Tuesday was running late, again. A month didn't seem to be enough to get back into the swing of things, not enough to fall back into a normal routine. Waking up in the morning was easy enough; she didn't use an alarm clock any more--the sound was too jolting and would only succeed in triggering an anxiety attack--but she woke up so often throughout the night that normally she was fully awake by 5 a.m.
On the nights her dreams got too vivid, however, she struggled to wake up on time. It was another one of those unfortunate morning-afters. The remnants of whatever memory she'd been reliving in her sleep drifted through Tuesday's head as she rushed to get herself ready for school.
Her Aunt Mary--who had been both estranged and excommunicated from Tuesday's immediate family--had taken her in. Tuesday's parents rarely spoke of her, so she had gone into her new living situation blind. Thankfully, there was nothing strange about the woman...beyond a slight case of eccentricity. One of the first things she'd said to Tuesday was an ironic remark about her own name: "My parents seemed to think naming me this would keep me on the righteous path...well they were sorely disappointed."
Tuesday wasn't quite sure what it was her aunt believed in that had been so alienating to the rest of the Hales, but she certainly wasn't a Catholic. Mary was very spiritual; her house felt more like a day spa. There was a variety of candles in every imaginable space, sandalwood and various other incense could normally be found burning, and in lieu of any pets, Mary took care of plants. They lined each windowsill, always thriving--even now, with how winter was stealing each day's allotted sunlight.
The only actually curious thing Mary partook in was her smudging, wherein she lit a small bundle of sage and walked through the house with it. Tuesday didn't know if it was all in her head, but the technique seemed to have a positive impact; she always felt just a little calmer, just a little more herself, when Mary did a smudging.
Rushing to do her makeup, Tuesday nearly stabbed herself in the eye with the mascara wand. It felt like a waste of time some mornings, but she'd stopped bothering with it when everything had gone to hell...picking it back up was somewhat therapeutic. Her aunt called out from the other room; Tuesday glanced at the time on her phone and cursed, throwing her backpack over her shoulder and dashing down the hall.
Mary had a glass of orange juice and an omelet laid out for her. Not wanting to be rude, she downed half the drink in one gulp as she struggled into her jacket. Lord, did she want to skip class--but Mary had assumed a typical parental role in her life, and she wasn't about to allow that.
"Good morning," Mary greeted over her own glass of orange juice. She'd seemed to be up and ready for awhile now, sitting leisurely at the table with a crossword puzzle. Tuesday couldn't fathom how anyone could look so put-together that early in the morning. "You feeling alright?"
Tuesday nodded, but muttered, "Why does everyone keep asking me that?" under her breath when she had turned away. Just a few days before, she'd been called down to the counselor's office from an anonymous, concerned tip about her wellbeing. With an offer of help thrown her way, Tuesday had been very tempted to reach out and finally accept it.
But what was she supposed to say--the truth? What a riot.
She could have hoped she'd had enough practice putting up a facade that no one else would notice the truth. It seemed Tuesday was an open book no matter how hard she tried to be otherwise.
School was...okay. Nothing was particularly interesting about her new Bronx public high, but then again, Tuesday had shed her pariah status. No one there either knew or cared about her past. She didn't run in a wide circle of friends, she never had--but there were some people she shared company with when group projects or discussions arose.
She shouldn't be picky, Tuesday knew that. It had never gotten her anywhere before, opting to be a loner when no one else met her standards. She was a teenager, even if it was easy to forget sometimes, and no teenager felt like they fit in.
Sure, Tuesday had never felt as connected with anyone as she had with Cyrus--but it didn't even make sense. They were nothing alike.
Now that he was on her mind, her day was doomed to get a lot worse. Classes trudged by in a dull blur. She spent lunch in the library, as per usual, thumbing through dusty volumes of poetry: Plath to Dickinson to Bukwoski. After that came a senior workshop, which she'd been dreading for weeks. She didn't want to be faced with the reminder that, pretty soon, she'd need to get her act together and figure out what her future entailed.
Tuesday filed to the gym slowly, still overwhelmed by how many kids filled the halls. Her old private school had been much smaller. An upside, though, was the diversity; the social groups were more varied and defined. She could have reinvented herself here, found good people to surround herself with--it was just so hard breaking out of that shell.
For the first part of the assembly, Tuesday kept to herself, silently listening to the presentation on colleges and prepwork for graduation. It was hard to believe how quickly it was approaching--just several months away. Then the speaker ordered everyone to divide into groups and do a few icebreakers before discussing what they wanted to do after graduation.
It felt like the room had suddenly gotten much smaller, all the air being sucked from it. Tuesday stared at her shoes, face heating up; then she felt a tap on her leg and saw a nearby knee was knocking into hers. Tuesday looked up to meet the eyes of the senior beside her, who was giving her a crooked grin.
"Hey, do you wanna work with us?" the girl said, brushing her choppy dyed-black bangs out of her eyes. She jutted one finger to the other girl and boy sitting near her, the three of them sitting cross-legged facing each other on the bleachers.
Tuesday nodded, clearing her throat, and scooted over to join them. The other kids had only welcoming smiles to offer her; a memory flashed back to her before she could ward it off of the boy from her old school bursting into flames. She couldn't remember feeling much of anything but maybe a slight relief, or even pride, back then.
Now it just made her sick.
She cleared her throat again, trying to focus on the other kids. They introduced themselves, obviously for Tuesday's benefit--they all seemed very comfortable with each other, the kind of camaraderie that came from years of slugging through the same dull assignments with each other. Tuesday was mostly quiet for the conversation; she had no honest clue what would come after school for her. The endless possibilities, good and bad, made her head spin.
Stolen story; please report.
They finished with extra time and the conversation veered off track. The girl who had invited Tuesday in--Jordan--was talking animatedly about her Shakespeare class. When she paused, Tuesday took the chance to say timidly, "Do you have Mrs. K?"
Jordan turned to her with a wide smile. "Yeah, you do too?"
Tuesday nodded.
"Sick! Isn't she great?"
"It's my favorite class." Tuesday fell silent then, the explanation behind her answer numbing her mood. Most of the time the class revolved around each student being assigned a role and reciting from a play; Tuesday got to be someone else for an hour every day.
When the assembly ended, Jordan grabbed her by the arm before Tuesday could disappear into the crowd. "I totally get if this is weird, but Layla and Chris and I--" she nodded to her companions-- "were going to study for that Shakespeare test. You can join us if you want."
Tuesday hesitated for only a moment. Normal company was too good to turn down; she wanted, she desperately needed, a distraction.
That's how she ended up in a kinda-stranger's house, smoking weed for the first time.
No one forced her. It just came up, and Jordan offered, and Tuesday didn't really see a reason to turn it down. If her father were there, he would have whipped her ass--
--but he was probably burning in the hell he had warned countless churchgoers of.
They never bothered to study, and quickly Layla and Chris drifted out of the room, hands all over each other. Tuesday coughed over the smoke filling her lungs, avoiding Jordan's eyes as she began to laugh so hard, her cheeks were tinted rosé. Jordan came over closer to show her how to take a proper drag, bare arm brushing against Tuesday's. She shivered, despite the fire crackling in the hearth a couple feet away.
As they talked, about anything and everything under the sun--favorite bands, where they would sell their soul to travel to, how democracy was a dying breed--Tuesday was finally able to get Cyrus out of her head.
It wasn't hard to acknowledge then, with the peacefulness sludging through her veins thanks to the weed, why she'd fallen so hard. Her life had been strict, all the boxes filled out for her; Cyrus embodied everything she couldn't have. He was different, and it was exciting. And when she began to see he was more than meets the eye? Shit, it was like falling into a fairy-tale--in real life.
Then came the demons. Then came the carnage. There was blood on her hands, and she wasn't sure if she truly regretted it...but she would also do anything to scrub it from her skin, even if it meant peeling it all off.
She felt safe with Jordan, something she'd never had with Cyrus. Sure, Tuesday was comfortable around him--somehow it just felt right--and felt content, but there was something about feeling...wanted. Not needed, not fascinated by, but genuinely wanted around.
Jordan laughed nervously, snapping her out of her thoughts. "You're staring," she observed, biting her lip.
Now it was Tuesday's turn to blush. She stared down at her shoes like the words written on them could give her some answers on whatever the hell it was she was feeling--
And then the sound of her phone ringing made her jump.
Giving an apologetic wince, Tuesday muttered, "Probably just spam," before glancing down and seeing a number she didn't recognize across the screen, a local call.
Another less violent memory came to mind: how that night on the beach she'd used the sharpie she kept on her to scribble her number on Cyrus's hand. She hadn't let him leave until she was absolutely positive they were in agreement--he would call her when he got his affairs in order, and he would call soon.
Fuck. Just when she was getting him out of her head--it had to be coincidence. Still, Tuesday couldn't help but answer the phone anyway.
There was no greeting. In a quiet but shaking voice, Cyrus was suddenly speaking on the other end: "I need you."
She wished she had the strength to be pissed off, but the sound of his voice only brought a surge of relief crashing over her. Tuesday stared at Jordan, wanting to stay, not wanting to ruin a good thing.
Then she covered the speaker and said to Jordan, "I'm really sorry but I've gotta go," before throwing on her coat and stumbling out into the snow.
"You still with me, Cy?" Tuesday said into the phone, bare hand shaking in the cold. She walked so fast down the sidewalk she almost tripped on the ice several times.
She heard a quiet mumble on the other end. Unable to understand what he'd said, Tuesday tried asking the question again, but abruptly his presence was replaced by someone else. She could feel it through the phone, feel the difference in the company on the other line.
The brisk and icy voice of the demon who had saved her life (it was about time she found out his name...) recited an address before adding, "Come quickly. Oh, and you might want to bring a spare change of clothes for your boy here." Then the line went dead.
Tuesday stopped in her tracks, tilting her head back to stare upward at the sky. It was a deep indigo, no stars in sight but a sliver of the moon far overhead. She hadn't realized just how much time had passed. Still sort of giddy from the weed, she took a moment to compose herself before resuming her trudge through the lightly falling snow. She made a quick stop at home, grateful that her aunt worked third shift, sifting through Mary's closet. Cyrus was skinny, but still bigger than Tuesday--she was sure one of the woman's shirts would fit him though. Grabbing the first acceptable shirt her fingers touched, Tuesday left again and hopped on the train to Brooklyn.
-
When she reached the address she'd been given, Tuesday couldn't help but pause. She wasn't in the greatest part of the city; actually, no part of the city was too great at that time of night. She debated turning back, staring up at the darkened house, when a figure melted from the shadows beside it and limped into view.
She didn't have time to revel in his company. The first thing she became aware of was how Cyrus's face, hands and clothes were splattered red. Tuesday's right hand went to her mouth, covering her horrified expression, the other going to her heart. It did nothing to placate her racing pulse.
At this, Cyrus turned away, glaring at the ground. He looked ashamed, and this hit Tuesday with enough force it could have knocked her to her knees.
She couldn't bear to discriminate here; not so long ago, Tuesday herself had shown up on Cyrus's doorstep in a similar state--drenched in blood, asking for help. How was she supposed to deny him the same thing? So it was without question, without comment, that she stepped forward and took his hand.
"Let's get you cleaned up," she whispered, not trusting her voice not to falter at full volume. She started for the house, thinking he must have just come from there, when his hand rose to settle on her arm.
"Don't," he said quietly.
Looking between it and his blood-stained clothing, Tuesday couldn't help the horror that entered her eyes again. Trying to tamp it down as quickly as possible, she said, "Well, there's no way we can get you anywhere else looking like that. Lead the way."
Without waiting for him to agree, Tuesday clamped one hand over her eyes and clutched one his with her other. After a moment of hesitation, Cyrus obeyed, pulling her along, whispering directions ("to the left...this way now..."). Something bitter was strong on the air, making Tuesday's stomach church, and she did her best to ignore it. When they reached the bathroom, he ushered her inside and shut the door, and she finally opened her eyes.
There was a stack of washclothes on the counter. Tuesday wasted no time in soaking one in warm water. Watching her, Cyrus said, "You should have let me die."
The cloth almost dropped from her hands, her fingers spasming over it. She clutched it tighter and finally met his eyes full-on. "Don't put this on me." She looked away again, wringing the excess water from the cloth. "But...I'm not going to make you go through it alone. What happened here?"
He didn't respond.
Everything that was a mystery about him came to mind. Sure, Tuesday had begged him once not to tell him what his uncle was--but there were definitely other secrets he was keeping. "Either tell me what happened, or I'm walking back out that fucking door without you."
Cyrus looked up, eyes wide, staring at her for a whole minute in which she couldn't catch her breath. Then he nodded slowly, never looking away from her face.
And he told her everything.