Pomegranate Blues

By Hillary Hujanen

Persey Green is a teenage genius struggling to maintain average grades so she doesn’t stick out, her older sister recently died of a mysterious cancer-like illness, and her mom doesn’t seem to notice she exists. If dealing with survivor’s guilt and an increasingly distant mom isn’t enough, Persey develops a strange allergy to cold weather and snow.

Unfortunately, she lives in Montana and it’s the middle of winter.

She’s got a lot on her plate, but Persey is more concerned with Aides, the Greek exchange student who seems curiously interested in her, than the migraines that plague her every time it snows. Aides is tall, dark, handsome, and admittedly, more than a bit peculiar. But Persey feels a strange connection to him that both repels and intrigues her.

While she’s navigating the gamut of first love, Persey learns three disturbing truths. First, that through divine interference, Persephone, goddess of the Greek Underworld, was reborn in her. Second, Hades has returned to earth in the guise of an exchange student named Aides. Third, she is doomed to spend the rest of eternity as Hades’ bride in the Underworld.

Persey struggles for her independence in this strange new world, and although she revels in her growing power, she learns that her predecessor, Persephone, was driven mad by the dark influence of Underworld. She must make the ultimate decision. By staying with Aides, she risks her own sanity, but if she leaves she risks her life and the greatest love she’ll ever know.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hillary Hujanen
• Release date: May 3, 2011

Hillary Hujanen

Hillary Hujanen is a criminal defense attorney in the State of Minnesota. She is in charge of the legal research and writing for a small firm in Minneapolis. When she's not assisting winning the big cases, she enjoys reading, running, petting her cats, and spending time with her adorable Finnish husband.

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Special Smashwords Edition

Pomegranate Blues

by

Hillary Hujanen

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Pomegranate Blues

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Pomegranate Blues

Chapter 1

Mom, seriously, just chill.

My mom’s pretty face was scrunched in anger, and her thin lips had all but disappeared into a disapproving scowl. She hadn’t showered yet, and her mascara from the night before had flaked into the dark rings beneath her eyes. She looked exhausted, and I knew my attitude wasn’t helping. She hated when I treated her like a child, but sometimes she seemed more like a sister than a mother. The angry lines between her eyes belied her usually youthful appearance, and I realized in that moment that she seemed strangely old.

You could have called, she said, trying to keep her voice calm, but it had a sharp edge that cut through the air.

You told me you were working at the club last night, I sneered, countering her frustration with my own. I wasn’t expecting you home before dawn — especially not when you have a few drinks after your shift.

Well, call Child Services if you think it’s so bad. Maybe you can find a nice foster family that will take you in and give you whatever you want, cook you dinner every night, tuck you into bed. Maybe your foster mother will buy you a car. She scrunched her face even more, and I could tell she was trying hard not to cry.

I realized that I’d gone too far, but I still refused to apologize. Mom, that’s not fair. You work every night, and I barely see you. You don’t seem to care when I come and go. I am fine with it, but you don’t just get to be angry when I come in late. You can’t be a mom only when it’s convenient for you, I added in my head, but I bit my tongue. I didn’t want to make things worse.

You’re right… and I am sorry. But we do need to discuss some rules. We have to make this work, Persephone. We don’t have any other choice.

No, I don’t have any other choice. You’re the one who wanted to move to Montana. I hate it here, I replied, trying to avoid her eye as I shoved my sack lunch into my school bag. I heard the paper rip as I forced it between two books, and I felt a strange thrill of satisfaction at the harsh sound.

I couldn’t stay — not after what happened. You should be the first to understand that! By now, my mom’s voice was choked.

Phil is what happened, Mother! Phillipa… my sister… YOUR daughter. You haven’t been able to say her name since she died. Come on, Mother, say her name. Just say it! I was ashamed of the harsh stream of words that flowed from my mouth, and by the end, my angry shouting had turned to pleading.

I give up. Do whatever you want. My mother’s arms flopped helplessly by her side. She shoved her hands into the deep pockets of the ratty pink bathrobe she’d had for as long as I could remember.

Whatever. You always give up, I muttered and turned toward the large window in our living room. The sun was beginning to pool along the horizon. As the rays of light warmed our meagerly furnished living room, I also felt like giving up. Things seemed to be getting worse, not better, and time wasn’t healing any wounds.

I hated the thought of going to a school where all the kids had grown up together and I was just the freak outsider. My mom despised her job waitressing at the grungy strip joint outside of downtown, the job that started before I came home from school and kept her out most of the night. She kept promising to quit, but then the furnace broke, or I needed a winter coat, or the alternator went out on her car. It was always something. We just couldn’t ever get ahead.

I’m going to miss the bus, I muttered as I grabbed my coat and bag and ran out into the frigid morning air, making sure the door slammed loudly behind me. I ran out to the bus stop just as the doors were closing.

Morning, Persey, the bus driver smiled, and I tried to smile back, but my heart wasn’t in it.

I glanced around on the bus, surveying the still unfamiliar faces until my eyes lighted on my friend Vickie. She was sitting on the right, three rows from the back of the bus, exactly where she’d sat every day since I met her. I slid into the seat, and as I threw my backpack on the floor under the seat, a strand of my hair caught in the zipper. Ow! I yelled.

What’s up? Vickie asked.

Nothing. Just caught a hangnail on my bag, I replied lamely and silently cursed my bird’s nest hair. I tried not to sigh as I looked at Vickie’s perfectly straight brown locks. As if mimicking her petite frame, her features were perfect, even, and small, and her turned–up nose added, rather than detracted, from her lively beauty. No wonder she has dates every weekend, I thought. I couldn’t think of anyone else from my high school that was tall enough to risk being seen with me, and there’d be no way I could consider wearing any sort of a heel.

You seem distracted, Vickie said.

I don’t want to talk about it.

Your mom? Vickie asked, but she didn’t have to. It was always my mom.

Yeah, she’s been acting weird again. She pretends I am not there and then gets pissed off when I do something wrong. It’s just not fair. It’s like she’s blaming me for how shitty her life is. I realized my voice was thick with tears, and I struggled not to cry. Vickie looked concerned, and I breathed slowly, trying to calm my voice. It’s nothing. It’s just that Phil would have been nineteen this month. I don’t think Mom’s been handling it too well.

Sucks to have a dead sister — especially one who was so perfect. Vickie started spluttering. Oh, God, I am soooo sorry. That came out totally wrong. I just meant, the way you talk about her, it must be hard to live up to. You know… beautiful older sister, perfect SAT scores, full–ride scholarship to Stanford.

Hey, don’t worry about it. I know what you mean. I changed the subject. So, tell me more about your date. She hadn’t mentioned a date, but I wanted to stop talking about my family before I burst into tears and made an ass out of myself on the bus. Fortunately, I knew Vickie had all the boys at Hellgate twisted around her little finger. Of course she had a date. Vickie had been on the pill since she was fourteen, and even if her parents didn’t necessarily approve of her extensive love life, they considered themselves social liberals, so they turned a blind eye rather than admit to hypocrisy.

He’s a senior at Loyola, the Catholic high school downtown.

Mazel Tov, I muttered sarcastically, and Vickie ignored me.

He plays on the football team, she continued. Her eyes were bright with excitement. I could tell she was crushing big time, and I tried not to scoff at the awe in her voice. Vickie looked hurt.

Sorry, but the school’s so small, I am surprised they don’t have to recruit girls to play on the team, I explained.

Vickie couldn’t help but laugh. You’re probably right, but Seth’s really nice. You’d like him… which is what I was trying to tell you earlier when you were doing your best not to pay any attention to me.

I blushed and began stammering an apology, but Vickie ignored me.

Seth’s family is hosting a foreign exchange student from Greece. Anyways, Seth can’t go out with me this weekend unless he finds something for the Greek to do, and I was thinking . . .

She paused, and I finished her thought. And that’s where I come in? You want me to go out with this Greek fellow, right? I tried to sound impatient, but I was secretly pleased she’d though of me.

Guilty as charged. At least she had the decency to look somewhat embarrassed. Please? she begged. He might be hot. Seth says he’s really tall. Anyways, anything has to be better than sitting at home waiting for your mom to come back from the club.

I thought for a second. She did have a point, and Mom had been acting so weird lately. I guessed I didn’t want to be around when she came home from Rick’s. She hated working Friday nights at the strip club, but the tips were more than she made in two weeks at the diner. Fine, but I am not going out with him alone. No deal unless it’s a double date.

Vickie paused, pushing her perfect lips into a slight pout. Fine.

What’s the foreign exchange student’s name anyway? Just so I can make sure to avoid it in my caller ID.

I don’t even know. Baklava or something like that.

He’s named after a Greek dessert? I blinked twice.

Vickie looked chagrined. Hell if I know. I just made that up. But who knows? He might be quite the sweet treat. She raised her eyebrows and nudged my arm with her elbow.

That was lame, I replied. I’ll promise never to tell anyone how lame you are if you promise never to make me go out on a blind date again. And promise me you’ll find out Mr. Baklava’s real name before we go out.

Deal.

As we pulled into the Hellgate High School parking lot, I thought about Vickie’s proposition. I’d never dated anyone before, especially not anyone from another country. I wondered how fluent he was in English. I couldn’t imagine a more uncomfortable evening than one spent with someone who had even less to say than myself. I had to admit that being from Greece seemed pretty cool. We’d read some of the Greek myths during my freshman year at my old high school, and I realized I empathized with the gods, who basically thought with their dicks and ran the world with largely selfish intent. Things made more sense to me knowing I couldn’t rely on any higher power. That way, I didn’t have to be disappointed.

See you after school, I told Vickie as I walked through the huge front doors of the large brick building. Vickie and I both were juniors at Hellgate High, the closest school to our respective neighborhoods along Grant Creek Road. She lived in a huge house in the mountains, while my mom and I lived in a converted trailer in one of the older neighborhoods near the freeway.

The school was huge, but I never minded the throng of students passing me in the halls. I liked the idea of blending in, being part and parcel with the crowd. I tried to ignore the fact that my hair and height always had me standing out like a sore thumb, and that I would always feel like a stranger in this foreign land of ice and snow.

Vickie and I didn’t have any classes together. I tested into college prep courses and was taking advanced placement chemistry, calculus, and English. Vickie struggled with school, much to the chagrin of her father, who hoped she’d follow in his footsteps and become a big–time attorney.

With our separate schedules, Vickie and I rarely ran into each other at school. I’d soon discovered she was part of the in–crowd, and I never felt comfortable trying to break in. I was used to being on my own, or at least I thought I was. But as the bell rang for lunch, I shoved my books into my bag, dropped them off at my locker, grabbed my lunch, and headed toward the cafeteria.

I usually ate lunch in the library. The crowd in the lunchroom was large and loud, and I didn’t want to get close to anybody in case my mom decided to jump states again. This time, I had no idea why I ventured into the lunchroom, holding my brown paper bag tightly against my chest. Looking around at the girls dressed in mini skirts and heels, I felt self–conscious and wished I had worn anything other than my tattered jeans and oversized sweater.

Even though the large room was a din of voices, I could hear Vickie’s loud laugh echoing from a table in the corner. She was talking to a group of guys. I only recognized a couple of them.

Hey, Vickie! I tried to yell, but my voice caught in my throat and I gurgled loudly. Fortunately, no one heard the almost feral sound amidst the roar of loud conversations competing for dominance in the echoing room.

I was about to walk toward the table when Vickie looked up. I could feel her brown eyes peering directly at me, and I smiled and started to raise my hand to wave. My hand froze when Vickie abruptly looked away. My smile dropped. I turned and quickly trotted out of the cafeteria, hoping no one else had seen what happened.

Mortified, I took out my cell phone.

Mom, I’m not feeling very well. Do you think you could pick me up?

Chapter 2

By the time Mom and I got home, the sick feeling in my stomach had worsened, and I wondered if I wasn’t really coming down with something. Typical. The one time I lie about being sick I get struck with a bug. As my mom bustled around the kitchen, putting on the kettle to brew some ginger tea for my stomach, I pulled the living room curtains apart and stared outside. The clouds had been dark and forbidding all day, and it was beginning to snow. In the soft glow of the dying sun, I watched as the flurries thickened to a blinding blizzard. The fall of frozen white was late this year. Last year, the mountains had been coated by mid October. Although this season had been cold, it was already the end of November, and our yard was still an unsightly patch of brown and grey.

As I peered outside at the whitening world, the room began spinning uncontrollably.

Persey? Persey, honey, what’s wrong? My mom grabbed me, holding me upright.

It’s nothing. Just a headache, I gasped out, but my mouth was dry, and the words felt sticky in my teeth. For a moment, I thought that God must be punishing me for lying about being sick, and it seemed fitting except for the fact that I didn’t believe in God — not anymore. I stumbled toward my bed, driven by an almost instinctual need to curl into a ball and protect myself from the elements, but I was almost overcome by searing pain that began in my eyeballs and blistered toward the back of my head. I forgot about the flakes of white that began to blanket the earth outside my window. The wind continued to pound the walls, demanding entrance, as I stumbled blindly into my bed and wrapped myself in my down comforter, hoping to somehow block the pain in the soft folds of the worn blanket.

My mother followed me into my room, and as I sunk my head deep into my pillows, I was aware of the sound of her soft footsteps as she shuffled toward my bed.

Persey, please. What’s wrong?

My head hurts, and the room feels spinny. I couldn’t begin to describe the pain.

I think you have a migraine, sweetie. I get them too. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ll give you one of my prescription pills.

I heard my mom riddle through medicine cabinet in the small bathroom, containers falling to the tile floor as her hands shook in worry. She forced me to take two small white pills, which I choked down the best I could. The pills made me sleepy, but they did nothing to stop the spines of pain that shot through my head and down the back of my neck.

I don’t know how much time passed. I dozed on and off, doped up on the narcotics my mom had given me, but at some point, Mom had to go to work. We were not in the financial position for her to call in with a sick kid.

Honey, I have to go.

Please, don’t leave me, I managed to say.

It’s okay. Mrs. Anderson will come over and watch you. She used to be a nurse.

I didn’t have the strength to argue. Mrs. Anderson had lived alone next door for as long as anyone could remember, and during the year since Mom and I had moved to Montana from L.A., she’d often brought over baked goods and cookies. I was always appreciative of the home–cooked food, and I knew my mom was comforted by her presence.

I hadn’t seen Mrs. Anderson since I started my junior year at Hellgate High, and the brightness of her blue eyes sunk deep in her ruddy wrinkled cheeks startled me as she bent over my bed and peered sharply at me. I was quickly reminded of the headache as a dart of pain shot through my head and down into my neck. I moaned.

Calm down, Persey, she said as she placed her gnarled hand against my cheek, holding me down with surprising strength as I squirmed against her touch. Be calm, she murmured. She ran her fingers up and down my body as if searching for something she’d lost in the folds of my nightgown. I tried to push her away, but I noticed that as her hands passed over my head, the pain subsided somewhat. Still, it hurt to breathe, much less move.

She briefly left the room, and when she returned, she was holding a steaming mug of a viscous liquid. She helped me sit up, propping me against several pillows as I fought against gravity and the pain. At first, I thought it was tea, but it was thick and black and smelled terrible. Whatever it was, I choked the concoction down. It left a harsh herbal burn in my throat as the liquid trickled into my stomach, filling my midsection with warmth.

I slept fitfully as Mrs. Anderson watched me twist in pain. I was plagued by dreams of heat and fire that threatened to consume me whole. I dreamed that my skin first blistered, then melted into the bed, the ooze of flesh staining my sheets and soaking the mattress.

When I finally awoke, the sun was peeking through the thin curtains of my room. Whatever Mom and Mrs. Anderson had given me finally seemed to have worked. The pain had dulled, but I could feel its anger throbbing in the distance. But my head felt funny, as if there was someone else occupying some corner of it. I tried to wrap my mind around the peculiar sensation, but when the feeling persisted while eluding definition, I figured it was a nasty side effect of whatever noxious medicine Mrs. Anderson had given me.

I sat up and discovered that Mrs. Anderson was asleep in the corner, sprawled haphazardly in the cheap Papasan chair I’d rescued from a neighbor’s garbage and reupholstered in blue corduroy I’d discovered in a fabric store bargain bin. Her head was contorted against the wooden frame where the cushion had slipped because of her weight. There was an open book lying across on her denim lap. She was snoring softly, and I could see a faint trickle of saliva creeping down her chin.

I crept quietly toward the door, trying not to waken Mrs. Anderson as I snuck into the bathroom across the hall. I filled the porcelain basin with water and shivered as my hands reached into the cold depths. As I splashed my face with the chilly liquid, I could hear the sounds of Mrs. Anderson awakening in the next room.

I walked through the door and paused in the frame.

You’re awake, she said. She looked pleased until she wiped away the string of liquid from her chin, reddening slightly as she noticed the wet on her fingertips. We were so worried.

She noticed the look of confusion on my face.

Dear heart, you’ve been very sick. I started groaning at her nickname for me. She’d called me that for as long as I had known her, but it still sounded cheesy every time she said it. Get back to bed, she ordered.

I tried to remember what had happened, but my last clear memory before my mind went blank was drinking the strange herb mixture Mrs. Anderson had forced me to choke down.

What was in that stuff you made me drink? I asked. It tasted disgusting. I smiled so she wouldn’t be hurt by my rudeness.

Mrs. Anderson ignored my comment, her face a blank, if wrinkly, slate.

Furnace out again? I asked, just then noticing Mrs. Anderson’s thick down jacket. I cuddled into the warmth that was quickly escaping into the chill of the room.

She nodded. Your mom’s taking care of it.

Yeah, sure she is, I muttered under my breath. As I settled into bed, Mrs. Anderson opened the curtains, and through the large window, I could see a thick coat of white obscuring the landscape.

The snow has finally stopped, Mrs. Anderson noted as the sun streamed into the room.

How long did it snow? I asked, suddenly curious.

Just a few days, she replied. She peered out, momentarily blinded by the sun’s reflection.

What happened to me? I asked, suddenly unsure of how long I’d been sick. The ground was thickly covered with snow. The last thing I could remember clearly was writing in my journal, trying to ignore the winds beating against the stone walls of our house, and waiting for the blizzard the evening newscasters