All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [3]
Eliot shifted underneath his blazer—one size too big for him—and felt just as uncomfortable and annoyed as his sister must. He exhaled a great sigh, smelling something off. Maybe his clothes should have been washed first.
This was just what they needed today. He ran a hand through his hair, whose cowlicks, as usual, resisted any attempts at grooming. Not only would they have to deal with dozens of strange new students on their first day at school, but they also looked like dorks.
Eliot tapped Fiona’s essay and told her, “I see you didn’t mention Robert, either.”
“What’s to mention?” Fiona said. “We haven’t seen him in two months.”
Robert Farmington was the boy Fiona had met this summer. They weren’t exactly boyfriend and girlfriend, but there had been something between them. He had been a Driver for their uncle Henry in the League of Immortals . . . before Robert got fired.
Fiona had a far-off look in her eyes—which sharpened to a glare that she aimed directly at Eliot. “Cupulate temporal cranium?” she asked.
This was the game they played to get back at each other: vocabulary insult.
Eliot ran over the line in his head, trying to figure out what she had meant. Brain . . . cranium . . . something about his head.
Temporal? Did that mean “time”? No, the bone on the side of the head was the “temporal” part of the skull.
But cupulate? He didn’t have a clue . . . unless she was making it simple in order to throw him. Cupulate could just mean “cup shaped.”
She meant his ears.
They stuck out, and she knew how sensitive Eliot was about them.
“At least I need a cup, handles or not,” Eliot replied, “to hold my brain.”
That was a weak comeback, so he added: “Countenance of verruciform,” and then with a sweeping gesture down to her toes, “vermiform locomotion borne.”1, 2
Fiona puzzled over that a moment, and then her face reddened.
Good. It was pretty easy to figure out. Eliot had wanted her to get it.
“No fair,” she said. “That’s two vocabulary words at once.”
She said this, despite having just used two herself.
“Breakfast!” Cee called from the kitchen.
Eliot sniffed the air and realized that the “off” smell he’d detected before was stronger, and now recognizable—half-cooked oatmeal and carbonized bacon.
Fiona spotted Eliot’s rusty alarm clock in the corner. Her eyes widened. “We’re going to be late!” She rushed out, bumping a tower of boxes, almost knocking them over.
Of course they were going to be late for their first day of school. That would be the perfect start to this morning. Eliot scrambled after her. There was no way she was getting to the kitchen first to pick out the few edible bits from Cee’s cooking.
1. Verruciform: having the shape of a wart. —Editor.
2. Vermiform: worm shaped. —Editor.
SECTION
I
THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL
1
NEW RULES
Fiona scrambled over the cool terra-cotta tiles and skidded to a halt in their new dining room. Bookshelves and half-built china cabinets were constructed along the walls. Unlike their old apartment in Del Sombra, this room had enough space for shelves without crowding the glorious picture window and its built-in seats.
The window framed the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. Early-morning light spilled through and made the plaster cornices of the room glow gold.
Cee carried in two trays from the kitchen. Their 104-year-old great-grandmother wore a brown dress with lace ruffles and looked like she belonged in a nineteenth-century tin daguerreotype with her hair pulled up tight and pinned in place. Some things would never change. That was okay. Cee, shaking and smiling, was always there for them.
“Let me help,” Fiona offered.
“No, no, my darlings,” Cecilia replied. “Just sit and eat. You have a momentous day ahead of you.”
With trembling arms, she set a platter of smoking black bacon on the table, and another platter with bowls of lumpy half-cooked oatmeal.
“Don’t you two look splendid in your uniforms?” Cee kissed Eliot on the cheek and then Fiona. It felt like the brush of dry leaves. She then went back into the kitchen.