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  Keeper

  The Morphid Chronicles

  To Isabella and Alexander

  You make life shine

  Chapter 1 - Greg

  Greg Papilio wanted many things, and most of what his heart desired hinged on his impending metamorphosis.

  Today, though, all he wanted was to pass the trig test that lay in front of him. But, to his mounting horror, it didn’t look like that was going to happen. He stared at the page. This final was kicking his butt. He hadn’t even managed to get past the first few questions. A drop of sweat slid off his forehead and splattered onto the paper, forming a gray circle. He wiped a hand across his brow and looked at his watch. Only thirty minutes left?

  What?! That was it? Where had the last couple of hours gone?!

  His mind was hazy, his vision blurry. Greg shook his head, trying to dispel the dream-like state that clouded his thoughts. Suddenly, he felt as if piranha teeth were biting the back of his neck. A shiver made his skin prickle. He straightened with a jolt and put a hand to the base of his neck. His fingers tentatively traveled down each vertebrae. Something bumpy and oozing blistered under his touch.

  Oh, shit!

  Not exam jitters. How stupid he was to confuse the symptoms with nerves. He had to get out of here. Now.

  “Are you done, Mr. Papilio?” the teacher asked when Greg stood up to leave.

  He shook his head. “No . . . no, I think I’m sick,” he croaked out in a hoarse voice. Greg crumpled up his exam, stuffed it in his pocket and wobbled out of the classroom under the disapproving stare of the teacher and the whispers of his classmates.

  He staggered out to the school parking lot. Holding a hand to his roiling stomach, he started walking the short two blocks home. The backpack grew heavier on his back as he weakened. His head pounded and his joints felt as if they would come unglued.

  Please, let me make it home. Please.

  The sun scorched the pavement. Cicadas made a racket in the nearby trees. Greg felt as if they were inside his cranium, their calls echoing between his temples. With each step, his feet sent a jolt of pain through him. They dragged, hurting like hell, as if someone had smashed his toes with a hammer. Sheer will carried him to his front yard. He slid the backpack off his shoulders and let it dangle. He dragged it by one strap and stumbled toward the porch, legs weakening, every ounce of strength slipping away. Moisture slid down his forehead in rivulets, a grimy mixture of sweat and New Orleans humidity.

  His stomach lurched and a loud burp escaped his half-opened mouth. Even through the pain, he winced at the smell. His breath was foul, like meat left out to spoil. Greg abandoned the backpack on the plush lawn. He staggered forward, covering the remaining distance. His shoulder slammed against the front door, sending excruciating pain across his back, through the telltale swelling at the base of his neck.

  Opening the door took all he had left in him. The key shook in his hand and the keyhole danced from left to right as he tried to make the connection. After several attempts, he unlocked the door, shouldered it and closed it behind him, and took a few steps toward the bathroom. A violent twist in his gut brought him short. A moan broke from the back of his throat. The awful pain oscillated, drawing back for an instant, then hitting him again—even more viciously than before. Clutching his middle, he fell to his knees, then pitched forward. Part of his body hit the tiled foyer, while his face thankfully landed on the hall’s sage rug. The scented powder his mom used for vacuuming traveled up his nostrils and made his stomach convulse. Greg had never felt this sick before in his life. He lay there for several minutes, struggling to take deep breaths.

  Something’s wrong. They never said it would hurt like this.

  If his parents didn’t hurry up and get home, he was going to die. A few more minutes and his insides wouldn’t only feel like a slushie, they would be a slushie.

  A wet, sucking sound distracted him. Greg swallowed thickly.

  What the hell?

  He tried to move, but felt stuck to the rug. Desperately, he fought to open his eyes to see what was happening. As he labored to lift one eyelid, he imagined himself as a mushy vegetable, trampled by feet in a busy kitchen.

  With a loud pop, his eyes sprang open. He tried to look around, and his eyeballs made a noise as they swiveled back and forth inside his head. Ignoring the sound, he tried to focus, but everything was blurry. A thick gel . . . what is that? . . . obstructed his vision. He stared at something that was supposed to be his hand, except it looked like a shapeless chunk of ground meat. The sight of it drove Greg into a panic.

  Something is wrong. Oh god, I don’t wanna die!

  The door opened. “For Pete's sake, Greg,” his mom said. “You left your backpack out in the yard and the door’s unlocked." Her words came to Greg muffled, as if wads of cotton plugged his ears.

  “Oh my,” she said, kneeling in front of his blurry eyes. “Greg, honey? Aw, poor baby.”

  Poor baby?! He was disintegrating on the floor and all she could come up with was “poor baby”? Greg made out his mother’s long legs and impossibly high stiletto heels. She crouched by his side for a minute. He tried to speak, to ask for help, but only gurgles came out.

  “It’s okay, honey. It’ll be over before you know it.” She patted his head gingerly. “I’ll have to wait for your dad to move you. You’re too heavy. Oh, I’m so proud of you, baby. Don’t worry. I just know you’ll be a Companion.” She stood and walked away. Greg heard the tap, tap, tap of her heels as she headed for the kitchen.

  He listened intently and couldn't believe it when he heard the refrigerator open and close, followed by the unmistakable sound of a soda can opening. She was drinking a Coke while he lay dying on the floor! The radio came on, and she began to sing along, howling, “girls just wanna have fun,” at the top of her lungs.

  Dad! But his father wouldn't be home for another hour, and that would be too late, too late. Please, don’t let me become a vegetable. Pleeease, he pleaded with every ounce of his being.

  He was dimly aware of his mother rattling pots and dishes in the kitchen. Was she actually cooking? Maybe she was planning to make meatballs out of him if things went awry with his metamorphosis. It was spaghetti night, after all. His father’s favorite.

  Chapter 2 - Sam

  Sam hid a bread roll behind her back and looked around to see if anyone had noticed. They hadn’t. She and the other volunteers had taken care of the long line, serving everyone limp green beans, Swiss meatballs and instant mash potatoes—sadly one of the best meals the soup kitchen had to offer.

  She walked to her messenger bag at the back of the small serving area and put the bread behind the comic books. She slung the bag over her shoulder and walked into the dining hall. Every table and chair was occupied. There was a big crowd today, too many hungry bellies. A few quiet conversations went on at different tables, but most people just hunched over their plates and ate. A little hand went up in the air and waved her over. Sam smiled, her chest filling with fondness at the sight of Jacob’s little round face and lively blue eyes.

  Darn cute kid. I could eat him up. She winked at Jacob and couldn’t help but smile.

  “Hi, Sam,” he said when she reached his table.

  She mussed his dirty blond hair. “Hey, rocky. How are you? Like those meatballs?”

  Jacob smiled at his already empty plate and nodded. A simple meal made him happy, even when everything else was screwe
d up for him.

  “I got you an extra buttered roll.” Sam knelt next to him, pulled the piece of bread out of her bag and handed it to him under the table. No one noticed. Not even his father who sat next to him staring into space and chewing his food languidly as he always did. The man hunched over his plate from his considerable height. He had to be well over six foot six. Hard to believe Jacob was his son. The kid was eight, but he was scrawny and was no taller than a six-year-old, likely due to the lack of good nutrition.

  Jacob bit the roll in half. His cheeks puffed out. He swiped the other half across the plate, wiping what little meatball gravy remained, and devoured that too, truly enjoying himself.

  “I got you something else,” Sam said when he finished chewing.

  “What is it?” Jacob asked, eyes wide with excitement.

  Sam pulled out the comic books and spread them like a fan for Jacob to see.

  “Batman!” Jacob exclaimed, his high-pitched voice carrying across the room. A few heads turned his way, then went back to their business.

  “I thought you’d like them.”

  On her way here, Sam had stopped at a comic book store and bought them for the boy. She’d been pleasantly surprised when she found out he could actually read. So many of the people here, even the adults, weren’t that privileged. His mother had taught him . . . before she abandoned him. At least she’d done something worthwhile for the kid.

  “Do I like them? I love them.” He hugged them to his chest. His clear blue eyes wavered and, for a moment, it looked as if he might cry.

  Sam didn’t want him to cry. She wanted him to smile, to be happy. “Here,” she said for a distraction and unhooked his backpack from the back of his chair. “I got a few other things.”

  She concealed Jacob’s backpack with her body and transferred a package from her messenger bag to his pack. She didn’t trust some of the adults not to steal it from him. She’d seen some of them do worse. Sam had stuffed the package with nuts, protein bars, a jar of peanut butter, a package of granola and several Snickers bars. She’d thought about slipping in some money as well, but she didn’t know what Jacob’s father might do with it. Buy booze? Drugs? And what after that? Beat the kid? Not that the man looked like an addict, he looked more . . . disconnected from reality than anything else, but you never know.

  “What’s in it?” Jacob asked.

  “Look later, okay?” Sam whispered. “When you and your dad are alone, got it?”

  “Got it,” Jacob answered like an obedient little soldier.

  He was such a sweet kid. It broke her heart she couldn’t do more for him now and that she wouldn’t be able to do more for him later. This was only their third time here, and people came and went all the time. Sam had tried to ask his father a few casual questions, but that hadn’t gone well. Afterward, she thought of calling somebody, a social worker or something, but what if she caused the kid to be separated from his father. He really seemed to love him, even if the man was as detached as an unplugged toaster.

  “Jacob’s a great kid,” she’d told him, hoping to break the ice.

  The boy’s father stared at the table. “They cut this tree down too early,” he'd said, tracing a knot in the wood with his finger. “Sapiens always do that.”

  The what? “Um, I don’t mean to intrude but . . . Jacob says you don’t have a place to stay. Maybe I can—”

  His eyes snapped to Sam’s. They were now alert and full of distrust. Their sharp blue color transfixed her. His brow was strong and his cheekbones high. Sam supposed he was the kind of man that women around her mother’s age might find attractive. Suddenly he seemed so different, so out of place.

  “What do you want with my boy?” he demanded.

  Sam got flustered. “Well, I was just . . . I was thinking he . . . maybe you two could . . .”

  As she struggled to make sense, he went back to caressing the wood, his eyes vacant and her presence forgotten. “It must have been a pretty tree, colorful leaves in the fall.” He had petted the table like a beloved dog, and he was doing the same now while his little son paged a comic book with delight.

  “Thank you. They’re awesome,” Jacob said.

  The world was upside down if a precious kid like this had to live such a rough life. She stayed at his side until they left, helping him read the words that gave him trouble. As a farewell, she mussed his hair again and said a little prayer for his wellbeing.

  * * *

  “Hello?” Sam called out, closing the back door behind her. Her voice echoed through the kitchen. No answer. Same as always. She didn’t know why she kept pretending someone cared enough to be here. She walked to the dining table and found the usual: A ten dollar bill under the salt and pepper shaker. Sam stuffed the money in her pocket. This week, her savings amounted to fifty dollars. Her parents were loose with their cash, but not so much with their affection.

  She looked in the fridge for something to cook. Cooking cleared her mind. Cooking made her happy.

  The Sub-Zero refrigerator hummed, making the loneliness and silence even more palpable. Sam swallowed the thick knot forming in her throat. Her emotions had been hard to control lately. They surged at unexpected moments, choking her. The feelings of desolation, the sense that she didn’t belong, had been growing stronger ever since school had let out last week. It’d been bad before, but with her only friend, Brooke, gone to New York for the break, it was worse.

  She blinked at the light inside the expansive fridge and tried to focus on dinner. It was hard to invoke her usual indifference, but she managed. There were enough ingredients to make a salad: Lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers. She could boil an egg, cut up some ham and make a chef salad. She patted her belly. Her waist line could use something healthy. But what was the fun in preparing rabbit food? Unless she got creative with the salad dressing. She pondered making something from scratch, even if that would send her pants size in the wrong direction.

  Suddenly, her butt buzzed. She started and reached into her back pocket, drawing out her phone. The display read: Bureau of Doom. Her mom calling from the office.

  What the . . . ?

  What was her mom? A freakin’ psychic or something? Did she know—from behind the mahogany desk of the Gibson & Gibson law firm—that Sam was thinking about making salad dressing at three hundred calories a teaspoon? That her hips were in terrible danger of doubling in width? She closed the fridge and reclined against the island.

  “Hey,” Sam answered curtly, falling into her usual, childish hostility.

  “Samantha, your Dad and I have to meet clients over dinner tonight,” her mother said without preamble.

  “Ah-hum.”

  “We’ll probably be late, so you don’t need to wait for us. Okay, baby?”

  Baby? Sam shook her head, irritated. Barbara Gibson never called her daughter baby. “Sure, fine.”

  “And Samantha, don’t open the door for anyone. We love you, honey. Sleep tight.” The last few words were hurried, and then the receiver went dead.

  In disgust, Sam tossed the phone on the counter. It hit the sleek surface and slid a few inches. Impulsively, she pulled out a large metal spoon from the ceramic utensil holder by the stove and thought of ninja-chopping the phone with it. After a few deep breaths, she decided it wasn’t worth the hassle and set the spoon down.

  There must have been someone in the room with her. That was the only reason her mom had sounded like the perfect Stepford Mother, because cold-blooded trial lawyers don’t say, “We love you, honey. Sleep tight.” At least, not this one.

  Her parents were probably going out for Friday night cocktails, not a business meeting. But it wasn’t the lie that bothered Sam. The problem was their phony attitude when others were present. Why the act when they didn’t really care? No matter that she was a good student, stayed out of trouble, and did everything they . . . Sam cut off the train of thought. It was a waste of time. Her parents thought of her as nothing but an unwanted chore. Plain and simple. No use
trying to find other reasons.

  She fought the stinging sensation in her eyes. Only two more years, and she would be out of here, gone to culinary school, on her own, starting a new life. The idea dissipated the sadness a little, but some of it lingered. Well, only one thing could get her out this bad mood: A triple-cheese grilled sandwich.

  She dug out the ingredients from the fridge. Bread, butter, Cheddar, Swiss and Gouda. Not an award-winning recipe to impress them at Le Cordon Bleu, but—when it came to comfort foods—it was one of her favorites. She dropped butter in a skillet and turned on the burner. The warmth and dancing, blue flame set her mind at ease, immediately releasing her frown and shoulder tension. Guiltlessly, she spread butter on the bread and layered cheese on top. A smile appeared on her lips. She placed the sandwich on the skillet and pressed it with a spatula, flipping it a few times until it turned golden-brown and the cheese went gooey in the middle.

  Sam paired her buttery creation with creamy, whole milk. She filled the tallest glass to the rim. Standing over the granite island, she bit into her sandwich. Her eyes closed in ecstasy. Her taste buds reveled in the rich, gooey taste.

  Mmm!

  She guzzled the milk and devoured the rest of the sandwich in the same fashion. When she was done, she contemplated the dirty dishes and bread crumbs left in what—pre-grilled cheese yumminess binge—had been a spotless kitchen. Like any respectable cook, she hated the cleaning part. A dogged, adolescent stubbornness reared its head. The gluttonous evidence would annoy her mother. It always did, which was perhaps even more satisfying than the pigging-out itself.

  Sadly, Sam’s eating habits were the only thing that aroused semi-appropriate parental behavior from her mom. She insisted all those rich foods weren’t healthy, and even had the nerve to suggest a diet of tofu and leafy vegetables. Really? Sam was going to be a chef, for God’s sake! How clueless could her mother be? Maybe if health were her mom’s real concern, Sam would be grateful for the advice. However, comments such as, “one day you’ll blow up like a puffer fish,” made it clear that her image was the real issue. Her mother didn’t want a chubby for a daughter, because—gasp!—what would her friends and clients think?