Brush With Death

Chapter One

Deo pressed her nose to the fly-stained window of the lurching train and counted the freckles reflecting back. So much for the all-new Deo Quintillian, she thought grumpily. Why did things always happen to her? Surely they should have reached Tragabigzanda by now; this journey was lasting forever. She chewed her lip nervously. What if they’d already passed it? Supposing she’d missed Tragabigzanda altogether, while talking on her cell phone with Abbey? She could spend the rest of her life riding this train, not knowing where to get off.

Don’t panic, said the all-new DeoQ. What’s the worst that could happen?

What will happen, she thought irritably, is that eventually the conductor will notice I’m sitting here like a sap, and I’ll have to admit I don’t know where to get off!

For God’s sake, said DeoQ giving her a mental smack in the face, you’re seventeen, and built like an Amazon, this is no time to lose it like some kind of Emo.

Deo took a deep breath, and scooped a handful of dense auburn curls off the back of her neck in an effort to cool her brain and aid the thinking process. She had to come up with a plan. She was good with plans. She’d built her whole school career around making plans not to look stupid. She could do this. She just had to put her mind to it.

Ask the guy sitting next to you, said the all-new DeoQ in positive tones.

Deo risked a quick sidelong glance at her neighbor. Although he was immersed in his paper, she knew he had a florid face and a loud tie loosely knotted in the maw of a damp white collar, which sagged open to accommodate voluminous jowls. He’d been buried in the tabloid ever since he’d plopped himself down next to her at North Station and she’d given him the evil eye checking out her neon pink tank top and flower-flecked mini skirt. Ordinarily she wouldn’t be caught dead in clothing that was bright, loud, short and tight, but DeoQ had insisted that these items were all the rage, and in an effort to be one of the in crowd for a change, as opposed to the one of the out crowd—far out and way out excluded—she’d gone the whole hog and was decked out in neon colors of assorted body-hugging snugness. She couldn’t wait to get to Willow’s Harp, where she could slip into something more comfortable; or if not comfortable, at least big and baggy. Which thought brought her back to the problem in hand. How was she going to get to Willow’s Harp, when she couldn’t even find where to get off the train?

Just do it, insisted DeoQ.

Deo cleared her throat nervously a couple of times, and when that didn’t produce even a quiver from the newspaper, she stretched loudly and obviously, making sure to catch the guy sharply in the ankle with her hiking boot. The newspaper came down quicker than the Berlin Wall, and when the florid face hove into view, with the beginnings of a scowl, Deo was ready with big blue eyes and an apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” she said sweetly. “Was that your foot?”

He reddened even more and as he made a big thing of turning to the next page of his newspaper.

Deo glanced out the window and started. “Oh, my. I guess I dozed off. Did we pass Tragabigzanda yet?”

The man’s piggy eyes ogled her thoughtfully from the depth of a pink sweaty face, and Deo felt her own face grow warm with embarrassment.

Don’t look down, warned DeoQ. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

“Not yet,” said Florid Face, folding and stuffing the newspaper down the side of his seat. He shifted position to facilitate the conversation. “Traveling alone?”

Deo sensed it would be better to cut this guy off at the pass. “Someone’s meeting me,” she said, keeping her voice upbeat, while her insides screwed themselves into a thick indigestible knot. “He’s an old friend of my mother’s. Byron Graves. He’s an artist,” Deo knew she was beginning to babble, but couldn’t stop herself. “I’m an artist, too. I’m going to paint with him. For the summer.”

“Is that right?” Florid Face made a big thing about perusing the logo—PHS Girls Tennis – We Have the Best Balls—emblazoned across her tank top, and smirked slightly. “Well, good luck to you and,” he leaned in close so she could smell the peppermints on his breath, “don’t doze off again. Tragabigzanda’s just up the line.”

He gathered his things and got off at a flag stop, which came as a relief to Deo, but still didn’t tell her where she needed to disembark. Just up the line could be anywhere between here and Stony Cove, the depot at the end of the world. The engine whistle shrieked as the train gathered speed, heading north. Deo felt like shrieking, too. What would happen if she got off at the wrong stop? They had already reached the Cape Iris wetlands. She could see the afternoon sun slanting across the water, silhouetting sailboats and burnishing the salt marshes to a rich gold. It was too much color to take in all at once. What color was that sky? Not ultramarine, that was for sure. It was more of a blue-green, maybe cerulean, Deo thought, conjuring a picture in her mind of Matt’s Art Shop window and the pristine tubes of paint behind the glass, waiting to be bought and squeezed into neat piles on her palette. And what about the shadows in the marsh mud? Surely those were purple; red-blue shadows against orange-green marsh grass. Complementary colors. Despite her qualms, Deo felt a smile creep across her face; the first one since she’d embarked on her journey that morning. This wasn’t a dumb idea after all. Enrolling in Byron Graves’ Summer School of Art was going to be the vacation of a lifetime!

She could see herself now, stepping off the train at Tragabigzanda Depot, cool and composed, long-legged and elegant, tossing her unruly curls back out of her eyes, with a careless flick of her head, and then Byron would hurry forward to take her bags….

As usual, she was so busy daydreaming she almost missed it. The train was pulling in again. Earnestly, she pressed her face to the window and squinted for a signboard, as the train jarred to a halt. The sign was right opposite her. She couldn’t miss it, but speed was of the essence and in her anxiety the letters scrolled past, neon red digital shapes that ran around and rearranged themselves in front of her panic-stricken eyes. She hadn’t even heard the conductor announce the stop. Was this Tragabigzanda? Should she ask? How could she ask anyone when the sign was right opposite her stupid staring eyes?

Her heart thudded frantically; she had to do something. What difference did it make if she asked? She was used to being called brainless.

“Excuse me,” she said to a young man in a tie-dye T-shirt and cut offs, heading for the exit, “Could you tell me where we are?”

He smiled back, head nodding to the unheard beat of his Walkman.

“Where are we?” said Deo, raising her voice.

“Earth,” he said, and passed on, down the steps and into the galaxy.

“Yeah, may the force be with you,” said Deo, slumping back, discouraged.

“This is Tragabigzanda,” said a woman passing down the aisle with a baby in her arms, a toddler in tow, and assorted bags and stroller festooned about her.

“Tragabigzanda?” repeated Deo. “Thanks.”

She grabbed her bags from the overhead, dragging them down by the straps, and one fell open, spilling its contents across the seat. She fumed inwardly, and frantically stuffed things back into the bag. She was such an idiot. Why hadn’t she closed the zipper all the way after she’d taken her Walkman out earlier? Careless, her mother would call it. But then again, her mother was a high-powered realtor; she had no clue what it was like to think creatively, instead of logically.

Through the window she could see the conductor helping the mother with her tots and bundles. He was even setting up the stroller for her. Now he was straightening, smiling, signaling the engineer. Deo tore down the aisle, a bag in each hand and the Walkman dangling from the headphones around her neck, swinging around her knees, threatening to trip her.

She got to the top of the steps and all but fell down them as the train jerked into motion. The conductor, who was just climbing back on board, all but buckled under the blitz and leapt back onto the platform, waving his arms and yelling to the engineer. As the train ground to a halt again, the conductor took Deo’s bags and unceremoniously dumped them on the platform, raising a small cloud of summer dust.

“What’s the matter with you?” he grumbled. “You dumb or something? Coulda killed yourself, and it’d be me they’d blame, not you, y’know.” He signaled the engineer and climbed back on board. Deo could still see him scowling as the train picked up speed and dis-appeared around the bend in the track.

Deo took a deep breath to steady her nerves. She was dumb all right. She must be; every-body told her so.

She could feel the color rising in her cheeks; burning with embarrassment. In another moment she’d be in total meltdown. God, how she’d wanted to make a good first impression, and instead she looked like an idiot. If only she could retreat behind a veil of hair as she usually did in these situations, but her unruly frizz was caught back in a French ponytail with clips and scrunchies because the all-new DeoQ had insisted on a more sophisticated look, and so there was nothing she could do but stand there, cheeks shamefully stained red and defeat seeping through her veins.

Hold it, said DeoQ. You can’t cave yet, you’ve barely gotten started. This is nothing; at least wait until something happens before you fall apart. Till then, laugh it off, frizz head.

“Laugh it off?” she said out loud, glancing at the now deserted parking lot beyond the tree line in back of the platform. Even the space cadet and the woman with the two children had disappeared. “Does this look like the right place to you?”

DeoQ didn’t answer.