Dalton

The buzzing echoes — through my nightstand, through my bed, through my bones. The ceiling flashes white over and over again, like lightning striking across a cloudy sky. I shut my eyes tight and turn over, burying my face in my pillow.

Ten minutes. I just need ten more minutes.

“Time to get up!” My mom’s overly chipper voice bellows through my closed door, followed by a series of brain-rattling knocks. Apparently the universe has other plans. “If you miss the bus, I’m not driving you to school!”

That would be ideal. It’s not like I want to go. Switching high schools is bad enough, and it’s already halfway through the school year, which is only making my nerves that much worse.

“Cori!” Mom shouts, a lot less patient this time.

“I’m up!” I say back. “I’ll be out in a second.”

I heave out a big sigh and shut off the alarm still chiming through my phone. I trudge through brushing my teeth and skip steps two through five of my skincare routine. I should probably put on some makeup. First impressions and all that. I am the new girl, after all.

Starting over right after winter break might not have been the best idea. But after all the drama last semester — all the videos and whispers and stares that followed me down every hallway and around every corner — this was our only idea.

“Hey.” Mom barges in, without knocking this time. Her locs are tucked into her bonnet, and she has a steaming mug in each hand. I already know what’s in them, and I’m practically salivating. A double shot of espresso (extra cream) for her and a cup of chai (no sugar) for me. “Everything good in here?”

“Yup.” I lie, shoving down my trepidation.

“I put some money in your account for breakfast in the cafeteria,” she says, her smile starting to fade. She pauses. “Look, I know starting over is hard… ”

No, she doesn’t know. I never quite fit in at my last school. The other kids made sure I knew it. They told me so — said it to my face, scribbled it on my locker, littered it in my comments and DMs. The only ally I’d had moved to the middle of nowhere. And I was stuck facing a bunch of bullies alone.

I just hope things can be different now. New school, new friends. A fresh start, y’know? That’s what I need. I’ve just gotta get over these nerves first.

“I’ve got something for you.”

I hold my hand out for my morning chai, but she shakes her head. She puts the mugs down on my dresser. Then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a long, metal chain. A small, dainty locket swings from the end. It’s dented, and a little tarnished, but I guess it looks pretty cool. The letter “D” is etched onto the front, surrounded by tiny flowers. I’m pretty sure I already know what it stands for. Dalton.

Any chance she gets, Mom always goes on proudly about how I'm a Dalton, just like her.

“This was mine,” she says. “Before that, it was your aunt’s. Before that, your grandmother’s. And before that… well, you get the idea.”

Mom doesn’t give me a chance to respond. She reaches over my shoulders and clasps the chain around my neck. The locket settles on my collarbone. It’s way heavier than it looks. The metal is cool to the touch, immediately sending calm, soothing waves all throughout my body.

Mom’s watching me, as if waiting for some kind of reaction. “How’s it feel?”

“Um, good?”

She lets out a happy sigh of relief. The dimple on her left cheek dances. “Good! That’s good.” Then, finally, she hands me my mug before taking a massive gulp from her own. “Today’s gonna be a great day, Cori. I can feel it.”

I want to ask how she could possibly know that. I barely even know what I’m walking into today. But I just nod and smile. Mom nods back, pleased, before heading out the door.

And I’m alone. Again.

I take a few satisfying sips and pull on my backpack. The layers of fabric and books have muffled my phone’s constant vibrating, for which I’m beyond grateful. I look back in the mirror, ready to hype myself up for the day ahead.

But when I look into the glass, it’s not my reflection staring back at me.

“AAHH!” I shriek, then quickly slap a hand over my mouth, and the girl in the mirror does, too.

She has the same athletic build. Same deep brown skin. Same locket resting on her neck. She even has the same dimple.

She looks like me. But she is not me.

“What the — ”

My phone vibrates again, making me jump a mile into the air. Reluctantly, I tear my eyes away from the girl in the mirror and dig around in my bag for it. It’s just a text from Mom.

Bus! Now!!

I sigh. Time to face the music…

Before I go, I chance one more look in the mirror. Not-me is still there. And even though I’m frowning, she’s got a soft smile on her face. I’m not gonna lie. It makes me feel better. Just for a second.

I inch closer and closer to the door, putting space between me and the girl in the mirror. Unfazed, she waves at me, as if to say You’ve got this!

I hope I do. Or at least, I hope I’m not totally losing it.

There are a bunch of other people at the bus stop. I’ve seen them around the neighborhood a few times. Our conversations haven’t ever gone past “Hi” and “Nice shoes.” But now we go to the same school. Maybe this is my chance. Maybe I should go over there.

I make it three steps forward before they start laughing wildly, clinging to each other’s arms. I freeze. They already have their squad. I can’t just go up and introduce myself. Would they even want to talk to me? I’m not sure I’d want to talk to me.

“Yo,” a voice calls from behind me. “I think you dropped this.”

I nearly jump out of my skin and whip around so fast my braids fly in every direction. There’s a girl standing there. I don’t think she’s coming on the bus. She looks old enough to be in college, and she’s definitely not in uniform. A bandana keeps her relaxed hair back and a metal chain disappears beneath the collar of her shirt. A denim jacket flutters over a crop top… in fifty-degree weather! Honestly, she looks like she could be starring in one of those really old 90s music videos my mom likes to rewatch. I’m startled by how familiar she seems, but I can’t say I’ve ever met her before.

She jingles my house keys in her hand, diverting my attention from her outfit.

“Oh!” I take them from her hastily. “Thanks!”

“No problem, Cori.” She grins wide, highlighting a prominent left dimple on her brown cheek. Then she jerks her head over at the other kids. “You should go talk to them.”

I gape like a fish. How does this random college girl know exactly what I was thinking?

“Don’t let one bad experience hold you back,” she continues. “They’d be more than lucky to have you as a friend. You’re not as alone as you think.”

I’m not sure how to respond. My mom says stuff like that to me all the time. But I guess today of all days, I need to hear it.

“Thank you,” I say again, just as the screeeech of the school bus blares behind me. I turn to follow the other kids. But before I go, it hits me.

I never told her my name.

I swivel back around to ask how she knows who I am. But there’s no one there. Like, at all. Not even in the distance.

I think I’m losing my mind.

“You coming?” One of the girls — Meghan, I think — asks. She’s got a bright friendly smile on her face as she keeps the door propped open with one hand and extends her other hand to me.

I hesitate, scanning the empty space where the other girl just was. But she’s gone, as if she was never there at all. Her words ring in my head. I take Meghan’s hand and hop on, thanking her. The locket feels warm against my skin, but maybe that’s another thing I’m imagining.

#

It’s been a long day. A billion stares, a trillion ice breakers. Being the new girl is hard.

But here, in fourth period Art & Art History, it’s easy to lose myself in my painting. I was Vice President of the art club at my last school. Here I’m just another average 11th grader. Still, I don’t think I realized how much I missed being in a studio. How the smell of paint and the texture of a canvas help drown out everything else around me. 

At the end of the table, two students hunch over their phones in laughter, interrupting the delicate calm that had settled in my brain. My stomach pulls itself into a pretzel of knots. Loneliness sinks into my bones. I know I can’t keep going through high school like this. Just because my last school was full of gossips and mean girls doesn’t mean this one will be. But fear of repeating the past — of reliving those months of rumors and clapbacks and worse — holds me tight. 

Before I can decide my next move, they both get up from their chairs, leaving to refill their paint. Disappointed in myself more than anything else, I turn away and try to focus on my painting again. The face from this morning looks back at me from the canvas. Her all-knowing smirk is just as annoying as I remember.

“Nice brushstrokes,” someone says. I spin, expecting it to be one of the girls at my table. But it’s someone completely different.

Her brown face is stretched into a wide smile, dimples leaving deep grooves in her cheeks. Her thick hair is pulled back into a tight puff and secured under a hat. She’s wearing an old-fashioned floral dress, one that is definitely not up to dress code.

She sits down next to me, smiling all the way, and I can’t help it. Her wide smile is contagious.

“Thanks,” I answer, uncertain.

She peers intently at the portrait on my canvas. And the longer she stares, the more I’m stunned by just how alike these two look.

She leans in close, whispering, “You even got her little birthmark. You have got an eye for detail. Though I would add a bit of warmth to her cheeks.”

I can’t help but perk up a little. No one at my old school ever noticed or paid attention to the work I was doing, or how much effort I put into my art. I do as she suggests, dipping my brush in the orange and honing in on my painting. But wait, that comment about the birthmark…

“Sorry, who are you?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

“Sue-Anne,” she tells me. “You are very talented. But I think I should not be surprised. It is in the blood.”

“B-blood?” Please tell me I didn’t accidentally bleed on my piece.

“Yes,” she says calmly, still impressed. “Yours. Mine. Georgie’s.” She points to the girl on my canvas. The girl from my mirror. “Though perhaps not Mariah. You met her earlier. An interesting taste in color and fashion sense, that one.”

I try to hide my shock but I’m failing. Miserably.

“Who are you?” I ask again under my breath.

“I told you. Sue-Anne,” she says simply, like that answers anything. Her hand climbs to her neck and pulls out a familiar chain from beneath her dress collar. The “D” on the locket shines bright. “Sue-Anne Dalton.”

My head spins. What in the world did Mom put in my chai?

“We have been watching you for some time, Cousin.”

“I— ”

“Guiding you. Supporting you. Cheering you on. You just could not see us until… ” Sue-Anne trails off, eyeing the locket around my neck. The one identical to hers.

“Until Mom put this on me.” I gasp and glance around. Does it look like I’m talking to myself?

“Georgie, in particular, has been following your life very closely. I do not think she liked your old school.”

“Mom wasn’t a huge fan of it either,” I say. “That’s why I’m here. She thought I needed a fresh start.”

She nods in agreement. “Your mom is wise. Georgie wanted to make sure you were okay after all that’s happened. And that you knew that we were here for you.”

“She showed up in my mirror!”

“Yes, she is not very subtle. Try more purple.”

I don’t really know what else to do so I slather more purple on the canvas. She continues to talk with me, to encourage me. The artwork comes alive under her guidance and her joyful conversation. The weight of the day lifts, and so does the nervous pit that had settled in my stomach.

“I think your classmates are returning,” Sue-Anne says, suddenly getting up. “You should talk to them. I think they might have great ideas for your painting.”

She stands, and that’s when I get a good look at her. A really good look. The edges of her frame are wispy, like she was born of a fog. If I stare too hard, I can see the outline of the classroom behind her. She’s real, I think, but not in the way I am. That my teacher and my classmates are. I reach out for her, desperate for her to stay. But despite my hand landing on hers, my fingers grasp only air.

“Wait— ”

“You have never been alone, Cori Elizabeth Dalton. Not from the moment you were born.” Sue-Anne smiles, then begins to fade. “I will see you very soon!”

And she’s gone.

The seniors’ laughter only gets louder and louder as they get closer, until even our laid-back teacher has to shush them. They quickly quiet themselves before one of them — Jenny, I assume, based on the teacher’s chiding — leans toward me.

“Hey, you’re the new girl right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” she beams, then laughs wholeheartedly.

I hold back a snort. She doesn’t know the half of it.

“Um, yeah. That’s me. Cori.” I say, unsure if I should continue. But Sue-Anne’s words continue to cycle through my mind. So I shove down my anxiety and speak. “I love the still life you’re working on.”

“Thanks!” Jenny gushes and plops in the seat next to me. “Your piece is so cool, too. I’m terrible at painting faces, but you’re really talented!”

I can’t help the way my shoulders fall with ease, or the laughter that bubbles up from my chest. I thought I’d have to go through today, through the rest of the school year, on my own. But maybe I don’t. Maybe I never did.

Maybe I’ll like this new school more than I thought.

#

When I get home, Mom’s prepping tonight’s dinner. Like today is just another normal, boring Monday. She’s so focused, she almost doesn’t notice me as I cross the threshold into her sacred kitchen.

“Oh!” She startles. “You’re home. How was your day? And can you pass me those tomatoes please?”

“Sure. And well… ” I grab the tomatoes from the fridge and hand them over. She immediately starts dicing. “I think you know how my day was.” It’s not accusatory, but it’s certainly questioning.

Mom’s chopping freezes. “So they appeared to you.”

She says this like, so you saw the neighbor mowing his overgrown lawn.

“Who came to visit?” she asks without looking up.

“Sue-Anne, Georgie, and Mariah.” I tick them each off my fingers. Then I give Mom a quick recap of everything that’s happened since she handed me the locket this morning.

“Sue-Anne is one of my favorite relatives! Georgie’s great too but she’s a little strange.” She pauses. “Er, don’t tell her I said that.”

“I won’t.” I crack a smile. “But why? How… ” I didn’t even know where to start with my millions of questions.

Mom chews at her lip. “I didn’t have to deal with bullies and social media and all that the way you do. But I remember how difficult everything was growing up. And how family was one of the only things that got me through it. There is power in being a Dalton woman.”

She puts down the tomatoes and starts dicing the onions. I’m sure that’s to blame for the stinging behind my eyes. Gotta be.

She continues. “I figured you just needed a bit of a push. I’d hoped our ancestors would be able to do that for you. The same way they had helped me when I was your age. Did they?”

I toy with my new locket. “They did.” They pushed me right out of my comfort zone. And reminded me that they’ll catch me if I fall. “I met some new people today.”

Mom squeals so loud I wince. “You did? That’s wonderful!”

“Okay, okay,” I try not to laugh. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Well, I’m glad. Now go on and change out of those clothes so you can help me with this food. I’m not chopping all these vegetables myself!”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, the laughter escaping this time.

When I get to my room, the smell of Mom’s stew has already started to waft through the house. I breathe in deeply, letting the warmth of it fill me. I change fast, into something that I don’t mind getting messy in the kitchen. I grab an old shirt and a pair of shorts that are already covered in paint splatters. Perfect.

The locket comes off next and gets tucked safely away in the jewelry box. Before I let it go, I let my thumb graze the raised “D” and feel its power flow through me. As I look back up into the mirror, a sea of faces stare back at me. Dozens of women and girls of all ages stand behind me. Dozens of smiles. Dozens of dimples.

The Dalton women.