The Tearsmith: A Novel

Sometimes destiny is an unrecognisable path.

The institute was called Sunnycreek Home.

It stood at the end of a decrepit, dead-end road, in the forgotten outskirts of a little town in the south of the state. It housed unfortunate children like me, none of whom I ever heard call it by its real name.

Everyone called it The Grave, and it didn’t take long for me to understand why: everyone who ended up there seemed condemned to a fate of decrepit dead-ends, just like the road that led to it.

I felt like I was living behind bars in The Grave.

I spent every day longing for someone to come and take me away. For someone to look me in the eyes and choose me, over all the other children. For someone to want me as I was, even though I wasn’t all that much. But no one had ever chosen me. No one had ever wanted me, or even noticed me. I had always been invisible.

Not like Rigel.

Unlike many of us, he hadn’t lost his parents. No tragedy had befallen his family when he was little.

They had found him in front of the institute’s gates in a wicker basket, with no note and no name, abandoned in the night with only the stars to watch over him like great sleeping giants. He was only a week old.

They named him Rigel after the brightest star in the constellation of Orion, which was shining that night like a diamond web spun on a bed of black velvet. With the surname Wilde, they filled the void of his identity.

For all of us at The Grave, that was where he was born. It was obvious even from his appearance that the night shone through his skin, as pale as the moon, and his black eyes stared with the steadiness of someone unafraid of the dark.

Ever since he was a child, Rigel had been the jewel in The Grave’s crown.

‘The son of the stars,’ the matron before Mrs Fridge had called him. She adored him so much that she taught him to play the piano. She would sit with him for hours, with a patience that never extended to the rest of us, and with note after note she transformed him into an impeccable boy who shone out against the grey walls of the institute.

Rigel seemed as good as he looked. He had perfect teeth and got good grades. The matron would sneak him candy before dinner.

He was the child everybody would have wanted.

But I knew that he wasn’t really like that. I had learnt to see beneath, beneath his smiles, his pale lips, the mask of perfection he wore with everybody else.

I knew that he harboured the night within him, and that hidden in the folds of his soul was the darkness he had been plucked from.

Rigel always acted…strangely with me.

I had never been able to explain it. It was as if I had somehow done something to deserve that behaviour, his distant, silent glares. It all started one normal day, I don’t even remember exactly when. He knocked into me, and I fell, grazing my knees. I brought my legs up to my chest and brushed the grass away, but when I looked up, I saw no trace of an apology on his face. He just stood there, staring at me, in the shadow of a cracked wall.

Rigel would yank at my clothes, pull my hair, untie the bows at the ends of my braids. The ribbons would flutter to his feet like dead butterflies, and through my tears I would see his lips curl into a cruel smile before he ran away.

But he never touched me.

In all those years, he never once made direct contact with my skin. Just the hems and material of my clothes, my hair…He would pull me over by my sweater, and I ended up with baggy sleeves, but never bruises. It was as if he didn’t want to leave any evidence of his guilt on me. Or maybe he just found my freckles disgusting. Maybe he despised me so much that he didn’t want to touch me.

Rigel spent a lot of time by himself, rarely seeking out the company of other children.

But once, when we were around fifteen, a new boy came to The Grave, a blond boy who was transferred to a foster home about a week later. He immediately took to Rigel – the one boy who, if possible, was worse than he was. They would hang out, leaning against the crumbling walls, Rigel with his arms crossed over his chest, his lips twitching and his eyes shining darkly with amusement. I never saw them argue about a thing.

Then, on a day like any other, the new boy came down to dinner with a black eye and a puffy face. Mrs Fridge glared at him unkindly and in a thundering voice demanded what in God’s name had happened.

‘Nothing,’ he mumbled without looking up from his plate. ‘I fell over at school.’

But I knew full well that it wasn’t ‘nothing’. When I looked up, I saw Rigel lowering his face so that no one would see his expression. He had smiled, a thin sneer had cracked his perfect mask.

And as he grew up, he grew into his beauty in a way that I struggled to admit.

But his beauty was anything but sweet, soft or gentle.

No…

It scorched you to look at Rigel, but your eyes would be drawn to him, like to the frame of a burning building or the carcass of a destroyed car on the side of the road. He was viciously beautiful, and the more you tried not to look at him, the more his twisted charm wedged itself behind your eyes and got under your skin until it infected your entire body.

He was seductive, solitary, sinister.

A nightmare dressed like your most secret daydream.

—

The next morning, it felt like I had woken up in a fairy tale.

Clean sheets, that divine smell and a mattress with no springs poking through. I didn’t know how to want for more.

I sat up, my eyes bleary from sleep. That comfortable room, all mine, made me feel luckier than I ever had before.

Then, as if a black cloud was passing over me, I remembered that that was only half the fairy tale. There was also that dark patch, that scorch mark, and nothing I could do to remove it.

I weakly shook my head, and roughly rubbed my eyes with my wrists, trying to push those thoughts away.

I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to let anyone ruin it, not even him.

I knew how these things went well enough not to delude myself that I’d found my forever home.

Everyone seemed to think that adoption was just a happy ending, that your new family would take you home and after only a few hours, you’d automatically become one of them.

But it wasn’t like that at all. It only works like that with pets.

Actual adoption was a much longer process. First of all, there was a short stay with the new family, to see if everyone got on well enough for cohabitation to be possible. This was called a ‘pre-adoptive placement’. During this stage, it wasn’t unusual for incompatibilities or problems to arise that would disturb the family harmony, so it was very important for the family to use this time to decide whether or not to proceed. Only if everything went smoothly, with no glitches, would the parents eventually finalise the adoption process.

That’s why I couldn’t really think of myself as a proper member of the family yet. This fairy tale that I had found myself in was beautiful, but fragile. It could shatter like glass in my hands at any moment.

I’ll be good, I resolved. I’ll be good, and everything will be fine. I would do everything in my power to make it work. Everything…

I went downstairs, determined not to let anyone ruin my chances.

The house was small, so I didn’t have much trouble finding the kitchen. I heard voices, and tentatively stepped towards them.

When I arrived in the doorway, I was lost for words.

The Milligans were sitting around the kitchen table in pyjamas and slightly tatty slippers.

Anna was laughing, her fingers wrapped around a steaming mug, and Mr Milligan was pouring cereal into a ceramic bowl, a sleepy smile on his face.

And right in the middle of them sat Rigel.

It was like a slap in the face, his black hair a bruise in my line of vision. I blinked a few times to make sure I wasn’t imagining it. He was in the middle of telling them something. His shoulders were softened and relaxed, and his hair tousled around his face.

The Milligans were watching him with bright eyes, then suddenly, simultaneously, they burst out laughing at something he had said. Their laughter rang in my ears as if I had been torn asunder and each part of me flung to the far ends of the world.

‘Oh, Nica,’ Anna burst out. ‘Good morning!’

I slightly raised my shoulders. They were all staring at me and somehow I managed to feel like a spare part, even though I had only just arrived and hardly knew them. Even though it should have been me sitting there between them, not him.

Rigel looked up at me. His dark eyes found mine instantly, as if he already knew, and I thought I glimpsed the corners of his mouth curling coolly. He tilted his head and smiled angelically.

‘Good morning, Nica.’

My blood ran cold. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak. I felt more and more gripped by that icy dismay.

‘Did you sleep well?’ Mr Milligan pulled out a chair for me to sit down. ‘Come and have some breakfast!’

‘We were just getting to know each other a little bit,’ Mrs Milligan told me. I looked again at Rigel, who was gazing back at me like a perfect painting with the Milligans either side of him.

I sat down reluctantly. Mr Milligan filled Rigel’s glass and Rigel smiled at him, perfectly at ease. I felt like I’d sat down on a bed of thorns.

I’ll be good. I watched Mr and Mrs Milligan chatting with each other in front of me, and the words I’ll be good flashed through my head like scarlet lightning bolts. I’ll be good, I swear I will…

‘How are you feeling on your first day, Nica?’ Anna asked, so gentle even first thing in the morning. ‘Are you nervous?’

I struggled to push my clamouring worries far away.

‘Oh…no,’ I tried to relax. ‘I’m not scared…I’ve always liked school.’

It was the truth.

School was one of the only chances we got to leave The Grave. Walking along the road to the public school, I would look up at the clouds, pretending I was just like all the others. I would dream of getting on an airplane and flying away towards distant worlds of freedom.

It was one of the only times I almost managed to feel normal.

‘I’ve already called reception,’ Anna told us. ‘The principal will see you as soon as possible. The school has got you on the register, and they’ve assured me that you can start lessons right away. I know it’s all very quick, but…I hope it will all be all right. You can ask to be put in the same classes if you want,’ she added.

I met her eager gaze and tried to hide my unease. ‘Oh. Yeah…thanks.’

I sensed I was being watched. It was Rigel’s dark, narrow eyes staring right at me from under his arched eyebrows.

I snapped my eyes away, as if I’d been scalded. I felt the visceral need to get out of there, and with the excuse of going to get dressed, I got up from the table and left the kitchen.

As I was putting walls between us, I felt something twisting in my stomach, the way he had looked at me infesting my thoughts.

‘I’ll be good,’ I whispered to myself, shaking. ‘I’ll be good…I swear…’

He was the last person in the world I wanted to be there.

Would I ever be able to ignore him?

—

The new school was a grey, blocky building.

Mr Milligan pulled up, and a few kids ran past the front of the car in their rush to get to class. He rearranged his heavy-framed glasses on his nose and awkwardly placed his hands on the steering wheel, as if he didn’t know what else to do with them. I realised that I enjoyed watching him. He had a meek, nervous personality – that was probably why I sympathised with him so much.

‘Anna will come and pick you up later.’

The idea of someone being out there waiting for me, ready to take me home, gave me a stronger surge of pleasure than ever before. I nodded from the back seat, my shabby backpack sitting on my knees.

‘Thank you, Mr Milligan.’

‘Oh, you can…’ he started to say as we got out of the car, his ears a little red. ‘You can call me Norman.’ I stood, watching the car disappear down the road until I heard footsteps behind me.

I turned around and saw Rigel walking alone towards the entrance.

My eyes followed his slender body, the relaxed swinging of his broad shoulders. There was always a hypnotic, natural quality to the way that he moved. He strode surely and confidently, as if the ground would shape itself to his footsteps.

I entered the building after him, but my bag strap got caught on the door handle. I suddenly stumbled wide-eyed into someone who was entering behind me at just that moment.

‘What the hell,’ I heard as I turned around. An irritated boy jerked his arm away, clutching a couple of books.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered faintly, and his friend gave him a nudge.

I tucked my hair behind my ears. He met my gaze and seemed to re-evaluate me. The irritation disappeared from his face. He stood stock still, as if my eyes had struck him with lightning.

Then, out of nowhere, he dropped the books he had been holding.

I looked at them heaped on the floor, and when I didn’t see him bending to pick them up, knelt down to retrieve them myself.

I held them out to him, feeling guilty for having bumped into him, and realised that he’d been staring at me the whole time.

‘Thanks…’ he smiled slowly, letting his gaze wander all over me in a way that made me blush, which he seemed to find entertaining, or maybe intriguing.

‘Are you new?’ he asked.

‘Let’s go, Rob,’ his friend urged. ‘We’re really late.’

But he didn’t seem to want to go anywhere. I felt a stinging on the back of my neck, a stabbing sensation, like a needle piercing through the air behind me.

I tried to shake off the feeling of foreboding. I backed away from him, and with my face downturned, I stammered, ‘I…I’ve got to go.’

I got to reception, which was just down the corridor. I saw that the door was already open and hoped I hadn’t made the receptionist wait. It was only after I’d crossed the threshold that I noticed the silhouette lurking to one side.

I almost winced.

Rigel was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. One leg was bent, the sole of his shoe against the wall, and his face was slightly lowered, his eyes looking at the floor.

He had always been a lot taller than everyone else, and significantly more intimidating, but I didn’t need that as an excuse to immediately take a step backwards. Everything about him frightened me, his appearance and what lay beneath.

What was he doing loitering there, right next to the doorway, when there was a line of chairs just there on the other side of the waiting room?

‘The principal will see you now.’

The receptionist called us through from the principal’s office, bringing me back to reality.

‘Come in.’

Rigel moved away from the wall and walked past me without so much as a glance. We headed into the office and the door closed behind us. The principal was a young, attractive, austere-looking woman. She gestured for us to sit down in front of the desk while she checked our files. She asked us a few questions about the syllabus in our old school, and seemed particularly interested in what was written in Rigel’s file.

‘I spoke to your institute,’ she said. ‘I asked a few questions about your academic performance. I was pleasantly surprised by you, Mr Wilde.’ She smiled, turning the page. ‘Good grades, impeccable behaviour, not a toe out of line. Truly a model student. Your teachers could only sing your praises.’ She looked up, satisfied. ‘It will be a real pleasure to have you here with us at Burnaby.’

I wondered if there was any possibility that she knew how wrong she was, if she realised that those glowing reports didn’t reflect reality, because the teachers never saw underneath. They were exactly like all the others.

I wished I could find it within me to say something.

But Rigel just smiled in his charming way. I wondered how people managed not to notice that his smile never reached his eyes, which stayed dark and impenetrable, glinting like knives.

‘The two students waiting just outside will take you to your classes,’ said the principal. ‘But as of tomorrow, if you’d like, you can ask to be put together.’

I had hoped to avoid this. I gripped the sides of the chair and pushed myself forwards, but he spoke first.

‘No.’

I blinked and turned to look at him. Rigel was smiling, a lock of dark hair falling over his forehead.

‘There’s no need.’

‘You’re sure? You won’t be able to change your minds later.’

‘Oh, yes. We’ll get plenty of time together.’

‘Very good,’ the principal declared, seeing as I kept silent. ‘You can start class. Follow me.’

I tore my eyes away from Rigel. I got to my feet, picked up my backpack, and followed her out of the office.

‘Two seniors will be waiting for you outside reception. Have a great day.’

She retreated into her office and I crossed the room without looking behind me. I had to get away from him, and I would have done so, had a different urge not taken over at the last minute. I couldn’t stop myself from turning around to confront him.

‘What did you mean?’ I bit my lip. I didn’t need to see his raised eyebrow to realise what a stupid question it was. But I didn’t trust his intentions, and I couldn’t believe that he would turn down an opportunity to torment me.

‘What?’ Rigel looked down at me, his towering presence making me feel even smaller. ‘You didn’t seriously think…that I would want to be with you?’

I pursed my lips, regretting having asked. The intensity of his gaze made my stomach quiver and his stinging sarcasm scorched my skin.

Without replying, I turned the door handle and made to leave. But something stopped me.

A hand appeared from over my shoulder and pushed the door shut. I froze. I saw his slender fingers on the doorframe, and every one of my vertebrae became alive to his presence behind me.

‘You stay away from me, little moth,’ he ordered. His hot breath tickled my hair and I stiffened. ‘You got that?’

The tension of his body so close was enough to give me chills. Stay away, he said, but it was him who had pinned me against the door, breathed all over me, prevented me from leaving.

He moved past me, and I watched him go through narrowed eyes, without moving an inch.

If I’d had my way…

If I’d had my way, I’d have forgotten him forever, along with The Grave, with Mrs Fridge, and the pain that had marred my entire childhood. I didn’t want to end up in the same family as him. It was a catastrophe for me. It felt as if I had been condemned to bear the burden of my past, as if I would never truly be free.

How could I make him understand?

‘Hi!’

I hadn’t realised that I’d robotically walked out of reception. I looked up and found myself greeted by a radiant smile.

‘I’m in your class. Welcome to Burnaby!’

I saw Rigel striding confidently along the corridor, his black hair swishing as he went. The girl who was with him seemed like she was hardly paying any attention to where she was going. She was staring at him, bewildered, as if she was the new student. They both disappeared around the corner.

‘I’m Billie,’ my new classmate introduced herself. She held out her hand, beaming, and I shook it. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Nica Dover.’

‘Micah?’

‘No, Nica,’ I repeated, stressing the N, and she put a finger to her chin.

‘Oh, short for Nikita!’

I found myself smiling. ‘No,’ I shook my head. ‘Just Nica.’

Billie’s curious gaze didn’t make me feel uncomfortable, like the boy’s look earlier had. She had a sincere face, honey-coloured curls, and bright, passionate eyes.

As we walked along, I noticed that she was watching me intently, but it was only when our eyes met again that I understood why. She too was fascinated by the unique colour of my irises.

‘Because of your eyes, Nica,’ the younger children used to say, when I would ask why they were looking at me in that alienating way. ‘Nica’s eyes are the colour of a crying sky, big and shining, like grey diamonds.’

‘What happened to your hands?’ she asked.

I looked down at my fingertips, which were covered in Band-Aids.

‘Oh,’ I stammered, awkwardly hiding them behind my back. ‘Nothing…’

I smiled, trying to change the conversation, and Mrs Fridge’s words barged into my head again: ‘Get your head out of the clouds.’

‘It’s so I don’t bite my nails,’ I burst out. She seemed to believe me, because then she lifted her hands proudly to show me her nibbled nails.

‘What does it matter? Mine are down to the bone at this point!’ She turned her hands over and started inspecting them. ‘My grandma says I should dip them in mustard, “Then you’ll lose the taste for them,” she says. I’ve never tried it, though. I find the idea of spending an afternoon with my fingers in mustard a bit…perplexing. What if the mailman knocks?’