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“What decision?” He asked with growing irritation, showing no enthusiasm for continuing the conversation. His mother’s habit of speaking in riddles occasionally got on his nerves, and apparently, today’s conversation wasn’t going to be an exception.
“Lately, Eric’s been behaving, to put it mildly, poorly,” Mrs. Renton began quietly. The way she pronounced his best friend’s name made Jack once again look into his mother’s eyes. This time, her gaze was very sharp and attentive.
“What we embarked on twenty-three years ago was a deviation from the rules of the order. A very serious deviation, as you well know. Every month, sometimes even every week, Alex would send us detailed reports,” she continued.
“People need something to do in retirement,” Jack muttered sarcastically.
“Don’t interrupt me, Jack! As his illness progressed, he sent them less and less frequently, and you know that very well too. In one of his last letters, he promised that Eric would take over from him now.”
Jack lowered his gaze and started studying a piece of old gum dropped by some past student and treaded on a thousand times since by more student feet. He knew where his mother was heading with this, and he didn’t like it. More precisely, he didn't like it at all.
“After Alex’s death, we received only a few incomprehensible scribbles from Eric. Written in completely different handwriting, with all sorts of emoji is and other nonsense,” Mrs. Renton stared intently at her son. “Can you explain that?
And get off the table! What a bad habit!” she scolded her son, clutching her heart meaningfully once again.
“Explain what? The few or the incomprehensible?” Jack asked, still not looking up from the floor, struggling contain his emotions.
“Stop it, Jack, you know what I mean.”
“I think it’s not as bad as you, madam, think. He’s just… finding it difficult to keep an eye on someone who lives under the same roof as him, and that someone happens to be his sister,” Jack whispered the last word almost to himself, thinking,
“I could even bet on who’s keeping an eye on whom there.”
“It’s like me starting to monitor every step of my cat! Sooner or later, he’ll notice and retaliate by ruining all my plantings or peeing everywhere! And if you’re concerned, you could go check it out yourselves. They’re friends, after all,”
Jack looked at his mother again with reproach and once again struggled to suppress a smile. The woman clearly didn’t expect such a retort from her son and froze, her mouth slightly open in confusion. “And don’t blame Eric. He’s depressed… he’s going through a lot."
“Plantings, you say, he’ll ruin? Mess up everything around?” Jack, I’m not arguing, Eric’s a good guy, but this… what’s her name…” Mrs. Renton paused, trying to recall.
“Sarah.”
“Yes, Sarah. He’s become irresponsible! We can’t rely on him anymore,” Mrs.
Renton exclaimed with concern and unmistakable worry in her voice.
Jack swallowed loudly, looking away from the floor where he was now inspecting a curious dark spot, and met his mother’s gaze, as green as his own.
“And what do you want me to do about it? Should I personally check all his scribbles before sending them to you? Make corrections?”
Mrs. Renton turned to the teacher’s desk and casually remarked, “Now you’ll keep an eye on Sabrina.”
“How do you imagine that ?” Jack growled, slamming his hand on the table, where he still sat, despite his mother’s accusatory and meaningful glances. “Have you lost your mind or what?”
“Starting today,” Mrs. Renton said calmly, ignoring her son’s wave of anger.
“No way! That girl has been aching to tear my throat out! Since childhood!”
“So there’s a reason for that. Since childhood till now,” Mrs. Renton retorted, rising on her tiptoes to water the flowers spaced unevenly on the windowsill and hanging shelves.
Jack nervously ran his hand through his hair, took a deep breath, and put on his most pleading expression.
“Mom…”
“Jack.”
“She hates me!”
“So, make her change her mind about you.”
“Mom…”
“Not up for discussion. And get Eric out of his binge, or he’ll mess things up again and won’t even remember. Report back in a week.”
“About Eric?” Jack asked, resigned.
“About both!” Mrs. Renton replied dismissively, and gracefully spun around on her heels to prepare reagents and concentrates for the upcoming lesson.
There was a timid knock on the door, making Jack jump off the table and briskly walk out of the classroom, slamming the door right in a bewildered student’s face.
Outside, after a few deep breaths, he reached into his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes and lit up. All around him, the students were scampering like rats, trying to dodge the falling raindrops. A moment later, he tossed the untouched cigarette away and trudged towards building ‘B’ .
“Well, what mess have you gotten yourself into now, buddy? I guess I should thank my grandpa for adopting a one-year-old son of one of the guardians of the
‘Guardian’ Order, who had died tragically on a mission twenty-three years ago, and then adopting a newborn girl and naming her Sabrina and giving her his own surname – Venters. Oh, I forgot to mention that this girl, by an accidental turn of events, turned out to be a descendant of one of the oldest French families, whose women have been known for centuries as witches and some of whom have been living in New York since the nineteenth century. Apart from their good looks, these generational witches are known to be endowed with peculiar and inexplicable talents, inexplicable in the eyes of an ordinary person, that is.
For many centuries, the ‘Guardian’ Order has been monitoring the De Manshand lineage, collecting bits and pieces of the history of this unusual family, and often intervening in their affairs to avoid various troubles and tragedies. So it had been until Michelle, Sabrina’s mother, ran away with her newborn girl upon learning what fate Marie had had in store for the baby. This Marie was that very girl’s grandmother. And that’s when grandpa just couldn’t help himself. That’s when he outdid everyone in the order. I mean those who had ever meddled in the history of this ill-fated family and made their so-called ‘corrections’. He had offered Michelle his help. And she had gladly accepted it. They had first smuggled the newborn girl to the order’s secret hideout in New York City, and then grandpa had secretly taken her to Liverpool…
As for Michelle herself, she had returned home. She had wanted to put an end to the complicated De Manshand story. No one has seen her since.
Meanwhile, the girl grew up beautifully in the Venters family, which consisted of my grandfather and, as she believed, her twin brother Eric. I’ve played the role
of Eric’s best friend, who, aged ten, had moved with his parents from Liverpool to the beautiful city of New Orleans, Louisiana, USA. That’s where my relentless mother and passively-active father had followed their “old friend,” and incidentally, my biological grandfather, Alex Venters, and his newly acquired relatives.They had settled in a small but respectable-looking house near the Garden District, where they had lived until… Until Grandpa passed away. That was a year and a half ago now and was a devastating blow to our entire family. Especially to Sabrina. But Eric didn’t disappoint either! He began drinking so much that it was hard to tell whether his blue eyes were naturally blue or just from what he was drinking. And then he got involved with a quirky girl named Sarah. She was a
“free-spirited artist” or something like that. What kind of paintings did she make?
No one knew. The situation worsened with each passing day. They started drinking together, while Sabrina, once tall and sun-kissed, began to resemble a hunched coat hanger draped with a worn-out t-shirt.
Sabrina persistently called me, berating me for ignoring my friend and letting him ruin his life. I felt powerless because Eric never listened to me, it was hard watching Sabrina cry, huddled in a kitchen corner. Eventually, when my patience ran out, I grabbed Eric by the collar and literally dragged him into our family therapist’s office; the therapist also happened to be my father. After a long and, in my opinion, overly intellectual talk, Eric’s common sense returned, but he didn't change his habits. He did substantially reduce his drinking though. But cutting back on alcohol led to a side effect. Eric’s mood soured and he started arguing with Sabrina more, resulting in her calling me more often to vent. I should remind you that Sabrina and I had never particularly liked each other. I had snapped at Eric a couple of times, and at his girlfriend, as she was going through yet another
“creative crisis”, thus becoming his worst enemy for a whole five days until…On Saturday, August 28th, at eleven o’clock in the evening, my cellphone rang, and in response to my “Hello” I heard drunken, incomprehensible muttering. All I could get from that strange monologue was that Eric had been in some bar on Bourbon Street feeling very, very bad and sad. He had quarreled with Sarah and decided to drown his sorrows in some old-fashioned “Blackened Voodoo.” Business as usual.
I envisioned Sabrina’s furious face on seeing her brother arrive home, accompanied by the usual noise he couldn’t do without. And… I had no choice but to rush to the rescue of my degrading friend. I found him in one of the bars on Bourbon Street. I was incredibly lucky because Eric was practically conscious.
Drunk as a skunk, but conscious. Some hippie chick hung Mardi Gras beads around his neck and adorned his left ear with a hot pink artificial flower. Eric struggled to lift his head when I approached him and even managed a feeble smile.
“Life sucks,” he declared, breathing out eyes-burning boozy fumes. I dragged him towards the exit amidst the fitting, mournful sounds of the music playing from the speakers.
All the way to his house, I prayed to God for only two things. First, that he wouldn't puke in my car. Second, that Sabrina would be at work. She worked as a bartender in the French Quarter, and I vaguely remembered her complaints about having twice as much work during tourist rushes. As a last resort, I wished for her to be fast asleep, so we wouldn't have to engage in another endless verbal battle, the end of which was neither seen nor foreseen. This beautiful girl didn’t dislike me. She hated me! But why? Since I couldn’t find an answer to that question, I tried to reciprocate her feelings, but it didn’t work well. In fact, it didn’t work at all. According to her, I was something of a Satan’s aide sent down to earth to poison her brother’s life, and hers too. The problem was doubled by the fact that her brother held a completely opposite view and saw me as his savior.
As we approached the Garden District, I noticed Eric suddenly open his eyes wide in horror and press his fingers to his lips. It was a sure sign that he urgently needed fresh air. I dropped him off near the house to avoid ruining the interior of my beloved and still brand-new car and drove off to make a u-turn. While I was parking, that idiot not only entered the house, but also did it with such a racket that it could be heard even outside. I instantly froze. Silence. No screams, no shouts, no preaching. A promising start! So, our little fairy hadn’t returned from work yet. I needed to get this drunken creature as far away from her as possible, into his bedroom, and retreat before her return.
Meanwhile, the events that followed, I believe, you can recall well. She was at home… ”
Jack pulled out a fresh pack of cigarettes and lit up again.
Only now did it begin to dawn on him that there was something strange about her behavior back in the kitchen. She didn’t lash out at him as usual, didn’t hurl insults, and almost silently took the keys when he was helping Eric “make it” to his room. He recalled how she just stood there, staring wearily out the window with empty eyes. So fragile and petite, so pale and pensive, and… so vulnerable.
Her long, dark hair fell in tangled locks over her slender, slouched shoulders. And when she turned to look at Jack, there was so much unsaid pain in her huge blue eyes… It wasn’t just fatigue. All the sadness she had experienced after her grandfather’s death was reflected in that gaze. What he read in her eyes triggered Jack. He, too, was mourning heavily for the old Venters. He was his biological grandfather; something Sabrina, of course, didn’t know. And Jack didn’t dream of her ever finding out the whole truth.
And now, his mother, his own mother, not just asking, but commanding him to
“keep an eye” on this girl. Of course, the order came from her superiors, and he simply couldn’t disobey it. Not only did his own financial well-being depend on it, but also his entire future life. However, Jack had always been uncomfortable with the way the Order manipulated the fate of another person, even if it was for their
benefit. Being a member of the Order meant that he would be involved in this lie from the very day he was born.
But beneath the command to watch over Sabrina, he felt there was something else… He had also to monitor the development of her supernatural abilities, and that in itself presented significant problems.
Perhaps, thanks to her upbringing more than anything else, at the age of twenty-three, Sabrina showed no signs of any supernatural talent or even hints of its presence. So unlike all her predecessors, or rather relatives, who had “showed character” from an early age. Jack, on the other hand, had his own theory on this matter, summed up in just one word – mediocrity.
It seemed to him that although she certainly possessed certain abilities, even superhuman abilities, she was only ever going to exert them to annoy or provoke him.Was he some sort of catalyst for her darker side? Jack shook his head, trying to dismiss these controversial thoughts, and made his way towards Building ‘B’.
He entered with a heavy sigh and headed for the auditorium door adorned with a name-plaque announcing that Mrs. Preston, Head of the Literature Department, could be found here. Excellent, there would be time to catch some sleep and maybe even have a dream or two. Jack settled into the darkest corner of the auditorium, hoping no one would notice his presence.
“Mr. Cornell!” Mrs. Preston chirped in her soft, high voice, her plump cheeks immediately flushing crimson.
“Yes, Mrs. Preston?” Jack bestowed upon the teacher one of his most charming smiles and looked intently into Mrs. Preston’s brown eyes. The plump woman instantly blushed, and dimples appeared on her cheeks.
“Mr. Cornell, I hope you haven’t forgotten to prepare for today’s class?” the woman asked, turning back to the blackboard to avoid his gaze.
“Of course not, Mrs. Preston. ‘To Kill a Mockingbird,’ I’ve read the book cover to cover and I must admit, I’m very intrigued. Such an interesting and captivating plot, and most importantly, with such deep meaning.”
Jack flashed his trademark smile. The only thing he took away from the book while “preparing” for today’s literature class was the title and the author’s name.
Mrs. Preston nodded approvingly and began to sort through the essays, lying in a crumpled stack on her desk. Excellent. Literature for today was over. Mrs. Preston, as always, wouldn’t ask him anything else, at least not today. So, he could relax and doze off. The bell rang, signaling an hour and a half of aimless dozing and
tangled thoughts… Everyone took their seats, and Jack closed his eyes, beginning his self-analysis.
Chapter 3
Jack Elliot Cornell – that's me So, what do we have here?
My name is Jack Elliot Cornell. I’m twenty-four years old. I am a member of the ancient Order called “The Guardians,” to which my dear parents had assigned me long before I came into existence. Oh yes, I forgot, my parents are also part of this order, as are all my few relatives.
I have a crazy little family. A strange, far-beyond-the-norm job and even our own greenhouse, or is it a house after all? My secret refuge and my pride. It used to be something like a greenhouse, meticulously erected over an indefinite period of time by my unstoppable mother. She conducted her experiments there, growing strange hybrids from equally mysterious plants. This went on until I hit puberty and started rebelling. That was exactly ten years ago now. That’s when I declared my intention to leave home and live alone. Mom threw a terrible tantrum and said I could do whatever I wanted as long as I didn’t drive her to seizures with my comebacks and departures. That’s when I got my first earring. Then I ran away, more than once. But the terrible, omnipresent “Guardians” would always find me and bring me back to the family nest. In the end, when my father got tired of my endless antics and my mother's constant tantrums, he called me to his office…
“Jack Elliot Cornell! I hate to say this, but I have to. I’ve had enough of you!” he thundered. “Or to be more precise, of your stupid childish antics !”
My father was pacing the office as he talked, wearing a facial expression of impeding trouble typically reserved for dealing with the employees of the so-called
“construction company” he managed. It was clear he was making every conceivable and inconceivable effort not to give me the magical ‘boot’. I just stared at him from under lowered brows. My right eye was bruised because a couple of days ago, I had got into a fight with my best friend Eric over who could jump furthest off a rope swung into the Mississippi. At the time, it seemed an incredibly cool activity.
“So, my useless son. We’ve decided that it will do you good… to live separately.”
My heart skipped a beat, and I wondered if I would be able catch it if it accidentally jumped out of my chest. Finally! I've achieved my goal! Just a little more, and I’ll be free! I held my breath and stared at my fuming father.
“You’re already sixteen, old enough to be responsible for your actions,” he thundered, and judging by the sound of his voice, there was a storm brewing ahead.
“We’ve decided to send you to Jacksonville,” my father said briskly, staring at me expectantly. And me… I felt sick. I don’t have anything against Florida, and I could easily adapt there, knowing that someone from the order would always be nearby. But the fact that I would have to part with my friends and with Grandpa, who, strangely enough, had always supported me, was a nasty reality check.
“Anything but Florida,” I whispered, looking pleadingly at my father, who raised an eyebrow in disbelief.
“If possible, I would like to stay in New Orleans, or at least in its suburbs,” my father still looked suspiciously at me.
“I want to live here,” Florida definitely wasn’t fitting into my plans, and I stood my ground.
“I’m not going to cater to your whims,” my father snapped.
“And Mom?” I exclaimed in anger.
“What? What’s this about? What are you talking about?” My father looked at me in bewilderment.
“You built her that greenhouse! Or whatever you built for her to ‘develop her gardening talent ’… as you put it,” I looked at my father, and my right eye, which was starting to swell, twitched painfully. I knew my father didn’t approve of Mom’s “gardening hobby”, as he called it. And I often had to witness them argue over this.
My father was one of the Order’s most valuable researchers of a phenomenon known as “poltergeist”, and he was highly respected for it. And he, in turn, wanted his wife to spend more time with him, trying to find the causes of the poltergeist from a biological or any other point of view. Instead of wasting time on incomprehensible plants, which she managed to successfully grow wherever she found a spot of land.
Father kept boring into me until a smile lit up his face, one that was promising nothing good.
“Excellent! It seems I’ve just found the solution to all our problems,” he said thoughtfully and, grabbing me by the collar, dragged me out of the stuffy office.
“No! I absolutely oppose this!” my mother screamed in horror, clutching her head when my father informed her that he was going to convert her greenhouse into my new home.
After two weeks of emotional torment, turmoil, and excruciating anguish, she agreed.
Out of respect for my mother’s feelings and her weeds, I asked my father to keep the greenhouse in its place and instead build a small extension out of the back wall.
So now, to get to my living room, you have to navigate through my personal mini jungle. And over time, I learned to understand biology myself and now grow my own “weeds”. As for my mother, she found solace in teaching chemistry and biology at the University of New Orleans, where she was invited to work immediately after my father’s “construction company” had signed a contract with the university to build and fully equip a new laboratory in building ‘A’, naturally at the company’s expense.
As for me, after finishing high school, I enrolled in the Department of Psychology at the University of New Orleans. But due to my parents’ constant complaints that I at any cost, should remain near our witch, I was transferred to the Department of Language and Literature a year later. Nobody had consulted me on this, of course. When I, in a fit of rage, burst into my father’s downtown office to express my thoughts on this matter, he, flashing a self-satisfied smile, handed me car keys. My car keys! A latest model, brand-new black Chevrolet Camaro. A gift from the Order as a token of appreciation for my “sacrifice”. I, like anyone else in my shoes, took the keys and instantly became the most ardent fan of literature. It wasn’t difficult, I had always enjoyed reading.
I remember how proudly Grandpa looked at me when I first pulled up at his house in the new luxurious car, to give Eric and this little devil a ride to the university.
My friend whistled, only managing one simple yet succinct remark.
“Well, well, well!”
Grandpa chuckled and turned to Eric.
“Good work is always appreciated, isn’t it, Jack?” he said, more with his eyes, and gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder.
