“Not really. But that is close enough to the way it happened.”
I heave a sigh. I do feel sorry for him. “I can relate. My parents sent me away to live at Hawthorne Academy when I was ten.” But to not have to keep in touch with them—this may sound horrible, but he's got the family I've always wished for.
Van holds my hand as we walk. I start to feel even more sorry for him. All of his social awkwardness is probably because instead of playing with other kids growing up, he was learning to become a soldier.
We stop in front of a flower shop. The white calla lilies in the window display catch my eye. “Most people associate those with funerals,” I say, “but my mother always taught me they represented life—that's why she named me Lily.”
“In Latin, Lily is—”
“Lilium,” I say excitedly, and Van smiles.
“Tabula rasa.”
“Blank slate? What do you mean?”
He uses the soft pad of his thumb to smooth the skin between my eyebrows. “It means also a state of innocence. That is you.”
“Oh.” My shoulders relax. I thought for a moment he was baiting me, but he was sincere.
“So, I will call you rasa, not because you are lacking, but because you are ready for new information.”
“Rasa.” I can't help but smile. “I like it. I've never had a nickname before. Unless you count my eighth grade year when some of the stoner girls started calling me lard-ass. For weeks, they stalked me up and down the hallways between classes because one of them thought I had taken her boyfriend away from her. Turns out he was done with her and was trying to make her mad by talking to me.”
“Lard ass?”
“It means I have a big butt.”
Van lifts my hand above my head and twirls me around like a dancer. His appraisal should've made me feel self-conscious, but there's something about Van that makes me trust him. “It is not big,” he says softly. “It is round as it should be. You have a nice shape. I like it.”
My mouth opens. My cheeks get hot. I don't know what to say. “Thank you? I guess.”
Van strides away from the window, taking me with him.
I feel good for the first time in a long time.
Maybe it's because Van and I are both kind of orphans, or maybe because it's close to Christmas and I can't go home (even though I don't really want to) but I feel close to Van. He's easy for me to talk to. He listens and doesn't judge. So far, this is the best day of my life, which I guess in all reality, is kinda sad because there's no future for the two of us. He's a hired gun for the major general. And I'm in high school.
Why does life have to suck?
Chapter 4
∞
As the car's headlights illuminate the gates to Hawthorne Academy, Mr. Cunningham isn't there to wave at me from his usual spot on his stool inside the gatehouse.
That's weird.
The campus isn't the way we left it either. There's no one on a blanket spread across the soft soccer field grass for gazing up at the stars. After dark like this, study sessions are usually just starting up, procrastinators milling around the vending machine hut, trying to delay the inevitable. But not tonight.
Van escorts me inside my dorm. The hallway's motion detector light comes on ahead of us, but except for the heating system, the building is eerily silent. Every door is closed. At least a song should be playing from inside one of the rooms, but no energy stirs.
That's when it hits me—Everyone's gone.
Just like the day in Berryville before everything went back to normal, that's happening here now.
I gaze up at Van's profile, which does not change. He looks straight ahead, a soldier on a mission.
My heart starts to thump against my chest.
What if he's responsible for all of this, for people disappearing? What if he spread some kind of virus around from wherever he's from? But then, why wouldn't I have it too?
Maybe I do and just don't know it. Maybe I'm just like the rest of Berryville, eerily calm, not reacting to anything around me, maybe even not aware that anything's changed. Or maybe I've watched too many science fiction movies.
“Goodnight,” he says as we stand in front of my door.
But he acts as though nothing out of the ordinary is happening. Can't he see what's going on?
“Wait. Don't you think things are a little strange out there?”
He cups my cheek, the way he did this afternoon. I don't even feel the rough callouses of his skin. All I feel is his warmth.
I know he can read it on my face, I'm powerless when it comes to him. I relax, feeling oddly close to him. “I like having you for a bodyguard,” I murmur.
“And I would like to have a family someday,” he says.
His words barely register in my mushy brain. I lift my face to his just long enough to kiss him on the cheek.
I’ve never done anything so bold. But I can't help it—feelings rush through me that I’ve never felt before.
I close my eyes and feel myself sink completely under his spell. I’m in the backyard of my home, the red bricks so familiar, so solid, so comforting. The green grass tickles the bottoms of my bare feet. My shoulders are bare beneath a bright yellow tank top and matching shorts set, the kind little girls wear in the summertime. It's got white daisies embroidered on the fabric. I'm laughing at something my father is doing. He's waving his arms above his head like a gorilla—the gorilla we saw at the zoo that day. I’m laughing and laughing. I’m so happy, something I haven't been in a very long time.
I open my eyes. I’m in bed. I vaguely recall the nightmare I had. I dreamed that everyone on campus was gone.
There's light outside. It's a new day.
I stumble from my bed to look out the window. I feel different somehow this morning, like everything's changed inside of me, and it's because of Van.
Did he say what I think he did last night? He wants a family of his own? I’ve got a family, but I don't want them. That sounds harsh, but it's true. Still, Van and I have a lot in common, and for the first time, I can relate to someone else's feelings. I feel something that humans feel all the time—happy.
I scan the campus from my window. Everything looks the same as it always does. I smile. Van is asleep in his car. A few stalwart track stars are out for a morning run, their breath billowing out in puffs of smoke. Then I realize that what I thought was a dream wasn't. It really happened. There's something's different about everyone this morning, something I can't put my finger on. But it's not my imagination.
Still warm from bed, I scoop up George, who slept next to me, and step outside in my bare feet and start walking. I don't know where I’m going, just that I have to do something. I don't feel the cold until I forget to blink and the wind hits my face and stings my eyes.
The garden beds that grace the front gates are full of bright flowers, and not just the delicate pansies that can survive winter. I’m talking azalea bushes full of blooms and daffodils sprouting their yellow cups. Even I know without ever having grown a garden in my life that that doesn't happen in December, especially in the South.
I start to feel my breath coming in and out in heavy bursts.
I'm finally ready to call my mother, who I haven't called up to now because I know what her reaction will be—she'll send a car to pick me up, no questions asked. But I wasn't ready to admit that I needed her. I am now. I want a ride home, without my bodyguard.
Somehow Van is connected to all of this. It all started right after he came. Whatever is happening here and in town is somehow he's responsible for. It's as though everyone has turned into their own version of Van—sedate, unfeeling soldiers.
It's all very wrong.
I duck behind the cafeteria building. I don't want anyone to see me. I’m afraid. Right beside the dumpster, exhaust from the oven blows hot air, a relief to my cold hands. They're baking biscuits in the kitchen. I can smell them, and my stomach growls. I hug the wall all the way to the corner and run the length of t
he sidewalk that connects to my dorm. I slip back inside unnoticed.
Once inside the relative safety of my room again, I check my phone. Still no replies from Anna. I text my mother. She always answers right back. But this time, after a minute or two, there's no reply. I phone and wait for her to answer, but she doesn't. I don't even get her voicemail.
I'm down to my last resort—It doesn’t matter to me anymore the differences between me and the big guy. I have to find out if my family is okay. I hold my breath and call the M.G.
No answer from the major general's phone either.
The cell service must be down. That's what it is. That's why no one's responding to my messages and calls—they're not getting them. That has to be it. Otherwise, my grandmother could be right. And that's just not possible. I remember what my mother said when I told her about the conversation I had with my grandmother about hell. My mother and I had a long talk about what happens after you die—the afterlife. None of what my mother said resembled in any way my grandmother's version of events. And frankly, I prefer my mother's explanation.
Whatever's going on here at Hawthorne Academy and over in Berryville could be happening at my home too. I have to find out. I have to go there and let my parents know what's happening. My stepfather is a major general in the United States Marine Corps. If anybody will know what to do, it will be him.
I throw a few things into my overnight case, pajamas, a change of clothes, my laptop, and my phone, and slip into warm clothes and boots.
It's early. If I catch the first bus, I can be home long before my parents get home from work.
It's too bad I can't trust Van not to be part of what's going on. I think I could've actually had a real boyfriend in him—that is, if he wasn't too old for me and possibly contagious. I should probably have stayed away from him all this time, but I guess I always hope things will turn out, even after they don't—that's my trouble—I'm a pessimistic optimist.
I pass through the gates, or at least think I have when a familiar voice comes from inside the gatehouse. I turn and see Mr. Cunningham back at his usual post. I smile, but he doesn't smile back.
“Where are you going, young lady?” His voice sounds suspicious.
“Mister Cunningham, it's me, Lily.” He must not be able to see me in the dim light.
“It's early. Where do you have to go that can't wait?”
I realize that he's right and that letting me go would probably cost him his job, but there's no way I'm staying here with all the weirdness, at least not until I can talk to my mother.
He steps out of the gatehouse and into the light of the lamp post. He seems different somehow. He looks the same. His clothes are the same. But there's something about the way he looks at me that's different, empty almost. He takes a step closer to me.
“I won't tell anybody that you let me go, Mister C.”
“That won't do,” he says and reaches for my arm.
I manage to dodge his hand. His expression doesn't change though. Most people, if they were intent on not letting me do what I want to do, would at least get mad, but not Mr. Cunningham.
I take off. I run as fast as I can, carrying a bag in one hand and George in the other. I don't want to be anywhere near Mr. Cunningham or the school full of strangers for another second.
I don't hear footsteps following me. I dare a look behind me. Mr. C is back inside his gatehouse, calmly sitting, holding the phone in one hand. He's looking down at something, probably reading, as if nothing at all out of the ordinary has happened. I hope he's calling my stepfather because for once, I need his help.
I can't get home fast enough.
Chapter 5
∞
Van is out there, watching me. I know it. I don't know how I know it. I just feel it—he followed me. But he hasn't made himself known yet.
One foot's falling asleep, and my heart is pounding—there's no one home except for me, and I'm waiting for someone, anyone, hopefully my mother to get home from work soon and tell me that everything's okay and fret over me for having come all the way home on my own.
Why didn't you call me, Lil? I would've picked you up at school, you know that.
Your phone wasn't working.
This darn thing! If you can't rely on it when you need it, what good is it? At least when I was your age, I could have found a phone booth, or I could have counted on the kindness of a passing stranger.
There were rapists and murderers in your day too, Mom.
I guess you're right. Come here and give me a big hug. I’m so happy to see you, sweetie.
I shift to keep my whole leg from going numb. I can see everything from up here. I've always preferred the lookout at the top of the attic to the tree house because there are no bugs here. Even though I haven't been up in my tree house in six years, I can remember the beetles and spiders that made their home there like it was yesterday. I can also picture where my real father carved his initials into the wood on the inside just to the left of the door when he finished it.
It's a tight squeeze up here in the lookout for me now compared to before I was sent away, but for the highest spot on the house, it does its job. I can see practically the whole street. I’m up here trying to get my bearings, as my stepfather sometimes says when he has to read a map because GPS isn't working. I want to observe before I decide what to do. But so far, there's nothing to observe. The grass is yellow or dormant, as my stepfather says. It normally looks like a golf course. The oaks and maple trees have lost their leaves. Everything is asleep, even the neighbors' houses, who sit far enough away that we can't see into each other’s windows. That's why my stepfather likes this neighborhood, that and the gate that goes all the way around it. The slanted roof of my bedroom is just below where I sit, and on the other end of the house, the guest bedrooms, where my grandmother lives, are down the hall from my parents' suite. On that end of the house, I can see all the way to the Apalachicola River.
My father and I used to say it would make a great trip, paddling all the way through Alabama down to Florida. If I ever made it, I’d live in Orlando just so I could go to Epcot anytime I wanted. Getting here wasn't quite as hard as going by boat down the Apalachicola would be, but it was still farther than I’ve ever gone alone before. And it took the bus a lot longer than I thought it would've.
Everything looks the same. The sign marking the city limits of Cedar Park has purple pansies growing in the bed in front of it, but the town looks empty. The bus took me as far as the middle of my neighborhood. The entrance to Burning Tree has a gatehouse just like at school, and it's empty, just like at school. It was way past lunchtime when I paid the cab to drop me off at 1211 Maple Lane. And when I walked through the door, I expected to at least see the maid service changing the sheets in the bedrooms or one of the landscapers out back mulching the azalea beds.
There's a huge open field between my house and the fork of the river. This land used to be farm land. I remember hearing my mother and father talk about it. The land is so old that there are even a few standing stones around here. Our teachers at school said that the stones were a part of ancient Druid worship sites, people who came here from Britain for religious freedom in the eighteenth century. But I looked them up. The Gavrini stones, said to be carved over five thousand years ago in Brittany, France, have mathematical codes in their symbols, like the latitude and longitude of Easter Island, the circumference of the Earth, the number of days in a year, and Pi. I wonder if the symbols on the tower back at school have those kinds of hidden meanings in them too.
Who would need to know all of that but beings from other planets in need a road map of sorts when visiting Earth?
The idea that the stones could have been landing spots for aliens has never frightened me, although I guess it should. No matter what the movies say, they can't be all good, but they can't be all bad either. If they're anything like us, we won't know until we talk to them or after it's too late.
The sun is starting to set, and I've had e
nough of sitting in the lookout. Not even a car has driven past the house in the two hours I've been home. I scoop up George, who's asleep in my lap, and climb down, hoping I’m just in time for Publix to deliver the weekly groceries or for the dry cleaning to be dropped off by Mr. Hoeft, anything or anyone I can at least talk to or set eyes on so that I’m not actually all alone here.
As I make my way downstairs, I can hear the sound of my breathing and my heartbeat. I'm the most alone I’ve ever been. This is more than Anna ducking down to the vending machine hut for study snacks and getting caught in a conversation with Robert. This is more than being the only one in the waiting room while I wait for the dentist to call my name. This is a whole town disappeared, then inexplicably reappeared. This is my whole life unrecognizable to me.
I know it seems like I’m overreacting here, but I’m all alone, I’m sixteen, I’ve only got pepper spray to defend myself, I can't get in touch with anyone over the phone, I don't know when or if my parents will be coming home, and I’ve got a bodyguard out there somewhere who could probably help me right about now if I hadn't ditched him. I'm probably going to die—alone in an apocalypse. And who'll even know?
It's been a few minutes, and I've calmed down now from my freak-out. I tried the breathing technique my clarinet teacher taught me in the seventh grade, and it worked.
I remember that I haven't eaten all day, and it's nearly five according to the kitchen clock. About this time back at school, Anna and I would be heading to the cafeteria for a tray. Today, it's carved turkey breast, mashed potatoes, roasted broccoli, and a yeast roll. There will probably be chocolate mousse pie for dessert. I can hear the silverware clanking against the pastel green trays. My mouth starts to water just thinking about it.
First, I dig a can of tuna out of the pantry and put the contents on a plate for George. He must be hungry because he gobbles the flaked fish from the bowl then laps the water.
The fridge is full as usual. My mother always says that having food ready to eat in the refrigerator is the best way to keep your diet. I pull out sliced turkey and mayo. If I can't have roast turkey, at least I can at least have a sandwich. There's even a jar of homemade cranberry relish left over from Thanksgiving. I find a loaf of whole wheat bread in the bread bowl on the counter then start to dig around the pantry. If I can't have mashed potatoes, I can at least have kettle chips to go with my turkey sandwich.
The Bodyguard: an alien romance Page 6
