I frowned at the mirror, carefully putting on a layer of foundation. It wasn't quite a match for my pale skin tone, but it was the closest I could find at the market stall. I was going for cheap rather than quality, and until I actually got good enough at this to be confident in it, that wasn't going to change.
When I finished I put my glasses back on, carefully, and examined my handiwork.
Not... terrible.
Actually, not even bad.
I could see patches where it was slightly uneven, and there were a few lumps where it covered some pimples, but overall it wasn't too bad. It certainly wasn't great; it couldn't hide my too-wide mouth and it would probably be a while before I dared to wear any make-up to school, but it was miles ahead of what I could do on my own.
I took my glasses off again, and started to apply some eye shadow.
"I am applying some eye shadow," I whispered, leaning in close to the mirror. "
I will go to school after this. I will keep practicing until I can do this perfectly."
The edges of my lips curled up and I smiled at my slightly blurry reflection. I was almost completely fluent in Japanese. A few days since the cafe, days spent slowly drawing from my different Japanese classmates, bit at a time, and I was fluent in a new language. Half a week from incomprehension to fluency. I probably wasn't perfect on the pronunciation, but I couldn't stop myself from smiling even wider.
It felt good to have something to smile about again.
I considered the various ethnicities at Winslow. I could learn Chinese. Wait, that wasn't a language. It was Cantonese and Mandarin and... a few others; I wasn't sure how many. I could probably learn both of those. I'm pretty certain I knew at least one Vietnamese student. Remembering the Bulgogi that had led to the start of my culinary expansion, I added Korean to the list, mentally going through the different students from Korea.
There were plenty of Hispanic students in Winslow, and European ones too.
It made me wonder, brush hovering just off the surface of my skin, how many languages were being spoken around me each day without my noticing. Five? Ten? More?
I still had so much to learn.
I raised my glasses and looked back to my reflection, and the shadow of make-up it wore. It was a little heavy. Not Goth-heavy, but definitely not something I would be comfortable walking around with.
Turning to the third item in my new collection, I lifted out another brush and begin to carefully apply a dusting of blush to my cheeks.
I felt faintly ridiculous, the unfamiliar sensation of the make-up reminding me of the time Emma and I had been face painting when we were twelve. If I'm honest with myself, just the wearing of make-up was making me feel slightly uncomfortable. It was clear that I had a lot more to learn about applying cosmetics if I ever wanted to be confident enough to use them in public.
I carefully wiped off the results of the test, making sure that there were no lingering traces or smears. Now I had a benchmark for that skill, and I would try again this evening and see what was different.
And I knew just who I was going to learn from between then and now.
"Good morning, Taylor," Dad said sleepily, yawning into his cup of coffee as I came down for breakfast.
'Morning," I mumbled back, hoping he hasn't noticed how long I spent in the bathroom. Luckily he wasn't quite awake enough for that yet.
I decided that I had time to get some more art practice in before school, so after I finished my cereal I brought out my pad and pencils, casting around for inspiration. A bird, sitting on a sparse and spindly bush branch, jumped out at me. It cocked its head as if recognising my thoughts, or at least noticing my scrutiny, and then with a flutter of movement it was gone, leaving only the swaying branch.
I selected the bush; it's close enough that I don't have to squint and has enough detail to require effort. Putting lead to paper I started to sketch, starting at the base of the bush and working my way up and outwards, following the branches with lighter lines to establish size, growing the picture as the bush did, slowly but surely.
I don't want to rush this, because if practice will let me keep my borrowed talent I want to make sure I'm keeping good habits. Instead, my eyes flicking between pad and garden, I carefully teased out the image before me. The soft
scritch-scritch of the pencil is soothing, and before long almost all of the branches were reaching out of the paper and I was almost ready to start work on the leaves.
Blinking a few times, I glanced to the side and spoted my cup of tea, still sitting where I left it when I made my breakfast. Putting the pencil down, I took a sip and grimaced slightly. It's just a bit too cool to be properly enjoyable.
"Art homework?" Dad asked, bringing my attention back to the present. I realised that he had been sitting there for the last ten minutes or so, silently watching me work away at the drawing.
Startled slightly by the scrutiny, I took another sip rather than answer.
"Oh, um, no, not really," I muttered eventually. "I just took up drawing a while ago, and I, uh, wanted to get some practice in."
A silence re-emerged between us.
"So, how long have you been drawing?" Dad asked, smiling slightly. "Because you look to be pretty good at it, judging by that picture."
I pause. "A while? I don't know; I've just gotten into it of late."
The evasion sounded horribly obvious to me, and I cringed slightly, and then again when I see Dad's smile shrink a bit.
"Okay. I just thought that you must have been doing it for a fair time, only I've never noticed you practicing it." Dad's voice was quieter by the end.
Damn it.
"Oh, it's just something that I do in my lunch times," I said, taking another sip for my suddenly dry throat, trying to drown out the bitter taste of the lie. "I didn't used to be any good, but someone recently showed me how to do it a lot better, get the shading and the scale right."
You didn't fail to notice, I just can't tell you that I took this ability from someone else.
"Oh?" Dad perks up at the half-truth. "A friend at school?"
"...no," I admitted, looking into my tea rather than Dad's face. "Just someone I met at the Market. I saw their work and we got to talking. She told me where I could get some good art supplies. Just some basic stuff to use."
More false-truths.
More lies.
..........
The Market was so much quieter on a week day.
I could see a few students around, some of whom had come straight from school just as I did, or who went to a school much closer to Lord Street than Winslow. But there were much fewer people my age than there were on Sunday.
Fewer stalls as well; with less people attending on a weekday, there aren't as many people prepared to pay the fees to set up a stall.
I repeated my previous tactic, wandering from stall to stall, getting close enough to get a good read on the talents on display without having to stand there looking at people.
I was less choosy this time.
Maybe they would fade away before I ever get to use them, but if I saw something I like, I took it. It was rare that I would draw from any one person for more than a minute. I couldn't justify the time spent on anything more, not with so few people around to provide cover.
This young man, thin with pale skin and fair hair, seemed to know a lot of mathematics. Perhaps he was a statistician, or taking some courses at Brockton University. I didn't know enough to tell. Remembering the math test I had next week, I started to draw from him, matching his pace as he walked through the stalls.
I chickened out when we got to a clear patch, and rather than keep following him I turned to the nearest food stall, spending a while choosing an overly sugary treat I already knew I'll find too sweet.
I picked at it as I looked for another target.
Wandering back the way I came I started thinking about heading home. Perhaps coming here during the week wasn't really worth it. Most of the food stalls are just snacks and drinks, with none of the various ethnic foods that take long enough to prepare for me to start on a new language.
Movement caught my eye, and I saw an older gentleman tossing some snack bags up, juggling them in front of some young children. His grandchildren, presumably.
I slowed down, considering the act.
It was a simple trick, really. It shouldn't take very long at all, and it's also something that I could test almost immediately.
I casually wandered over to the man, reaching out and feeling for the skill.
Active use.
Proximity.
I started drawing from him as he spoke to the children. They were laughing at his antics, and he joked with them, pretending that he was keeping the snacks to himself and making them laugh harder. It's not quite conversation, but hearing him speak did help.
There were a few rocks scattered on the ground, and when the elderly man finally relents and offers up the treats I discard the coloured sugar on a stick and picked them up, tossing them from hand to hand and then one over another. It was disturbingly familiar, the way my hands moved in a pattern they had never learned or practiced, the rocks jumping and bouncing back and forth as I threw them without fail.
I could still feel the draw from ahead of me, so I stooped down and gathered some more. Four rocks flew through the air, and I was smiling as I juggled, not even struggling. So I opened up another couple of fingers, and a fifth rock joined the group.
The connection was fading, and this time it wasn't distance that caused it but the simple fact that I no longer had anything to learn from the old man.
More fingers opened, and the sixth and final rock took flight. I had to stop then, struggling to concentrate on walking and moving my arms swiftly enough at the same time. Snatching the rocks out of the air, feeling them thump into my palms, they were rough and uneven and I loved them for it. I grinned widely, breath huffing out in a quiet but jubilant exhalation.
There was some quiet applause to one side, and when I looked over I saw a few of the stall holders watching me while one of them, a young man not much older than I am, probably helping out a family member, was clapping and smiling.
I flushed, quickly looking away.
I hadn't meant to catch anybody's attention by doing this. I just stupidly acted out on a new talent without thinking it through and now I was the focus of everybody's attention.
Idiot.
Just show everybody that I can suddenly juggle, why don't I? I hurried on my way, avoiding eye contact. Damn it, I needed to be more careful. I couldn't just suddenly display skill I've never had before in public. Not if I wanted to keep the fact that I'm a cape hidden for any length of time.
I breathed in deeply through my nose, held it and then slowly released.
It could be a lot worse, I reassured myself. At least this time it was only juggling, and none of these people knew me. They had no reason to know that I had never juggled before in my life. It would have been much worse if I'd suddenly started shouting in Japanese, or acted like that in front of my classmates.
I stumbled, shuddering at the thought of what would happen if my classmates discovered that I was a cape, and quickened my pace.
The faintly chemical taste of sugar in my mouth was all of a sudden thick and cloying, and I swallowed convulsively, trying to clear it out.
I sped up, looking round at the various displays and seeing nothing.
I didn't peer into the people around me long enough to find anything of worth and none of them looked interesting enough for me to stop and try. Just ordinary people selling junk food and tawdry gewgaws.
Calm down.
I forced myself to repeat the thought, running it through my mind again and again until it started to set in.
It didn't expose myself to anybody. All I did was demonstrate a little trick that anybody can learn with a little time and patience. There is absolutely nothing amazing or parahuman about juggling.
I nodded to myself, slowing.
The worst thing I did was be a little eye-catching, and not in the way I wanted. If I wanted people to stare at me after I use my powers, it would be because I used them to do something heroic, like save somebody or stop a villain. Just a bunch of people I didn't know looking at me for doing something silly?
That was not a situation I was comfortable with.
I took a deep breath, and then smiled at the aroma of baked goods. It looked like there was at least one stall still putting the effort into their food during the week. Following my nose, I eventually spotted the culprit: a display of sweet and savoury pastries from the Netherlands, cheerfully tended by an extremely large man.
He stood over a head taller than me, and was both broad-shouldered and somewhat fat. His bald head was still haloed by a ring of silvery-grey hair, steadily retreated from his pate. Catching me looking, he called out a greeting, his voice deep and words slightly distorted by a thick Dutch accent.
Pulling a smile onto my face, I walked over, reaching out to the man.
Proximity.
Eye contact.
Conversation.
It was getting easier to find languages the more I reached for them. Maybe skills were organised in a similar way through many different nexuses, or maybe I was just reaching for what felt familiar. I lingered for a second over the idea of learning Dutch, but when the man gestured to the assorted foodstuffs I realised that I wanted that more.
Besides, I was already learning Korean, albeit slowly, so Dutch could wait. And it wasn't a very commonly spoken language in Brockton Bay, unlike the different Asian languages of the ABB.
That settled, I reached out for this man's cooking skills, feeling it flare up as he explained the different meals he had prepared.
I learned about the different types of rye bread and how to make a kind of almond slice pastry called a banket, the Dutch man's oddly melodious voice loud and cheerful as he explained everything. I ended up choosing a simple sausage and slightly crunchy onion-in-sauce meal. It's an odd flavour, but a welcome change.
I'll give it a few more days before returning here, I decided. It was too easy to draw attention to myself, even without realising it, and I would be a lot more comfortable finding targets with a crowd to lose myself in.
There would be more talents on display, as well, and I think that Dad would be a bit happier with me going out more on weekends rather than staying home reading.
Whatever happens, I was making progress.
With the help of my power, I was becoming
better.
..........
Dad had helped me prepare the ingredients, but after that he stood back and watched.
I felt self-conscious, but there was no denying that it was fun. Mixing the ingredients to create the pastry without referencing a cookbook made me feel confident in a way I never normally did. For a brief quarter of an hour I acted like a trained chef, and could almost pretend that I was one.
With the pastries in the oven I set to cleaning up, and Dad filled the sink while I wiped down the surfaces. The brief pause after we both finished threatened to grow into an awkward silence, but fortunately Dad just smiled and picked up a tea towel, gesturing to the sink full of tonight's dinner dishes.
The silence after that was more companionable, a gentle clatter of dishes and swishing of water filling the gap between words not spoken. He would dry the dishes as I finished washing them, but when there was nothing more to clean and put away I found myself at a loss of what to do.
The kitchen was quiet save the hum of the oven.
Still ten minutes left on the counter, and the silence was starting to press on me.
"What got you in the mood for baking all of a sudden?"
"I just... kind of wanted to make something nice?"
I hated how my voice turned even that into a question.
"I didn't ask before, but what is it that you're making?"
I blinked.
"Oh, they're called bankets. It's a Dutch thing. They're kind of a Christmassy thing, so when I saw some being sold at the Market I thought I'd try my hand at it. I haven't tried it before, but it seemed simple enough. I'll just need to add a dusting of icing sugar when they finish baking. Maybe add some cinnamon to it, though that isn't usually done. I just think that it would be a nice addition."
"Bankets?" Dad remarked. "Never tried them before. It's like an almond log pastry, right?"
"Uhh, kinda? They aren't always like this. Sometimes marzipan is used, and I think it would work better with some proper puff pastry. Sometimes they're also rolled into letters, so they get called 'Dutch letters' often, but usually the only letter used is 's'. I think that's because people are just lazy, because those are just bendy logs."
I frowned at that. I could make a bunch of thinner bankets and spell something out with them, but I couldn't think of anything to spell out that wouldn't be corny or embarrassing.
Dad was smiling at me, looking faintly bemused.
"What?" I asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious.
I'd almost been babbling by the end, the new knowledge rushing forth.
"Nothing," Dad said, shaking his head slightly, and then relenting with another smile. "It's just good to see you acting so enthusiastic about something. You've been so quiet of late. You barely talk about school, and you stopped going round to Emma's house on the weekends."
He trailed off, and I looked away, blinking slightly.
"Maybe we should bake something nice more often?" he tried, a note of uncertainty stealing into his voice. "It's nice seeing you like this again."
His last words are soft and sad, and I made a point of checking the oven's timer so as to avoid looking him in the eyes.
It's nice to see me acting like I used to before Mom died.
The words went unsaid, but they echoed around the room loudly.
"That," I whispered, clearing my throat as it briefly choked up, "that would be nice."
I quickly wiped at my eyes and spread a smile across my face when I turned and looked at Dad. He pretended not to notice.
"I think I could probably pick up a few more recipes. We can try some of them out, see what works best and then make those for Christmas."
"I could probably bring up a few of Annette's old cookbooks."
There was a moment of silence after that suggestion.
It's rare that either of us directly refers to Mom or mentions her name. It used to be because it was still painful to do so, and then it just became easier to keep on not saying it.
"We didn't really make anything special for Christmas last year," Dad said, still quiet, "and I was thinking that maybe we could make up for it this year."
Mom used to do all of the Christmas baking. We'd have cakes and muffins in the run-up to Christmas and a large roast on the day. I'd always help her, mostly by chopping the vegetables or just fetching the ingredients when she needed them, and afterwards I would proudly announce how we had cooked it all together. Mom and Dad would smile and congratulate me on making such a good meal.
The first Christmas after she died had been awful. Dad and I had gotten each other a couple of presents each, lying around a small plastic tree with those from the Barnes family and Mom's colleagues. Dinner had been simple, eaten in silence and followed with a store-bought Christmas cake.
We'd both cried a lot that day.
Last Christmas hadn't been as bad, but was still too full of unhappy memories to truly enjoy it. It was lacking Mom's gentleness and warmth. Her silent, quiet disapproval when Dad or I tried to sneak too much chocolate before dinner. The wide smile that lit up her face whenever I got excited by a present.
"Yeah," I whispered, "I'd like that."
The timer on the oven went off and the moment was broken.
Pulling out the bankets and setting them down on a cooling tray, I soon had a couple of slices removed and served.
Blowing on them to cool them, Dad and I started nibbling.
"These are really nice, Taylor," Dad said sincerely, and even at my most critical I have to agree.
My smile came more naturally now, and I felt proud of myself for managing this. Maybe I'm not an Alexandria package, but right now I wouldn't change powers for the world.
When we finished our slices I cut a couple more, and we enjoyed those too. We didn't speak to each other much, but the silence was easier. It was a gentle, agreeable silence as we recalled happier times.
Eventually Dad headed off to bed and I put the bankets in the fridge, before heading into the bathroom. Pulling out the make-up kit, I opened it up and got to work. It wasn't just Emma I learned from today, although I did learn the most from her. Julia, Ashleigh and even Sophia knew more about make-up and how to apply it than I did.
Just a slow draw from each of them, sitting as far from them as the classroom would allow and ignoring everything they did. Just a trickle of talent, steadily coming in from each class and slowly but surely teaching me more.
It took me over a quarter of an hour, but when I was finished I could scarcely recognise my own handiwork. Far from the pale, scrawny child I had been before, I almost glowed with health.
The zits and spotty skin were covered up, looking smooth and ever so slightly tanned. My cheeks were gently flushed, the bone structure subtly enhanced to accentuate the rest of my face. The light layer of eye shadow brought out my pale green eyes instead of (hah) overshadowing them. The simple lipstick disguised the thinness of my lips and I couldn't help but smile at my reflection and the remarkable change that a few minutes work and some simple cosmetics had made.
I'm definitely going to practice with this, I decided. Morning and evening, I'll compare how much my skill changes, and for once I could honestly claim that there's something to learn in every class.
..........
The movements were quicker, my hands more confident. Just over ten minutes the next morning, and I was back to looking like I actually belonged with the other girls at Winslow. Whispering my still-broken Korean at my reflection, I carefully washed my face of the last traces of cosmetics and made my way down to the kitchen.
"Morning, Taylor," Dad yawned at me.
"Good morning, Dad," I said, smiling warmly at him as I prepared my breakfast, for once excited about going to school.
