Chapter XI: A Different Perspective

I can't get her out of my head.

As I stand here painting, listening to mom in the kitchen outside my door trying to manage the twins while heavily pregnant again, I try to focus on the colors, the strokes of the brush across the canvas. I try to shove all thoughts of dad and mom, of my constant punishments, my failing grades, my noisy family, my miserable school life out of my head. Only her face remains, hovering there in my mind's eye. Beautiful. Perfect.

I'm in love.

With a steady brushstroke I trace the outline of her face, her perfect body, across the canvas, trying in vain to bring her beauty to life with my art.

“Quit wasting time mooning over some girl. You have more important things to be doing. You need to be practicing your magic.”

“Shut up, Grandpa,” I murmur, adding a touch of blue to the painting. He's still around, though he's faded a bit since death, no longer showing up corporeally. He likes to linger in my room and try to startle me when he thinks I've forgotten about him, but I've long since stopped jumping at the sound of his gravelly voice in my ear, and I think it annoys him.

“Don't you tell me to shut up, you little trollop! You're lucky I chose you. I could have--”

“You could have what? Chosen one of the boys when they were still barely toddlers? Boy, that would have been interesting.” I roll my eyes. “Here, Timo, just learn to walk and talk first, and then Grandpa's going to teach you how to rule the world with your dark arts!” The thought is actually quite amusing, and despite my morose mood, I giggle.

“You little wretch! That boy has twice the talent you'll ever have!”

That stings, but I grit my teeth and say nothing, instead adding a shadow to the pale cheek of the girl in my painting.

Grandpa Buster didn't realize when he chose me as his apprentice that I hadn't inherited my mother's talent with gypsy magic. He had put all his eggs in one basket with me, betting on the fact that I had both his blood, through my father, as well as Moriah's, to manifest into magical talent later on. “You're just a late bloomer,” he had assured me. “You're powers will be manifesting in no time, and you'll have a head start with the things Grandpa is going to teach you, my dear.” Grandpa had convinced me with so many promises that things would be better, that I would learn to wield power over others, that I could make myself more beautiful and talented, that kids at school would like me, and if they didn't, they would at least learn to respect and fear me. But the years passed, the twins grew into children, and while Timo began manifesting his powers, mine and Mattei's never showed up. And Grandpa, though he was still around, was too long dead to form another bond with the living. I was all he had left. And what with my lousy relationship with my parents and never being able to get along with people at school, for a long time, he had been all I had, too.

Until she came along.

She was several grades ahead of me, and usually ran with the popular crowd. I had never really noticed her until now, halfway through my freshman year. I had been sitting at a table in a corner by myself, eating lunch and trying in vain to understand the homework the teacher had assigned, which was due the very next period. I'd been too busy helping Mom wrangle with the twins and make dinner the night before to get around to doing my homework, and now, here it was due in less than an hour and I couldn't even understand the first question. I had started to cry, tears leaking down my nose and into my cup of soup, when I heard a musical voice.

“Hi, there. Are you okay?”

I looked up, startled, and a beautiful, pale girl in a pink dress stood before me. Her hair was cut short, and with her angular features, she looked like a fairy straight out of a fantasy novel. I glowered at her, sure she was just here to make fun of me like all the other kids normally did. They took delight making fun of my worn out, hand-me-down clothes, my flat, short-cropped hair, my stupidity... apparently everything about Lilah Hemlock was fodder for the cruel teenage masses.

“Get lost,” I growled at her, but she cocked her head to one side, ignoring my surly manner.

“Geometry?” she asked brightly, looking at my book. I shrugged, intent on ignoring her, but she sat down beside me, looking at my paper. “Mr. Filson is a stickler for these word problems. Let me see if I can help.” I stared at her, but she dragged my book over and studied the problem I was working on. “This used to be hard for me too,” she said, apparently unaffected by the daggers I was stabbing into her with my eyes. “But then I realized that if you treat the logical argument like writing a poem, it suddenly becomes so much easier. I don't know about you, but I'm much more of a right-brain type of person. I love reading. Anyway, if you pretend that the solution is like writing a sonnet or haiku, with certain rules for the format, it sort of erases the mental block you might have when you're dealing with logical subjects like math.” She took the pencil from me and began explaining the problem, and as much as I hate to admit it, she was right. Suddenly the problem made much more sense, and by the time the bell rang to signal the end of lunch, she and I had managed to finish the entire homework assignment. As I packed up my things and prepared to go to class, I paused, extending my hand. “Thanks... um...”

“Sandi,” she said, taking my hand with her own soft, warm one. “And you're Lilah, right?” I nodded, looking down. “Well it's nice to meet you. Good luck on your homework grade. I think it'll be a good one. And if you need any more help, let me know.”

I smiled. “Okay,” I replied, and hurried off.

I took her up on her offer, and Sandi and I spent many more lunch periods together after that. Turns out she was planning on majoring in Education when she went away to college next year, and she had heard from one of the many student-body gossip mongers about my failing grades. While I had initially started out as a pet project for her, we quickly became friends. She was so open and honest and sweet, I felt like I could tell her anything. Soon she knew all about me, my miserable and chaotic family life, and the recent death of my grandfather who had been the only person in my family I thought had loved and understood me. I didn't tell her about Grandpa still being around though. Sandi was my first friend my own age, and I didn't want to lose her because she thought I was crazy.

It has been a few weeks since I first felt the butterflies when I talked to her. I find myself thinking about her when I should be paying attention in class. Despite her help, my grades took a dip again, and I cover my notebook pages with sketches of her many expressions instead of answers to homework problems. It wasn't until that today, though, that I had realized the obvious truth. I am crazy about her. Her beautiful face, her smooth artistic hands, her lilting voice and clear green eyes...even her smell drives me wild.

All through growing up I haven't felt the slightest interest in boys, but still, this new attraction to a girl took me by surprise. I obviously couldn't tell my mom about it, but even when I told Grandpa, his response wasn't exactly encouraging. “Nonsense,” he grumbled. “You're just going through a phase. You need to refocus and find a suitable boy to give me an apprentice.”

Even now he's repeating the same tired order, like a geriatric disembodied broken record. “... put down that paintbrush and go get my wand. Just because you have no talent doesn’t mean you don't need to practice so you'll know the basics to teach to my great grandchild. I think I've found a boy in town who has some talent, but you're never going to impress him with your painting.”

“I'm a lesbian, Grandpa. I'm not interested in boys, wizard or otherwise!” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. The last thing I need is to have mom overhear me. She wouldn't know whether to be more worried because I was gay or because I was talking to myself. “Besides,” I say, turning away from my painting to face the apparently empty bedroom. “What good would it do you if I gave you a baby anyway? You said yourself, you're too weak now to make another connection with a living person, no matter how young they are.” Grandpa is silent, and I turned back to my painting, hoping he stormed off to bother some psycho-sensitive household pet. But he's still here, and I hear him sigh.

“Lilah, my dear, you just don't have a mind for these matters at all,” he says wearily, and I roll my eyes again. Of course he's right, but story of my life: one more person to disappoint because I'm not bright enough, responsible enough, Gypsy enough... at least Sandi seems to like me the way I am.

“Obviously I won't be trying to make a connection with the child,” Grandpa says didactically. “I'll be the child.”

“What do you mean you'll be the child?” I ask, frowning.

“It's called possession, Lilah. You give me a new, young body, and I'll have a chance at living again.”

I feel a creeping, cold sensation slide along my skin. “Possession?” I echo, nervously. Grandpa's never revealed this part of the plan to me before. I'd always assumed he'd need the magically talented mate he insisted on me finding to strengthen him through magic somehow so he could form this psychological bond with my baby. I never realized he was planning on using the baby itself as a second chance on life for his tired old spirit.

“Precisely. What else did you think I would want with a baby? Talking to a hormone-addled teenage girl is tedious enough. I don't have the patience for childish lisps.”

“But... what if... would it... hurt the baby?”

Grandpa chuckles. “What do you care? You're a lesbian, you're not interested in things like reproducing, right?” I scowl, and Grandpa's tone grows serious again. “No, of course it wouldn't hurt the baby. Well, not in any sort of physical way. I would simply slip in and take over before it had formed a personality of its own, and I would become your child. Horrifying as that sounds.”

An image of cleaning up Grandpa's poopy diapers comes to mind, and I grimace. “I don't... know...” I start, but Grandpa cuts me off.

“Lilah, you made a promise to me. I teach you how to have the life you want, and you provide me with an apprentice. I'm dead now, so I need your help more than ever. You can't just go changing your mind because the details make you squeamish.”

“But you're not talking about an apprentice now, you're talking about a new life!” I shoot back.

“It's the only way now. Much as I love you, Lilah, you cannot be my apprentice without any power of your own, and I cannot communicate with anyone else in my present state. I need a new body and life again to find a suitable apprentice, and I need your help to get those.”

“Well what's in it for me? It's been three years now since I made you that promise, and where has it gotten me? I'm still the most unpopular girl in school. Mom hates me, Dad ignores me, the twins are constantly pestering me. My teachers think I'm dumb as a brick. Literally the only person I have in my life who is worth anything to me is Sandi.” I turn back to the painting, studying it with a deep longing. “And she's graduating this year.”

“Oh, my dear girl,” Grandpa says, and his voice is gentle now. “Things will get better, you'll see. This is a difficult age for everyone, and even moreso for a girl like you, with so many expectations riding on you. But I promise, just stick to our deal, and things will get better. When you give me a new life, I will make sure you get one as well.”

I sigh. “I just don't know, Grandpa. I think I might have a chance with Sandi, and that's something real; not just a promise from a ghost.”

His voice is skeptical now. “Really? Have you told her about your feelings yet?”

“No, not yet. But I'm going to.” I can almost hear him nodding, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“Well, then,” he says finally. “By all means, don't let your poor dead grandfather stand in your way. If you think you can achieve all your wildest dreams by throwing away our deal like so much garbage, then be my guest.”

I resist the guilt I know he is trying to make me feel and smirk at him. “I just might do that, Grandpa,” I reply, touching brush to pallet.

“Good luck!” he whispers, and then he's gone.