The Waking Moon

Chapter Seventeen

I woke up to the smell of cheap fried chicken and apple cobbler. My head was heavy and there was a piercing pain in my arm and ribs. When I opened my eyes to see the stodgy leather and mahogany décor, I groaned.

“You should eat it, you know. Even if it smells disgusting.” The girl’s voice was soft and young. It wasn’t the woman in the white dress, but someone younger and kinder. “I got you a glass of water, too.”

I eased myself into an upright position and reached for the glass, but pain seared through my arm. I tried again with the right, which felt okay. My tongue was like cotton roll, and I eagerly drank the water down. Then I looked around. A teenage girl in blue jeans and a white tee shirt sat on the antique writing desk, swinging her legs like a child. A jersey band pushed the hair from her pale, freckled face. She looked vaguely familiar, like someone I’d seen but didn’t really know.

“Juliana busted you up pretty good,” she said, studying my face. “You slept for a long time. It was pretty boring. Of course I get stuck in the only room in the house without a TV.”

“Have we met before?” I asked, wincing at the pain in my ribs when I spoke.

She snorted. “Yeah, right. Like we’d ever hang out with the same crowd.”

I shrugged, and concentrated on my left forearm, pressing the tender points, wondering whether or not it was broken. The girl watched me with curiosity, and jumped down from the desk.

She nodded at the foil tray. “Are you going to eat it, or should I take it away?”

When I looked at her this time, something caught my eye—a terrible burn on the inside of her wrist. The letter G. She was the Goth chick from Penrose. The one who’d killed herself. I couldn’t suppress the shudder. It wasn’t me who was going crazy. It was the whole freaking world.

“You’re Chapel Bale,” I said slowly.

Her eyes flashed over me, looking for something familiar. She folded her arms across her chest and shook her head. “I don’t know you, chickie.” 

“From Penrose. I had to share your desk in math class on my first day. I just started this semester.”

She blinked at me. “I don’t remember you.”

“You were sleeping.”

Chapel laughed. She wandered slowly around the room, pretending to study the cheesy pictures on the wall. “That sounds about right.”

I wasn’t sure how to bring up the fact that she was dead, especially since she looked so normal and alive. “They made a shrine at your locker,” I said.

Her head snapped toward me, her face eager. “They did? What did it look like?”

“Flowers and stuff. A really nice picture of you. People wrote messages all over the door. But the security guards wouldn’t let them light the candles.”

Her eyes softened and she smiled sadly. “Assholes,” she said. Her demeanor changed completely. She approached me now, and sat on the arm of the sofa. Her expression was open, almost conspiratorial. “I can’t picture you at Penrose. You’re nothing like those hideous conformist Mitzies.”

I smiled. “They pretty much hate me,” I said. 

She laughed. “God, I hated that place.” She pulled the coffee table closer to me. “You really should eat that. Who knows when you’ll get the chance again.”

I nodded and leaned over the tray. The food was cold, and the mashed potatoes had formed into a hardened paste. I poked at it with my fork, but I was nauseous and couldn’t bring myself to take a bite. Chapel slid off the sofa arm and onto the cushion beside me.

“I know,” she said, sympathetically. “Just looking at it makes my stomach turn.”

I gazed at her in wonder. “Do you really feel sick to your stomach?”

“I’m just saying, it’s pretty nasty.”

I put down the fork, and turned to face her. “No, I mean, do you really get sick to your stomach? Do you still eat? Does your body feel pain?” 

Chapel stared down at her hands, picking at the chipped black paint on her fingernails. Without the Goth makeup, she looked so young. Almost sweet.

“I do feel stuff. Yeah.”

“But you’re dead.”

“Yeah.”

“So what are you exactly?” I asked. “A zombie?”

She rolled her eyes. “Do I look like a flesh eating monster? Give me a break.”

 “So you’re a ghost.”

Chapel looked offended. “Of course not,” she said. “You see me, don’t you? I have a body. How could I be a ghost?”

“So what are you?”

She shrugged, as if it were obvious. “I’m a Noir. That’s what Juliana calls us. Noirs. Just like your guy Jack.”

“Why does everyone keep saying he’s my guy?” I said, exasperated.

“I don’t know. But I’ve seen him. I’m not sure what you’re complaining about.” She laughed again.

I stared at her face, searching for something different. A clue. Something that might give her away. But she looked as normal as anyone I’d seen.

“What the hell is a Noir, anyway?”

Chapel thought for a moment. Her fingers went to the G scar on her wrist, which she stroked unconsciously. “Outlaws, I guess.”

“Outlaws from what?”

“From death. Well, Juliana says we’re more like pioneers. But I prefer outlaws.” She dropped her hands to her lap and sighed loudly, leaning back into the soft cushions. Her eyes grew distant, and she seemed a little melancholy. “I love that they made me a shrine. Did you see what they wrote on my locker?”

I hadn’t paid much attention when I saw it. But then I remembered seeing something written in big letters at the top, a line that was hard to miss.

“I can only remember one thing. It said, ‘The Raven never dies.’”

Chapel laughed softly, misty-eyed. “That’s cool.”

We sat beside each other in silence, listening to the incessant ticking of the desk clock. It reminded me that I didn’t have time to sit there chatting. I needed to get out. I looked over at Chapel. She was in another world.

“Chapel?” I asked quietly.

“Mm.”

“Can you help me?”

She stared into space, chewing her thumbnail. With a look of regret she shook her head. “It’s impossible.”

Just then, there was the sound of a key in the lock, and the door flew open. Chapel scrambled to her feet, like a soldier caught slacking off on the job. I sat up with a start. Please don’t let it be the woman with the white dress, I thought.

It was far, far worse.