The Catwoman peered through the obscured branches at the specter. The glimmering figure howling inspired a flurry of activity in her wake. The sky grew dark shapes as flying figures fled the rustling trees, leaves cringing from her touch. The slender arms of the Sisters bent as from a storm, curling away as though from an attacker, while the attacker was suffering most. Her suffering was unbearable to even the trees, the lowliest blade of grass in the forest curled away, cowered from her bare feet.
The Catwoman couldn't believe it. She hadn't heard anything in the forest that would intimate that Summerlin was a resting place for the dead, but here she was, in the flesh, or not, as it were, Anastasia Acosta's ghost. She was sure of it as anything else in this strange place. She had just come from the funeral that very day. She held Laural's hand and stared at the corpse in the coffin as her friend mourned her mother. The family were not given details of the suicide, or if David Sr. was, he did not share the information with his children.
Thalia had stood staring at the open casket for what seemed like hours looking for a hint of the cause of death. Her curiosity was impolite at best, a violation, but she couldn't help it. She'd never seen a dead body before. And this one, her friend's mother, she barely knew aside from the rare glimpse, a whisp, asking if they have towels for the pool, offering a plate of cookies, stoically announcing the time from the other side of the door, declaring "lights out" when she'd stayed the night. As far as Thalia could tell, Anastasia was a ghost haunting her own house, even in her life. Her presence-not presence, absence-while present while in this state felt oddly normal. It wasn't entirely unlike her experiences with her for as long as she'd known her.
Thalia shuddered at the memory of her only real conversation with her. She'd found the woman unbearably cold. It was the previous summer, before she'd become close with Laural. She had been dating David, Laural's brother. If that's what you could call it.
From the Monday in May that she showed up to school in David's track jacket, she'd gotten looks from boys and girls, and whispers. She thought it was newfound respect, at first. Then she walked into the bathroom 5th period to see her name in lipstick accompanied by some less than complimentary statements that only apply to females. It seemed David had quite the reputation and now, by proxy, so did she. A senior walked in and saw her crying, and tried to warn her.
The warnings fell on deaf ears. She wasn't like that, and if David liked her then maybe he'd changed. At least that was the story she got from him after school. He caught her as she was heading for the bus and talked him into his car. He had a way with words, and his eyes held so much sincerity. It took him three weeks of flowers and movies and chaste kisses and late phone calls to convince her that he didn't deserve his reputation as a player. In a stroke of irony that she can finally, although painfully laugh at, she rewarded his hard work with her virginity. And to think that she'd been surprised when he broke up with her a few short weeks later.
She didn't take it well. Quiet little Thalia was yelling, crying, screaming at him, when his mother came in the room. From her cold complacency, Thalia could tell that she wasn't the first defiled girl Anastasia has calmly escorted from the house, still sniffling. Oh, she'd made her tea and took her downstairs to talk a bit, but she also helped Thalia take of the letterman jacket that now smelled like her. She seemed almost proud of her son for offering to take the now delusional ex-girlfriend home. Thalia sat in numb, thankful silence for the entire bumpy ride in horrifying amazement that this woman could respond to her son's breakup with her with such cold detachment.
Could Mrs. Acosta not count the relationship in terms of weeks? Had she forgetten that Thalia was a freshman, just six months older than her own daughter? or that she'd allowed so much alone time in her nearly eighteen year old son's darkened bedroom? Or that she wasn't the first freshman he'd dated that year, also for no longer than two months? Thalia hadn't known that last bit of information at the time, but by Friday of the first week of school, she knew of at least six from her grade alone, and five from the year ahead of her.
These were her new comrades, not quite blood sisters, but close enough.
She'd only actually talked to a few, they were all so shy now, put off, reserved. A few had actually become quite promiscuous, as though by adding enough sperm from other boys could magically counteract the sad fact that they'd let such a weaselly letch inside of them. And for their first time too. But most just sort of withdrew into themselves. Rumors continued to abound around these girls, of eating disorders, of self-mutilation. Both of which her own new best friend suffered. Her predator's own younger sister. The daughter of the ghost wailing intently toward her.
