March/April 2006

Lara flung the covers away with an arm and nearly fell out of bed in her rush to get to the clock, on the other side of the room. The piercing wail of the alarm had always irritated her immensely. She saw it as a shatterer of dreams, a malicious creature that waited until the very moment when you jumped into the sky to ring its sorry heart out. Hand slamming down on the “off” button, she sighed and ran her long, slender fingers through her tangled dark brown hair. Then she regarded them with fastidious interest. She decided they should be included in her list of good features, as number three, owing to the long, unbitten fingernails and delicate, almost visible bones. The other two were her eyes and her hair. The only delicate thing about me, really, she thought rather sadly, as she tried to walk to the bathroom but tripped over a sheet that was wrapped around her ankles. She hopped on one foot, tugging the miscreant sheet off, and continued on her way. Once there, she scrutinized herself in a tall mirror on the back of the door. Stocky, five foot five, straight, lanky brown hair, stormy blue eyes, check. Unfortunately, she thought, nothing had changed. She turned to the mirror over the sink and began to search for the easiest place to start brushing. She had long ago decided her hair was like a wild stallion. Sometimes it could be elegant, pretty, even affectionate, but mostly it was willful, impertinent, and unyielding. Yanking her brush through the first wild snarl, she heard a small, metallic crack. She sighed and reached up to pull a tiny metal tine from the knot, then looked at the corresponding hole in the brush. There were other holes too, mostly around the edge. She felt sorry for the decimated thing, and compared it to the soft grass the stallion viciously chomps. Unfortunately, she thought, nothing had changed She brushed her teeth quickly and brusquely, and then went back to her room to grab a book before heading downstairs. The Hounds of the Morrigan. A fantasy story but centered on Irish mythology. She stroked the shiny cover as she walked down the hall. Ireland. She would be going there soon. She smiled at the thought. Maybe, just maybe, she would have a magical adventure. After all, where would one be more likely to happen than in Ireland, the Land of the Fae? She trilled three happy notes, and then found herself in the kitchen. Lara always had the same thing. She was aware this was very unimaginative, but she told herself she could not be infinitely creative. In things that were not artistic, she always followed a set pattern or order. Even though it made no difference, she liked to think she accomplished more when in a comforting ritual. Grabbing a bagel from the breadbox and a bottle from the fridge, Lara set them on the table. She was in the act of dipping the knife in to spread on the bagel, when she realized it was ketchup. She hurriedly wiped the knife off, screwed the top on, and put it back in the fridge. Then she pulled the right bottle out, feeling minor irritation. As she lazily spread creamy yellow mustard on the bagel, Lara thought it was quite possible no one else in the world had the same thing for breakfast. She liked to think that at least one thing was all her own, unshared. She knew it was unusual to eat mustard on a bagel, but she was a firm believer in Pleasure Before Convention. Like Age Before Beauty, an idea she thought excellent. She both envied and despised exceptionally pretty people. She knew (or told herself she knew) she only had one remarkable feature; her cloudy gray-blue eyes. She would have loved them even more if they had worked properly, instead of making her wear glasses. Well, need them, anyway She hardly ever wore them. Carrying her plate to the table, she put her feet on the chair diagonally across from her and began to eat. She also read, using one hand to hold the book and the other to eat. She vaguely heard her mom, Michaela, begin to stir above, and she felt a sort of sinking. She loved her mother, but she liked having the house to herself. She finished the bagel and licked her fingers, then put down the book and carried her plate to the counter by the sink, and left it there. She climbed the wide staircase, and halfway through the hall, she met her mother. “Good morning, Lara,” she mumbled, then rubbed her eyes. She seemed to come more awake, and smiled. “Only a day and a few hours left until you go to Ireland!” “Yes, I know, Mom. Thank you. I’m really glad to be going.” Her mother smiled even wider and her eyes got the melted look Lara recognized as fondness for something inanimate. Whenever she thought of a special place, object, or even idea, her eyes became shiny with moisture, and they seemed to stare right through whatever was in front of them. Lara’s mother cried very easily, but not out of sadness. Now she shrugged her shoulders in excitement and then, suddenly, frowned. “You’re still in your nightgown!” “Yes, I’m going to change right now, Mom.” Lara slipped into her room and nearly tripped over the giant suitcase. She swore silently and glared at the thing. She had tripped over it nearly daily ever since she finished packing. She imagined it glaring back at her in a stuck-up fashion. “There’s only enough room in here for one of us,” she told it sternly, then without another word, she booted it into the hall, where it lay in haughty defeat. She lifted her chin and turned to her dresser. Nothing much was in the maple drawers. It had all been packed, all but her least favorite clothes.