Meridian. Part 1

Meridian.

Amber Kizer.

Prologue.

The first creatures to seek me were the insects; my parents cleaned the ba.s.sinet free of dead ants the morning after they brought me home from the hospital. My first word was "dead."

After age four, when I stepped out of bed one day and popped a giant toad like a water balloon. I never again turned any lights off.

For all of my sixth year, I slept sitting up, thinking I'd spot the dying coming toward me.

There were times when it felt like my insides were full of broken gla.s.s, times when the souls of the animals pa.s.sing through me felt too big, too much. I'd open my eyes in the morning and peer into the gla.s.sy gaze of a mouse on my pillow. Death never became my comfortable companion.

I didn't have nightmares about monsters; I wasn't afraid of a thing in my closet. In fact, there were many times when I wished they, the dying, would hide under my bed instead of burrowing into the pile of stuffed animals by my head.

My mother hugged me, told me I was special. I'd like to think my parents weren't revolted by me. But I'll never forget the feelings apparent in the glances they exchanged over my head. Worry. Fear. Repulsion. Concern.

My first ch.o.r.e was to clean up the carca.s.ses. My second was to make the bed. I'd don rubber gloves and pick the dead up. My hands grew calloused from digging so many graves.

We ran out of room in the backyard by my fourteenth birthday. When I was too ill to do it, my dad stepped in and removed them, always with thinly veiled disgust.

I trembled my way through the days, constantly sleep-deprived, chronically ill. My stomach always hurt. Low-grade headaches constantly thumped a slow tempo. Doctors labeled me a hypochondriac, or worse; still, they never found causes for the symptoms. The pain was real, the cause a mystery. They suggested shrinks. Perhaps I was one of those children who required lots of attention. I'd catch my mom staring at me -she often started conversations, only to break off and leave the room.

With each moon phase, each month that pa.s.sed, the animals got bigger. Soon, they came not only at night but during the day as well. At school, kids whispered my nicknames: Reaper, Grave Digger, Witch. Other names I pretended not to hear. Adults ostracized me too. It hurt.

As I got older and stopped trying to bond. I came to the same conclusion as everyone else: I was weird. A freak. A sideshow act.

When my brother, Sam. was born. I kept a vigil in his room. Intent on cleaning up the dead things before he woke. I focused on making him feel like he wasn't alone, that I understood how scary this world could be. I wouldn't let him suffer my fears; he'd be normal in my eyes. By the time he was a month old and the only dead venturing near him came because 2 of me. I retreated.

ani.

Pag.

My parents pretended it didn't matter. That nothing ever died around me. That our backyard wasn't a cemetery. If anything, they acted like I had a talent. A gift.

If we had any extended family, I didn't know them. The exception was my namesake, a great-aunt who sent me a birthday quilt every year. My world was, and is, me and death. It's a lonely place to live, but I thought things were getting better.

My name is Meridian Sozu, and I was wrong.

3ani.

Pag.

Chapter 1.

I got up the morning of December twenty-first antic.i.p.ating a four-day weekend for the Christmas holiday. I went to a snotty private prep school that took breaks the way most people went to the dentist -only when they really really had to.

Which was why I had school on the twenty-first, my sixteenth birthday. My parents refused to let me skip. It was a typical, normal day. For me "normal" meant that my stomach churned so much I swallowed Turns by the roll, and never went anywhere without Advil. I used Visine to keep my eyes clear; without it, looking in the mirror meant seeing the eyes of a lifetime alcoholic. I kept a stash of Ace bandages and braces in my locker at school.

I coped. I studied. I kept up the facade, but I desperately needed a break. Time to sleep late.

Time to eat too much and catch up on painting my nails with glitter. Time to stop faking it and be myself, even if no one noticed. Time to dye my hair again -currently it was the obnoxious red of tomato juice. I figured black would be a nice way to start the New Year. It fit my mood. There were also a bunch of new DVDs I wanted to watch. Movies about girls my age having crushes and friends and being absolutely, completely normal.

I tucked my requisite white cotton blouse into my perfectly pleated tartan skirt. I applied thick black eyeliner and three coats of mascara, as if I could make the bruises beneath my eyes an accessory, then painted on clear lip gloss. I tugged at the opaque tights I wore, pushing our dress code to the limit. I didn't mind uniforms. At least I was part of a group for once in my life. But I hated looking like a little Lolita. I stared at my reflection, hoping to see answers. Wishing I saw the solution to my life.

The phone shrilled: once, twice. I tossed my toothbrush into the sink and grabbed the hallway extension. The phone never rang for me, but I always answered it, hoping.

"h.e.l.lo?"

Silence. Breathing. Murmuring.

"h.e.l.lo?" I repeated.

Mom appeared at the top of the stairs. "Who is it?" Concern deepened the lines on her face, aging her.

I shrugged at her, shook my head. "h.e.l.lo?"

She yanked the phone cord out of the wall, breathing fast, suddenly wild-eyed and pale.

Dad raced up the stairs, clearly just as upset. "Another one?"

Mom's fist clenched the cord and she fiercely wrenched me into her arms. What the h.e.l.l?

"What's going on?" I let her hold me as she caught her breath. My dad kept petting my hair.

4a For the last five years, they hadn't touched me except for accidents or unavoidables. Now ni they didn't seem to want to let go.

*"It's started." Dad was the first to step away.

"What's started?" I pushed away as the downstairs phone rang.

"We'll talk more after school. You have a big test today." I recognized the stubborn expression on Mom's face.

Dad pressed her shoulders, rubbed her neck like he always did when she was upset. "I think we should -"

"No, not yet. Not yet," Mom chanted.

"What is going on?" I felt fear sizzle in my spine.

"Rosie -" Dad cradled Mom's cheek with one hand and reached for me.

"After school," Mom said firmly. "Be careful today, extra careful."

"Why don't you tell me why?" I asked. "Is this about turning sixteen? I can wait to get my license for a few months. I mean. I'd like to drive, but if you're this scared we can talk about it."

Mom smoothed my hair, shaking her head. "After school."

I shrugged and looked to my father for guidance. His expression told me he wouldn't break rank. "Is it boys? I'm not dating; it's not like there's a guy -"

Mom cut me off. "Do you want pancakes?"'

I never eat breakfast. "No. that's okay. I should catch the bus or I'll be late." What else can there be? My grades are excellent.

"Mer-D!" Sammy launched himself at me. As a toddler he'd given me a nickname that stuck, so even now that he was six, I was still his Mer-D. "Happy birthday! I got you a presie. I got you a presie. Wanna know? Wanna know?" He danced with a maple syrup - covered fork. Jackson Pollocking every surface with stickiness.

"Later, Sammy. After school, okay? With cake?" I adored him. Loved him with the unconditional love I'd never received, except from him. He wasn't afraid of me. He'd pretend to blow up the dead things with his Lego men or pose them in little forts, like caricatures of life.

"Cake, cake, makey-cakey." He pranced around, his face split in a grin.

Turning back to my mom, "Why are you so freaked?" I dropped my voice so Sammy wouldn't hear me.

Dad answered for her. "There is something we need to discuss when you get home, but it can wait."

5ani "Are you sure?" I pressed. I hadn't ever seen either of them this anxious.

*"You don't want to miss your bus." Mom hovered. She'd been swinging from overprotective to distant for the past few months. There was an almost tangible distance between us. I'd catch her scrutinizing me, like she was trying to memorize my DNA.

"You have everything you need?" She stared at me, patted my hair, and rucked an errant curl behind my ear. She always made me want to shake my head and mess up my curls even more. Mom gave me a pathetic, sad smile. She didn't say anything else.

"Fine. Yep." I shrugged her off, marching out of the kitchen feeling like a kid at an adults-only party, p.i.s.sed that they wouldn't just tell me what was going on. Secrets made me feel small and insignificant. There was a vibe I couldn't place. I slid my backpack on.

Dad strode out from the kitchen. "Meridian, wait." He drew me to him, hugging me so tight that breathing was a challenge.

"Dad?" I leaned away, confused.

At least Sammy wasn't acting strange. He was playing with the Lego set he'd opened the day before, on his birthday. My mom, brother, and I were all born within a day or two of one another.

I heard the bus clank down the street and I set off at a limping gallop without glancing back.

The bus made a distinct chugging sound that made me want to hurry even when I was already waiting at the bus stop. So Pavlov, My right knee felt stiff and swollen. I reached the stop as the doors opened; other prep kids got on in front of me. None of us spoke -or more accurately, everyone ignored me. Another day another eye roll.

I pa.s.sed my bio test. Turned in my English term paper about graphic novels as a new, d.i.c.kensian serial, listed two hundred countries and their capitals for a pop quiz in world history, and skipped lunch per usual since the cafeteria was a realm I avoided at all costs.

When I wanted to evade the rest of humanity, I typically hung out backstage, in the costume room. Besides, that made it easier to hide the carca.s.ses creeping in around me.

The bus rolled back to my stop at four-thirty. My mind raced. Four days off, I wanted to start doing nothing immediately. First order of business, dumping this utility uniform and boots. Kids poured off the bus behind me, all chatting incessantly. I almost broke into a flat-out bunny hop up the block to my house. A blue Mustang full of senior guys slowed as they hung out the windows and flirted with my bus mates. I felt invisible, but I listened with one ear as my house came into view.

A white SUV with tinted windows roared around the corner ahead. The driver had to see the Mustang and the group of teens in the middle of the road. I'd swear he sped up, accelerating as he raced toward me. I dropped my backpack, frozen with shock.

Mom must have been watching for me out the window. She ran out of the house yelling and waving her arms. Chills vibrated up my spine. Her voice broke my trance and I leapt out of the SUV's way, into some bushes, but the group of kids behind me was not so lucky.

I heard the impact of metal against metal. Gla.s.s cracking and breaking. Screams. I felt as if my arm were ripped out of its socket, as if there were no more oxygen left in my lungs.

6ani *The accident only lasted seconds, but the world around me slowed to a crawl. The SUV went into reverse and sped away, leaving the driver of the Mustang half inside the vehicle and half out. Crumpled metal littered the road like scattered tissue paper. A girl from my bio cla.s.s lay motionless on the ground with others I didn't recognize. Lots of limbs lay at unnatural angles. Moans and groans from more victims meant they were alive. I moved toward the carnage to help when pain doubled me over. It felt like hot pokers piercing my eyes. Breathing became almost impossible. I fell to the road, tears streaking my cheeks as flashes of each person's life played like disjointed movie trailers in my mind.

Mom lifted and dragged me farther and farther away. Her words were jumbled, her tone frantic. Another spasm hit me. What was happening to me? Then, Dad was there too, placing me on the backseat of the family sedan. I held my stomach, my eyes tightly shut against the pain, bathed in sweat.

"Get her out of here. We're packed. Sam and I will meet you," Mom ordered my father, the car already moving. She yelled to me, "I love you. Meridian. Don't forget that!" Dad hit the gas.

He kept talking to me. Nonsense words. a.s.surances. Prayers. But I was in so much pain I barely heard him.

The farther we drove from the house and the wreck, the less tortured I felt. My breath came back; the pain receded like a tide going out. Finally. I was able to sit up and wipe my cheeks with a tissue Dad pa.s.sed back.

"Better?" he asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

I nodded, giving myself a moment to find my voice. "What's going on?"

"We've run out of time. Mom should have told you sooner. She should have explained. But she wanted you safe. Believe me, she wanted you to stay safe. And happy. To be a kid, for as long as possible."

He wasn't making sense. "What are you talking about?" I asked when he paused to catch a breath. It wasn't as if I'd ever been a safe, happy, normal kid.

"You're not human. Not completely human. You're special. That pain you felt was a human soul, I think. It's complicated."

Huh? I swallowed. "Dad, are you okay?"

"You have to leave. Meridian. You have to go to Auntie's house and learn how to do this thing."

"What thing?"

He blew out a frustrated huff of air. "I don't know. Your mother was supposed to explain it to you. I've never seen it before. All those years she knew the pain was real and never told me why until 7ani Thanksgiving when the calls started -"

*I raised my voice to stop him. "She's not here! You are! What do you mean, I'm not human?"

We made eye contact in the rearview mirror. "You're an angel being called a Fenestra."

Clearly, I'd fallen asleep on the bus and this was a terribly odd nightmare. "Of course."

"I'm not insane, young lady." Dad gave me his best stern face and voice.

We drove into the Costco parking lot.

"Can you walk?" he asked me.

I felt st.u.r.dier, but the aches, like those of a tenacious influenza, still cramped my muscles.

Dad helped me to my feet and half-carried, half-hauled me through the long aisles of bulk goods. He kept glancing over his shoulder as if he expected to be followed. Luggage hung off his shoulders and b.u.mped displays as we struggled to the back.

As we pushed through an exit marked Employees Only, a brisk wind ruffled my hair and chafed my cheeks. "Dad?"