozen, bland, and low quality ingredients provided in the public school system lunch lines, I wonder if I might have to change my mind.

As I stride down the empty hallway I determine to at least persuade the lunch lady in charge to add a few more items to the rotation. Then, I notice a locker standing slightly ajar. I have no idea why it catches my interest, but it has, and I find myself walking toward it. It is a top locker, no bigger than a cubby, and painted that awful blue color so common in schools. Though I am not sure why, I look back over my shoulder to see if anyone is watching, then I nudge the locker open further. There is nothing remarkable about it. I gather from the decorated inner door and the mirror hanging inside that it belongs to a girl. Males are not prone to decorating their lockers.

Usually this sort of thing would not have captured my interest in the slightest. I had always been sort of irritated by the foolish things high school girls put in their lockers: photos of male models, stupid phrases cut out of magazines, pop stars, pictures of themselves dressed up and out with girl friends, maybe a picture of their current love interest. However, while clearly a locker belonging to a female, this one is different. The decorated door holds none of the typical décor. Instead it has a few quotes by Ralph Waldo Emerson, a true great, and a poem by Rudyard Kipling. As I look at this locker I ponder the depth of what I see, and grow curious about the owner, a voice dripping with irritation interrupts my thoughts.

“What are you doing?” It is a very feminine voice, but it is laced with disdain and the irritation makes it deeper, more masculine. I wheel around, too quickly and hit my head on the locker door. I grimace at my not so smooth appearance and slight throb as my head makes contact with the metal door. I look down to see a thin, average height girl glaring at me. She has deep brown eyes, with little flecks of green, framed by a light but striking set of lashes. She is dressed in clothes that compliments her slim figure and make her breasts look fuller than they are. Her clothes are not flashy, or trendy, but perfectly cut, and do wonders for her slight figure. But it is not her body that catches my attention, it is her eyes. Those eyes glare at me, bore into me, and demand an explanation. Her lips are thin, and she wears a clear lip gloss. The tight little line they are in indicates she is far from pleased with finding me snooping in her locker. She has a long, slender nose that perfectly matches the angles of her face, and a very defined chin, held a little higher than necessary. Just another sign she gives that she is upset. I notice her hair is a mousy brown, but shines and looks healthy and clean. It is loose and curled, but sort of messy as it falls around her shoulders. It is extremely feminine, and intrigues me.

I am busy taking her in, trying to read her, when I notice her hands are on her small hips, and her foot taps impatiently as she waits for an answer.

“Well?” she demands making that one word a powerful message.

“It was open.” I say mater of factly. She has caught me off guard, but I have regained my composure. I size up her five feet five inch stature, and know this girl, angry as she appears, will have no chance at intimidating me.

“That may be so, but it is not your locker, so get out of it.” Her words are efficient if nothing else. I wonder at the look she flashes my way, and the pursed lips that have not yet relaxed. Most girls are slightly intimidated by me. They are impressed by my good looks, and my charm. Most of the high school girls I have known over the ages have allowed me a degree of leniency. I can usually get away with being rude simply because they want to get on my good side. Most people find me easy to like, and become quickly attached, and overly trusting. She does not seem to care about my appearance, and the look on her face clearly says she does not trust anything about me. And this is exactly what intrigues me about her. She is the second girl in as many days to intrigue me. Just as the thought crosses my mind, I realize it is not two girls, but the same girl. I did not recognize her without the running clothes, but now that I put two and two together it is clear it is the same girl, how I missed it before I don’t know. It seems so obvious now. The girl who turned her head from me on the first day of school, who so studiously wrote on the river bank, and now who is glaring me down. How very fascinating she is.

“My apologies!” I say, bowing to her, an old fashioned habit I picked up in the 1800’s and have never quite let go of. I step aside so she can reach her locker. But do not leave the vicinity.

A bewildered look flits across her face, and a hint of exasperation, but none of the anger or disdain melts as I had hoped it would. She says nothing, just shakes her head and turns away from me. I laugh and turn on my heels to head to the lunchroom. I whistle a lighthearted tune, but am deep in thought. This girl seems immune to my charms. In fact, they seem to have the opposite effect. Instead of falling all over herself to get in my good graces, she acts as though I am beneath her notice. This should probably frustrate me, but it doesn’t. This is a first, and a first is something I have not experienced in a long time. I can’t help but smile. Things are looking up. Maybe Salmon was not such a bad choice after all.

#17, Kyson

It had been a great day. I walk to the water’s edge, preparing to transform into Boto, in order to sleep. I have not yet found a home here in Salmon, I have my eye on one, and just need to work out the logistics of purchasing it without drawing attention to myself. In the Encante, while we are in the school, we are taught about surface life, and how to create false identities, set up bank accounts, etc. in order to insure a comfortable life above the water. This is a subject I excelled in, and fortunately have plenty of reliable identifications and funds set up from previous adventures, so creating my life here should not be too arduous, but it does take time, and planning.

I round the bend to where I have set up my makeshift camp hidden in the shrubbery, and stop short, seeing a girl on the bank of the river. She is dressed in athletic clothes, and appears to have just completed a run, as her breathing is slightly labored, and sweat is evident on her brow. I quietly step back into the shadows afforded me by the trees along this part of the river. I watch for a few moments. She is lovely, not in the striking way so many of the women I have charmed here on the surface have been, but subtly. I appreciate most of the female form, and hers is an excellent example. She seems familiar. It takes me a moment to place her, then I remember seeing her at school in the hallway. I noticed her, but not immediately, and our eyes had met for a mere moment, and then she went back to what she was doing before. This is an uncommon occurrence for me. Most creatures of the fairer sex can’t seem to get enough of me, and I have barely registered on her radar. Intriguing. I push the thought to the back of my mind, and watch for a few moments longer. Still writing and mumbling, she doesn’t notice me.

I retreat a little further, before turning my back, and make my way up the road some, where I can enter the water and transform without disturbing her. She was writing furiously in a notebook, and although I had practiced stealth, I doubted it was necessary, she was so engrossed in what she was doing, I don’t believe a herd of elephants would have been able to attract her attention. So serious. Watching her scribble away had made me want to throw that notebook in the river’s rushing waters, and help her lighten up and have some fun. I am good at that—having fun!

Instead, I change into Boto form, and swim back to where I had see her. I watch her mutter and scribble for a few more minutes, from my vantage point beneath the water, then swim down river to a calmer part of the river to catch a few hours sleep.

#16, Kate

My shopping trip with my mother was a success. I found several items we both agreed on, a feat worth celebrating, and so when we stop for gelato on the way home, I order a double scoop.

“Two scoops please, one lemon, one pistachio.” I smile as I think of the fact that these flavors don’t mix well, but I have always loved both, and can never quite decide what I want when faced with two great options. My mother orders chocolate hazelnut, and I swipe a spoonful, thinking maybe I should have opted for that flavor instead. I can be indecisive.

I have had this trouble since childhood. My dad tells me I often wore two dresses, layered on top of one another, when I could not chose which to wear. This is a habit I have since grown out of, but I am no better at making a choice when faced with two good options. Even now, I layer, only instead of things like clothes, it is classes responsibilities, and more. I have a very hard schedule of classes because choosing between AP chemistry or AP biology was simply not an option. I love them both. I wanted to take both, so I did. That in addition to AP English, AP Statistics, and the rest of my course load makes free time a luxury I don’t always have.

When we return home I change into running clothes, hoping to sneak out before my dad hears me, otherwise he will want to go. I really do love to run with him, but tonight I want to get the miles done, then spend some time at the river. I have no homework, I finished it during lunch and in the car on the way to shop. I used homework as a good excuse to not force a conversation with my mom. After the initial pleasantries, and updates on the day, I think we were both happy to just drive in peace. My mother listened to a book on her iPod, and I solved equations, and read chapters, and remembered why I am so grateful I don’t get car sick like Riley does. So tonight I get to spend time the way I want to, after I get a run in, since I missed practice.

I lace up my Aasics and put my ear to the door. If my dad is in the hall, on the stairs, or in the kitchen, he will want me to wait for him to change so he can join me. I have always had a love hate relationship with running. I love how it clears my head, and makes me so sure about things. I love how exhilarating it is to feel my body, my muscles moving, stretching, and pushing. I even like the sweating and heavy breathing, as it reminds me I am alive, and healthy. Usually I enjoy the company of my teammates, and the social aspects of running. I hate how hard it can be, and how it is one more thing to tick off my to do list. I hate how I work so hard, and some girls seem to be so much better, without half the effort. I hate how I will never be as good as my family wants me to be, and I hate that it doesn’t bother me as much as I know it should.

I don’t hear anything, so I grab a notebook and pen off my desk, tuck them into a running backpack, and open my bedroom door. I traverse the hallway quickly, and make it down the stairs, and out the back door without seeing anyone else. My mom knows I will be out for a run, so no one will worry.

Once outside, I start to head north, then remember that some of the cows are in the pasture near the river on the north side of the property, and while I don’t mind cows, I know I will be somewhat distracted tonight, and don’t want to risk stepping in fresh dung, so I head south instead.

It is a crisp, cool evening, winter is getting closer, and while it hasn’t snowed yet, I can see my breath, and feel the burn in my chest that comes from sucking such cold air into my hot lungs. I adjust my headband over my ears to provide some protection from the cold, and take off at a slow jog, waiting to pick up my pace until hit the hard packed dirt trails a little further ahead, not wanting to risk injury in this rugged, uneven, terrain.

Running gives me time to think. Today at school I had seen the boy whose shoe was graced with a snot covered noodle, courtesy of my nose, and he seemed not to recognize me. That was fine with me. I did not introduce myself or try to make him notice me, as the situation would be better forgotten, at least for me. I admit to myself that I am curious about him though. He seems different from most the boys in our grade. He has a self-awareness, or confidence, that is not typically so pronounced, as most of us are still trying to figure out who we are, and what we want out of life. I don’t really think about it in such concrete terms as this, but as I run, I know that this is what made him seem different, more aloof, and more…experienced. Riley told me he was new, and from somewhere out East, a senior like us, and an only child. I guess not growing up in Salmon would account for the experience, and being an only child could account for him seeming somewhat aloof, after all, he was probably used to the solo act. However, my curiosity is not quite satisfied.

I had only seen him for a few moments, before the first bell, and watched him discreetly from behind my locker door, he turned and caught my eye for the briefest of moments, and smiled, sort of a half smile, not of recognition, just acknowledgment. I gave a slight lift of my chin, with a small smile, then turned back to my locker to grab the right binder and books for my first class. Because I spent lunch in the library, working on my assignments, and had left early to shop with my mom, that was all I had seen of him.

“Good” I pant out, thinking if he doesn’t recognize me, then there is no need for me to try and craft an awkward apology. I did not feel like trying to explain my reasons that night for my actions, not to a complete stranger, especially one as attractive as him.

I turn my thoughts away from the new kid, and back to the things that have plagued me of late. Senior year is underway, and I am applying for colleges all over the country. One benefit of a well to do family is not worrying about the fees associated with college applications. Not that I thought of this on my own. It took Braden pointing it out to me before I felt any gratitude for my own situation.

Braden’s family makes due, but never has extra, so he had to be so careful about which colleges he applies to, as the $50-$100 fees add up fast, and he can’t afford to apply somewhere he really doesn’t want to go. Last weekend, we were filling out applications together and he said, “If I don’t get accepted I am screwed, since I am only applying to two places.” Not thinking about what I was saying, I replied, “Why? That seems stupid, don’t you at least want a few safety nets?” Braden is a planner, so I was very confused by his limiting himself to only two schools. He furrowed his brow, and looked at me, and simply said, “I can’t afford to apply anywhere else.” That is when I realized what he meant. He was probably paying the application fees himself, and between school classes, extra curricular activities, and his family responsibilities, he only had a few hours a week to work. So, while he had a job, the money he earned was not much, and most of it went directly into his college fund, so that when he did get accepted, he would be able to pay for his schooling, housing, etc. He had been saving for as long as I could remember. He did not want to leave college with a mountain of debt, as so many other people do. I reassured him that he would get in, he is a straight A student, class president, scored well on his SAT, and is the kind of person that is always going above and beyond, any college would be happy to have him. Even as I said it though, I felt my face grow hot with the embarrassment that washed over me, not that he was poorer than I, but that it never occurred to me that others might have to be more selective due to finances.   

I reach the five-mile point in my loop, and so I stop, and stretch my muscles. My lower calves are a little tight, so I find a tree and prop my foot up and stretch. I put the running pack on the ground, pull out my water bottle and drink a few sips, then pull out the small mat I carry rolled up in my bag, so I can sit on the river bank and write in my journal. I stretch for a few more minutes, making sure I hit every muscle group, and test for any soreness or discomfort. I feel great.

I plop down and start writing out all the things I had been thinking as I ran. It helps me to do this. It is my system for sorting my thoughts, and finding my true opinions and feelings amidst the jumble of conflicting emotions and ideas. I have always been better at writing out my feelings than speaking them, but did not start using the method regularly until recently.

Riley is the one who helped me discover how useful it was for me to write it out. It took me getting really angry with him to figure it out. We fight, all siblings do, but not regularly, and not ever seriously. However, six months ago we had our biggest blow up ever. He had been dating one of my closest friends, Candice. I thought he really liked her, and so did she. She of course, was totally taken by him. One night, his buddies were over, and I happened to walk in on the tail end of a conversation they were having. As it turns out, he had been toying with her feelings, pretending more interest in her than he actually felt. It had started out as a sort of joke or game to him, and had gone too far, with her having real feelings for him. I was furious. I knew he sometimes did this. He had a reputation for being a bit of a “player”, and while we had talked about it before, it had never been more than an irritation. But messing with the emotions of one of my best friends was too close to home.

He saw my reaction, and knew he was in deep with me, so after his friends left he came to my room and tried to talk. I tried to talk to him about it, I really did, but I just became a jumbled mess. So, after ten minutes of him making excuses, and then waiting for me to come up with a reply that never came, he handed me a piece of paper and a pen, and said, “Here, write it out.” That is when it began. When I realized something he already knew about me, that my thoughts organize themselves far better on paper than they do anywhere else. And so I did, I wrote, and wrote. I told him how I felt, how it was wrong, how it preys on our (meaning all girls) insecurities, and how I expected more from him, especially after he had seen how badly I had been hurt just a few months earlier by Ethan doing the same thing to me. I expressed my disappointment, and made it clear to him that I would never be okay with that. He would talk, and I would write, and we carried on our conversation like this for several hours. Eventually we made up, and ever since, I have turned to pen and paper when my emotions cloud my ability to think and express myself clearly. About a week after the incident, Riley came home with a case of lined paper notebooks for me to use as journals, thought pads, or “conversation tools”, as he called them. I have filled several, and make a point of writing in them nightly to get my feelings and thoughts out so I can sleep in peace.

I finish writing, roll up my mat, return everything to my pack, and start the slow half mile jog back down the rugged, rocky path, to my back door. Even though it is dark, I am familiar with the trail enough not to worry. I have two spots on the river I like to sit and write, one to the North, one to the South of my home. I guess you could say I am a creature of habit, but I prefer to think of it as I have a system, and order to my life.  

#15 Kyson, Path of least resistance

I lie awake looking at the last vestiges of night wash away with the sun. I think back to my evening spent with newfound friends, and wonder if this town will offer anything that the others haven’t. I admit to myself that someone blowing their nose on my shoe is new. I pull my thoughts to the day ahead of me. I feel some twinge of regret for having put myself in the position I am in, alone, no one else of my kind anywhere near, not that I have ever really been with anyone who understood, but I lament not having someone to laugh with, and talk with about how I use my gifts, and what I want from life. I miss Angela sorely, and wonder if she regrets not pushing me to be better. There is no changing the past, so I stop moping and feeling sorry for myself. I have a high school to get to. I have no reason to go to school. I have lived for so many years I understand the basic curriculum of a high school without problem. I do however, have to fit in, and when you look 17, people start to wonder why you aren’t in school.

I steal to a quiet part of the river, there is a place where it bends, and in the bend there are some overgrown weeds and trees that shield a part of the river. It is there that I will change shape. I cannot risk being discovered, not yet. I have not been here long enough, and I am not ready to look for a new place to settle. However, discovery is often one of the only ways to find excitement, but not yet.

As I make my way to the bend I look at the water swirling around all sides of me, it feels so strong, so powerful, the current is strong, and were I mortal, it would have swept me under long before this time. It is nearly winter, and the water level is high, the river beating against the banks, and anything that dares enter. I watch the river for a time, lost in my thoughts. A million questions race through my head. This river seems so strong, and mighty, and yet it has taken the path of least resistance, and winds its way through the valley like a snake. It has let the land direct it, instead of directing the land. It is true, it cuts the land, and it eats away at it a little more each year. But, it does not set its own course, it does not decide to go where it wants, instead it goes the easy way. The path that is the easiest, the path of least resistance.

That is the path I have always taken, and look where I have ended up. Alone. Banished. I wonder if like the river I am trapped in my own embankments, beating at them wishing to get out, but knowing that it is easier to just follow the way I always have. No, not me. I am still strong, much like this river, but I have not set my own course. I have let my laziness and discontentment set it for me. Like the river, I too have taken the path of least resistance. But unlike the river, I am not trapped. I still have a choice. The question is, will I choose differently, or continue on the easy path?I do not want to think about it today. Philosophizing is for the old Boto who sit in city hall. I mentally shake myself, what has gotten into me? Banishment must have affected me more than I realize. But now is not the time to think about it. I will consider this when I am better prepared to be in a new place. In a town as small as Salmon, I will be noticed quickly, and I need to come up with a back-story so that what I tell people is consistent. I  had learned the importance of a back-story several years earlier when I had found myself in a sticky situation.

I had been roaming the streets of Rome, and had manipulated my way into a nice Tartufo at Tre Saclini in the Piazza Navona, I sat enjoying the rich handmade dessert, looking at the beautiful fountain, Fontana Dei Quattro Fiumi, Four Rivers Fountain by Bernini, and street performers. Men painted green, silver, or gold and pretending to be statues, posed stoically for pictures, and enjoyed the too generous tips from tourists who were so unfamiliar with the currency they did not realize the amount they gave in order to snap a photo.

I stopped a vendor and purchased a pair of aviator sunglasses to shield my eyes from the too bright sun. I handed him the currency, and then manipulated him into handing the exact amount back to me as change. I would have gotten away with it too, but a passerby saw the exchange, and cried thief. Pickpockets are common in these tourist traps, and apparently I had chosen to venture there when the local government was trying to crack down on this problem. As a result, I got hauled in for questioning in rapid, fervent Italian.

The small man questioning me was a firm believer in using the whole body to communicate, and his flailing arms, and the spittle flying from his mouth would have been a humorous scene, had I not been too young, and too fresh to come up with a suitable lie, or manipulate my way out of it. Instead, when he asked what brought me to Rome, I could not think of a suitable answer. Now, as I look back on it, I cringe to myself, it would have been so easy to simply state that I was a tourist from America, but instead, I had sat there, numb, and dumb, and when I finally had spoken, I had said, “A plane.” The man was not impressed with my wit, and when he asked where the plane had originated, I was without an answer. My lack of a tale had landed me in a cramped Italian cell for a few hours until Angela had come to my rescue, and charmed the man into letting me out. I probably could have done it myself, once I had gathered my wits enough to realize how simple it would have been, but at the time I was too inexperienced to test the strength of my power. Now, if the experience repeated itself, I may just take the sentence for the novelty of being in jail. But, since I plan to carve a new life out for myself, a back-story is a requirement.

I need a story—one believable enough that the questions would cease. I change shape. I always think better in human form, where intellect and reason can play a part in the decision instead of just animal instinct. I know as a human I am slave to some degree of emotion, but prefer it to the lesser thoughts I have when in my boto form. Besides, I am too proud to be an animal when I can be a man. I had spent enough time as an animal on my journey here from the Amazon River.

I decide on a plan. I pull a New York Yankee’s hat out from under the rock where I have hidden the belongings I gathered on my way to Salmon. The Encantado Elders had not permitted me to return to my home for things, so I was forced to scrounge as I went. I do not mind this, as it allows me to travel light, and I know as soon as I am settled I can purchase everything I need. The hat, will do for now. Some tourist must have left it on the beach in Washington. I will use the hat to aid my story. I hope that in such a small farm town, no one would be well traveled, and I can say I am from a small town in upstate New York, without running into any relations or coincidences, or anyone that knows the town well enough to see through my bluff. I have decided Canadaigua is the perfect cover. I have only been there once, but it was just a few years back. I was living on the surface, and had joined a band. I was traveling with the group along the East Coast, and we had ended up stuck in Rochester when our flight was delayed due to weather. Because I have never been one to like sitting around, I had rented a car, and explored the surrounding areas. Canadaigua is rural. And even though my visit was brief, I recall with perfect clarity everything I had seen. It is enough to put together a believable story, and should someone be familiar with it, I know enough to say where the post office is, and what the landscape looks like. Where my lie fails, I know my power to influence thoughts will not.

Canadaigua is a farming community in upstate New York, and that adds to my story, making Salmon, ID a believable place for family of hard working farmers to move to. I will pose as an only child. This will explain why no one ever really sees my parents, as farmers are always busy, even in winter there are fences to mend, and animals to care for. It will also give me the family I need to enroll in school. While I can play at 18, instead of 17, it is easier to get into high school when you fit the age requirements. I have the basic skeleton of my plan, and know I can fill in the rest later, as necessity requires it of me. My memory is like a steel trap, so I do not fear remembering my lie, only making it believable enough without going over board.I finish off my ensemble with a pair of jeans, and slightly wrinkled t-shirt. I leer at my reflection in the river. It is choppy today, and so it is hard to make out, but I know that no matter what I wear, I will be able to make everyone like me, love me even, I can get anything I want. It is the Encantado way, a blessing and a curse. It makes a work ethic nearly impossible to come by. It also makes life fairly easy. The Encantado are the perfect con-men, good looks, and talent to woo people in, and the ability to influence thought to cinch the deal where the other aspects failed. The confidence I have in my abilities is high, as it should be, and exercising that power is a drug to me. It is a thrill each time I see someone’s mind waiver, and watch as they allow my thoughts to slowly creep into their head, as their eyes change, believing what they think is their own, original idea. It elates me. I realize now I have nothing to worry about. Who cares if I chose an easy life? It is a pleasant one. I get what I want, and do little to obtain in. I have no reason to worry, and even less reason to complain. So why am I hesitant?

Even as I think the question, I know the answer. “There is nothing fun about things that are too easy. I have never faced a real challenge, and thus have never had the pleasure of overcoming difficult. This is something I believe is necessary to be truly content.” Without effort there is never true satisfaction. This is what has gotten me to where I am now in the first place, this insatiable need for something new, something different, something challenging. Humans, particularly female humans, were always the closest thing to I had to a challenge and finding satisfaction. Manipulating them, using my charms, not my powers to attract them, that is where I find challenge, but lately it is not enough.

#14, School Day

I woke up early, and even though I was tired from the excited of the night before, and the late night talking with Rylie, laughing about the whole situation, and thanking him profusely for saving my butt with the plate episode, I knew that I better look good for school today. I still had not decided how I was going to live down the humiliation I had suffered in front of the guys from school. I realized too late that had I simply stayed there they never would have known how potentially embarrassing it had been. But no, I let my emotion get the better of me, and I made an even bigger fool of myself. At least since it was an "A" day at school, I would not see any of them except Braden until after lunch. And, since I was going shopping with my mom, I might avoid any real contact with most of them.

Rylie said the best way to make them forget how awful I looked and acted was to look hot today, and act like nothing weird happened. Rylie would know. He said no guy is going to make a big deal out of it if you look smokin’ hot the next time they see you, they won’t be able to remember it. Of course, I haven’t looked smoking hot in the entirety of my life, but I could put in some extra effort.

I showered, dried my hair, and then looked in my closet. Maybe it would be a good thing to go shopping today, I really did not have much to wear. I knew asking Rylie for help picking out something would be too much, he had already done me enough favors, and I was guessing since we spent the night talking, I would miss him at our normal breakfast rendezvous. Great, I thought, one more thing to worry about, Rylie was my ride today, and that meant I would probably be late. I flipped through the hangers, tried every shirt I owned on, and then sat down on the bed frustrated. I had nothing to wear.

Just as I was about to give up on the whole idea and just throw on jeans and a t-shirt, I heard a slight rap on my door. I pulled on a bathrobe, and went over and opened it.

My perfectly manicured Mother stood outside the door looking a little sheepish. “Hi hunny!” She said with a little bit too much cheeriness.

“Mom?”

She wrinkled her nose and furrowed her brow, I was not making it easy on her, I knew she was up to something, and she knew that I knew.

“I just thought you might like something new to wear. I picked a little something up for you last time I was shopping. The lady at the store said this style is very popular, and, well, I hoped you would like it.” From behind her back she pulled a great pair of jeans and a top.

The jeans were skinny jeans, dark denim with a good wash. They were perfect! I loved jeans, and these were stylish, would show off my best features, and because they have that wash, not look like I was wearing something brand new.

The top was a cute little tank with some embellishment around the neckline.

“I thought you could wear the sweater I got you for your cousin’s graduation over top.” My Mom looked hopeful, and I could see that she had given it some thought. She had flawless taste, and knew my style, and had done a great job of combining the two. It was simple enough to suit me, but also feminine, and stylish. I was thrilled. I could look good without looking like I put in too much effort, or had changed my style.

I took the clothes from her, much to her relief. Then, I gave her a quick, slightly awkward hug, “thanks mom, it is perfect.” I closed the door. I hated that things were always so awkward with my mother. Many of my friends had close relationships with their moms, even shared their stories with them. I felt awkward hugging mine. I did not let my mind worry about it, because I still needed to get ready.

Now all I had to do was pick out the shoes. It was cold in Idaho this time of year, and there was still snow on the ground in some places, so sandals were out of the question. I decided some slip on flats in the same color as the sweater would be good. Shoes were one thing I had plenty of variety of.

I put on the ensemble and evaluated the look in the mirror. It was just right. I had a small chest, but the tank showed it off to its best advantage. The jeans made my butt look great, and the sweater gave the whole look a casual, comfortable feel, while still keeping the feminine edge, and being appropriate for the weather.

“Perfect.” I said aloud to myself. “Hopefully they will remember I can be attractive, and that horrid hunter’s hoodie will be a fading memory.”

I especially hoped Ethan would notice how great I looked today. He had been the jerk that I thought I liked until I realized he was not really interested in me, just in playing games with girls. Even though I hated it, I still carried a little fantasy of a hope that he secretly liked me. On the days I did take the time to get ready it was usually with him in mind. Pathetic.

I did my hair in loose, casual looking curls. I was attempting the movie star look, the perfect, but casual hair, that probably took hours to do, but is supposed to look thrown together. I am not sure if I succeeded, but it felt good to not have it in a pony tail. I decided makeup would be too much, and would make it look like I was trying too hard, so I put on a light layer of mascara, and some clear lip gloss, and headed downstairs for breakfast.

Rylie gave me the thumbs up, and Mom looked pleased. Dad was already at the hospital, but Rocco, our farm hand was sitting at the table with a huge stack of pancakes on his plate.

“Hi, Rock!” I always loved seeing him, and was especially glad that morning as he had a way of making you feel like the most important, smartest, most attractive person in the world.

Rocco was easy mannered. He had been working for my family for as long as I could remember. He was practically family at any rate. He had come to Idaho from Brazil, and still had a slight Portuguese accent. I loved it, and loved listening to him. He would tell us stories of his youth, legends of his culture, and anything else that came to mind. He was always fun.

“Good morning little chickie, you look beautiful as always.” He smiled a toothy smile up at me and shoveled a forkful of pancakes into his mouth.

We ate in silence, not because we had nothing to say, but because the food was great, and there was little time for anything else. I had to be out the door, Rylie was driving me, and Rocco had animals and other farm related things to get to. The good news was, despite what I thought, Rylie was up and ready, and I would not be late to school.

I scooped up my backpack on my way out the door, and called my goodbyes over my shoulder. It was now or never, I had to go to school and pretend nothing happened. I wondered if the boy who had witnessed my very unlady like snot rocket would be at the school today. I also wondered what he would say if he saw me, and more to the point, what I would say. I mean, how does one go about apologizing for blowing boogers on someone else’s shoe?

#13, Snot Rocket

With several pairs of eyes on me, and my embarrassment building by the millisecond, I silently prayed someone would do something. As if reading my mind, Rylie quickly pushed his paper dinner plate off the table. The crash that ensued was surprising for a paper plate, and the splatter of spaghetti across the dining room floor gave me just enough time to escape through the side door. Braden tried to catch my arm as I slipped out, but I eluded him, too embarrassed even to talk to him.

I ran to my parent’s car, and found that the door was locked. It was freezing outside, I could not bare to go inside, nor could I stay out in the cold. Because my house was not far I decided to walk home. I knew Rylie would figure it out, and make sure Mom and Dad were not worried.

By then I was crying. Tears were spilling down my face and I could barely see. I was humiliated beyond belief, and extremely uncomfortable, something that was not yet remedied. I had only walked about 100 yards from the driveway, but with the noodle in mind, and the discomfort it was causing nearly unbearable, I stopped walking, dried my eyes on the hideous orange sleeve and started blowing my nose into it. I blew, and blew, and blew. And yet the noodle stayed, lodged right into my nose. I decided to employ the disgusting, but useful “snot rocket” method, to try and get it out.

I stuck my pointer finger on one nostril to hold it closed, and then blew with all the force I could muster. The noodle shot out my nose, and landed on a black basketball shoe. Seeing a shoe startled me, and I looked up. Walking out of the bushes was the boy I did not recognize from the house, the one in the Yankees hat…and I had just blown my nose on his shoe.

I felt the blood drain from my face. How, in one night, could I be so totally and completely embarrassed? I looked at him, for the second time that night I was frozen in place and absolutely horrified at what I had just done. He glanced down at his shoe, then up at me, and laughed.

The light sound of laughter must have snapped me back to mobility because as quickly as the blood left my face it came back, and I knew then I had only one option left—run! So I did. I turned as fast as I could, almost too fast, I slipped a little on the gravel, but did not stop moving. I ran at a full out pace, grateful for the months of practice. I did not look back to see if he followed me, just kept on running until I reached the door to my house, and only then did I stop long enough to get the door open, then I sprinted up the stairs to my room.

I slammed the door shut behind me, and flopped down on my bed. My blood was pumping, and I had enough adrenaline that I could have run a five minute mile. At that point I was not sure if I should cry or laugh. The whole night seemed unreal. I looked over at the vanity and saw the bright orange sweatshirt, my messy hair, tear stained face, and burst out laughing.

There was only one thing I could do. I stripped the sweatshirt off replaced it with a warmer jacket, and went back downstairs, made a pit stop in the kitchen for matches, then went out to the trash barrels on the side of the house.

In Salmon, the homes are spread so far apart that it is not realistic to have a garbage man pick up trash. Most the people are farmers and would have to haul cans several miles out to any main roads. So, instead you have two options, you can haul your garbage to the dump yourself, or you can burn it on designated burn days. My family opted to burn it, so we would not have to store trash or make lots of trips to the dump. So, I went out to the burn barrels, and lit that orange sweatshirt on fire.

It was extremely therapeutic watching the sweatshirt burn. I stared at it, watching the fire dance over it and change the orange to black. I watched as it crumbled into nothing, and wished the whole evening could just disappear from everyone’s memories as quickly and thoroughly as that sweatshirt had burned. I knew that was wishful thinking, and yet I was starting to feel better.

As I started back to the house I heard the gravel crunching in the driveway, and knew that Mom, Dad, and Rylie were home. I waited in the shadows of the big pine trees that surrounded our house until Dad shut off the engine, and everyone started to climb out.

Mom would be furious with me, Dad sympathetic, and Rylie highly entertained. I knew if I was going to rectify the situation I would have to make a peace offering to Mom, and fast.

“Hi,” I said just loud enough for the three of them to hear me.

Mom jumped, and turned on me like I was a predator, “Kate, you scared the living beegeezies out of me. You can’t do that to someone.”

“Sorry Mom. And, sorry about tonight. I hope I did not embarrass you too much.” I paused there, and waited for some sort of sign or indication of how she was feeling about the whole evening.

She sighed, and her shoulders drooped a little and I knew she was at a loss for what to say, and was disappointed that I would behave that way in front of her new friends. I could not imagine what kind of lecture Rylie had gotten on the way home for making a mess with the plate. I made a mental note that I owed him big time, and jumped in with my peace offering for Mom.

“So, Mom, I burned the sweatshirt, and thought since I clearly do not have much of anything to wear that we could go shopping tomorrow. I know you wanted to go Saturday, and since it does not work for me, I just thought…”

I trailed off because the expression flitting across my Mother’s face were captivating. First she had a look of surprise, then elation, and then suspicion. “Ok, but I have a meeting tomorrow evening, so could you miss your last class tomorrow, we could get an early start so I can be back in time?”

I knew missing the class could be fine, but that meant I would miss practice as well, and it meant no time to come up with an excuse to get out of the shopping trip. However, it also meant peace with Mom, something that was rare. “Sure, I am ahead in that class anyway.”

I glanced over at Rylie, saw the amusement flicker across his face and knew he was picturing me spending hours shopping with Mom, wishing I was in class. He gave me the look that said I better plan on talking tonight, and he disappeared into the house.

Satisfied that I was going shopping tomorrow and that should be penance enough for what happened at the Prigmore’s Mom walked into the house. That left me and Dad on the driveway. He had not said a word, but had heard the whole conversation between Mom and I.

“So, want to explain to me what happened tonight?” He asked in his easy going manner that left you feeling comfortable and wanting to open up. I knew this was why he made such a great doctor. People trusted him, felt comfortable in his presence, and told him the truth, which made diagnosis much easier.

“Do you have time?” I asked, and smiled, crookedly up at him.

He lifted his eyebrows, and cocked his head to the side, “Hmm, this should be interesting.”

I told him the whole story, from dressing like that to spite mom, the mocking of the adults, the noodle getting stuck, the situation in the bathroom, then all those guys from school walking in and me looking horrible, then the snot rocket on the mystery boy’s shoe. I told him how I ran all the way home, and then how I burnt the sweatshirt.

By the time I finished the story Dad was laughing hard, so hard he started coughing, choking, and sputtering. His laugh became a wheeze, the kind that made you laugh too because it was so funny to watch him laugh, and then he finally stopped.

“You deserve it,” He said with a grin, he was shaking his head from side to side, “next time, humor your mother and dress appropriately.”

I smiled and secretly hoped there would never be a next time.

#12, A noodle in the noodle

Dinner started and I was sure that Jill was a good cook. With a spotless home and a warm smile I doubted she was bad at much. The meal started with a huge fresh green salad. The lettuce was romaine and leafy green mixed, crisp, and perfect. The salad had cut cucumber, carrots, and sweet tomatoes. I wondered where she had found ripe tomatoes this time of year, but the thought did not last long. The dressing was a perfectly seasoned home made Italian. She served a crusty French bread with warm drippy butter, and a delightful pot of homemade spaghetti with meat sauce.

I was enjoying myself despite the resistance I had felt about coming, and had just helped myself to my second helping when Rylie started doing impressions. He had always been one to goof around, but tonight was different. Because we were sitting at a different table from the adults he could make fun of them without them noticing, and it made the whole thing much funnier. As my father spoke about a patient Rylie would puff up his chest and make a mocking face. When my mother would speak about something that filled her day he would bat his lashes and stick out his lips mouthing the words. We were all laughing hysterically under our breaths. Rylie finally stopped to eat, and I found myself taking a large bite of pasta. Just as I was about to swallow Rylie did an impression of Jill, and I snorted in laughter. A small piece of noodle went right out the back of my mouth and lodged itself in my sinus. I could feel the noodle stuck up my nose, and I began to panic.

I quickly excused myself from the table, and went to the adult table. I had to wait for Ben to finish his story before I could interrupt, and it seemed like an eternity, but when he had I quietly asked Jill where the bathroom was. To my horror she pointed to the door directly behind the table. I walked in and made sure to flip on the fan when I turned on the light. I was hoping it would muffle the sound some. I had always hated when people put a bathroom right next to a dining area. I felt bathrooms should be placed in more obscure places, out of the way where no one would hear you when you used them. Having one right next to the area where people gather just did not make sense. I was horrified that they might think I was pooping, but I did not want them to hear me trying to get the noodle unstuck, so I left the fan on.

I grabbed a tissue from the box that sat on the ornately decorated counter. The bathroom was done in soft tones of green, with a rich granite counter top, thick bath mats, and a luxurious shower curtain with gold tassel fringes. The mirror was a framed beveled glass that sat in a thick gold frame above the drop in sink. I tilted my head back and tried to look up my nose to see if I could see the noodle. I could not. I realized as I looked in the mirror just how bad I really looked. My hair was almost dry now, and was frizzy and falling out. I took the tissue and tried to quietly blow my nose into it, but with no success. I tried again, but was really worried about being too loud. I knew I was taking too long, so I leaned over the counter again to see if I could see the noodle now. As I leaned forward I knocked over the soap container and it crashed to the floor. I scrambled to pick it up relieved I had not broken it. Then I heard a light tap on the door and heard my mother’s sweet voice asking, “Is everything all right in there?”

“Fine.” I answered, “Just tipped over the soap.” It was true, and she did not need to know that I was distressed because of the noodle. It was then I realized that I had not flushed, and they would think I was extremely rude if I came out without flushing. So, I dropped the unused tissue into the toilet and flushed. Then unlatched the door and walked back out. Everyone was looking at me, and I was extremely embarrassed. My face turned bright red.

To make matters worse, the front door opened just then and a stream of seventeen year old boys walked in the house laughing hysterically. Here I am standing in the bathroom door, a noodle stuck up my nose, hair all frizzy, and a bright orange sweatshirt, and of course, the most attractive boys in our school walk in, all I could do was wish I was invisible.

I instantly recognized all but two of them. Jared, was the first to walk in. He was the class president, and one of the most popular and best-looking boys in the school. He had been dating the head cheerleader for the past 2 years.

He was followed by Ethan, a dark haired loner who excelled at sports and while never had a girlfriend, also never lacked female company. This was most likely due to the fact that he was a stellar athlete and considered attractive in a rough way, not to mention he was somewhat of an enigma, and girls always like a charming challenge. Even I had fallen victim to his charms in the past.

Braden was next, my best friend in the world. He was easy going and funny, but generally considered a nerd. He took all of the honors and AP classes offered at Salmon High, and excelled in them. He was skinny like most nerds, but still had a muscular frame, probably from all the kayaking he did on the river. He had a thin face, and a hawkish nose, with deep, knowing eyes of dark brown.

The tall brown haired, tan skinned boy that walked in behind him was no doubt Erik, and though I had not met him before, he looked a great deal like his mother.

Behind him was a guy I had never seen before. He was pale skinned, but not unattractive, in fact as I got a better look at him I realized he was extremely attractive. He was well built, his muscular arms bulging out under his t-shirt. He did not wear a coat, and that struck me as odd since it was so cold out. He had pale blue eyes, almost too light, and dark hair hidden under a Yankee’s baseball cap, and he wore a smug expression, one I was used to seeing on my brother’s face.

The boy who came in after him was Marcus. He had flaming red hair, and a reputation for being loud, he was basically our class clown. He was not attractive physically, but had a personality that drew people to him. He was my favorite of the bunch, though by association to Rylie I was familiar with them all.

After filing in, and shutting the door the laughter died down, and they all looked at me as if on cue. I am sure it was because everyone else in the room was staring at me. I flushed an even deeper shade of red and wished I could disappear. I had never felt uglier, and here I was, with a whole house of people staring at me, and half of those people were the most popular guys in the school, and to make matters worse, I still had a noodle stuck up my nose. Uncomfortable and embarrassed I was rooted to the spot, frozen.

#11, Dinner Party

As we climbed into the car Rylie peeked over at me, and laughed. He was trying to hide it, but his whole body was shaking.

“What?” I scowled at him, knowing perfectly well what he was laughing at. My bright orange sweatshirt and terribly worn jeans were enough to make the humor-less laugh.

“Going hunting?” He said with a mock look of surprise. “I did not know that sort of thing interested you.”

“Shuuuut up!” I drew out the word shut for added emphasis, and rolled my eyes at him, then gave him an obvious head tilt and point in the general direction of our mother.

“I see.” He said between a smug smile and a quick nod, his eyes darted in the direction of his shoes, and I could see he wore a pair of Converse with the toe ripped out and a whole lot of writing on the soles. Apparently we had similar ideas.

We had a little language between the two of us made up of head tilts, nods, eyebrow raises, and other gestures. Sometimes I wondered if we could read each other’s minds, or if we were somehow more of twins than I thought, especially when we both had the same idea separately, as we did in this instance. Then I would look at Rylie and his care free nature, sandy blonde hair, and dashing looks, and realize the only thing we really had in common was genetics and the same birthday. But, despite our difference we got along beautifully, and, in this case he knew exactly what I meant.

I looked down at my outfit, and was a little ashamed. I had dressed like a slob purely to irritate my mother for making me come. I knew it was horrible of me, and I had a twinge of regret and guilt, but my frustration at having no choice in the matter fueled the fire, and reinforced my desire to make her regret making me go. I lifted my chin, and pretended not to realize my horrible outfit existed.

My mother looked over the back seat gave me the up and down with her eyes, pursed her lips and shook her head, then turned back around. My father reached over and grabbed her hand, and she instantly became happier. “Katie darling, would you like to go down to Idaho Falls with me this weekend and we could do a little shopping?” her voice was sugary sweet as she asked, but I caught the hint.

“Umm, sounds fun, but I have a meet.” I tried to sound disappointed, but everyone in the car knew how thrilled I was for a valid excuse not to spend the day clothing shopping with my mother. Don’t get me wrong, I like shopping as much as the next girl, but my taste and my mother’s vary significantly. She loves ruffled skirts, pinks, purples, soft fabrics, and anything that has beading, lace, etc. Not tacky clothing, but really feminine clothing. I, on the other hand prefer basic t-shirts and a great pair of jeans, a few structured jackets, and a skirt every now and then just to mix things up. Browns and blacks were my favorite colors to wear, and I rarely deviated too far from them. My hunting orange sweatshirt of the evening was probably the furthest I had ever come from neutrals.

When we made a turn off of the highway I looked around, there were big trees, and a freshly painted fence. The house was a two story stucco deal, painted an off white. The windows had shutters giving it a homey feel, and they were painted a lively green. The house looked warm and inviting. We pulled into the circular drive, and stopped behind a white jeep. The tires of the jeep were muddy, and the top was off despite the chilly weather. The back of the jeep was loaded with hunting gear.

I glanced over at Rylie and he was smiling. He had noticed the hunting gear too and I could see he hoped to find a comrade behind that big oak door.

The door opened and a tiny little woman came bounding out. She had curly brown hair and it bobbed and bounced every direction as she scurried toward us. “Hello, I am so glad you could come. And this must be your husband? Hi, I am Jill Prigmore.”

“Hello, call me Bobby” my father smiled warmly and took her hand in a friendly gesture. Almost as fast as she had been grabbing my father’s hand she was over to me, and had me locked in a big hug. “You must be Kate. Your mother told me all about you, and my aren’t you gorgeous? You look so much like your father.” She was hugging me so tightly I could barely breathe let alone answer her or give a reply, so I just stood there and let her hug away. Rylie was smirking and I knew he was thinking that nothing about me looked gorgeous at the moment. When she finally dropped her arms, I breathed in a huge breath of air, and let it out of my lungs slowly, exaggerating my need for oxygen. My mother shot me a look. Jill rushed past me and scooped Rylie into a hug next. He shot me a big toothy grin, and just let her hug away. He was used to attention from the female gender.

Jill had to have been in her late forties, but she looked no older than 35. She was full of youth and energy, and she had this huge, white smile that filled her whole face. Standing in the doorway taking in the whole scene was her husband, Ben. Ben looked his age. He was 51. He had graying hair and a receding hair line. He had smile lines around his eyes, and gray ear hair in abundance. He was heavier set, but not fat, however, next to his tiny, bobby wife he looked like he could have been a whale. “Hello, welcome, come on in.” He greeted us with a friendly smile, and a cheery voice. His voice made me think of Santa Claus, it was deep and friendly, and had a way of making you feel at ease.

When we entered their house I was impressed with how clean and organized it looked. I had pegged Jill for a more eccentric type with lots of collections and things taking up every spare counter. However, their home was tastefully decorated in a cabin themed, outdoorsy sort of way. Near the doorway there was a rod iron moose coat rack, and she invited us to hang up our sweaters and jackets. I had not worn one because the sweater was warm enough. The floor was a beautifully grained hard wood, and it was freshly polished. She led us through the entry down a long hall way that opened up into the kitchen.

In the kitchen were two tables. One table was situated in the dining area, and was set with beautiful china, linen napkins, silver napkin rings, beautiful cutlery, and crystal glasses. The other table, which I assumed was for children has paper plates and cups, plastic cutlery, and paper napkins with a Halloween print. Obviously leftover from the holiday the previous month.

“My nephews are in town and will be joining us for dinner, but my son, Eric, is out with friends. Rylie, you and Eric should get along just fine, from what I understand you enjoy hunting.”

“Yes I do.” Rylie puffed out his chest and smiled down at her. “So, if you do not mind me asking, how old is Eric?”

“Oh not at all, he is the same age as you and Kate, seventeen. In fact, I did not think you two would be coming tonight, Eric never likes these kinds of things. I am afraid we do not have room at the table, so I hope you do not mind eating with the kids.” She looked slightly embarrassed, but I barely noticed as I was too busy glaring down my mother. I was furious. She had made us come, and Jill, the cool mom, had let her son do what most seventeen year olds prefer doing, he was hanging out with his friends.

My mother looked directly at me and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “How was I supposed to know.” I rolled my eyes and took my place at the kiddie table. I sat there and fumed.

#10, Kate's Family

 

I walked in the door and dropped my backpack in the hallway next to my gym bag. The sound of text books made a thud, and I cringed as I thought about how much studying I needed to do. My brother’s bag was already there, practically empty as usual. I kicked it over and continued in through the mud room to the kitchen. I hated his natural ability to pull off passing grades. I hated even more that he NEVER studied, and NEVER applied himself to anything but hunting…girls and animals alike.

I plopped down on a saddleback bar stool. It was new, and not very comfortable, but it looked great and matched the kitchen décor well. My mother was baking, and I could smell the sweet aroma of vanilla and cinnamon. My mouth was watering, I reached for a cupcake, and my mom smacked my hand hard.

“Ouch, jeeze, are you trying to kill me?” I snapped at her, knowing I was overreacting as I said it, but unable to stop myself.

“Those are for dessert.” She said it as if it was a perfectly acceptable explanation for the red handprint now throbbing on my wrist.

“Fine.” I set the cupcake back down, and turned to leave the room. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realized I looked awful. I was scowling, and my hair was pulled back and had salty sweat in it. “I’m going to go shower,” I mumbled.

“That is fine, but make sure you put clothes on, not PJ’s, we are going to the new neighbor’s for dinner tonight.” My mother called after me.

I was half way up the stairs, and stopped dead in my tracks. “What?” I knew I had an edge to my voice, I turned and came back down a few steps, Mom was walking out of the kitchen, into the entry where the stairs were, and she was looking up at me, “But mom, I have homework! I’m not going.” I glared at her. I hated when my parents did this. Mom always had been a social butterfly, but it never bothered me until she dragged the rest of us into it. Our family was constantly being invited here or there. Mom insisted that the “family” was invited, not just her and my Dad, and that meant we had to go. The last thing I felt like doing tonight was sitting at some person’s house I did not know. Usually the adults sat and talked and I was left out of the conversation. Besides, I did have homework.

“You are going, so go get cleaned up.” She said evenly, trying to hide her frustration. Her usually composed face was turning slightly red. I knew that when she used that tone there was no point in arguing. I also knew by her face turning molten that Rylie had already given her a hard time about having to go, and I was getting the result of her frustration.

I nodded once, then turned and dragged my feet as I finished climbing the stairs. She could make me go, but she could not make me enjoy it.

Just to spite her a little, when I got out of the shower I put on my oldest, most worn out jeans, and a horrific orange sweatshirt that was far too large. If I had thought there was a chance I would see anyone besides my family and these new people, I would not have been caught dead in it. Nana had sent the sweatshirt last Christmas, and I had never worn it, but I knew Mom would hate it. I also knew she would not say anything because Dad’s mom gave it to me and she would not want to hurt his feelings. I decided to also leave my hair wet, for just that little added touch. I pulled it into a knot behind my head, and looked in the mirror.

My boring brown eyes were pulling slightly backward because I had my hair so tight. My skin was clear, unlike my twin brother Rylie, I did not get zits. My lashes were short. My lips thin. I was pretty average looking. I always envied girls with great lips. I had a good jaw line, and decent cheek bones. My nose was average. All in all, I knew I had gotten more of my dad than my mom. My dad was a handsome man, although not strikingly good looking like the men you see in magazines. He was fairly short at only 5’9”. He had dark hair and eyes, big eyebrows, and a great presence. People loved him. He had a way of making them feel naturally at ease. My mother was polished and perfect. She had petite and beautiful features, always had her blonde hair done, and her make-up on. She was thin, and dressed nicely. She was beautiful. However, her perfection made people uncomfortable, including me. Riley was more like her.

When I turned the corner and walked back into the kitchen after my shower, I was glad to see my Dad standing there. He was just pulling out from a kiss with my mom, and he grinned up at me sheepishly.  “Hey sweetheart! How was practice?”

“Ugh, hard.” I reached for a cupcake again, I knew my mom would not scold me about it with my dad in the room. He brought out the best in her.

“Tell me about it?” He prodded. He was a runner in high school and college, and I always felt like he lived a little vicariously through me. He loved running, but an accident on a motorcycle had injured his leg and he could no longer run like he used to. So, he got joy from pushing me, and soaking up every detail about my practices and the latest drama between me and my coach.

“Well, we did intervals today. Coach must have been grumpy because he made us do ladders.” Ladders are when you run different lengths, starting at a 200 m run and working your way up to 1200 m. “We barely had any recovery time, my lungs were burning. I hate running in the cold.”

My dad’s lips tugged a little at the corners, and he tried not to smile. He worried that if he pushed too hard I would stop running. I liked to complain just enough to him to keep him worried. It was leverage. He did not realize that I loved it as much as he did, I just was a bit lazier than he was.

“So, how were your times?” He prodded again, hoping for a few more details.

“Well, my 200 was a 32, then we walked across the field and he started us right away on the 300. I ran a 58, so not that great, but I was boxed in a bit. Then we walked back to the start point, and he made us do the 400. I think I ran a 76, so that was better, but he only gave us 30 seconds recovery so my 600 was bad, my 800 worse, and I don’t even want to talk about my 1200.” It always made me embarrassed to tell my father my times. I am not sure why. It was like I was afraid he was judging me. I guess I felt that way about most people. I was who I was, and I was not going to change that, but I still worried what people thought of me.

“Well, sounds like you could use a rest.” He smiled as he said it, and I knew by rest he was not implying a nap, or television time. He was trying to get me to go on a jog with him, and since I knew mom would put a stop to it because of the dinner plans, I agreed. “Sure, a slow jog sounds fun,” I said shrugging my shoulders a little.

“Does that mean you want to go for a jog?” He had a slightly surprised look on his face as he asked, making sure I was not teasing him or anything. I nodded. “Great! I will go change.” I saw the look of surprise and joy in his eyes as I bounded off the bar stool I had been sitting on. I was putting on a good show.

“Wait one minute you two.” My mother, interceding just as I had known she would, “Aren’t you forgetting something Bobby?” She smiled sweetly at my father, and waited, eye-brows raised for him to figure out what he had forgotten.

“Oh, that’s right,” he sighed, “Dinner with the Prigmores. Well, Kates, looks like I will have to take a rain check.” He stood up, gave my mother a squeeze and walked into his den.

I wanted to follow, but knew he probably had work to get done before we had to go, so I decided to get started on my homework, at least that way it would not be hanging over my head the whole night.

#9, The Judgement

The Judgment

I follow the messenger into a room with a cavernous feel. The room is set up like a theater, with a staging area, and seats, one hundred in total, set up in rows, stadium style, ten across, ten deep. On the platform stage, there is a single chair. It looks uncomfortable, and I know, that is where I will sit.

I do not need the messenger to lead me to it, instinctively I know. Where else will I sit to be judged? Not amongst those passing judgment, but before them, where my crimes can be lain out, and my guilt ascertained.

I take my seat, and look up to the seats. Doors on both side of the rows open, and the counsel of Elders file in to take their seats. They have been in some sort of anti-chamber, awaiting my presence. As they walked in I try to read their faces, to see if judgment has already been passed, or if I will truly have a chance to plead my case. I see nothing. Whether human or boto, the faces reveal nothing of what they are feeling. The only indication that I am in over my head is the sole empty seat, front row, middle. That is where my mother would have sat, had she been an unbiased judge, and allowed to attend.

The only sound you can hear is the shuffling of feet and fin across the polished marble floor. The room is bright and open, but the overwhelming sense of gloom makes it feel stuffy, cave like, dark. I tug a bit on my collar, I try to free up my throat, and get some air to steady myself. I have to present a good case. I have to give them a reason to let me leave unpunished. I can’t do it if I can’t breathe, if I can’t think.

The room smells old, like a book that has been on the shelf too long, or an article of clothing that had not been worn or aired in years. The smell of mothballs and mold, of dust, and decay. The smell of an ancient society, of a group of Elders. The smell of doom.

The noise stops, and I know without looking that each Elder had taken their seat. I know that even now all eyes are turned to me, and I am pinned in place by their stares. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the putrid air, and falter in my attempt to calm myself enough to appear at ease. I fail completely. So, instead of the cocky grin I had hoped to wear on my face I do my best to hold a blank expression, and hope the counsel are unable to see the terror I truly felt at knowing my own fate.

“Stand.” A small voice commands as if amplified 100 times.

I stand, my chair pushes back and scrapes across the marble floor, making a loud sound. I look to the Elder who commands me to stand. I have not seen this Elder before. She is in boto form, and from the looks of it, pushing 50,000 plus years. There is a good chance she had never ventured outside the great hall walls in the past 20,000 years. I avoid eye contact. The humans have a legend that says if one were to make eye contact with the boto, or Amazon river dolphins, they will have nightmares for the rest of their lives. I look at this Elder, and I do not doubt it.

“State your name.” The same small voice, with amplification orders. It is a dry, humorless voice, one that rings with authority. I want to laugh at the irony, as if anyone present doesn’t already know my name.

“Kyson Drake.” I reply. I do not voice any of the sarcastic, or irreverent thoughts I have about the waste of time it is to go through these formalities. Despite the fact that it is just that, a formality, I am grateful for it, as it gives me a chance to calm my nerves, and prepare myself for what lies ahead. It gives me a chance to think more clearly.

“Do you know why you stand before us?” A high pitched, bolder voice, coming from the fifth row, an Elder in human form, asks.

I debate my answer. I have several ideas of why I may have been summoned, but none of them seem to fit the bill, as none seem to be monumental enough to warrant a full counsel hearing, and the resignation of my mother.

“The reason has not been made known to me,” I answer in as honest, yet diplomatic a fashion as I can muster. I hope my avoidance of the question, giving a non-answer will buy me time, and keep me out of hot water. I do not want to incriminate myself by admitting to something they do not know of, or incense the Elders with a comment made too hastily.  I had hoped to give an answer that would lead to a calm manifestation of the facts. It appears to have an opposite effect, however.

A murmur goes up. I catch a few phrases: “Waste of time.” “Toying with us.” “Unmannered.” “Irresponsible.” “Outlandish.” And others along the same vein of thought.

A gavel sounds, and the room quiets again. This time the trickle of fear is more of a tremor. The Elders rarely lose their tempers, rarely speak out of turn. They have each had thousands of years to perfect their manners. I try to speak again, to somehow repair the damage I have done, “I have…”

“Stop.” This from a long-haired Elder in human form, with a gray beard, and leathered skin. “We do not need to hear your excuses.” He sighs. He stands then, and being on the front row, he is able to take a step out toward the stage area. He turns to face the Elders, and silently seems to send them all a message. One by one they acknowledge his silent message with an ever-so-small nod of the head. When it appears all agree he turns once more to face me, and takes his seat again.

My eyes dart from Elder to Elder, and then behind me, to the left the big wooden doors creak again, and my family, my parents, and my aunt, and cousin Angela enter the room. The stricken look on their faces sends fear through my body, it washes over me like a tidal wave, they know something I do not.

“Welcome.” The same long-haired Elder says in muted tones. “Please, please be seated.” He gestures to a row of chairs on the far wall, I had not noticed them until now. I watch my family walk slowly toward them. My father first, his strides no longer the powerful, purposeful ones he used in the park that same day. My mother, bent over with grief, she barely keeps it together, my aunt on her arm, helping her as though she were an invalid. And last, came my cousin, Angela. She walks slower than the rest, as if she can stop what is happening if she slowed it down enough. At last she reaches the chair, and turns her head toward me. The shame I feel, the guilt, stops me cold. Her eyes are accusing, there is an anger there, regret, I know she will never forgive me. She knows. She knows far more than I have ever shared with her. It is like she has bared my soul, and can see every ugly part of me.

My mind is whirling, what can I have done that is so horrific that my best friend looks at me that way? What did I do to disgrace my family so badly? I search mentally for the answer, but none comes. A booming voice, as if on loud speaker stops the search cold, and begins my sentencing. It is a dry, papery voice. It comes out scratchy and foreboding. It holds authority. It is a voice you do not question, not even I would question this voice.

“Kyson Drake, son of Kathy and Matthew Drake, the counsel of Elders has gathered today to pass judgment on your head. That which we decide is binding, and cannot, and will not be broken. As a member of the race of Encantado, you are duty and honor bound to uphold the laws. Any and all transgression of said laws results in judgment and execution of punishment.”

This is the purpose of the gathering, to execute a punishment from my transgressions. I know this, and I will him to move forward. To enlighten me with the information I so desperately seek, the information that will give me the power to refute the accusation against me. The information that will give me what I need to know to manipulate the situation, and get myself out of trouble, and back to my cushy life. He continues on.

“Your just reward will be meted out today. We have judged you.” He pauses here, and glances at each of the front row Elders, for confirmation of what he will say next. I can see what he is doing, but do not understand it. I have already been judged? When? Why hadn’t I been given a chance to defend myself? Or had I?

His voice starts up again, and I make myself focus on his words, “We have found you lacking. You have broken the rules that hold our society together. We have searched your heart. We have found no remorse. We have weighed the effects of your offense, and found that balance must be restored to this world. Your actions, your inactions, your deeds, your misdeeds, have threatened, and damaged our race, and have interfered with, and damaged the human race. As a result of your folly, we have determined, as a counsel, the only course of action we can take.” He pauses again to take a drink of water, as if to soothe his throat, and ease his papery, scratchy voice. I move to the edge of my seat, intent on not missing anything, although I feel like I have already missed something very important. I feel utterly and completely lost.

He starts up again, the scratchiness still there, the papery feel of his voice even more pronounced, “I hereby banish you from the Encante, and from contact with our world. On behalf of the counsel of Elders, I revoke your ability to feel true emotion when in human form. We sentence you to a life amongst the surface dwelling races, and away from those who can understand you. We sentence you to a superficial, and empty life, much like the one you have cultivated here. Your punishment is simple, we will give you just what you want.”

A scream tears from my mother’s chest, and she hurls herself at me, but is restrained by my aunt and my father. My mother’s tears are streaming down her face, her sorrow so genuine, her pain so real, I can read it plainly on her face. I can do nothing to stop it. I cannot even feel remorse. I know I should, but it is as if my mind and my body re separate. My mind is telling me to apologize, to comfort her, to beg for forgiveness, but my body stays in place, ignores her cries, and physically turns away from her. “Stop,” I want to scream at myself, but instead, I stand up from my chair, and walk out of the room. I continue walking, down the long corridors of the great hall, and out the massive front doors, past the staring eyes, past the pointing fingers, past all that is so innately familiar to me, and out the gates of the city. Once outside the gates I am forced to transform into my boto form in order to swim to the surface. When I do, an unbelievable pain, longing, and sorrow overtakes my body, and all I can do is swim as quickly as I can to the surface where I can transform to human once again and escape the awful nagging feeling of regret, and try to forget the look on Angela’s face as my punishment was read.