The Waking Moon

Chapter Eleven

As we walked through the park in the direction of downtown, Rhodes chattered away. It was obvious he was trying to talk about anything but school, and for him, that was easy. I learned that he was really into biotechnology and he was hoping someday to do post graduate work with this biotech genius in California named Dr. Saval Patel, but the guy had recently vanished into thin air.

“Can you believe that?” he said. “I’ve spent the past two years coming up with science fair projects with the sole purpose of getting this guy’s attention, and then he drops off the face of the earth. Not even his wife knows where he’s gone.”

It was the first time I’d realized that Rhodes was not just eccentric. He was smart. Scary smart.

He bought me coffee in a funky little place downtown called Cafe Amsterdam. I’d never even noticed it was there. The whole place smelled of coffee and warm bread. None of the tables matched the chairs, and the walls were covered with weird little artifacts. There were plastic dolls stuffed in birdcages, a typewriter with sharp nails glued to every key, and dismembered mannequin parts stuck to the walls with picture frames around them. There were a few college students hunched over their laptops, and a small collection of bohemian types sketching on pads or, more importantly, engrossed in books. I smiled. Members of my secret society.

I followed him over the creaking floorboards to a small back room where an aging punk rocker with dyed-black spiky hair sat at a corner table and played the guitar.

“Hey, Frankie,” Rhodes said to the guy as we settled at a chipped wooden table nearby. It was a repurposed old sewing table, with the pedal and all the drawers still intact. The man smiled and nodded. Rhodes looked at me. “That guy’s stories will blow your mind.”

“So you hang out here?” I asked.

He tipped his chair back as if he owned the joint. “It’s my antidote to the social androids at school. Do you like it?”

 “It’s great,” I said. 

Rhodes grinned, relieved. He dropped his chair back to the floor and leaned over the table, as if he were going to tell me a secret. “These are my people.”

I stared at the décor, thinking how much my mom would love it. She was always happiest around writers and artists. The only reason she lived in Colorado Springs instead of San Francisco or New York, she always said, was because that’s where dad found gainful employment.

“So, what’s with the locket?” Rhodes asked.

I hadn’t realized I was playing with it. “What do mean, ‘what’s with the locket?’”

“Is it a family heirloom or something? It looks old.”

“It’s just a locket. I got it at the flea market.”

“Is there a picture inside?” Rhodes asked, leaning closer. “I mean, it obviously means something to you.”

I let it drop and picked up my coffee cup instead. “Not really. I just think it’s pretty.”

I drank my coffee. Rhodes watched me expectantly, as if at any moment I would burst into song or something. He nudged my foot under the table, impatient.

“Paulette,” he said, leaning in close again. “You can tell me about it if you want.”

“About what?” I asked.

“Your mom.”

I frowned. “That’s really personal.”

“What if I tell you something personal first?” he asked. “Then we’ll both be sharing, right?”