by Allie Burton
How did Mother always manage to sidetrack me? “Aunty called yesterday and told me to keep the package she sent safe.”
“She must’ve sent you a valuable gift.” Mother’s voice grew thick with envy. She’d always been jealous of mine and my aunt’s closeness. “What was it?”
“I don’t think—”
“Never mind. I don’t care.” But she did care, I could tell by her dismissive tone. “You’re supposed to prove to us you’re responsible. Add keeping your aunt’s gift safe to the list.”
“Mother.” I bit down on my lip, holding in frustration. “When I was talking to Aunty, we weren’t simply disconnected. There was a loud noise—a crash or a bomb or a gun. I heard fear in her voice.”
“Aunty Neffy always had a vivid imagination. Just like you.” Mother made both of us into silly little girls. “I’ve got to go, Cleopatra darling. Kiss, kiss.” Mother disconnected.
My chin dropped. Unbelievable. Mother never listened. I wanted to scream.
With calm and control, I spoke into the disconnected phone, “Kiss, kiss to you, too.”
I shoved the phone into my coat pocket and picked up my pace. The fog was thicker, denser, hiding the residence hall from view. The only sounds were the light swish of the wind and the tap of my feet. I was alone in the world.
Or at least the campus.
A slight noise scratched. Footsteps on sharp grass.
My pulse jumped. Glancing behind me, I listened. Heard nothing.
The fog closed in around me. The library and the school buildings seemed to have disappeared. Only white and dampness. And me.
I walked faster. Blood throbbed through my veins and beat in tune with my rapid steps. “You’re just imagining danger, like Mother said. It’s nothing.”
My whispered words didn’t make me feel better.
Where was the confident girl I’d seen in the mirror yesterday? Obviously my self-assuredness hadn’t come from the gold knotted rope, because I wore the rope under my coat, tied around my neck in a jaunty scarf design.
I swiftly turned the corner around the intimidating administration building, with its sleek and sterile design. The residence hall wasn’t much farther. I’d be fine.
A branch cracked. A muffled curse.
I halted. My heart sounded louder than the strange noises. It pumped and pumped, pounding my fear.
My ears perked. Again, only silence.
Continuing at a slight jog, my backpack slapped against my back. There was another noise, too.
Steps. Moving faster. Moving in my direction.
Someone was following me.
Panic squeaked in my lungs. I took a sharp right toward the back entrance of the residence hall and ran into something solid. Thick arms wrapped around me. The squeaking in my chest morphed into an all-out force, a yell unable to escape. The pressure in my lungs built. I opened my mouth to scream.
A large hand covered my mouth, forcing me to swallow the scream. A scream swirling into my body and setting my nerves into a frenzied terror. My thoughts shotgunned to the men with the weird weapons yesterday morning and what had happened to the delivery guy.
Would I be evaporated, too?
Chapter Three
Cleo
The manacle arms tightened, pulling me closer. I felt a tug at my throat. He was going to slash my neck and leave me for dead.
The terror whirling inside twisted into tornado-forced fear. The whipping provided adrenaline and strength. Strength I used to react. To fight. I shoved my arms between us and placed my hands on the solid chest in front of me. Pushed. “Let me go!”
My attacker froze. He let his arms drop from my waist and widened the space between us. “Sorry, I didn’t see you.”
Edgy, I kept my quivering arms up in a protective stance. Although, against his brawny body my feeble attempt at self-defense wouldn’t do much good.
“Excuse me?” I used my you-are-beneath-me tone. “You bumped into me, manhandled me, and now you’re pretending you didn’t see me?” The way he’d accosted me, it was as if he was searching for something, or wanted to cop a feel.
Pique pulled me past the fear. An attacker wouldn’t apologize, would they?
“With the dark and the fog,” he swirled a strong hand in the air. “I can’t see much of anything.” His voice drew me in, wove a spell of intrigue. His soft voice had a spine of steel.
Because we were close but not touching, I could see him. He had black hair that glistened with moisture from the fog. Dusky skin, highlighting sharp, green eyes. Sculpted cheek bones, and a chin like a statue. Like a prizefighter who’d lost the prize.
I shook myself out of his trance. Pulling back, I tried to soothe my shaking limbs. To act brave. “Well, you should have seen me.”
Then again, I’d taken the corner fast, afraid of being followed. And run into more trouble, instead.
“I thought you were a shadow.” His emerald gaze swept over me, assessing. The path his glance took left a tingly trail. “Has anyone else said that to you recently? That they didn’t see you?”
His comment hit an arrow close to my heart. People not seeing me, ignoring me, was the story of my life.
“Um, no.” I gaped at my bright-red leather jacket, pressed jeans, and up-to-my-knee boots. Not difficult to see, even in the dark.
“Sorry, again.” He gave a slight bow, and his black jacket opened to reveal a ratty sweatshirt stretching across wide shoulders and broad chest. “I’m Antony.” An accent I couldn’t identify sounded stronger when he pronounced his name.
I snorted. “Antony?” Not Anthony. Or Tony. “As in Antony and Cleopatra?”
Couldn’t be. Any attraction I’d felt for this guy shut down. With my name, I could never date a guy named Antony. We’d be laughed out of the relationship.
“Yes.” With his dark hair and dusky skin, he could’ve been transported from Egypt. He wore black—matching shades, unlike the guys with the weird guns. Still, something about him reminded me of them.
An uncontrolled shiver rocked me. “Do you go to Exeter Academy?”
His eyelids flickered. “Yes.”
I would’ve remembered him if I’d seen him before. His distinctive looks, the sharp angles of his face, the bulky-toned body which I’d felt when I’d pushed against his chest, the strong arms. Different, dangerous, mysterious. I didn’t need any distractions, especially one as hot as Antony. “Well, see ya around.”
His expression flashed disappointment before he schooled his features to bland.
Disappointed in me or my response? Maybe he felt the same spark of attraction when we’d touched—after I realized he wasn’t attacking me. Not going to happen. I would never date a guy named Antony and, besides, I’d be going home soon.
I spied around to see if I could locate anyone else nearby. For example, the person who had been following me. Must’ve been my imagination.
“I need to get back to Henderson Hall.” I twisted my fingers together. I should go, needed to go. Something or someone was holding me back.
“Sure. I’ll see you around.” He quirked a teasing grin. “Or I won’t. See you, that is.”
* * *
The next day, I picked a seat in front of the class so I wouldn’t need to walk a long way down the aisle to get up on stage and give my presentation. Sinking into the hard wooden chair, I took out my notes with trembling hands. Scarab beetles scratched in my stomach, pushing gigantic dung balls, making me sick. The strange analogy stopped the whirring in my stomach and the thoughts in my head.
The intimidating lecture-style room filled with students. A couple of kids from my hall entered. They didn’t notice me sitting in the front. Not my usual place during AP European History class. Normally, I sat in the back and rarely paid attention.
The last couple of weeks I’d been good. Attending my classes, doing my homework, studying for tests. My mid-semester progress report would prove to my parents I’d changed. They’d notice the difference and bring me
home.
Smoothing the creases of my deep-blue jeans, I’d chosen my outfit with care. The aqua sweater was simple and sophisticated. Something that said smart and polished. Something that said I cared about this class. Something that would be noticed and remembered. The gold knotted rope I’d tied around my waist, adding the perfect statement piece. Wearing the rope gave me confidence.
Mr. Bartlett strode down the aisle and tapped the podium with long, bony fingers. “Good morning, students.”
The rustling in the room calmed and the students paid attention.
“Today we start the historical country presentations.” He grinned like a baboon about to devour dinner. “You chose your date to present. I choose the order. So not to keep you in suspense, the order for today is William Yang, Cleopatra Carruthers…”
I was second. I’d wanted to go first. Make an impression. Set the bar. And get the presentation done.
Mr. Bartlett gave an exaggerated bow to the first student on stage. He helped William turn on the computer sitting on the podium and slip a thumb drive inside. The whiteboard brightened and the presentation began.
I tried to listen, but the scarab beetles scuttled faster. Twisting the rope between my fingers as if it was a worry bead, I chanted in my head.
The presentation will be great. You’ll strut like on a catwalk. You’ll get a great grade.
I pictured myself standing on a throne instead of a stage. Of wearing the cobra crown my aunt had sent. Except the gold was real. Of bright sunlight beating over thousands of black-haired people who stood in the dust below the throne, admiring me. Of being queen and how right it felt. I didn’t need to rule the runways when I ruled a country.
Applause woke me from the daydream.
Disoriented, I found myself again surrounded by modern-day students in the amphitheater classroom with the hard wooden chairs and fluorescent lights.
“Thank you, William.” Mr. Bartlett stepped to the podium. His dark hair had aged to a dignified gray and he wore a tweed jacket. Mrs. Bartlett needed to modernize his wardrobe. “Next up is Cleopatra Carruthers.”
I stood, pinching my thumb drive and notecards in my hand. “CC.”
I’d been asking him to call me CC since the first day of class. I turned in my papers with that name. I spoke to him at office hours about the nickname I’d liked to be called. He didn’t listen. Typical.
The rest of the students were restless. They whispered and glanced around. They knew I wanted to be called CC.
With quaking knees, I made my way up the steps of the stage. I felt nothing like the confident woman on the throne of my imagination.
Mr. Bartlett stood in front of the podium. His narrowed gaze peered into the class of about forty students. “Cleopatra Carruthers, are you here?”
Um, yeah. I was practically standing in front of him. I cleared my throat and proceeded across the stage toward the podium.
“Students, you chose the day of your presentation.” Mr. Bartlett’s tone preached as if on a pulpit exposing the dangers of sin. “Which means the day you signed up is the day your project is due. There will be no extensions.”
Why was he lecturing us now? We knew this.
The beetles in my stomach sprouted wings and flew. I set my notecards near his elbow on the podium.
His disgusted expression curled into a sneer. “Last call for Cleopatra Carruthers?”
“I’m right here.” I waved my hand in front of his face while studying the rest of the class.
Why weren’t they reacting? Laughing at our absent-minded and obviously blind teacher?
The beetle wings brushed my brain, causing confusion. “Hello? Mr. Bartlett? I’m here and ready to present.”
He didn’t glance my way.
I moved in front of the podium blocking his view to the rest of the kids. “Mr. Bartlett. I’m right here. Standing in front of you.”
“I’m disappointed in Ms. Carruthers.” He didn’t respond, staring straight ahead.
My heart squeezed, sending an aching pain throughout my ribs. My parents made me feel invisible all the time. I had to do something to get his attention.
I waved my hands again. I jumped up and down.
“What’s that stomping noise?” The wrinkles on his face scrunched in confusion. He studied the spot on the stage where I stood, yet didn’t see me.
Confused, I scanned the other students. Not a grin on anyone’s faces. No pointing, or recognition I was here. Standing in front of everyone.
The pain in my lungs flashed into strikes of panic and frazzled to my nerve endings. Nerve endings fraying like the edges of the golden rope. Frayed apart into separate ends. What was going on?
Taking a deep breath, I put my hands in the air, spun sideways and did a cartwheel on the stage. Not a good cartwheel. An embarrassing cartwheel that should’ve gotten a laugh or at least a snicker.
The students slumped in their chairs. A few of their gazes darted around. No reaction to my antics. No reaction to me.
My nerve endings sizzled, shocked by the students’ non-response.
Mr. Bartlett slammed his grading book closed. “No Cleopatra? She gets an F for the project and is marked as absent.”
My shoulders slumped as his words sunk in, sinking my hopes. He couldn’t do that to me. “What? No!”
One more missed class and I’d be kicked out of school. I’d already been put on probation. When I’d first started at Exeter Academy in January I’d been furious at my parents for sending me here and refused to attend classes. I didn’t do any homework and missed quizzes and tests.
The teachers had tried to counsel me. The headmaster had called me into his office and threatened expulsion, which was what I’d wanted. My parents had donated a bunch of money and had soothed the administrators. Me, they’d taken to task. Yelled at me that if I got expelled from Exeter Academy I’d end up in public school, or in a juvenile reform school.
I thought they’d been joking, using the threat to scare me. One harmless prank at my last private school, starting a small fire which set off an explosion in the science lab, and they’d been embarrassed and furious.
And here I was in wet, cold, and foggy San Francisco, far from my friends and family. Far from real culture and fashion. My parents didn’t pay attention to me when I lived in the same house; being on the other side of the country, they forgot I existed.
I stiffened my spine and firmed my lips. We’d made a deal. I’d improve my grades, attend classes, and prove I’d changed, and I’d get to go home for the next school year. And I’d been doing that. I’d worked hard, made up the missing assignments for partial credit, studied so much my brain hurt, and attended all my classes.
Like this one.
I was here, and yet being marked absent.
My chest tightened and pain ripped from my center. My effort wasted because one stupid teacher wouldn’t listen. Wouldn’t see me.
“Susan Smith, you’re up.” Mr. Bartlett announced.
“No!” I ripped the grading book from Mr. Bartlett’s hands and tossed it on the ground.
His surprised expression didn’t make me feel better. He glanced around, searching for the culprit. Bending down, he went to pick up the book.
I kicked him in his butt. “Don’t ignore me!”
He fell to the floor.
The students snickered. They pointed and laughed.
My cheeks heated, and I cringed. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.
I reached out to help him. “I’m soooo sorry.”
Mr. Bartlett wasn’t looking at me. He was looking through me. He couldn’t see me and couldn’t blame me for the kick.
Swiveling back toward the audience, I jumped up and down again. A few students peered at the spot where I stood. Not at me. I squished my lips together and made a funny face. I stuck my thumbs in my ears and waggled my fingers.
No one reacted.
Emptiness swallowed the wish inside that I’d finally be recognized. My biggest fear ha
d come true. Not only couldn’t my parents see me, no one could see me. Hope faded like my body.
I was invisible.
Chapter Four
Antony
Waiting in a stone alcove, Antony observed Cleopatra storm from the classroom building. He didn’t wonder why she’d left class early. He knew. She was invisible to everyone except him, and the snobby, rich girl had finally figured it out.
Her lengthy stride showcased her long legs covered in perfectly-pressed jeans. Who ironed their jeans? Her sable hair tied up in a black ribbon flew over the backpack she carried. Her gray eyes narrowed into slits.
His pulse palpitated. Even in anger she was beautiful.
Beautiful and dangerous.
He’d known women similar to her before. With beauty and power and anger. He’d known a specific woman with the exact same name, who’d abused her power and her servants. Believed her word was law and everyone was beneath her, meant to serve her.
The remembrances pressed on him like the heavy blocks of a pyramid. Chained him to a past he hated.
So much like this modern girl.
She’d been disappointed in him when they’d met. A soft blow to his ego. He’d seen it in her expression. After following her for several days, he’d learned to interpret every gesture. Today, he’d upgraded his old sweatshirt to a nice black sweater and clean black jeans because she’d judged him by his clothes.
Not that he cared. He couldn’t care. About this girl or any other. Never again would he care. He’d learned his lesson in his ancient past.
He was doing his duty. First, waiting for Cleopatra to receive the Knot of Uset. Now, waiting for an opportunity to take the package from her. He’d mistimed the original theft with the delivery guy. He couldn’t mistime anything again. It was a good thing she wasn’t attracted to him, nor him to her, because he was only here to take what he wanted.
Staying a few feet behind, he followed, appreciating the way her butt wiggled back and forth in an enticing way. How her silky brown hair had black-as-midnight roots. How he wanted to run his fingers through the strands to see if they felt as silky as they appeared.
