A Day Begins (V.S. 4)

"Gaah!" I cried, sitting up. 1

I'd rather say that I behaved in a calm and collected manner at the sound of shattering glass from the other side of my room, but that wouldn't be entirely truthful. My nerves are never their usually steely selves in the morning. My eyes, involuntarily pried open by the disturbing sound, met those of my sometimes cat, Lucifer, sitting frozen like the proverbial rabbit in a headlight on my desk, with a broken lamp on the floor. We stared at one another for a few seconds before he leapt down and fled through the open window. 2

I sat there a while, recovering. My alarm clock beeped demanding at me in the chill air. Blinking, I groped for the switch and turned it off. A yawn, an undignified stretch, and I glanced at my door, as I do every morning. I had a habit of writing on various colors of sticky notes and sticking them to my door, as it was the first thing I saw in the morning. According to a hot pink note, I apparently had to do my history homework, which was due--as I had written darkly and underlined a couple times--first class Monday morning. Today was Monday. It was morning.3

"Damn." I said. 4

Another sticky note, this one yellow, read “MONDAY!!: See MR ab Wclass to. G says no T-F, b D.” Was it as important as I made it out to be? I hoped not, because I had no clue what it meant. I snatched two sticky notes off my dresser and with the pen attached to the rainbow pad, I wrote and underscored on the neon orange "DO NOT ABBREVIATE!!!" On the blue one, I scribbled "Clean up lamp." I stuck them both on my forehead and jumped out of bed; got dressed, and barely remembered to slap them both on the door as I ran downstairs.5

In the kitchen, Granny had just set a cup of tea at my place at the table, along with a bowl of thick oatmeal. Slightly surprised by this courtesy, I immediately gulped them.6

"Good morning, dear." She didn’t turn around, but bustled as she always did whenever in the kitchen and wiped a clean counter with a rag. I swallowed a mouthful.7

"Mornin' Gran," I gulped. At this moment I noticed sitting at the table across from me the man who wasn't dead anymore. Have I mentioned that I am somewhat oblivious of my surroundings in the morning? If not, I shall now do so: I am somewhat oblivious of my surroundings in the morning. As my mouth was full of think oatmeal, I decided not to venture a greeting, for fear of seeming rude, but instead examined him. He was considerably less bloody, and instead of the torn and stained jacket he had originally appeared in, he was now wearing my grandfather's black pea-coat, which was more than a tad too large in the shoulders and body. My grandfather had been somewhat portly. The man looked quite healthy compared to the previous night, which I took to be a good sign.8

"How are you doing this morning?" he asked politely. "I heard a crash." Granny turned around from where she was dishing up oatmeal for herself.9

"Yes, dear, what was that?" 10

"Lucifer. The cat," I clarified for our guest. "He broke a lamp. Do you know where my history textbook is, Granny?" She raised an eyebrow at me.11

"It is on the door table, I believe. And if I were you, I'd get a move on." I glanced at the clock over the stove as I finished my last swallow of tea, and managed not to swear. Granny does not like it when I swear, therefore I do it only in private. It was 7:20; ten minutes before the bus drove past and slowed down so I could scramble on. There's no need to describe the typical frantic rushing Monday morning, as I'm sure everybody is quite familiar with it themselves. My experiences with the routine are certainly not in any way unique. 12

Despite the fact that fate was seemingly against me, I managed to make it to the corner four seconds before the bus came. I don't know if that's a record, as I don't normally keep track, but it added some amount of cheer to the beginning of my day. The one person I knew on the bus immediately made room for me, and we both held our backpacks on our laps to leave room for our other crony who would sometimes get on at random stops along the route. We found it was generally better to plan for her appearance, because she was usually put off if she had to sit somewhere else. One of the things I love about my friends is that we can all sit perfectly happily in silence together and have a great time. 13

When we reached the next stop, I was studying the mysterious small cuts that appear magically on my fingertips over time and wondering whether they were from reading too much or from gardening, so I didn't really pay attention to the boarders until one of them slipped into the empty seat beside me. I'll let you guess who it was. Here's a couple hints: Who was the last person I would want sitting next to me? A certain creep that I've mentioned previously as someone I'd despise if I felt like spending that much energy caring? The elegant, suave, probably irresistible (if you go for leechy worm types, which I don't) new neighbor? Yup. Good old Jasper. 14

"Good morning, Miss Sheridan." I grunted, and, quickly deciding to go for the good old morning zombie routine, tried to put on a glassy-eyed expression. I did not correct the fact that my surname was Sherbourne, not Sheridan. I really didn't need him then. Not ever, preferably, but especially not then. Luckily, he seemed content to sit there, peacefully, after pulling out Shakespeare's 'Othello' and studiously diving into it. 15

Ok, so I'm all for Shakespeare's plays as light reading, most of them, and his sonnets, taken in moderation before bedtime, are delightful. But reading them for the appearance? In order to enhance the 'Vaguely European' air that he obviously tried to spread like an overly strong perfume? That is the sign of a true bounder, and wearing a striped tie and blazer to one's first day in a new school is the clear sign of a cad lacking in the most basic intelligence. And no, not for one minute do I believe that he actually enjoyed, deep down, reading Shakespeare. I was indignant for the rest of the trip.16

Now, all this seems very tame, I’m sure, with relation to the previous day’s happenings. One would never guess the confusion and inner turmoil that should, no doubt, have been within me. But you see, when you’ve been living with the instability of the natural and ‘unnatural’ (let us call it so for convenience’s sake, though in reality it is perfectly natural), as I have for quite a while, one works out a system. My system is this: there’s home life, and there’s public life. The two, preferably, should mix as little as possible. I need a home life on record for the public, and for social interactions (the social life), but that is an abridged home life. Minus my shadowless and immortal godparents, my magically kidnapped sister, the crackling portal in the front hall, the rowan-wood windowlinings, the St. Johns Wort in the garden next to the deadly nightshade, the witch granny…etc, etc. And most especially minus any nine-lived Belorussians who may or may not be from Belarus. So, with practice, I’ve gotten to the point that I can--not ignore, or forget--but store away in the back of my mind the unnatural aspects of my home life unless they are forcibly put upon me at school or about town with friends or wherever. In which case I turn the other way and pretend to be oblivious. 17

Not everybody has the same system, though. My granny’s is to be a sweet old eccentric weirdo, I mean , elderly person. If people think she’s odd, they’ll say condescendingly, “Oh, well, she is getting on in years, you know.” If people think I’m odd, they say skeptically, “Well, look at who she hangs out with, after all. She’s a harmless enough nutcase.” Not exactly the best option, but the easiest to pull off; I’m happy. 18

School that day was eventful enough to keep my interest. My crony Jerilee—the one who sometimes/sometimes doesn’t take the bus and gets put off if we don’t save her a seat—asked me how my weekend went. I said it went great, except for the end, which was horrid. She asked why. I explained that Leech Man had come over for dinner. She sympathized. 19

Cal—my friend from the bus—said it turned out that he had three classes plus lunch with Mr. Slime. We sympathized, and asked if he had tucked his tie into his shirt when he ate to keep it clean. He said he had, and not only that, but had sat next to Cal and made conversation. We sympathized more, and almost did a group hug for moral encouragement, but decided against it.20

When I got home, however, things changed. The front door was half open and my foot halfway inside when Granny said reproachfully from inside,21

“Don’t come in here, Viridian! Come in the back, please.” I froze there, somewhat irritated. When I come home, I’m ready to burst in the door and flop dramatically in a chair after dropping my bag heavily on the floor and sighing with an air of world-weariness. It’s what I do. I don’t like my patterns interrupted. I tried to sigh with an air of world-weariness there on the doorstep, but I have a feeling nobody heard. Whatever they were doing involved murmuring and walking. So I flopped around the back and in the kitchen door, dropped my bag heavily on the chair and burst dramatically into the front hall. It just wasn’t the same. And once again, I don’t think anybody noticed or cared.22

In the front hall, Granny was holding a large leather-bound open book with faded parchment and scrawly writing and marking a part of the text with a long spindly finger.23

Deucallion Shlonski, sleeves of the too-large black coat slipping over his hand and one tuft of blood-sticky hair sticking out at an odd angle, was gently examining the pentacle; crouched and running fingers along the dark red lines.