Page 70 of Persephone's Curse
The mark.
Bernadette:
What mark?
Clara:
From my painting.
Bernadette:
Holy shit. I just went outside. Wtf is it?
Clara:
I don’t know.
Me:
A man in the park couldn’t see it either.
Bernadette:
I don’t know what it is but why do I have this feeling like we’re fucked.
Clara:
same lol
Same lol
Same lol
Same lol
Clara’s text became something of a mantra as I made it through the school day, stumbling from class to class to class to lunch to class to class to class to class, taking every available opportunity to look out the window, confirming that the mark was still there, still the same size, still in the same spot, very obviously not a wisp of smoke or exhaust or cloud.
I asked five people throughout the day if they could see it and each of them did the same squint and shrug move. And all of them said no. And one girl apologized again, just like the man in the park, a soft-spoken, sweet girl I’d always liked. Her name is Jackie. When she apologized I felt, for five crushing, expansive seconds, the most alone I’d ever felt in my entire life.
“There has to be a reasonable explanation for it,” Evelyn said in the hallway between fourth and fifth period. Our lockers were next to each other (Farthing, Farthing) and though we shared no classes, we met multiple times throughout the day, putting books away, taking books out, hyperventilating into the small metal box we were allotted to hold our things, including our secrets, including our tears, including the whispered screams we poured into them when we had no one else to tell.
“Likewhat?” I asked.
“Like… atmospheric pressure… conditions…”
“Atmospheric pressure conditions,” I deadpanned back at her, my words coming out more rudely than I had meant them to.
“I don’t know, Winnie, I’m not a weatherman,” she said, her voice withering, her expression withering. They must teach youhow to be 24/7 withering in the Underworld. It must be one of the perks they offer, besides nonstop dancing and a different dead girl braiding your hair every morning (something Evelyn had told us and that Clara had later said, her voice dripping with jealousy,Damn, that sounds so nice).
“Clearly,” I said, too late, an already weak comeback becoming weaker, as I wasn’t even sure Evelyn had heard it; she had closed her locker and was turning to leave, walking to her next class, leaving me alone.
I turned and whisper-screamed into my locker, sticking my head as far into the metal cage as I could, really letting go.
That night we ate Chinese takeout because our parents were too tired to cook.
“Best Chinese food in New York City and we can just call up and have it delivered to our door,” Dad said happily. “How lucky are we, kids?”
“Pretty lucky,” Clara said, scooping up another spring roll, dunking it in two different sauces and eating it in two big bites.
