Trystain keeps a grave stare leveled weightily on the playground, bringing to my mind images of a grim reaper’s gaze on those whose time has yet to come; those whom he knows are not yet his. Death hanging silently over the heads of the innocent. I am reminded that Trystain is more human than reaper as he moistens his lips and replies slowly, “She’s dead.”
I tug at a handful of grass. “Oh. Okay.” A grim silence falls over us, but I hurriedly break it before awkwardness can set in.
“One more thing. Why did you name the book Cyclamen?” I query, rolling over onto my stomach to support myself on my elbows. “There were no flowers in the book.”
“I didn’t think you’d figure that out,” he smiles wryly, ignoring the glare I shoot at him. “Are you familiar with the floral language?”
“No, but I’ve heard of it. What is it?”
“It’s basically flower symbolism. You probably know that a red rose symbolizes love, and lilies mean death, right? That’s floral language.”
“So what do cyclamen symbolize?” I press.
“Goodbye.”
I hesitate, half understanding and half still sorting through the connections. I’m not sure how to prompt him further, so I leave it alone and go back to picking at the grass. The tree drops another of its sparse leaves. Trystain lets out a whoosh of air, sighing “I suppose I owe Katherine an apology.”
It takes me a moment to remember that Kat is a nickname. “Why? What did you do?”
“I might have given her a bruise.”
I jerk upright, reproach obvious in my face. “You hit her?! Tryss, you’re not supposed to hit girls in the first place, and plus you’re a vam—”
“I didn’t hit her,” Trystain cuts in, clapping a hand over my mouth before I can finish the v-word. Nobody is around to hear anyway, so I pry it off impatiently as he asserts, “She was trying to punch me, so I just caught her wrist and…almost broke her arm, but…” The last bit is a hastily mumbled blurb, but I still catch it. Crossing my arms, I level my best “you’re not getting out of this one, mister” glare on him.
“You two really don’t get along, do you?” I deadpan, although my tone makes it clear that I’m not accepting that as his excuse. Trystain rolls his eyes at my stern front. Apparently I’m more irritating than intimidating when I act as an angry parent.
“We get along fine,” he corrects me. “It’s just that she’s always been protective of kids who are being bullied, and she sees me as the bully.”
“You kind of are.”
“I am not a bully.” This, with a reproving scowl in my direction. “It’s your fault for making faulty assumptions before reading the whole book. If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have gotten rough.”
“So you can’t control your emotions when a little girl makes a mistake?” I shoot back.
Trystain is about to defend himself when my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I slide it open to find that my dad is calling me. Bracing myself, I hit Accept.
“Hello?”
“Young lady, your mother and I are both getting tired of this business of running off without a word about where you’re going.”
“I said I was going out.”
“You’ve been gone for almost two hours. Do you know what time it is?”
I fidget nervously, trying to remember what time it had been when I left. “Um…”
“It is a quarter to seven,” my dad informs me, saving me the trouble of doing the math. “You missed dinner. This is unacceptable.”
“I’m sorry.”
I can feel Trystain’s eyes on me as my dad lets me know that sorry doesn’t cut it and we’re going to have a nice long talk when I get home. In some deep corner of my mind, I can hear the faint whine of the silent screaming, edging into the muscles of my own throat. There is some kind of silent understanding, some passive support in Trystain’s Caribbean blue gaze that makes the bark of my dad’s voice gradually melt from menacing to maddening, because even though I am alone in confronting his anger I am not alone in taking it. Fight-or-flight instincts rage in my gut, and I tighten my grip on the phone.
“I’m not your goddamn puppet.”
My dad’s voice cuts off, and there is a brief moment of shocked silence from the other end of the phone before he regains his wits and warns me, “Young lady, we don’t use that kind of language.”
“Hypocrite.”
He doesn’t have a response. Part of me wonders if Trystain’s marijuana got to me too, because there’s a buzz of energy rising in the back of my mind egging me on. So this, I muse, is what it’s like to talk back to your parents. There is a little murmuring in the background from the other end of the line, and I wait patiently as my dad clears his throat.
“I’m coming to pick you up,” he says lowly. “Where are you?”
“I can walk home.”
“No, I’m going to pick you up.”
“You can’t do that if you don’t know where I am. I’m walking.”
There is a long silence. “We’ll talk when you get home.” He hangs up.
When I get home. He means when we’re face to face, because then I won’t have the guts to talk back. At least that’s what he thinks. Triumph rises in my chest as I lower the phone, glancing at Trystain again. There is mild surprise and a hint of approval on his face. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I look down at my hands to discover that I’m shaking slightly, and I laugh, quietly and incredulously. Trystain’s mouth twists into his lop-sided smirk.
“You’re in a lot of trouble,” he tells me. I laugh.
I haven’t won yet. But I’m getting there.
Chapter XIV
Start from the beginning
