Exodia by Debra Chapoton

assessment.
    Deandra takes her twin’s hand and
squeezes. She begins to rattle off my secrets and I nod in polite
agreement to every one of her pronouncements. “I guess you’ll be
here a while.” Her mother says that’s fine under her breath.
Deandra continues, “You’re running away. You have done something
bad that some people think is good.” Her father nods as if he
understands. “You have stolen something.” She pauses and though I
feel really exposed I’m not ashamed. Not yet. My hands grow sweaty
and I wipe them on my thighs, thinking that she might guess I’m a
murderer.
    The electric tap of Kassandra’s toe on
mine sends a jolt to my usually mute lips. I say, “Pretty good,
Deandra. You’ve stolen, too. You’ve read your sisters’ diaries.
You’ve taken money from a widow and food from a friend and passed
your blame onto someone else.” Another tap and I know. “You let
Flor take your punishment.”
    Clearly I’ve upset the whole group. I
have no idea how I could let myself speak so brashly, insult my
hosts, and embarrass myself.
    “ Wonderful,” Mr. Luna says.
“It’s been a while since we’ve heard someone match Deandra’s
histories. She has an amazing talent to read the past and future,
but you seem to have an equal aptitude.”
    “ It’s nothing,” I say and
pull my feet back under my chair. They’ll think I’m a gemfry, too,
with a gift similar to Deandra’s. But I’d rather have Kassandra’s
ability, only in reverse. Instead of giving information I’d want to
touch someone and know their every thought.
    Deandra narrows her eyes at me and
makes a final guess. “I think Dalton Battista is more interested in
our oldest sister.”
    Sana quickly chimes in, “More
interested–red enemies trot.” She holds her hand up for us to wait
and adds, “Rioter meets end.”
    Abruptly Mr. Luna stands. “Come with
me, Dalton” he says. “We need to talk.”
    Sana mumbles to herself, “Witch let
doom, amen. Walked to teen.”
    I have a creepy feeling, but I rise and
follow Mr. Luna outside, leaving the girls, and my bags,
behind.
    * * *
    The moon has yet to take charge of the
night, but the stars provide sufficient light. Raul Luna is a
star-reader. He tells me this with his hand stretched upward,
pointing to the handle of my favorite constellation, a
constellation that my nanny had a hundred stories to
explain.
    “ It’s not astronomy or
astrology,” he says. “Star-reading is undefined, no manual to learn
it, no group to affiliate myself with, no way for me to teach it to
my daughters.” He lowers his hand, moves to my side, and pats me on
the back. He reaches up to do so since he is not a tall man.
There’s comfort in the patting. I imagine it to be a father’s
gesture. His hand remains at rest on my shoulder. It doesn’t match
the obligatory false affection my grandfather has shown me in
public, hard quick open-handed gestures designed to mimic
tenderness and caring. This is warm and real, a truly unconscious
move on his part. Mr. Luna could ask me to clean the sheep’s pen
right now and I’d run to do it, not as payment for the fine dinner
and hospitality, but as gratitude for this paternal act.
    Raul explains his view of
the religious oppression that decades ago resulted in the burning
of Bibles and the smashing and ripping of ancient scrolls. His
voice lulls me in the same way my tutors’ lectures did. I catch one
strange phrase: he says, “… many shattering Torahs …”, and the
letters float before my eyes, reforming into thorns against my heart .
    Thorns against my
heart. I have a déjà vu feeling, more of a
sorrowful premonition, of a tender father-son moment. Of myself
with a son of my own. The troubling moment passes and I realize
it’s been a few minutes since he’s spoken.
    “ So … are you a gemfry,
too?” I ask. I’m setting myself up for mortification if my question
is impolitely out of line here, but I note the corners of his mouth
lifting in