The Suburban Strange Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1. THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

  2. SONGS TO LEARN AND SING

  3. NIGHT TIME

  4. SOME GIRLS WANDER BY MISTAKE

  5. STRANGEWAYS, HERE WE COME

  6. MIDNIGHT TO MIDNIGHT

  7. SCARY MONSTERS

  8. UNKNOWN PLEASURES

  9. THE DOWNWARD SPIRAL

  10. IT’LL END IN TEARS

  11. DARK ADAPTED EYE

  12. THE ART OF FALLING APART

  13. POWER, CORRUPTION & LIES

  14. SHIMMERING, WARM AND BRIGHT

  15. STRANGE TIMES

  16. TWIST OF SHADOWS

  17. WITHIN THE REALM OF A DYING SUN

  18. THE DREAMING

  19. SHOULD THE WORLD FAIL TO FALL APART

  20. WITH SYMPATHY

  21. GOD’S OWN MEDICINE

  22. KISS ME, KISS ME, KISS ME

  23. BIG NIGHT MUSIC

  24. THE SKY’S GONE OUT

  25. BLACK CELEBRATION

  26. THE MOON AND THE MELODIES

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgments

  Credits

  Coming in Fall 2013

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2012 by An Open Car, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Houghton Mifflin Books for Children, an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 2012.

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhbooks.com

  Music credits appear on page 357.

  LCCN 2011048209

  ISBN: 978-0-547-72996-1

  eISBN 978-0-547-73111-7

  v1.1012

  For Amanda

  (If you have a sister who you suspect has secret

  supernatural powers, you understand.)

  One night I shall be awakened

  by the horn from the driver

  and know before my eyes are fully opened

  that the signal is for me.

  Then I shall descend those stairs,

  going out onto the avenue

  to ride away in the passenger’s seat

  without so much as a glance at the driver.

  1. THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

  AT THE QUIET BEGINNING of a clear day, a black sedan rolled slowly down the empty street and came to a stop in front of Celia’s house. She had known it would be coming, but it was a tiny shock to see it there, even so. She opened the front door and took long, slow strides down the walk to meet it.

  The car’s metal and glass glinted in the morning sun. In the passenger seat window Celia’s reflection looked back at her: a tall, thin girl wearing a little black cardigan over a gray dress. Her skin was pale and her long, straight brown hair disappeared behind her shoulders. She looked past the glare on the glass and found a second girl sitting behind the steering wheel, who was not much older than she. The driver’s razor-sharp black bob shifted and then fell back into place as her gloved hand lowered her sunglasses and she looked out at Celia. Around them the houses seemed to slumber on their lawns. The morning smelled of dew and grass. Soon it would be fall.

  Celia opened the door and took her place in the passenger seat. The air in the car held traces of a perfume that re- minded her of forests and spice cabinets and Christmas. “Are you ready?” the driver asked when Celia had closed the door.

  “I think so.”

  The driver put the car in gear and eased away from the curb. They glided out of Celia’s neighborhood at a stately pace, and in the amber light she felt as if they were driving through honey. A gloomy song played on the stereo, with ringing guitars and crashing drums, and a man singing:

  One cold damp evening the world stood still

  I watched as I held my breath

  A silhouette I thought I knew came through

  And someone spoke to me

  Whispered in my ear

  This fantasy’s for you

  Fantasies are in this year . . .

  “Who is this?”

  “The Chameleons,” the driver said. “You like it?”

  “Yes.”

  The warm light flickered through the trees as they rode. Celia tried to imagine what she might have been doing, where she might have been instead, if she hadn’t . . . She wondered which thing she might have done differently, which decision would have sent her in a different direction. It was hard to guess. At this moment she felt as though she had never had a choice, really. There were so many questions she couldn’t answer, but it all seemed so inevitable, regardless. She turned around and looked at the back seat. A gray cashmere blanket lay there on the tan leather, neatly folded, waiting for the first cold snap of the fall.

  They drove into a neighborhood Celia didn’t know, where the houses looked expensive and the lawns were wide. The car stopped in front of one of them, and soon the front door of the house released a handsome boy wearing a dark shirt and trousers and a brocade vest. His blond hair was short on the sides and swept into a fifties-inspired peak on top. “That’s Brenden,” the driver said. Brenden waved in their direction before he got into another expensive-looking black car parked in the driveway.

  “He isn’t riding with us?” Celia asked.

  “That’s not how it works. You’ll see.”

  Brenden’s car pulled out in front of them at the same slow pace, and they followed him into another neighborhood.

  My whole life passed before my eyes

  I thought what they say is true

  I shed my skin and my disguise

  And cold, numb, and naked

  I emerged from my cocoon

  And a half-remembered tune played softly in my

  head. . .

  They arrived at the curb in front of another house. Once again a boy emerged: olive-skinned with loose dark curls, he wore a slim gray suit jacket over a matching pair of knee-length shorts, and black loafers without socks. “That’s Marco.” The boy waved to them; then he climbed into the other car. Through its rear window Celia could see the two boys greet each other with a kiss.

  “You’re not dating anyone, are you?” the driver asked Celia.

  “Me? No! I’ve never dated anyone.”

  “Why is that?” The driver sounded surprised, and Celia wished she had managed to sound nonchalant instead of alarmed.

  She shrugged, trying to play it down. “I’m taller than everyone.” She looked down at her long legs shrouded in dark tights, and her feet in buckled shoes with higher heels than she’d ever worn before, and she thought that now even fewer boys would be able to look her in the eye.

  “You just need to date someone older,” the driver answered simply as they followed the other black car down the street, sounding complimentary and slightly bitter at the same time. It was such an obvious solution, now Celia thought about it, but she never had tried to solve the problem. Telling herself she was too tall was one of the ways she made sense of not getting more attention from boys, but that couldn’t obscure the deeper truth: Celia wouldn’t have known what to do with a boy even if he had been delivered to her in a shipping crate with breathing holes cut into the top.

  I realize a miracle is due

  I dedicate this melody to you

  But is this the stuff dreams are made of?

  No wonder I feel like I’m floating on air

  It feels like I’m everywhere . . .

  “Last stop. We’re late. I hope they’re ready.” The two black cars pulled up i
n front of an imposing modern house with a huge bed of ivy in place of a lawn. This time two people emerged through the front door. “That’s Liz,” the driver said of a shorter girl with a wavy bob, black with deep blue highlights, wearing skinny black pants and a button-down shirt with long tails. A rosary hung from her neck. “And that’s Ivo.” Celia’s guide’s voice grew warmer as Ivo walked with Liz to yet another black car. He was tall and thin with his black hair severely parted and combed, wearing a black shirt and suit. “They’re fraternal twins. They’re the whole reason the Rosary exists.”

  “The Rosary?”

  “I didn’t tell you? That’s the name of our group.” The driver turned to look at Celia.

  “Are you . . . religious?” Celia asked.

  “No. We’re a set of small black shiny beads who string around together, finding beauty the rest of the world has overlooked.” Celia thought this was a description she should remember, but she couldn’t make sense of it. The driver continued, “The Rosary is just the name we’ve given ourselves. But to describe us, I’d say we are the cognoscenti.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Celia said.

  “The cognoscenti are ‘the ones who know.’ ” The girl behind the wheel gave her an appropriately knowing look, but Celia still had no idea how to respond.

  Ivo and Liz were pulling out of their driveway in a third black car, and suddenly the image of shiny black things strung together wasn’t just a metaphor. Celia felt as if she were riding in a funeral procession, and a familiar pain flared up in her. Only recently had her heart grown closed around what felt like the shards of a bullet that had lodged there when her father died. The pain wasn’t sharp every day now, but the shards were always there. They would always be there.

  Like when you fail to make the connection you

  know how vital it is

  When something slips through your fingers you

  know how precious it is

  And you reach the point where you know it’s only

  your second skin

  Someone’s banging on my door . . .

  “What are you thinking?” the driver asked.

  “I . . . well, it feels like we’re going to a funeral.”

  “Good,” her guide said. “I suppose we’re a little melodramatic. You know, In the midst of life we are in death, and all that. But that’s what makes it interesting—most people only think about dark things when they’re forced to, even though dark things can be very beautiful. You understand?”

  “I think so.” It all sounded rather deep to Celia. For the moment she was relieved that the pain that had flickered in her seemed to be passing. This ride and the memories it evoked weren’t cutting into her the way she had feared. Today there would be no casket awaiting her when they reached their destination. Still, she hoped the time would come when she understood it all.

  The procession crept along and turned onto a road that approached a sprawling building arching into the sky like the armor of a stegosaurus, halls and wings poking out in all directions. It stood by itself, with open fields on either side and across the street. But at its feet, cars of other colors and people in conventional clothes moved quickly in every direction, and the stark serenity of the drive began to evaporate. The Rosary’s three black cars filed smoothly into the midst of it all and finally stopped side by side in the parking lot. Celia opened her door and the dreamlike feeling of the journey was gone instantly, like a hubcap clattering to the pavement. She put her feet back down on the ground and stood up, looking around, nervously waiting to be introduced to the others.

  “Hello, Regine,” Marco said to Celia’s driver. “And finally we get to meet Celia.” He looked at her with curious, kind eyes.

  “Here she is.” Regine presented Celia by touching her elbow, and Celia wondered if she should step forward. “Marco, Brenden, Liz, Ivo, this is Celia.” They all nodded at her. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do. But in the next moment they began to speak to each other, and she felt as if she had faded away like a ghost.

  “You saw the new wing?” Ivo pointed along one side of the huge building. “As if this place weren’t large enough already.”

  “You won’t be swimming in the new pool, then?” Brenden said to him, and Ivo feigned horror.

  Their conversation was dotted with names and topics that were foreign to Celia. She forced herself not to fidget.

  “Do you have a mix for us?” Liz asked Brenden.

  “Of course I do.” Brenden opened his bag and pulled out a slim stack of jewel cases. “Everything is better with the right soundtrack.”

  “Even something as depressing as the first day of school?”

  “Especially something as depressing as the first day of school.” Brenden passed the CDs around.

  “We have to make the most of it—it’s our last year together,” Ivo said, studying his copy. “You put ‘The Headmaster Ritual’ on here! That’s perfect!”

  Brenden turned to Celia, one CD left in his hand. “I thought you might like one, too,” he said, smiling.

  “Thank you!” Celia accepted it and studied the track list along with the others. Few of the artists were familiar to her, and those only because Regine had begun her initiation into the group’s musical tastes a few months earlier.

  “I have a good feeling about this year,” Marco said. “It’s going to be great.”

  Celia looked around. Other kids who had parked nearby were staring curiously at her group. It was obvious, though, these five dark friends didn’t care. When the Rosary started toward the building, they walked purposefully and slowly, just as they had driven, carrying themselves with a careful indifference. They didn’t look at the other kids, and they spoke quietly so no one else could hear. Celia did her best to mimic them. She was surprised to note the intrigued, even mystified respect from the others for the Rosary. Before she had met Regine, whenever she was in public, Celia had wished to be invisible, but there was no point in holding on to that desire now. If this morning was any indication—the procession of cars, the austere clothes, the deliberate manner—the Rosary cultivated mystique deliberately. And if it weren’t for a chain of unlikely events, Celia would have been on the other side, the outside, staring at this group, unsure and alone. By some strange chance, here she was in their midst, and she hoped she looked at least a little as if she belonged, even though she felt like an imposter. It was completely new, and a little thrilling, but she was scared she would drop something, or fall down and be exposed as a fake. Then they would just walk smoothly away from her . . .

  Suddenly, ahead of them a girl broke away from her two friends, zigzagging across the pavement with her head ducked and her arms flailing around her face. “No, no, no!” she shrieked. Collectively the Rosary stopped walking, and Celia stopped with them.

  “What are you doing?” the frantic girl’s friends called, laughing and confused.

  “Ai!” The tormented girl jumped, her whole frame tensing. Then she came down, knees bent, and turned around slowly to look at her friends with wide eyes. She had left them behind, and they stayed put, unsure whether they wanted to be associated with such spastic behavior on the first day of school.

  The girl had stopped near a jock in an orange T-shirt. “Hey, Elsie, what’s wrong?”

  “A bee stung me!” Elsie held one hand to the side of her neck. “I’m allergic!”

  “Whoa—we have to get you to the nurse!” The boy took her arm, but she sank to the asphalt. Her hand waved around her face again as she gasped for air.

  Celia glanced at her group. Each of them stood calmly, unaffected by the girl’s plight. Where she was sprawled, the stung girl blocked their path to the school, and the Rosary only seemed to be waiting for the way to be cleared before they continued. Even from twenty feet away, Celia could see that Elsie’s face was swelling noticeably. The girl’s two friends had rushed over, and the jock had dropped to his knees next to her, his hands hovering uselessly around her as he scanned
the parking lot. He called out, “Help! Somebody get the nurse!” Several kids took off running into the school.

  Still the Rosary didn’t move. Celia couldn’t fault them for not getting involved. There wasn’t anything to do that wasn’t already being done, and there was no point in crowding the poor girl. But Celia was bothered by her feeling of helplessness and her friends’ seeming indifference to Elsie’s plight. Everyone else in the parking lot had stopped in their tracks, too, but they screamed and pointed, telling each other what was in front of them.

  “What’s going on?” A young teacher came running toward the heaving girl.

  “She’s allergic to bee stings!” the boy in the orange shirt told him as the teacher crouched next to him. But the teacher didn’t seem to know what to do, either. He stared at Elsie, and after another moment the jock urged him, “We have to get her that shot, what’s it called?” He looked around again and shouted, “Does anyone have that shot for allergic reactions?”

  “I have an EpiPen!” Another boy came running out from a row of cars, digging in his satchel. He pulled out a small plastic case and handed it to the teacher on the ground by Elsie.

  But the teacher stared at him, saying, “I’ve never . . .” The boy took the case back, popped the cap and pushed Elsie’s skirt up her leg, then jabbed the syringe into her thigh and held it there. He spoke in a low voice to the girl, who nodded and gasped. The boy tried to keep her hair out of her eyes.

  The tension began to drain from the air. The spectators began to move again, and Elsie’s body started to relax. The nurse lumbered into the parking lot and looked relieved to find that the critical help already had been administered. In another minute the nurse and the teacher helped Elsie to her feet, one on each side, and escorted her into the building. Her friends collected her things and trailed behind her.

  The jock stood up, his bright orange T-shirt the last bit of crisis left in the parking lot. He said something to the boy who had provided the EpiPen, and they nodded seriously at each other. The boy went off toward school, but the jock looked over in the direction of the Rosary. “Hey, Liz,” he said. “That was kind of intense.”