It’s been one month, three days, and six
hours since I last ‘got my gladiator on’
and battled in the Arena.
Not that I’m obsessing or anything.
Sure, I can sneak in and watch someone else
fight, but that’s a snore.
I roll over on my dingy bed, scooch under
the drab covers, and watch the gray drizzle
outside my window.
Mondays are the pits.
Mom’s voice echoes into my bedroom.
“Time to get up!
You don’t want to be late for school, do
you, honey?”
I roll my eyes.
Of course, I want to be late for school.
Raising my head, I open my mouth to say just
that, and then decide against it.
Instead, I bite my lower lip, yank the pillow
over my head and groan.
Loudly.
“Don’t make noises at me, young lady.”
Mom rustles papers in the kitchen.
“I’ve a letter right here.
You’re on something called the Official
Watch List for Unreasonable Tardiness.”
Her footsteps echo down the hall and pause
outside my room.
“You’ll be suspended from high school
at this rate.
What do you think about that?”
I peep out from under my pillow.
Mom looms in my doorway, her fist set on her
hip.
She’s a quasi-demon like me, so she resembles
a lovely human with a curvy figure,
amber skin, chocolate-brown eyes, and chestnut hair
that falls in waves over her shoulders.
All quasis have a tail; Mom and I both sport
the long and pointed variety.
The big differences between us are laugh lines,
some grey hair and our opinion of what’s
‘dangerous’ for eighteen-year olds.
I fluff the pillow and slide it under my noggin.
Being suspended means no school.
Maybe even catching a few Arena matches on
the sly.
I wag my eyebrows.
“And suspension would be bad because?”
“I’d make it that way.”
Ugh. She would, too.
Off go my covers.
“This is me getting up.”
“Good.”
Mom stomps away.
I shower, pull on some sweats, and sleepwalk
into the kitchen, seeing the familiar lime-green
appliances, mismatched furniture, and peeling
linoleum tile.
Everything looks peaceful, quiet, and empty.
Another typical Monday morning before another
average day at school.
BO-ring.
I’ll have to charm Walker into taking me
to the Arena later.
Until I’m called to fight again, it’s
better than nothing.
A thick white envelope sits at the center
of the kitchen table.
I scoop up and read: “To the Quasi-Demon,
Miss Myla Lewis, 666 Dante Row, Purgatory.”
I lick my thumb and run it over the loopy
calligraphy.
Real ink.
My long black tail flicks in a nervous rhythm.
Frowning, I tap the unopened letter against
my palm.
No one sends me fancy stuff like this.
In a blur of motion, my tail darts across
my torso, grips the envelope with its arrowhead-shaped
end, and tries pulling it from my fingers.
“Hey now!”
My tail’s always had a mind of its own.
For some reason, it’s decided this letter
is dangerous.
I jerk the envelope out of reach, but not
before one corner gets totally shredded.
“Now, look what you did.”
My tail slinks behind me to curl guiltily
about my ankle.
I reread the outside of the letter.
Nothing here to worry about.
I am a quasi-demon (mostly human with a little
demon DNA).
I’ve spent all eighteen years of my life
in Purgatory (where human souls get judged
for Heaven or Hell, aka the most boring place
in the history of ever).
This letter’s like dozens of others that
hit our doorstep each week.
Why’s my tail on a mission to trash this
thing?
I stare at the words again, feeling like they
should read: “Open this to turn your life
upside-down and your heart into mush.”
Clearly, I’m having an off-morning.
I slip the envelope-slash-time-bomb into my
mangy backpack.
I’ll read it later at school.
Mom steps into the kitchen.
“How’s my sweet baby, Myla-la?”
Yes, I’m eighteen years old and Mom still
uses pet names from when I was three.
“I’m good.”
I open a cabinet and pull down a box of Frankenberry
cereal.
Mom eyes my every movement, her forehead creasing
with worry.
“Did you sleep well last night, Myla?”
Oh, no.
Here it comes.
I square my shoulders and mentally prepare
my ‘I’m so very-very caaaaaaalm’ voice.
“Absolutely.”
Nailed it.
“Any bad dreams?”
“Nope.”
The ‘calm voice’ isn’t working so well
this time.
“Hmm.”
She taps her cheek.
“Met anyone lately?
Made any new friends?”
I grit my teeth.
All my mornings start off with maternal interrogations
like this one.
I find it’s best to give soothing, one-word
answers.
“Negative.”
“No friends at all?”
“Only the same one since first grade.”
I raise my spoon for emphasis.
“Cissy.”
“That’s good.”
She offers me a shaky grin.
“You’re safe.”
I shoot her a hearty thumbs-up.
Today’s cross-examination ended relatively
quickly.
