by Meg Cabot
“Hey, Mike,” I said easily. “You okay? No permanent injury?”
He said with a smile that I suppose he meant to match mine, but which was actually pretty wan, “No permanent injury. Except to my pride.”
In an effort to diffuse some of the nervous energy in the room, I flopped down onto one of my mom’s armchairs—the one with the Pottery Barn slipcover she was always yelling at the dog for sleeping on—and said, “Hey, it wasn’t your fault the mall authority did a shoddy job of hanging up their mardi gras decorations.”
I watched him carefully to see how he replied. Did he know? I wondered.
Michael sank into the armchair across from mine. “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “I meant that I’m ashamed of the way I acted today. Instead of thanking you, I—well, I behaved ungraciously, and I just came by to apologize. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
He didn’t know. He didn’t know why that puppet had come down on him, or he was the best damned actor I’d ever seen.
“Um,” I said. “Sure. I forgive you. No problem.”
Oh, but it was a problem. To Michael, it was apparently a great big problem.
“It’s just that—” Michael got up out of the chair and started pacing around the living room. Our house is the oldest one in the neighborhood—there’s even a bullet hole in one of the walls, left over from when Jesse had been alive, when our house was a haven for gamblers and gold rushers and fiancés on their way to meet their brides. Andy had rebuilt it almost from scratch—except for the bullet hole, which he’d framed—but the floorboards still creaked a little under Michael’s feet as he paced.
“It’s just that something happened to me this weekend,” Michael said to the fireplace, “and ever since then…well, strange things have been happening.”
So he did know. He knew something, anyway. This was a relief. It meant I didn’t have to tell him.
“Things like that puppet falling down on you?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
“Yeah,” Michael said. “And other things, too.” He shook his head. “But I don’t want to burden you with my problems. I feel bad enough about what happened.”
“Hey,” I said with a shrug. “You were shaken up. It’s understandable. No hard feelings. Listen, about what happened to you this weekend, do you want to—”
“No.” Michael, usually the quietest of people, spoke with a forcefulness I’d never heard him use before. “It’s not understandable,” he said vehemently. “It’s not understandable, and it’s not excusable, either. Suze, you already—I mean, that thing with Brad earlier today—”
I stared at him blankly. I had no idea what he was getting at. Although, looking back on it, I should have. I really should have.
“And then when you saved my life at the mall…It’s just that I was trying so hard, you know, to show you that that’s not who I am—the kind of guy who needs a girl to fight his battles for him. And then you did it again….”
My mouth dropped open. This was not going at all the way it was supposed to go.
“Michael,” I began, but he held up a hand.
“No,” he said. “Let me finish. It’s not that I’m not grateful, Suze. It’s not that I don’t appreciate what you’re trying to do for me. It’s just that…I really like you, and if you would agree to go out with me this Friday night, I’ll show you that I am not the sniveling coward I’ve acted like so far in our relationship.”
I stared at him. It was as if the gears in my mind had slowed suddenly to a halt. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t think what to do. All I could think was, Relationship? What relationship?
“I’ve already asked your father,” Michael said from where he stood in the center of our living room. “And he said it was all right as long as you were home by eleven.”
My father? He’d asked my father? I had a sudden picture of Michael talking to my dad, who’d died over a decade earlier, but who frequently shows up in ghost form to torture me about my bad driving skills, and other things like that. He’d have gotten an enormous kick, I knew, out of Michael—one I’d never likely hear the end of.
“Your stepfather, I mean,” Michael corrected himself, as if he’d read my thoughts.
But how could he have read my thoughts when they were in such confusion? Because this was wrong. It was all wrong. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. Michael was supposed to tell me about the car accident, and then I would say, in a kind voice, that I already knew. Then I’d warn him about the ghosts, and he either wouldn’t believe me, or he’d be eternally grateful, and that would be the end of it—except, of course, I’d still have to find the RLS Angels and quell their murderous wrath before they managed to get their mitts on him again.
That’s how it was supposed to go. He wasn’t supposed to ask me out. Asking me out was not part of the program. At least, it had never gone like that before.
I opened my mouth—not in astonishment this time, but to say, Gee, no, Michael, I’m sorry, but I’m busy this Friday…and every Friday for the rest of my life, incidentally—when a familiar voice beside me said, quickly, “Think before you say no, Susannah.”
I turned my head, and saw Jesse sitting in the armchair Michael had vacated.
“He needs your help, Susannah,” Jesse went on, swiftly, in his deep, low voice. “He is in very grave danger from the spirits of those he killed—however accidentally. And you are not going to be able to protect him from a distance. If you alienate him now, he’ll never let you close enough to help him later when he’s really going to need you.”
I narrowed my eyes at Jesse. I couldn’t say anything to him, of course, because Michael would hear me and think I was talking to myself, or worse. But what I really wanted to say was, Look, this is taking everything a little too far, don’t you think?
But I couldn’t say that. Because, I realized, Jesse was right. The only way I was going to be able to keep an eye on the Angels was by keeping an eye on Michael.
I heaved a sigh, and said, “Yeah, okay. Friday’s fine.”
I won’t describe what Michael said after that. The whole thing was just too excruciatingly embarrassing for words. I tried to remind myself that this was probably what Bill Gates was like in high school, and look at him now. I bet all the girls who knew him back then are really kicking themselves now for having turned down his invitations to prom, or whatever.
But to tell you the truth, it didn’t do much good. Even if he had a trillion dollars like Bill Gates, I still wouldn’t let Michael Meducci put his tongue in my mouth.
Michael left eventually, and I made my way grumpily back up the stairs—well, after enduring an interrogation from my mother, who came out as soon as she heard the front door close and demanded to know who Michael’s parents were, where he lived, where we’d be going on our date, and why wasn’t I more excited? A boy had asked me out!
Returning at last to my room, I noticed that Gina was back. She was lying on the daybed, pretending to read a magazine and acting like she had no idea where I’d been. I walked over, snatched it away from her, and hit her over the head with it a few times.
“Okay, okay,” she said, throwing her arms up over her head and giggling. “So I know already. Did you say yes?”
“What was I supposed to say?” I demanded, flopping down onto my own bed. “He was practically crying.”
Even as I said it, I felt disloyal. Michael’s eyes, behind the lenses of his glasses, had been very bright, it was true. But he had not actually been crying. I was pretty sure.
“Oh my God,” Gina said to the ceiling. “I can’t believe you’re going out with a geek.”
“Yeah,” I said, “well, you haven’t exactly been exercising much discrimination lately yourself, G.”
Gina rolled over onto her stomach and looked at me seriously. “Jake’s not as bad as you think, Suze,” she said. “He’s actually very sweet.”
I summed up the situation in one word: “Ew.”
Gina, with a laugh, r
olled onto her back again. “Well, so what?” she asked. “I’m on vacation. It’s not like it could possibly go anywhere anyway.”
“Just promise me,” I said, “that you aren’t going to…I don’t know. Get full frontal with one of them, or anything.”
Gina just grinned some more. “What about you and the geek? You two going to be doing any lip-locking?”
I picked up one of the pillows from my bed and threw it at her. She sat up and caught it with a laugh. “What’s the matter?” she wanted to know. “Isn’t he The One?”
I leaned back against the rest of my pillows. Outside, I heard the familiar thump of Spike’s four paws hitting the porch roof. “What one?” I asked.
“You know,” Gina said. “The One. The one the psychic talked about.”
I blinked at her. “What psychic? What are you talking about?”
Gina said, “Oh, come on. Madame Zara. Remember? We went to her at that school fair in like the sixth grade. And she told you about being a mediator.”
“Oh.” I lay perfectly still. I was worried that if I moved or said anything much, I would reveal more than I wanted to. Gina knew…but only a little. Not enough to really understand.
At least, that’s what I thought then.
“You don’t remember what else she said?” Gina demanded. “About you, I mean? About how you were only going to have one love in your life, but that it was going to last until the end of time?”
I stared at the lace trim of the canopy that hung over my bed. I said, my throat gone mysteriously dry, “I don’t remember that.”
“Well, I don’t think you heard much of what she said after that bit about you being a mediator. You were in shock. Oh, look. Here comes that…cat.”
Gina avoided, I noticed, supplying any descriptives for Spike, who climbed in through the open window, then stalked over to his food bowl and cried to be fed. Apparently, the memory of what had happened the last time she’d called the cat a name—the thing with the fingernail polish—was still fresh in Gina’s mind. As fresh, apparently, as what that psychic had said all those years ago.
One love that would last until the end of time.
I realized, as I picked up Spike’s bag of food, that my palms had broken out into a cold sweat.
“Wouldn’t you die,” Gina asked, “if it turned out your one true love was Michael Meducci?”
“Totally,” I replied, automatically.
But it wasn’t. If it was true—and I had no reason to doubt it, since Madame Zara had been right about the mediator thing, the only person in the world with the exception of Father Dominic, who had ever guessed—then I knew perfectly well who it was.
And it wasn’t Michael Meducci.
Chapter
Seven
Not that Michael didn’t try.
The next morning he was waiting for me in the parking lot as Gina, Sleepy, Dopey, Doc, and I stumbled out of the Rambler and started making our way toward our various lines for assembly. Michael asked if he could carry my books. Telling myself that the RLS Angels could show up at any time and attempt to murder him again, I let him. Better to keep an eye on him, I thought, than to let him wander into God only knew what.
Still, it wasn’t all that fun. Behind us, Dopey kept doing a very convincing imitation of someone throwing up.
And later, at lunch, which I traditionally spend with Adam and CeeCee—though this particular day, since Gina was in our midst, we had been joined by her groupies, Sleepy, Dopey, and about a half dozen boys I didn’t know, each of whom was vying desperately for Gina’s attention—Michael asked if he could join us. Again, I had no choice but to say yes.
And then when, strolling toward the Rambler after school, it was suggested that we use the next four or five hours of daylight to its best advantage by doing our homework at the beach, Michael must have been nearby. How else could he have known to show up at Carmel Beach, beach chair in tow, an hour later?
“Oh, God,” Gina said from her beach towel. “Don’t look now, but your one true love approach-eth.”
I looked. And stifled a groan. And rolled over to make room for him.
“Are you mental?” CeeCee demanded, which was an interesting question coming from her, considering the fact that she was seated in the shade of a beach umbrella—no big deal, and perfectly understandable, considering the number of times she’d been taken to the hospital with sun poisoning.
But she was also wearing a rain hat—the brim of which she’d pulled well down—long pants, and a long-sleeved T. Gina, stretched out in the sun beside her like a Nubian princess, had lifted a casual brow and inquired, “Who are you supposed to be? Gilligan?”
“I mean it, Suze,” CeeCee said as Michael came nearer. “You better nip this one in the bud, and fast.”
“I can’t,” I grumbled, shifting my textbooks over in the sand to make room for Michael and his beach chair.
“What do you mean, you can’t?” CeeCee inquired. “You had no trouble telling Adam to get lost these past two months. Not,” she added, her gaze straying toward the waves where all the guys, including Adam, were surfing, “that I don’t appreciate it.”
“It’s a long story,” I said.
“I hope you aren’t doing it because you feel sorry for him about that whole thing with his sister,” CeeCee said grumpily. “Not to mention those dead kids.”
“Shut up, will you,” I said. “He’s coming.”
And then he was there, dropping his stuff all over the place, spilling cold soda on Gina’s back, and taking an inordinately long time to figure out how his beach chair worked. I bore it as well as I could, telling myself, You are all that is keeping him from becoming a geek pancake.
But I gotta tell you, it was sort of hard to believe, out there in the sun, that anything bad—like vengeance-minded ghosts—even existed. Everything was just so…right.
At least until Adam, claiming he needed a break—but really, I noticed, taking the opportunity to plunge down into the sand next to us and show off his four or five chest hairs—threw down his board. Then Michael looked up from his calculus book—he was taking senior math and science classes—and said, “Mind if I borrow that?”
Adam, the easiest-going of men, shrugged and said, “Be my guest. Wave face is kinda flat, but you might be able to pick off some clean ones. Water’s cold, though. Better take my suit.”
Then, as Gina, CeeCee, and I watched with mild interest, Adam unzipped his wetsuit, stepped out of it and, dressed only in swim trunks, handed the black rubber thing to Michael, who promptly removed his glasses and stripped off his shirt.
One of Gina’s hands whipped out and seized my wrist. Her fingernails bit into my skin.
“Oh my God,” she breathed.
Even CeeCee, I noticed with a quick glance, was staring, completely transfixed, at Michael Meducci as he stepped into Adam’s wetsuit and zipped it up.
“Would you,” he asked, dropping to one knee on the sand beside me, “hang onto these?”
He slipped his glasses into my hands. I had a chance to look into his eyes, and noticed for the first time that they were a very deep, very bright blue.
“Sure thing,” I heard myself murmur.
He smiled. Then he got back to his feet, picked up Adam’s board and, with a polite nod to us girls, trudged out into the waves.
“Oh my God,” Gina said again.
Adam, who’d collapsed into the sand beside CeeCee, leaned up on an elbow and demanded, “What?”
When Michael had joined Sleepy, Dopey, and their other friends in the surf, Gina turned her face slowly toward mine. “Did you see that?” she asked.
I nodded dumbly.
“But that—that—” CeeCee stammered. “That defies all logic.”
Adam sat up. “What are you guys talking about?” he wanted to know.
But we could only shake our heads. Speech was impossible.
Because it turned out that Michael Meducci, underneath his pocket protector, was totally and
completely buff.
“He must,” CeeCee ventured, “work out like three hours a day.”
“More like five,” Gina murmured.
“He could bench press me,” I said, and both CeeCee and Gina nodded in agreement.
“Are you guys,” Adam demanded, “talking about Michael Meducci?”
We ignored him. How could we not? For we had just seen a god—pasty-skinned, it was true, but perfect in every other way.
“All he needs,” Gina breathed, “is to come out from behind that computer once in a while and get a little color.”
“No,” I said. I couldn’t bear the thought of that perfectly sculpted body marred by skin cancer. “He’s fine the way he is.”
“Just a little color,” Gina said again. “I mean, SPF 15 and he’ll still get a little brown. That’s all he needs.”
“No,” I said again.
“Suze is right,” CeeCee said. “He’s perfect the way he is.”
“Oh my God,” Adam said, flopping back disgustedly into the sand. “Michael Meducci. I can’t believe you guys are talking that way about Michael Meducci.”
But how could we help it? He was perfection. Okay, so he wasn’t the best surfer. That, we realized, while we watched him get tossed off Adam’s board by a fairly small wave that Sleepy and Dopey rode with ease, would have been asking for too much.
But in every other way, he was one hundred percent genuine hottie.
At least until he was knocked over by a middling to large-size wave and did not resurface.
At first we were not alarmed. Surfing was not something I particularly wanted to try—while I love the beach, I have no affection at all for the ocean. In fact, quite the opposite: The water scares me because there’s no telling what else is swimming around in all that murky darkness. But I had watched Sleepy and Dopey ride enough waves to know that surfers often disappear for long moments, only to come popping up yards away, usually flashing a big grin and an OK sign with their thumb and index finger.
But the wait for Michael to come popping up seemed longer than usual. We saw Adam’s board shoot out of a particularly large wave, and head, riderless, toward the shore. Still no sign of Michael.
