The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher
Poppy
EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD
I’d had a million nightmares about my eighteenth birthday. They always started in the same way: the clock striking midnight and the world as I know it melting away around me. My dorm room, my new-found friends. Everything that makes me feel like a normal girl attending one of the best colleges in the world is pulled from underneath me and everything plunges into darkness.
And then I see his eyes. Wolf-like and hungry, shining even brighter than they were at the funeral. He pounces, enveloping me in his strong body, the smell of his oaky cologne and alcohol filling up my throat until I can’t breathe.
I didn’t have that dream tonight, because I simply didn’t go to sleep.
I waited, one eye on my dorm room door, the other on the clock. And when the clock struck midnight, I expected the Devil to appear.
But… nothing.
No sudden darkness, no piercing yellow eyes hiding in the shadows. The earth didn’t tremble and judgment day didn’t come.
I passed the hours by curling up on my desk chair, my sweater stretched over my knees, sipping on lukewarm coffee. It wasn’t until the first of the day’s sunrays broke through the gaps in the curtain, splashing golden streaks over the cheap carpet, did something new and foreign bloom in the pit of my stomach.
Hope.
Maybe my plan worked. I can imagine him storming into my father’s condo, ripping the door off my childhood bedroom and roaring with anger when he realizes the bed’s empty.
Maybe I have won.
“Hey, birthday girl!” comes a croaky voice from the other side of the room. Nellie, my roommate, is propping herself up on her elbows in bed. “What the hell are you doing awake? It’s like…“ she taps the screen of her cell and groans at the sudden brightness. “Fuckin’ early, that’s what it is.”
I smile over my coffee as she flops back down onto her pillows. “Sorry,” I whisper, uncurling myself and padding across the room back to my own bed. “I hope I didn’t wake you?”
But the soft sound of her breathing tells me she’s already out for the count again. I slip between my sheets and curl into a ball. With the comfort of daybreak, my eyes get heavy, and I’m able to slide into a Devil-free sleep.
* * *Nellie casts a judgmental eye over my silhouette and frowns. “I don’t understand. It’s like your entire wardrobe is tailor-made for a nun.”
With a fresh scowl, I turn back to the full-length mirror propped up against the door and run my hands over my black maxi dress. The waistline sits under my bust and falls straight to the floor, the light and billowy fabric pooling at my feet. “I think it’s cute,” I say blankly, “Is it not cute?” I glance up at her reflection in the mirror, watching as she tugs out silky and shimmery dresses out of her trunk. We moved in three weeks ago, and she still hasn’t unpacked her stuff. All my possessions, on the other hand, are neatly folded in drawers or hung up in closets.
Nellie lets out a snort. “Cute if you’re a nun. Here,” she says, tossing a strip of fabric into my hands. “This will look incredible on you.”
Holding it up against myself, it’s my turn to snort. “I’m not a nun, but I’m not a three-dollar-hooker either.”
She laughs. “Just try it on, loser.”
In the short time I’ve lived with Nellie, I’ve realized how similar we are in some respects and how different we are in others. We’re both stubborn and always have an opinion at the tip of our tongues, and neither care if it’s solicited or not. In everything else, we’re polar opposites. Looks: Nellie’s California tan and sharp blond bob make her look like a Hollister model, whereas my pasty skin and frizzy red hair have had me mistaken for Princess Merida from Brave by a handful of kids at the grocery store.
Oh, and dress sense. Nellie wears ass-flashing booty shorts and cropped tops by day, and plunging LBD’s by night. I, on the other hand, own three pairs of jeans and two maxi dresses that might flash my ankles if the wind is blowing in the right direction.
“Jesus Christ and all of his disciples,” Nellie gasps as I smooth down the fabric of her dress against my body. “You look insane.”
Rolling my eyes, I humor her and brace my reflection. All I can see is flesh. So much goddamn flesh. The scarlet red silk clings to the dip of my waist, the sweetheart neckline pushing up my breasts to only inches under my chin. The cut of the dress ends just under the curve of my ass, but the side slit reveals even more, most noticeably the hem of my boring cotton panties. “This is ridiculous,” I laugh. But I can’t stop staring at myself.
“It’s decided. You’re wearing it—and no protests.” She stabs a perfectly manicured finger in the direction of my little workshop in the corner of our dorm, where my paint pots and my newly thrifted mirror lays half-stained. “I’ll fuse it to your body using your own glue gun if you dare to take it off.”
“Fine,” I grumble, but the butterflies in my stomach aren’t so gloomy. “But I’m going to need a few shots before we head to the common room if I’m going to enter like this.”
Nellie grabs the bottle of Svedka from her desk and two egg cups we’ve been using as makeshift shot glasses. “Done and done.”
* * *The butterflies buzzing in my stomach are acting like they’ve dropped too much acid, dancing around erratically. Drowning them in cheap vodka didn’t work. “Are you sure I don’t look ridiculous?” I whisper to Nellie as we walk down the hall towards the common room. “I don’t want to be known as the whore of the course.”
She raises a microbladed eyebrow and gives me an unsteady twirl. Her shorter-than-short skater dress floats up to reveal the lace of her panties. “If you’re the whore then I’m the whole brothel. And besides, you’ve known these people for less than a month. You can always swap courses—or if you really made a fool out of yourself, it isn’t too late to change colleges!” She throws me a wink and pushes through into the common room.
It’s busier than I expected, especially considering Nellie only found out it was my birthday three days ago and created a last-minute Facebook event for a party at our building. The sea of bodies is overwhelming. Some are moving collectively to the house music blaring over the speakers, and the others are sprawled over the seating area, red cups in hand and heads together.
“You’re a popular girl, Poppy,” Nellie says, squeezing my hand.
I laugh her off. Looking around the room I recognize three people, two from my finance class, and the other from global management. Everyone else is here because, well, even the smartest students in the country can’t resist a good party.
“I need a drink,” I mutter, clutching my hands to my chest to claim at least a fraction of my modesty back.
“Wish granted, I’ll be right back,” Nellie chirps, sliding between the bodies towards the makeshift bar set up in the fireplace.
Without my sidekick, I hover awkwardly by the entrance of the common room, wondering if I should get my cell out of my purse and pretend to text one of my non-existent friends.
This is way out of my comfort zone. I spent my entire childhood at the end of the lunch table, nose in a book, or in Mrs. Harjo’s workshop desperately repairing a piece I could flip. I don’t know how to socialize. I don’t know how to make friends or—
“Cool party, huh?” a voice comes from over my shoulder.
I whip around too quickly, stumbling on my borrowed stilettos and twisting my ankle underneath me. I grab whatever’s closest to me—the hemline of a plaid shirt, and a big chunk of it comes with me as I tumble towards the carpet. Before I’m fully on my ass, a hand swoops under my elbow and pulls me back to my feet.
“Whoa,” the voice says again, “are you all right?”
I look up at the big brown eyes in front of me, then down at the bundle of fabric in my hand. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I ripped your shirt. I—”
The guy laughs, looking down at the skin now poking through the hole in his shirt. “Hey, don’t worry about it. Just glad you didn’t snap your ankles. I’m studying economics, not fractured bones, so I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much help if you did. I’m Sam, by the way.” He sticks out a warm hand, and I blink twice to clear the vodka haze before I have the common sense to take it.
“Poppy.”
A flash of recognition in his eyes. “Oh—you’re in my managerial class, right? Poppy Valentina?”
A beat passes before I nod. The second I bought my plane ticket to Santa Clara County, I changed my surname from Murphy to Valentina, which was my mother’s maiden name, getting rid of the final traces of my cowardly father in the process. “Yeah. Sorry. I haven’t really been paying attention to anything but the lecturers, I’m struggling to keep up.” That was a lie; I’ve ranked top of the class in all my preliminary exams so far, but I feel rude that I don’t recognize him at all.
“No worries,” he smiles, raising his beer to me. He’s quite handsome, but I don’t know if that’s the cocktail of vodka and adrenaline talking. Toned body—I can see the outline of abs peeking through the hole I made in his shirt—neat brown hair, and big eyes a few shades lighter. “Let me get you a drink.”
Right on cue, Nellie’s tanned arm brushes against my shoulder. “Here you go, birthday girl,” she announces, thrusting a questionable-looking drink under my nose. “Don’t ask what’s in it, you don’t want to know.”
“Oh,” Sam flashes me an apologetic grin. “You’re that Poppy. Birthday girl. Damn, I’m so rude.”
I wave the fabric in the air. “Not as rude as me.” I laugh back.
Nellie’s eyes dart back and forth between us, and I can practically see the cupid cogs whirring in her brain.
“And not as rude as I’m going to be, Sam,” she says with a sickly-sweet smile, linking her arm with mine. “I’m going to have to steal my friend for a few minutes, but you can have her right back, I promise.”
Before he can protest, Nellie is guiding me through the throng of dancers towards the restroom at the back. “What was that about?” I moan, wincing as I take a sip of her mystery cocktail. “He was kinda cute.”
“Yeah, kinda,” she dismisses, “but you look far too hot to limit yourself to one guy all evening. Make him sweat.”
After a quick hair check, a reapplication of lipstick and a drinks top-up, I feel more confident to work the room, and as the music gets louder and the party-goers get blurrier, I’m introducing myself as “the birthday girl” to anyone that will listen.
I’m draped over the arm of an armchair chatting to two girls who live on the floor below when the lights suddenly dim, and a hushed wave ripples through the crowd.
“What’s going on?” I mutter as freshmen part like the Red Sea to reveal Nellie, holding a large chocolate cake with eighteen dancing candles on top.
She starts the Happy Birthday song a little too loud, wobbling towards me like she’s balancing on a high beam. The crowd joins in, reckless and cheery, chanting the words like it’s the latest Number One hit on the Billboard charts.
“Make a wish, Pops!” she squeals, her blue eyes shimmering at me over the candles.
Unable to squash the cheesy grin splitting my face in two, I squeeze my eyes shut.
I wish that I pass the semester with flying colors.
I wish that I make loads of friends.
But most importantly, I wish that I never have to see the Devil again, even in my nightmares.