Chapter Five

                Nicolle read the email again. Then a third time. A fourth. A fifth. Unable to catch her breath, she stood and walked across the room, her hands in her hair; twenty-one seconds passed, twenty-one crazed moments, before she was at her computer desk again, reading the email for a sixth time, then a seventh…

            Like with the arrival of her black eyes, Nicolle’s mind began to formulate theory after theory as to how this could happen. Wrong email address, mistaken identity, hoax, momentarily dreaming…and yet none of them made sense. And the Chess Club?! Nicolle’s heart flipped; awakening with black eyes was more likely than her ever receiving an email from the Chess Club. An email bursting at the seams with unspeakable enthusiasm.

            And Artist of the Black… what was that, exactly? Nicolle understood that apparently she was an Artist of the Black. The title was esoteric, important; the main thing was that her black eyes had a title at all. She had once believed she was all alone, that her overnight iris transformation had been unique. But it seemed now that someone had traversed these confusing, terrifying waters before, enough at least to name the thing.

            And how had the Chess Club found out that her eyes were black?! Perhaps most perplexing of all: why was the Chess Club involved in the first place? They were just one of many clubs at her school, a group of ten or so students that got together to play chess from time to time, no different from the agricultural sciences kids, or that math club… right?

            Timmy’s words echoed in her mind: I don’t think they’re even playing chess, if you ask me.

            The Chess Club had always been secretive, reclusive even; conspiracy theories regarding their activities had been playfully tossed around for some time. For the first time in her life she began to doubt that they were players of chess; what they were exactly was an entirely different question.

            You have questions. We have your answers.

            The email had just been sent. Whoever was on the other side -- someone named Vee -- was perhaps still online. Nicolle, unable to keep her hands still, clicked on the button to reply and scavenged her mind for something to say.

           

            From: [email protected] 

            Date: Thursday, February 7 8:56 pm

            To: [email protected]

            Subject: (none)

 

            Who are you? How do you know all this? WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME PLEASE TELL ME.

 

            Nicolle hit the Send button and waited, breathing rapidly and biting her bottom lip. The reply came within two minutes, but not through email. An IM window appeared on her Facebook; a subconscious part of Nicolle’s mind expected it to be Timmy, the only person who spoke to her using IM, but the URL was not lordnemesisofthedeep, but QRSTUVee.

           

            QRSTUVee: Nicolle Darling?

           

            Nicolle’s heart raced. She quickly typed a reply. 

        

            Salem4: Who are you?

            QRSTUVee: My name is Vee. I can’t say much at the time... you’re not in the Club, so a lot has to be kept secret... but I will say it’s interesting to finally talk to an Artist of the Black : )

            Salem4: What IS an Artist of the Black? And do we know each other??

           

            The screen was blank for a moment, then it read QRSTUVee is typing. Nicolle waited impatiently for a reply, thirsty for answers. Who was Vee? She had essentially confirmed that the Chess Club was keeping secrets from everyone… can’t say much at the time, you’re not in the Club…

            Nicolle’s cell phone began to vibrate on her bed. Her reflex was to ignore it, expecting it to be Timmy, but… what if? What if it was actually Vee? Nicolle didn’t know how this Vee had gotten her email address, but if she could attain that she surely could get her phone number. She leapt from her chair and snatched up the phone…

            The caller ID read TIMMY STOKER. Without a second thought the phone dropped back to the bed and Nicolle raced to the computer to see if Vee had replied. She (or he…?) had.

 

            QRSTUVee: I don’t know if you know me, but I know you, or know OF you at least. And as for Artist of the Black… every Artist is different, so I may be a bit off here, but… have you sensed a presence nearby you sometimes, the presence of one already gone? Or have you perhaps made someone you touched sick? Have you maybe foreseen the death of someone? Artists of the Black can do these things.

 

            Nicolle's mouth dropped open; Vee knew what she was talking about. But… foresee the death of someone? That had never happened, and she hoped it never would. She typed out a reply, her heart drumming her chest.

 

            Salem4: Yes… I’ve done some of that stuff. Can you do those things, too??? Are you an Artist of the Black?!

 

            QRSTUVee is typing. Then:

 

            QRSTUVee: No, I can do none of those things…

            QRSTUVee: I have to be careful with what I say… I don’t want to tell too much.

            Salem4: Please if you can tell me anything please do.

            QRSTUVee: By the book I’m not really supposed to divulge anything yet, but I’m anxious to tell you the truth. Can you come to Room 44 at school tomorrow? Around 8:30?

            Salem4: I would like to but I have class then, and I’ve missed so much lately. If I miss more I’ll get into even more trouble. I will if I have to, but can we maybe meet before school…?

            QRSTUVee: It would help to know that everyone was busy with class when we were meeting. We will arrange for you to be officially excused from class, though, so no worries. Can you be there?

 

            Arrange to be excused from class…? What kind of authority did the Chess Club really have? Nicolle typed yes, hesitated… then:

 

            Salem4: Yes. I can come.

            QRSTUVee: Excellent : ) We’ll see you at 8:30 then… don’t forget your sunglasses ; )

 

            And with that a message appeared on the screen that read QRSTUVee has logged off, and Vee was gone. 

 

            When earlier Nicolle had reached pages ninety-seven through one-hundred of her school annual she had skipped them; never having taken part in a student organization before had left her indifferent to seeing the Students for Science picture, and most certainly she didn’t care for the Cheerleading is a Sport, Too campaign. But the hour was different, and late into the night Nicolle was sitting at her computer desk, peering at page ninety-eight by the light of her monitor.

            You couldn’t see their eyes. Each and every iris was covered by aviators, or click ons, or FBI-esque shades; some of the Chess Club smiled, others did not. Like the other clubs listed, the Chess Club had a write-up, but the paragraph was small:

 

            Maple Hill’s chess club celebrated its third anniversary this year by taking home the gold at regional championships. Vivian van Valen placed first, cashing in a $100 check for her victory.

 

            The girl Nicolle had seen at school -- the red-head who had spoken up during class when Nicolle was freaking out -- was holding a small trophy, an explosive grin on her face. The other members of the Chess Club looked on with professional nonchalance.

            At 8:30 a.m. Nicolle was expected in the designated meeting room for the Chess Club, Room 44. It was 10:00 p.m.… in roughly ten hours she would be there. Or would she? Nicolle couldn’t deny her fear; fear for normal reasons, yes, but also fear from social inability, from a crushing shyness. The Chess Club was seen as mysterious by the student body, and mysterious was sexy, attractive, interesting. Nicolle couldn’t lay claim to a single one of those adjectives… she had a feeling she was walking into a humiliating event.

            Elijah Beaumont (Blue Hawaii oddly absent) was also in the photograph. Nicolle had once seen a body language expert on TV say that wherever a person’s feet are pointing is where their attention lies. If that was true then Elijah Beaumont’s attention was clearly elsewhere; his entire body was facing away from the camera, waves of ominous manliness emanating from his rugged, gorgeous self, his shaded eyes looking away. Would he be in Room 44 at 8:30? 

            From the trophy in the photo the Chess Club apparently did play some chess (or at least this Vivian van Valen did) but Nicolle doubted they played much. She wondered what they spent their time doing in secret, and also why it had to be kept secret at all; as far as she could remember she had never been inside Room 44; it remained locked. A zealot of a seventh grader once claimed he’d seen lizard men through the window on the door but no one took him seriously. Having seen dead people, Nicolle wondered if maybe the kid had a point.

            The cell phone on the bed began to buzz; Nicolle walked over to it and picked it up. When she saw that it was Timmy yet again she put her thumb on the red button… and stopped. Sooner or later she would have to answer the phone. She already knew what was going to be said… I’m feeling fine… still black as night, yup… no, it’s okay, stay where you are… but what about her most recent news? Her impulse was to not tell him, but he would find out in the morning regardless… she remembered Timmy saying days ago in the lunchroom that he had applied for membership and had been denied despite his skill at chess; what would he say when Nicolle told him she had been offered membership (or so it seemed) when she had no clue how to play chess?

            Thumb now on the green button, she pushed it and put the phone to her ear.

            “Hello?”

            “Nicolle?!” It was as if she’d been lost at sea, found at last. “I was starting to wonder if you were dead!”

            “Sorry to make you worry,” Nicolle said, and she was. He was annoyance incarnate but she still didn’t want him in distress over her. After all, it was over her, and it was nice someone cared. She’d likely regret that sentiment the next time he recited original poetry to her in public or encouraged another rumor that they were involved. “I’m fine.”

            “My mental abilities were down all day, imagining you off dead somewhere,” he said, but not bitterly; she was no longer at sea so all was good. “Eyes still black, I presume.”

            “Still black as night.”

            “And… that’s all? Nothing hurts?”

            “No, nothing hurts.”

            He paused. “Well… maybe it’s nothing at all. It looks kinda cool. Maybe if nothing hurts it’s not something to be worried about. You should still get a professional opinion, though.”

            “I will, probably.” She wouldn't.

            Another pause. “I was so mad earlier today. Glad you weren’t there to see it, it was probably kind of frightening.” Problay kind o’ frightnin. That forced British accent drove Nicolle crazy. “Clay was making fun of my bookmark.”

            “Really…? Don’t let it bother you,” she said, looking over the Chess Club’s school photo again, hardly listening.

            “My mom made me that, he’d better be thankful I didn’t tell Mrs. Jeffords.” Another pause.  “Are you coming to school tomorrow? It’ll be nice to have you back.”

            Nicolle cleared her throat. Better sooner than later. “Yeah… but… I won’t be attending first period.”

            “Why, what’s happening then?”

            “Well, tonight I got an email… I wasn’t really expecting it… but, uh… yeah, I’ve been invited to the meeting room of one of the school’s clubs tomorrow. I think they want to talk to me.”

            This pause was the longest… a pause that Nicolle didn’t feel was thoughtful but instead taken aback.

            “Talk to you?” He said, his fake accent gone. “About what? Why?”

            “Not entirely sure… I think maybe they want to talk membership, maybe.”

            “I’d ignore it,” he said, and then silence. Nicolle didn’t know what to say. The tone in Timmy’s voice wasn’t foreign to her; not only had she heard it from him on uncommon occasions, but she used to hear it from her father to her mother all the time. It was the tone of a territorial male. Timmy didn’t want Nicolle to find other friends.

            “Well, what if--?”

            “I mean, give me a break,” he started up again, his volume rising slightly. “The people in those clubs are often losers anyway. You’re much too bright for that. I mean… all those clubs do is distract you from school work, anyway.”

            Nicolle didn’t say anything. She wasn’t sure how to continue; she didn’t really want to. “I, um…”

            “What club is it?” Timmy asked. Then, like a child: “Probably some lame club with nerds looking to hook up with girls.”

            Nicolle cleared her throat again, her voice just above a whisper. “The Chess Club.”

            The silence on the other end was thunderstruck, a blow of shock so profound she could practically see Timmy’s eyes widen and his mouth drop open.

            “I’m not really sure what they want...” Nicolle said. “I got the email… Timmy?”

            The connection was dead. Sometimes her old phone lost service way out in the middle of nowhere as she was, but her service bars were strong. The call hadn’t been dropped; Timmy had hung up on her.

 

            Sleep barely came to Nicolle; though she hadn’t experienced a genuine Christmas in some time she imagined going to sleep on Christmas Eve was a similar feeling to her night, lying in bed too awake with anxiety to nod off. She kept her computer on with the volume of her speakers turned wide open; she didn’t want to miss a single bing if QRSTUVee attempted to contact her again. Instead, all she got was Timmy; his phone calls had been ignored, so he tried Facebook. After ten or eleven bings loud enough to down an airplane (but not to wake Sylvia, mother-extraordinaire, medicated into oblivion) Nicolle regretfully turned it off.

            Timmy wasn’t on her mind upon awakening, however. Vee’s words were echoing in her head within the first second of consciousness, bringing Nicolle’s knotted stomach into her throat before she had even climbed out of bed.

            Nicolle had taken the time to lay out her clothes the night before, even ironing them the best she could; she didn’t expect to look amazing today, but she was determined to look better than usual. Her alarm was set a full thirty minutes earlier, giving her time to work her hair into something hopefully presentable. She doubted Elijah would be there, but maybe. Even still, she was going to be in the presence of the Chess Club, the most revered society in school. She didn’t want to look like she’d crawled from a cave.

            Nicolle dressed quickly, dueled her curls to a draw, and ignored the permanently vibrating phone. At last she stood back from the mirror, breathed a few terrified breaths, and smiled unconvincingly at herself before dropping it. Her gaze moved over to her black eyes.

            Artist of the Black. Today -- no, in little over an hour -- she would learn what that meant. And could they tell her why she was seeing Adam…? Would she see Adam. She was scared of the thought, but she kind of hoped she would. She picked up the sunglasses from the vanity and put them on before walking out.

            No one was up yet; she exited without a problem, stepping from her home into the cold morning air. The dawn was glorious, golden light permeating the atmosphere, pink clouds high in the sky; fitting for a portrait.

            Today was a new day. No. Not a new day.

            “The beginning of an era,” she actually said out loud to no one but herself. It sounded both corny and beautiful. Shaking from chill and optimistic unease, Nicolle left her house with more hope than she’d had in over ten years.

           

            He was waiting for her in the parking lot. Nicolle wasn’t surprised. His expression was morose and sullen; his hands were stuffed in his jacket pockets, just a slight step above a child’s angry crossed arms. Nicolle made a point to not stare as she drove up, parking a shade farther from him than usual. She took her time getting out of her car, adjusting the seat, smoothing wrinkles on her blouse; when her car door opened he slowly began towards her, rounding her car, his hair a mess from the wind.

            Nicolle didn’t look directly at him once she was out, but he was staring right at her.

            “Nicolle...” His voice wasn’t pleading, but it was uncomfortably close. “Don’t do it.”

            “I don’t see why not,” Nicolle said, looking away from him.

            “Don’t be stupid,” he said; frustration replaced pouting. “You don’t want to be one of those elitists, do you? They walk around like they’re better than everybody else, wearing sunglasses,” he gestured to the pair Nicolle wore, “and… and…”

            Nicolle knew this was more than just him not wanting her to find friends other than him; he simply didn’t like the Chess Club. She recalled the way he had looked at them in the lunchroom that day, as if they were the cause of all his problems.

            “I don’t even know if I’m joining,” Nicolle said. “They might not even want me.”

            “I don’t see why you would even want them,” he spat.

            “I’m just responding to an email, Timmy,” Nicolle said, her voice raising. In truth, this was more than just responding to an email, but he didn’t have to know. He was already acting as if she were cheating on him.

            “You can’t go,” he commanded; his voice wavered.

            Nicolle finally turned to look at him; the expression on her face was too much for him, and he averted his eyes.

            “Oh, I can't?” She said. “Watch and see.”

            Nicolle turned and began for the school. She heard him coming after her.

            “Nicolle, please,” he said, his voice pitiful again.

            But Nicolle walked onward without speaking. Finally, perhaps too winded to keep up, Timmy stopped following her. She wouldn’t be surprised if he first cried from sadness, and then, more intensely, cried from anger.

 

            Nicolle vomited into the toilet; her knees ached from the hard bathroom floors. She was spared the humiliation of her nervous puking being a spectator sport -- the restroom was free of students and the deceased alike -- but she felt ashamed regardless. Suddenly her attempt to look pretty that morning seemed like a sad thing, a waste of time.

            It was 8:10… twenty minutes until it happened. It was her natural way to think over the many possibilities of what may happen, but this morning she fought that habit with all her strength lest she go absolutely mad. Her head throbbed; her hands quivered as she pushed her sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose.

            “Inhale,” Nicolle commanded, and did. “Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.”

            The minutes passed slowly and painfully. Students came and went, some talking, some laughing, one even crying. Nicolle’s shaking did not subside but instead accelerated; she vomited no more, thankfully, but her stomach twisted still. Her entire life she had sustained herself on the possibility, however remote, that she wouldn’t always be unimportant, that she could be part of something. At last there was a chance of that -- or she thought there was, she wasn’t sure what awaited her in Room 44 -- and instead of marching forward with strength she trembled in solitude.

            She checked her cell phone, her heart rising: 8:22.

            She sat for a moment, to gather courage. Then, taking a deep breath, she stood and opened the stall. No one was in the restroom with her; by now everyone was in first period. And… perhaps… Vee now awaited Nicolle in Room 44.

            Nicolle rinsed out her mouth with water from the faucet, looked herself over once in the mirror with a wince, and then left the restroom.

 

            The halls were empty, her footfalls echoing to the far corners. She feared that a teacher or someone would see her and get her in trouble, but no one did. Her way forward was clear.

            8:26.

            Nicolle walked up the first flight of stairs, holding onto her sunglasses carefully, and then traversed the second floor until she reached the last staircase. The third floor of the school wasn’t often used; there were some storage rooms, some untouched restrooms, and occasionally a science teacher would drag a class up to point out a cirrus cloud or something from a high window, but that was it. Nicolle had little doubt that Room 44 was the sole occupied room of the top floor this morning.

            She slowly climbed the stairs, each step making her heart beat a little faster; once she was atop the stairs Room 44 was in plain view, all by its lonesome at the far end of the hallway. Something about the image -- the door down the hall, waiting to be opened -- jarred a memory awake within her, and she could smell the cigarette smoke clearly, and the wind on the corner of the house, and her own hard breathing, Adam concentrating beside her.

            Let’s go back. Nicolle remembered saying that. Her mother’s bedroom did hold (something of interest, long forgotten), but it hardly seemed worth it in light of what could happen.     

            Back on the staircase, Nicolle’s knees began to buckle. She checked her cell clock. 8:30. The minute had come and the door was in sight.

            Her left foot fell back onto the step before it, and then the right did the same. She then turned altogether and walked back down the stairs. At the bottom, not in an ethereal voice but only in memory, she heard Adam’s reply.

            Don’t be scared, he’d said.

            Let’s go, she’d insisted.

            Don’t be scared, he repeated.

            All that Nicolle had ever been was scared. After his death their days of pushing the boundaries and having adventures died too; after Adam, she simply gave into fear.

            Nicolle balled her fists. These were her new days, the beginning of an era.

            Nicolle turned, walked back up the steps, and to the door of Room 44. Inside was the truth, a secret kept from the world yet offered to her, answers to be known at last. She placed her hand on the doorknob and turned; in the silence of the hall the click of the door’s opening was clear as a bell.

            Don’t be scared, she thought, and stepped inside.

 

            Nicolle entered with her head down. The door closed quietly behind her, and then she looked up timidly. She jumped when she saw them.

            Ten or so individuals, standing or sitting, most standing, faced Nicolle expectantly, she on one side of the room, they on the other. The lights were off --likely to discourage peepers to the door window -- so all Nicolle had to go by was the morning light. She cowered under there gaze, their poses impressive, their mere presence intimidating. The Chess Club was in full attendance.

            Nicolle couldn’t look at them straight on; her eyes averted to the ground, then back up, then to the ground again. No one spoke. Nicolle was having a hard time breathing; to her embarrassment her shaking could not be controlled. When she finally got the courage to look up again a girl with red-brown hair -- Vivian van Valen -- was smiling at her.

            “Hello, Nicolle,” she said pleasantly.

            Though Nicolle’s head was still down she peered up a little to get her first good look; she recognized nearly everyone from the yearbook picture, though there were a few new faces. Vivian van Valen stood near the center; the jock Timmy had called Darius, a black boy wearing aviators, was near the back, stereotypically wearing a letterman jacket. Appearing as if he would rather be elsewhere, his arms crossed, his scowl sexy, Elijah Beaumont stood to the far left, the light from the window illuminating his white button-up.

            “Just to let you know, you’re now under the Seal of the King’s Safety,” Vivian van Valen said; though her smile was still kind her words were unmistakably serious. “What you learn here cannot be repeated to anyone not currently present.”

            Something clicked suddenly: Is Vivian van Valen… … Vee?

            The girl across the room chortled. “You know my full name? It’s a darned mouthful… Vee is shorter and cuter. Nice to make your acquaintance.” She then dropped a curtsy, holding out an invisible dress to her sides.

            Nicolle’s mouth fell open.

            “Vee,” one of the boys said in reproach, “hold off on the showing off… we don’t want her to fall to pieces in the doorway. We have more refined ways of introducing newbies for a reason.”

            “Sorry,” Vee grinned.

            Nicolle was still a step behind: Did she… hear what I was thinking…?

            “Vee is right,” the boy said; he was standing front and center and spoke with confident authority; Nicolle judged that he held a position of importance. “Very few are allowed here. Very few. Our secrets will be kept secret... can you do that?”

            Nicolle could only nod, and she could barely do that. The boy turned to a tall black girl behind him.

            “Is she being honest?”

            The black girl looked Nicolle over for a moment and then nodded. Appeased, the boy turned back to Nicolle.

            “Okay,” Vee said happily, “with that out of the way… Nicolle, will you come closer please?”

            Nicolle walked nervously forward, still not quite meeting their collective gaze, like a puppy that knows it’s in trouble. She was surprised when Vee stepped forward and met her halfway, standing just a foot in front of her now.

            “Don’t be afraid,” she said, and then, softly: “It’s the beginning of a new era… remember?”

            Nicolle put her hand to her rapidly rising and falling chest. She wanted to be afraid of this, whatever this was, but the girl’s smile across from her would not allow it.

            “There’s no need to hide who you are in this place, Salem,” Vee said, just above a whisper; if the others didn’t understand the nickname they didn’t show it. How had Vee known…? How could she have known that Nicolle was the girl she had always been, but that Salem was the girl she'd daydreamed of becoming…? “Take off your sunglasses.”

            Though she was already the center of attention in the room it seemed to Nicolle that everyone’s focus sharpened; where he had been staring out the window Elijah now turned and looked right at her, his interest piqued.

            Nicolle’s breathing became near asthmatic. Trembling still, she put her fingers on the legs of her glasses and pulled them away; never in her life had she felt more self-conscious. She was looking at the girl in front of her when the shades at last were gone and her Black eyes were revealed.

            Vee smiled. Some gasped, but not from fear. A girl in the back put a hand over her mouth. The boy who had spoken earlier grinned in what Nicolle perceived was triumph.

            “You were right, Vee,” he said, mesmerized. Then he laughed. “Black.”

            “An Artist of the Black,” someone said in awe.

            “Amazing.”

            “Can’t believe it…”

            “Beautiful,” Vee said.

            Nicolle was floating somewhere between reality and unreality; never before in her life had someone looked on her and said the words amazing or beautiful. Were she in her right mind she thought she might weep. They weren’t afraid of her, or revolted, but were instead intrigued, understanding, accepting…

            “You’ve considered that you were a freak,” Vee said with confidence. “That you were perhaps dying, or cursed. That you were all alone in the world.”

            Vee reached up and pulled away her designer shades. Nicolle audibly inhaled; the eyes before her were the most vibrant blue, practically sapphires.

            “You’re not alone,” she said, and on cue the sunglasses came off, each member of the Chess Club unmasked at last.

            The boy from earlier had eyes of emerald green.

            A girl in the back possessed amethyst eyes of purple.

            The jock beside Darius had eyes of garnet red, and Darius wore green; a girl with amber yellow, another with blue, another with red.

            Nicolle looked to Elijah and her heart stopped beating. He was the last to drop his shades, and in the morning light he was angelic: eyes of crystal, rain clouds over a stormy sea. He stared at Nicolle, and she stared at him, and then he looked away.

            A few came forward and surrounded Nicolle, each with a smile she was not used to receiving. Vee playfully punched Nicolle on the arm, her own smile quite happy.

            I must be dreaming, Nicolle thought, dazed.

            “This isn’t a dream,” Vee said. Then, with a chuckle: “Welcome to the Chess Club.”