My mother had Grandma Halley’s sparkling eyes, her tiny chin, and sometimes, if you knew when to listen for it, her singsong laugh. But my Grandma Halley was kind of wild, a little eccentric, more so in the ten years since my grandfather had died. She gardened in men’s overalls and a floppy sun hat, and made up her scarecrows to resemble neighbors she didn’t like, especially Mr. Farrow, who lived two doors down and had buck teeth and carrot-red hair, which fit a scarecrow nicely. She ate only organic food, adopted twenty kids through Save the Children, and taught me the box step when I was in fifth grade, the two of us dancing around the living room while her record player crackled and sang.

She was born in May of 1910, as Halley’s Comet lit up the sky of her small town in Virginia. Her father, watching with a crowd from the hospital lawn, considered it a sign and named her Halley. It was the comet that always made her seem that much more mystical, different. Magic. And when I was named after her, it had made me a little magical too, or so I hoped.

The winter I was six, we made a special trip to visit her for the comet’s passing. I remember sitting outside in her lap, wrapped in a blanket. There’d been so much hype, so much excitement, but I couldn’t see much, just a bit of light as we strained to make it out in the sky. Grandma Halley was quiet, holding me tight against her, and she seemed to see it perfectly, grabbing my hand and whispering, Look at that, Halley. There it is. My mother kept saying no one could see it, it was too hazy, but Grandma Halley always told her she was wrong. That was Grandma Halley’s magic. She could create anything, even a comet, and make it dance before your eyes.

Now my mother was suddenly distracted, making calls to Buffalo and having long talks with my father after I went to bed. I busied myself with school, work, and Macon; with my grounding over, I slipped off to see him for a few hours whenever I could. I went with Scarlett to the doctor, read to her from the pregnancy Bible, reminding her to get more vitamin C, to eat more oranges and green peppers. We were adjusting to the pregnancy; we had no choice. And after our being the scandal for a couple of weeks, Elizabeth Gunderson’s tongue-pierced boyfriend fooled around with her best friend Maggie, and Scarlett and the baby were old news.

But each time Grandma Halley called again, scared, I’d watch my mother’s face fold into the now-familiar frown of concern. And each time I’d think only of that comet overhead, as she held me in close to her, all those years ago. Look at that. There it is. And I’d close my eyes, trying to remember, but seeing nothing, nothing at all.

By the middle of November, Marion had been dating Steve the accountant for just about as long as I’d been seeing Macon. And slowly, he was beginning to show his alter ego.

It started around the third or fourth date. Scarlett noticed it first, nudging me as we sat on the stairs, talking to him and waiting for Marion to come down. He always showed up in ties and oxford shirts, nice sports jackets with dress pants or chinos, and loafers with tassels. But this night, suddenly, there was something different. Around his neck, just barely visible over his tie, was a length of brown leather cord. And dangling off the cord was a circular, silver thing.

“It is not a medallion,” I hissed at Scarlett after he excused himself to go to the bathroom. “It’s just jewelry.”

“It’s a medallion,” she said again. “Did you see the symbols on it? It’s some kind of weird warrior coin.”

“Oh, stop.”

“It is. I’m telling you, Halley, it’s like his other side can’t be held down any longer. It’s starting to push out of him, bit by bit.”

“Scarlett,” I said again, “he’s an accountant.”

“He’s a freak.” She pulled her knees up to her chest. “Just you wait.”

Marion was coming down the stairs now, her dress half-zipped, reaching to put in one earring. She stopped in front of us, back to Scarlett, who stood up without being asked and zipped her.

“Marion,” she said in a low voice as we heard the toilet flush and the bathroom door open, “look at his neck.”

“At his what?” Marion said loudly as he came around the corner, neat in his sports jacket with the leather cord still visible, just barely, over his collar.

“Nothing,” Scarlett muttered. “Have a good night.”

“Thank you.” Marion leaned over and kissed Steve on the cheek. “Have you seen my purse?”

“Kitchen table,” Scarlett said easily. “Your keys are on the counter.”

“Perfect.” Marion disappeared and came back with the purse tucked under her arm. “Well, you girls have a good night. Stay out of trouble and get to bed at a decent hour.” Marion had been acting a little more motherly, more matronly, since she’d taken up with conservative warrior Steve. Maybe she was preparing to be a grandmother. We weren’t sure.

“We will,” I said.

“Gosh, give us some credit,” Scarlett said casually. “It’s not like we’re gonna go and get pregnant or anything.”

Marion shot her a look, eyes narrowed; Steve still didn’t know about the baby. After only a month and a half, Marion figured it was still a bit early to spring it on him. She still wasn’t dealing with it that well herself, anyway. She hardly ever talked about the baby, and when she did, “adoption” was always the first or last word of the sentence. Steve just stood there by the door, grinning blandly, distinctly unwarriorlike. It was my hope that he would metamorphose into Vlad, right before our eyes.