Sarah had spent the previous day in a state of effervescent expectancy. She had cleaned every room, rearranged the decorative plants, dusted, and mopped. During his last visit, Daniel said that he missed the taste of home-cooked food the most during the monthly route along the planetoids. “I know I can trust you with this,” he had said. She had asked why sharing it would be a problem. “I don’t want anyone to think that they have to do things for me,” he had told her. She felt like he had just placed a beautiful star into the center of her chest, a shining secret that only she knew. “If I make something for you,” she had asked, looking at the crew and feeling the heat in her cheeks, “that would be ok, wouldn’t it?” He had smiled and said, “Yes, only if you do it.” She knew just what she would make him — apple tarts. Her pies usually ended up a total loss, but somehow, she could always make those. Maybe it was because it was something that her mother had taught her? Probably.
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August 15th, –05.
It is still dark outside, but then it is always dark outside. I don’t know why I say “still” as though I’d wake up to the sun, because that’s impossible. Most of the time, I know this, but every now and I wake up and half-expect it, and only then do I slowly remember that there will never be a sun.
“Brandon!” his mom yelled up the stairs, “Brandon! It’s Thursday! That means school!”
“Coming!” he yelled back down, hopping around on one foot, trying to get his shoe on. He threw the door open with his jacket half-way on, finally getting his foot in the shoe. He sat at the top of the stairs and laced up his shoes, put his arm in the other sleeve of his jacket and shrugged the backpack on. Then he shuffled down the stairs until he reached the last step. His mom stood a few steps away, looking at him with a mixture of exasperation and concern.
Brandon smiled like had everything together, took a step forward and ran straight into the wall. “Oww. Wow. Oww.” he said, putting his hand to his forehead.
Wednesday had arrived before I realized it. It was my first day off, and Uncle Kevin and I had worked out the details the evening before. He gave me a house key and said that I had to be home for dinner, which fit my plans just fine. Cutler had called later on and said that we played from one to about three. I told Uncle Kevin that I needed to go get my film from Edward’s Photo Hut also, so after LARP I’d head down there and explore Tarrant a bit more. He was ok with everything, so it looked like tomorrow would be smooth sailing.
D’Cardi’s was an upscale women’s clothing store with an Italian flair. The store featured signs in Italian and English, murals of the countryside and ancient churches and villas along the walls, and of course, the strands of opera at a gentle volume; mingled together with the fashionable leather coats, bags, belts, and earth-toned jewelry, the store exuded a sophisticated class that made it perfectly at home as a mall highlight. Jennifer Tabarone worked there, one of the junior members of the DMIC. Tuesday nights were slow nights and she was idly scanning the CD rack for something interesting. She had just come across a tenor described as the Pavarotti of Gregorian chant when Tristiana walked into the store.
The Complexitor sat at home in his favorite lounge chair before a wide-screen TV, drinking a perfectly chilled microbrew beer. The camera followed a tiny white ball as various golfers tried to hit it into a hole impossibly far away. He wasn’t watching. He was sulking.
Saturday began as an unexpectedly boring day. It turned out that Cutler and his family were taking a day trip to Akron. “It’s better than it sounds,” he had said, “because there’s this awesome gaming store in the mall. I won’t be here. I’ll be there.” He had spun around and pointed off to the northeast. Kirandra had the day shift at the antique store, so she wasn’t around, and Uncle Kevin had left for errands before I woke up.
O-Man stood against the door leading out of the concession stand, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other spinning a socket wrench the wrong way by the socket end. Wenchy sat behind a laptop with a large screen with headphones tossed to one side and a microphone on the other. Her outfit — an elegant off-white dress — seemed strangely out of place amid all the communications equipment. In the back, HIM stretched out in a nice leather chair, looking distinctively bored.
Wenchy looked around the room. “Let’s go through our roles one more time, shall we?” Her voice struck a characteristic semi-serious tone.
It was Friday. I took a deep breath and basked in that fact before realizing that it was summer and so Friday wasn’t the end of the school week. Still, it was summer, and I felt like anything could happen.
So far, just about anything had happened. In three days, I had gone to see my uncle, halfway across the country, found out that I’d be working most of the summer, met Kirandra, her mom, Shira, Culter and Steve, gone to see TOGAC, and had taken tons of pictures. I ate some cereal, a little overwhelmed by it all.
“So why do you want to come to my house?” Brandon asked Wenchy.
She flipped her honey-brown hair and said, “Why else? To meet your mom.” She wore a long white dress that grew transparent around her ankles, where it was met by stockings of a similar hue and matching pumps. Her hair was done up in a style Brandon didn’t recognize, but it used a circlet of hair across the back of her head, leaving the rest to dance just above her shoulders.
It made perfect sense. His mom hadn’t met anyone from the DMIC. Why didn’t they all come together, though? He felt nervous. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll come the first week, then O-Man, then HIM, then Velvet Katherine, and then Veero. Oh yeah. Then Jackie will show up.”
