The Rise of the Fourteen (5 page)

“If only I could go back,” he whispers. “If only I could
have stayed.” Arden joins the lament of the angels as nighttime descends, and
the incessant pattering of raindrops and honking of horns continues.

Luna lies on her bed in front of her laptop, which
illuminates the dark room like a beacon of capitalism. She tries to content
herself by browsing through her Tumblr feed, but keeps glancing out the window,
waiting for a car to pull up to the house.
Best birthday ever! Thanks, Mom.

The rain keeps splattering against the windows, disrupting
the silence. Luna glances at her watch. 23:30.
Shouldn’t Mum be back by now?
She heads down to the living room. Maybe watching some TV will serve as a
better distraction. Then she hears it, the click of a key turning in a lock.
Mum!
Luna runs down the stairs to meet her mother, but when she opens the door, an
unfamiliar face greets her.

 The boy is wet, extremely wet, and there are small
waterfalls pouring off his coat. He is shivering and has strange golden eyes,
like disconcerting aureate pools. He shakes the water droplets out of his hair
and sticks his hand out.

“Hi, I’m Arden.” Luna looks at him with an incredulous
stare. He chuckles nervously and retracts his hand, pretending to brush some water
off the suitcase in his other hand. “And you must be Luna.”

“What’s it to you?”

“Well, I’m …”

“And where’s my mother? What’s going on?”

“She told me to unlock the door, and that you would let me
in.”

“You’re a complete and utter stranger, and you expect me to
believe that my mother gave you our house key? How stupid do you think I am?”

“But I’m not a stranger, I’m your
—
”

“I don’t care who you are; as far as I know, you’re a
strange boy whom I have never set eyes on before.”

“Luna, darling, settle down,” Ms. Hughes says as she walks
towards the doorway, her own large case in tow.

“Mum!” She brushes past Arden to give her mother a big hug.

“Now, let's all get inside where it's warm!” Ms. Hughes urges.
Arden all but runs inside. “Oh, and Luna,” Ms. Hughes whispers.

“Yes, Mum.”

“This is your …
new
brother, Luna," she says,
the lie slipping easily off her tongue. “He'd been in a bit of a bad way when I
picked him up, so be gentle, yeah?”

Luna nods and enters the house, surprised.
Mum was always
a supporter of the downtrodden, but I never thought she’d adopt a kid.
Ms.
Hughes ambles in after her daughter and shuts the door, her cheeks reddening in
the face of her deception.

Luna starts a fire and warmth emanates throughout the house.
Ms. Hughes sits in the large armchair closest to the fire, clearly glad to be
home as she sinks into the cushions. Arden awkwardly perches on the sofa, while
Luna hangs their coats by the fire to dry.
The boy seems … strange,
Luna
thinks.
She sneaks a glance at Arden.
And slightly familiar?
Luna’s
thoughts are interrupted by her mother’s tired voice.

“Luna, dear.”

“Yes, Mom?”

“In the big bag, by the maroon suitcase, there’s a birthday
cake and some presents.”

She smiles gratefully at her mother. Her mom didn’t always
have enough money to get things done, but she always remembered Luna’s special
day. Luna brings the cake into the kitchen and cuts three slices. If she
made one of the slices just slightly smaller than the other two, that was
really nobody’s business.
Just avoid eye contact.

She heads back to the living room and slides Arden his slice
of cake across the coffee table. She hands her mother another slice and stands
awkwardly, holding her own. Sitting on the couch next to Arden would just be too
uncomfortable.

“Shall I sing happy birthday to … the two of you?” Ms.
Hughes’s voice squeaks in the most undignified way as she finishes the question.

“The two of us?” Luna exclaims.
This Arden could not get
any weirder
.

“You didn’t mention that we were twins!” Arden exclaims.

His mother grimaces as he says it.
I was
trying
to
ease Luna into it,
Ms. Hughes thinks sadly.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, rewind! What? You’re my twin?” Arden nods
slowly as Ms. Hughes pales at her daughter’s anger. “You might have wanted to
mention this earlier! I don’t even know who you are! I didn’t even know I had a
‘brother’ till about five minutes ago! What kind of sick joke is this?” Arden
shrinks back against the cushions.

“It’s my fault,” Ms. Hughes says quietly, breaking the silence.
“I should have told you before I left.”

“Yes, you bloody well should have! Is this your idea of a
birthday present? Telling me I have a twin, one that I've never heard about, in
any of these fifteen years? And you expect me to sing Happy Birthday like this is
completely normal? I'm not exactly accustomed to strange boys showing up at my
house in the middle of the night telling me that they're family!”

Ms. Hughes winces with every word as if Luna was pricking
needles into her mother’s fingers one at a time. “I know that this is a lot to
process. But why don't we save all of this talk for the light of morning when
everything will seem clearer.”

After one feeble chorus of Happy Birthday and two slices of
cake, the tension in the room has thickened from a melted margarine to a gooey,
suffocating custard. Wrapping paper littered the floor and ribbon lay in
tangled spools. However, there was no mad dash to tie each other up with the
ribbon. There were no paper ball wars or rubbish bin races. They all sit in
stony silence.
No wonder Mum never organizes family reunions
, Luna
thinks.

“Luna, can you show your brother to the spare room?”

Luna nods, but doesn’t look her mother in the eyes.
How
does she think she can tell me what to do after the bomb she just dropped?
She begins to tramp up the stairs and motions for Arden to follow, leaving
their mother to contemplate how that first meeting could have been handled
better.
I hate being told what to do.

“Your room is just up here. The bathroom is two doors down
on the left, and I can go and find you some toothpaste and stuff ….” Her voice
trails off.

“Thanks, Luna,” Arden says stiffly, trying to conceal his
discomfort.

“Listen, I’m sorry about what I said. I was just in shock. I
didn’t mean to insult you.” Apologies were never Luna’s strong suit, but after
seeing his face as he huddled up against the cushions, she decided she had to
give it a go.

“It’s okay,” Arden replies, a sad smile forming on his face.
“I had a similar reaction this morning when … Ms. Hughes came to pick me up.”
They laugh nervously. Luna manages a weak smile, but Arden’s lips settle into a
grimace.

“I’m sure you’ll feel more comfortable after you’ve had a
while to adjust. I know London’s a bit different from wherever you’ve lived,
but I’m sure in time you’ll ….” She breaks off as she sees Arden’s face twist
in vexation.

“A bit different. A bit different? I gave up my whole life,
everything I ever knew to come here
—
here
to this soggy gray wasteland, full of grimy buildings, and bone-chilling rains,
with no warmth and no light to be found anywhere. And you think it will just
take some getting used to?”

His face radiates fury as Luna takes a few steps back. “You
don’t get it, do you, Luna? We've been through the same shock, but at least you
can still go on with your life! Don't pretend you can understand what I've been
through.” He slams the door in her face as Luna's gray eyes begin to purple until
they become the color of storm clouds.

“I was just trying to be nice to you, jerk face!”
she
yells, kicking the door. “Don’t pretend you can understand,” she quotes,
mockingly.
Who does he think he is?
She starts to walk to her room, then
turns back down the hall.

She opens the bathroom door, uncaps the toothpaste, and
spits into it with gusto. She caps it and shakes it about for good measure.
Have
fun brushing with that, Arden
. She considers going to warn her mother about
the "minty fresh" spittle but turns to her room
. Arden isn’t the
only one to blame. Mum is too. She can brush with that toothpaste for as long
as she likes.

 After locking her door, Luna pulls back the curtains to
reveal the glittering London skyline, masked by a haze of water. Most of the
lights have gone out on their street, but the streetlights retain their glow
like fireflies in a dark field.

Luna gazes out the window for a long time, the view calming
her mind, letting her forget her troubles. Still, she cannot stay at the window
forever and stumbles back to her bed. She ensconces herself in the blankets,
trying to shield herself from the chill of the evening's events. Down the hall,
she hears commotion and slides out of bed. She presses her ear to the door as
the sound of running footsteps draws nearer.

“Arden, Arden, honey, what is it?” Ms. Hughes croons. Luna
has to stop herself from gagging.

 “The toothpaste, it's all slimy!” Arden cries. He retches
as he furiously tries to rinse all of the green ooze out of his mouth. Luna smiles
as she makes her way back to bed. The once distracting pattering of rain whisks
Luna off to dreamland, and she follows willingly, eager to lose herself in a
world of whimsy where nothing in the past has to have ever existed.

Callida walks up the grimy stairs to the entrance of her
school building. The headmistress nods at her from the front desk, as Callida
turns to walk down the hall to English class. Most students despise learning a
different language, but Callida smiles as she sees the familiar archway.

To her ever-moving mind, always hungry for a challenge,
learning a language is a tasteful diversion. She pauses for a moment to look
out of the large window to the right of the arch. Someone has left it open and
the muggy morning breeze floats in, ruffling her hair. 

Outside, she sees the two lone trees that decorate the
school front.
Is that a glint of silver in the leaves?
She leans forward
out the window for a closer look. Even her discerning eyes cannot pick out
anything. She shakes her head and saunters towards the classroom. She,
therefore, doesn't notice two faint figures wrestling in the tree branches.

“See, Sorem! This is what happens when I let you do the
camouflage!”

“Oh, be quiet, Demetri. We’re supposed to be listening,
remember?”

***

Callida manages to file in just as attendance call is taking
place and hurriedly takes a seat at the front of the room.

“Ah, Ms. Interlengi, thank you for deciding to grace us
with your presence,” her teacher says sharply. Snickers erupt throughout the
room. “Silence everyone. I have your ‘self-reflection’ essays to hand back
now.”

“Don’t bother giving Callida hers,” a voice from the back of
the room calls. “We all know she got a perfect score.” Everyone crows with
laughter.

“Why can’t you just call it an A+?” Denise Lowman says from
the back of the room. Denise Lowman, the American exchange student, is easily
confused by all things Italian, not to mention she despises Callida.

Callida stares forward at the blackboard and says nothing.
Talking
always makes you more vulnerable.
As it turns out, Callida did get a
thirty, which does nothing to improve Denise’s mood. Denise’s sneers are
reflected in the window, but Callida pretends not to notice.

“Alright, everyone pair up! We’re going to practice our
conversational skills, basic greetings from page three four eight please.”
There is a collective aura of dread, but no one says anything. “Callida, why
don’t you pair up with Denise?”

Well, this is going to be a long class
, Callida
thinks as Mrs. Adami continues to rattle off a list of pairings. Callida
attempts a half-hearted smile as Denise walks up to the front. There is only
poison and jealousy in the approaching face.
Pity she doesn’t wear green eye
shadow; it would complement her envy nicely.
Callida sniggers at the
thought.

“What’s so funny, know it all?” Denise asks in her usual
snotty fashion. She leans against a desk lazily, her eyes rolling. As if
controlled by an unseen puppet master, the desk slides left, taking Denise with
it and sending her crashing to the floor.

“Shall we get started, Denise?” Callida says sweetly. “If
you can’t handle some
very difficult Inglese
in the morning, I completely
understand.” Denise scrambles to pull herself upright, her shirt now wrinkled.
There is still anger in her eyes, but she nods realizing the fight is already
over.

***

“Hello, what is your name?”

“Denise Lowman.”

“Nice to meet you, Denise. My name is Callida Interlengi.”

***

Callida practically leaps out of her seat when the bell
rings. Even the thought of having art history next is not enough to dissuade
her from rushing out the door. Denise had maintained a semblance of decorum
throughout the lesson but continually harped on Callida for making mistakes.
In America, we wouldn’t say it like that. In America, in America, in America.
The fact that no one cares never seems to faze Denise, so Callida doesn’t
mention it.

The familiar intoxicating, yet disgusting smell of paint and
musty old canvases permeates the air as she enters the art room. Masterful
prints line the walls, and the windows are covered in a haze of dust. Canvases
are at each table, along with some buckets of white goo and some chalky red
material. Callida observes the scene with surprise. Despite being an art class,
very little art was created in Art History.

“Good morning, class!”

“Good morning, Ms. Dinapoli.”

“Today we’re going to do a hands-on activity as we continue
to delve further into the ancient art of fresco painting. If you remember from
last week, a pigment called sinopia was used to outline the design before the
painting. My hope is that you can all complete a sinopia drawing by the end of
this period and that we can move on to discussing egg tempura, next class. You
have two hours, now go!”

The room buzzes with energy as students rush to their seats,
eager to get started now that the class is actually interesting. Callida has a
steady hand and, before long, her drawing is well on its way.

“You don’t want to mess with Callida.”

Her ears prick up as she hears her name from far across the
room, in a conversation that is not her own.

“Come on, Antonio, get a grip. I distinctly remember seeing
Callida cheating on that last test. How else do you think she gets such high
scores?”

Callida doesn’t even have to turn her head to know who’s
talking.
Denise Lowman.

“Callida wouldn’t do that! Everyone else accepts that
Callida’s probably the smartest person in this school, why can’t you move past
that?”

Denise doesn’t answer and storms off.
 How typical.

A while later, Ms. Dinapoli begins speaking. “Now if you
could all draw your attention up here for a moment, I’d like to show you how a
canvas would look if you started painting.” She points to a dark easel with a
large canvas on it.

“This is a replicatory work I’m doing for a renowned private
collector,” the teacher says with only a hint of pride in her voice. The class
pretends to look interested as Ms. Dinapoli displays her canvas. “Also, I would
like to point out that this lovely beginning of a fresco painting was done by
Ms. Lowman here. Notice the fine detail in the petal structure of the bunch of lilies.”

“Excuse me, miss, but aren’t we supposed to do our drawings
first?” one of the boys asks.

 “That’s correct, Bianca, but I wanted to show you since
Denise has already started painting hers.” All eyes swivel towards Denise as
she leans against a counter, a smug grin on her face.

“See, everyone, this is proof that Callida isn’t the best at
everything!” Denise declares, clearly enjoying degrading her classmate.

“Now everyone, back to work please,” Ms. Dinapoli urges. She
shoots Denise a reprimanding glare, but Denise skips along, not even looking
in her direction. As usual, Denise's “victory” over Callida doesn't last long.

“Hey, Callida,” Antonio calls, “could you help with drawing
a tree? I keep messing up the outline, and yours look really good.”

“Oh sure, no problem.”

Denise’s cheery grin soon turns sour as many other students
line up at “Callida’s Tree Shop.” Even Ms. Dinapoli comes over to see what all
the fuss is about. Sensing her opportunity, Denise heads over to the high paint
shelf near the example canvas. As soon as the deed is done, she quietly slips
back into her seat, smiling darkly. It will take a while for people to notice;
they’re all so busy paying attention to Callida, but eventually they’ll all see
it.

As Ms. Dinapoli walks back to her desk, she notices some
dribbles of paint on the floor. Muttering about irresponsible students, she
continues over to her desk where she notices more red paint. Her eyes widen in
horror as she turns to face her easel, currently dripping a vibrant sludge. “My
canvas!” she cries. “It’s ruined!” Her mouth opens and closes in disbelief a
few times before she clamps her hand over it. “Which one of you is responsible?”
She glares around the room, her hand now in a fist and her jaw clenching.

“It was Callida,” Denise says smoothly. A vein nearly pops
out of Ms. Dinapoli’s neck as she turns to look at Callida. “I saw her.”

“Really?” Callida asks, sighing as if talking to a
particularly unreasonable two year old. I was sitting in my seat, drawing, with
everyone watching me,” Callida replies flatly, “like I’ve been doing this
entire class.”

“Then what were you doing right after Ms. Dinopoli showed
her canvas to everyone? Loitering next to the teacher’s desk maybe?” Callida
can’t honestly remember what she was doing right that second and just squints
in irritation.

“I know it's you,” Denise says. “Don't try to weasel out of
it.” She tosses her hair back in a huff. “You know, the way you do everything.”
The class turns to look at Callida, wondering how she will react. "Did you
all think she got all those good grades by being honest?"

Callida begins to laugh coldly. “Oh, Denise, what did you
just say?” Faces around the room wrinkle with confusion. “Were you trying to
insult me?” she inquires, standing up. Whispers bounce around the room as they
all watch Callida, waiting for what she will say next. “Sorry, sweetie, but
that only works if I care about your opinion. I do appreciate the effort
though!” The look on Callida’s face is sincere, but her eyes sparkle with
mirth. She curtseys and gives Denise a double thumbs up before moving to sit
down again.

“I know it’s you!” Denise shrieks. “There’s even red paint
on her chin, look!” All eyes follow her pointing finger to Callida’s face.
Callida’s eyes flare brighter for a moment, like dying embers, but it’s only a
passing phenomenon.

“On the contrary, Denise,” Callida says coolly. “It seems
like you have some paint on
your
face.” Callida turns around and goes
back to her seat.

Denise has a look of scandalized confusion on her face; her
lips are twisted in a sneer, and her cheeks a ghostly white. “Where? Where is
the paint? Know it all.” Denise asks, patting her cheeks in an over-exaggerated
fashion.

Her snide remarks are soon drowned out by terrified
screaming. One by one, like synchronized divers, cans of paint descend from a
high shelf to make a satisfying splat as they spill and cover Denise in iridescent
ooze. Shocked and amused faces alike turn slowly from Callida, sitting quietly
at her work, to Denise, the new rainbow fairy. Callida lifts her head slowly.

“Do you still need help finding the paint on you?” Callida
asks, her eyes glowing with innocence. “Your left shoulder seems to be coated
with red paint, so don't look at me.” Denise growls and clomps back to her
seat, leaving a trail of various hues as she goes.

Ms. Dinapoli is nowhere near regaining her composure and is
running her hands through her hair over and over again. “Just go back to work,”
she mumbles as she begins shaking and wondering if she had too many painkillers
this morning. Everyone else stays rooted to the ground where they stand, any
thoughts of productivity gone out the window.

One girl stares at the canvas with mistrust. A boy closes
his eyes, trying to pretend it's not there, while his friend appears to be
praying. Callida herself is silent, desperate to hide her own shock.
I just
visualized it, and it happened! What’s going on?
Callida looks from her
hands to the remains of the painting a few times, but still can’t comprehend what
has just happened.

***

“Oh, she’s so powerful. She’s definitely one of them!” Sorem
whispers to a disgruntled Demetri.

“Quiet, you don’t want her to hear you! Besides, we already
know where the first ones are
—

“We’ll get her later.”

“Alright, alright, can we at least get out of this air vent?
Your elbow has been in my face for the past half hour.”