A gallery in New York. Swarms of wealthy patrons crowd into the doorway, hoping for even a glimpse of the goddesses. Gasps go up as the artist unveils her latest work. Journalists beg questions. "What will you do next?" "Miss Jinx, I hear your work is coveted by the large galleries." "Is it true you taught yourself?" "Miss Jinx, where does the beauty you paint come from?" "Miss Jinx," "Miss Jinx," "Jinxie, come on slugabed, Einie, Miney, and Mo want to see you."

Damnit. Still just a dream. I'm Jinx. Now I bet your waiting for the real name that I hate. Nonexistent. Legally, Jinx Murphy. How the hell did I get stuck with that name? Fun story, really. My grandmother was a Calcutta girl, married well. My grandfather had some brilliant idea and made a fortune, so when my Aunt Meena was born, he moved his family to California. My grandparents are strict Hindu, and live with my uncle Kalpan and his wife, now that he's married and living just outside of LA.

Amma and I are a good deal north of them. Amma is really into her Hindu heritage. She always hennas her limbs and wears saris she makes herself. She's beautiful, long limbs and dark flowing hair, always smiling. She's not rail thin, my mother. Very curvy and big hipped. You always see her, this dark figure in a red sari, in the garden. Our bungalow has an enormous garden. No yard, just garden. She's always out there, talking to the flowers. My grandmother says she named her perfectly, Ila, it means earth. You can't talk to her though.

Amma isn't quite all there, you see. My father was a political activist, a daredevil, an original. He overdosed when I was three. She refuses to acknowledge he's dead. I think the event was completely blocked out of her memory. Sometimes, when I'd been naughty, she would actually say 'Wait till your father gets home young lady.' I didn't have the heart to correct her.

That still doesn't explain my name though. Jinx. My mother is a strange woman. I had a twin, stillborn. Her grave is in the garden. Hexe was her name. Amma said she married a man named Murphy, so her daughters' names were almost already given to her. I think if Hexe had lived, things might have been different. I would have still run around like a banshee child, but I think she would have kept me out of trouble. I probably wouldn't have broken my arm twice. I also probably wouldn't have orphaned Einie Miney and Mo. They're rabbits. They were days old when I killed their mother. Not on purpose! She scared me, and I reacted. Rabbits can scare to death easily. I cried, made a grave for her, and wrapped the kits in my sari. Amma and I too care of them. Now they live in the garden. I try to paint them, but they just don't have the spark. I want to be a famous artist, but nothing in my life has the beauty I want to paint.

I tried the neighbours, but they never stayed still, or posed at all like I wanted them to. I got frustrated at them, they were avoiding me by the time I was seven. Thanks to that, I didn't have many friends. When I was twelve, I had a best friend. Mandy Anders. Wild children, we were. We'd go to her house everyday after school and eat cookie dough and blast eighties punk in her room. We'd scream and slam until the cookie dough wore off or we broke something. Her younger sister sometimes ate the cookie dough with us, but even though they were only a year apart, Kori is a completely different creature. She's quiet, but the type who kicks her heels and squeals. The type to cry at romance movies and take long walks on the beach. Not our scene. Then middle school came, and we drifted apart. Mandy is a social creature. She needs people around her, to be the center of attention and tell everyone what she thinks. She wants to be there, do that and get the t-shirt. I'd rather watch, and grab people's emotions with my art.

In eighth grade, I punked out. One of the neighbors, Selinda, who's two years older than me, got me into a piercing war. Each trying to outdo the other. When that ended, I had two holes in each lobe, three on the top of my right ear, two in the left, and one in my nose. I dyed my hair neon pink and dropped the saris in favour of vinyl skirts and tunic tops. I bought striped stockings, suede jackets, boots and bags in black, black, black. Sure, I throw in purples and blues. Amma says I look like a giant bruise with a rash. I say a giant bruise with a rash and pinkeye. Yeah, I use pink eye shadow like mad. The teachers hate my look. Every time I walk into class, they look at me like I'm some kind of prostitute. Frankly, I don't care; I spend half the time in class sketching backgrounds anyways. Of course, the backgrounds are useless without a goddess to put on them. And I just couldn't find a goddess.

Until I spotted her. I like to think I have an eye for dark, passionate, tormented beauty. The type of thing that makes people cry for the soul they never knew they had until someone poked at the hole it left. She was definitely that. She was sitting under a tree at lunch, shoulder hunched up, hiding behind her hair. You couldn't see her face at all, behind the hair so black it gave off the blue sheen you see usually only on animals. I squinted to see what she was reading, and noticed she was highlighting, too, studying. Ooh, Macbeth, heavy.

Hunched over her book like that, I thought she looked like The Morrigan. You know, that Welsh battle goddess? I have a shirt with her; it says 'Is this your eye?' I don't wear it, but I thought of it. I was just thinking how perfectly I could paint her in the role when I noticed a couple of kids hanging around her; Logan, Markov, and the Wilson girl. Wilson looked tweaked, Morrigan must've shown her up in lit or something.

"Whatcha drawing?"

"Buzz off West." This kid had been trying to be social with me for a while now. I always shot down his attempts at flirting, but he kept coming back. It wasn't because I'm a vain little thing, though I am. He's easy on the eyes and all. Just, he's too energetic, too excitable. Permanent sugar high.

"Only if you'll go out with me on Friday" I blinked. He must be joking, no one dates Jinx. She's this bitchy artist who lives in her paintings. The only thing that can make her hot is on a canvas. I might have said yet, just to see if I could pull some material from it, but Morrigan looked ready to explode. I politely declined and slammed my sketchbook shut, storming my way over.

"Logan, Markov, Wilson," I growled, "You're in the way of my scene. Get out."

Markov, blonde hair blue eyed gal, sighed. Logan scattered when I said his name, and Markov tugged the platinum tresses of the Wilson girl, and left shortly after.

"They buggin the Morrigan?" I asked, kicking my boot against the tree. She nodded, and I heard a clink. I noticed she had a bronze circlet with a red gem, garnet maybe, on her Ajana charka. (Amma went through a chakra fad) "You're new right?" Again, she nodded. "I want you to be my model" A bold move, I could barely make out her face, and her body was hidden under the bulky blue sweatshirt. Morrigan stood and moved to leave. I blocked her path. 'I'm serious. I've been searching years for a goddess. You're her."

"You wouldn't say that if you knew what I am" Her voice was cold, and carried no hint of emotion.

"Bullshit. You are perfect" I said it with more conviction this time. "I want to get you into the garden with black wings and a soul in one hand.

"Come on, let's ditch. I'll show you casa Jinx, and you can help me drain Amma's supply of fruit teas." I didn't allow her a response, just grabbed her hand and dragged her to the parking lot. I think Selinda's brother flipped us off on the way out.

I don't have a car, but I do have one of those electric scooters. I've fit three people on it before, but two is the most that can ride comfortably. I had to coax the Morrigan onto it, and at first she gripped my shoulders like she was holding on for her life. I drive fast. I do just about everything fast. Soon, though, she relaxed and seemed to enjoy herself. Soon enough we were in the neighbourhood. Bunch of theme houses there, like the big Victorian, the caravan, the shoe. Yeah, there's a shoe. You get nuts out here. I stopped at our bungalow, one of the more normal houses on the block.

"You live here?" She tried to hide it, but she was impressed.

"I try to. Come on in." I pried my boots off and she slipped off her Vans. We passed through the parlour. I think the Morrigan was a bit shocked by the tapestry, or maybe the daggers, or the life sized statues of the gods. She looked at Krishna like a well-trained puppy who'd just head his name called. I continued to my room.

My room isn't what you'd expect from the girl in the vinyl skirt and combat boots. Warm brown walls covered with art, smooth wooden floors, and a full-length window that overlooked the garden. Two easels were set up, and I think Mo was poking his head in the window, which I had left open, since I basically used it like a door. I sat down on my bed, an air mattress so covered in pillows that sometimes I feel like I'm drowning in them. "Have you always been an artist then?" She asked. I responded in the affirmative and she wandered to the desk where I had some art books stacked and a sketch out.

"This is good. But she looks so empty, like there's no soul…"

"Yeah, that's my mother" I said without a hint of emotion.

"I'm sorry, is she?" She let the question hang.

"Dad's death hit her real hard."

"Jinxie! When did you get home?" Speak of the devil. Amma scurried in, knees still covered with dirt from working in the garden. "You skipped class again, didn't you? Jinx! How many times have I told you- oh, who is this?"

I didn't want to say 'The Morrigan' so I was glad when she extended her hand and said "Raven Roth, nice to meet you Mrs. …"

"Oh just call me Ila, no need to be formal about it." Raven. I nearly burst out laughing. The Morrigan's avatar is the raven. Talk about irony. Or maybe just being well named. But, Raven looked about to protest first name basis, so I had to save her.

"Humour her," I whispered, "Or else she'll insist on calling you Misse Sahib Roth." I gave Amma a quick hug, avoiding the dirt. "Raven's new in town, and Logan's girls were giving her a hard time. Could you make us some fruit tea? Thanks, Amma!" I steered her toward the kitchen, silently promising to explain later.

"Ok, first things first. Hair out of your face." Raven looked shocked as I went into artist mode. Bushing the locks back with my fingers, I took her chin in my hand and bean examining her facial structure. "Good, not too aristocratic, but not a farm girl either. I bet just a bit of kohl woud be enough to get the squinting look of the Morrigan; and if we pull your hair back, maybe layer a braid on the left side, and you smile a bit you will be a perfect Isis. Oh! And with the right light: Guinevere. It would take some posing, but with a wig you'd be Epona and-"

"Why are you doing this?" Raven pulled away, shaking her hair back into place. "You just met me, next thing I know you've dragged me out of school and to your house before even asking my name."

I shrugged. "I'm impulsive." I said, sniffing the air. "Tea's ready!" I grabbed a sketchbook and pencil before heading into the kitchen. When we were seated around the table sipping the raspberry peach tea, I asked what brought the Roth's to Ashborough.

"My father." The way she said it made it sound like she hated to talk about it but desperately needed to. So, I pressed her a bit. "Not a good man, he paid for the house, and everything Angela, that's my mother, and I need. I think it's mostly so we don't screw things up with his new wife. Good riddance, I can't see how anyone would marry a man that violent and short tempered. He broke Angela's arm once. "

I gave a low whistle. "And here I thought my family was up. Worst I have is four or five generations back my great something grandfather was hanged for murder." I said it with a bit of pride; Sundar was somewhat of a hero to us.

Family topics were dropped quickly after that. We moved on to literature. I mentioned that the fact she was reading Macbeth was one of the main reasons I was interested in her in the first place. Turns out Raven wrote poetry. I told her to show me some, maybe I could incorporate it into one of the paintings of her.

"Why do you want to paint me anyway?" She asked in a tone of disbelief. She had no idea she was beautiful, it was obvious to me then.

"I want people who see my art to ache. I want them to wail for their own lost souls, as tears of passion carve hot trails into their cheeks." I admit, when you ask me about my art I get a bit pathetic. "I want it to cut open their chests and present them with their still beating hearts. For that, I need someone who can take the slightest gesture or glance and tell a story with it, someone who appears as if they know exactly what in the deepest corners of your soul." I took a breath, "You do that. When I saw the way you looked at Wilson, the way she seemed to shrink back at your very presence, I was positive."

Raven looked like she still didn't believe me. "You're one strange girl, do you know that?"

"I know tha' thinks I'm a queer lad, but I think tha' art th' queerest little lass I ever saw." I said, in a poor Yorkshire accent.

"The Secret Garden, right?" She asked, smiling slightly. Just the corner of her mouth, mind, but she definitely smiled. I saw it twitch! I chuckled, she not only understood my bumbling attempt at broad Yorkshire, she knew where it came from.

"I love that book" I said, draining the last of my tea. "I always liked to go out into the garden and play that no one was to know about it and I'd talk quietly to the rabbits and the buds"

"Must have been nice." Raven observed, setting her mug down quietly.

"Lonely, but nice. I grew out of it when Mandy Anders started to pay attention to me. She got me into 80's punk. Wish we hadn't drifted." I sat thinking about that for a little while.

"You need to head home?" I asked suddenly. "I'll give you a ride."

"On that death machine?" She asked, looking appalled.

"Hey, it's safer than most cars these days!" I protested, even though it probably wasn't true.

"Just take me back to the school, I'll walk from there."

Thus began one seriously screwed up friendship.