by Gwen Hayes
A new song pierced the night air. In the thrall of the music there was no escape, not for me, but still I walked slowly, each step carefully choreographed, wary of stirring up anything like the birds I’d encountered earlier. I wrapped my arms around myself, with no other protection from the chill or the razor-sharp branches. I didn’t really want to be there. My fascination with Haden Black notwithstanding, the nocturnal adventures scared me. I shouldn’t have been so lucid if I were only dreaming. And if I were sleepwalking outside, I worried I could really hurt myself.
I think Father knew all along that I had the capacity for this kind of trouble. That must be why he’d always tried to tamp down my natural inclination towards being free-spirited like my mother. Maybe he was right to try and stifle this predilection—just look what I’d done when left to my own devices.
The lure of the maze’s center pulled me too strongly to be denied, like an echo of my own heartbeat. When I reached the clearing, I searched for my host—half hoping and half dreading his reappearance. On a dais, the same faceless quartet played their haunting, moody song. In front of them, a ballroom floor of sorts showcased pairs of ghoulish dancers. They were costumed in silks and lace, the ladies’ hair in elaborate updos and cascading curls. The gentlemen, all very graceful, were also decked out in formal wear of black tuxedos with jewel-toned cummerbunds and ties.
But their faces . . . each was unique in a completely horrible way. Some were fleshless skeletons, bones with empty sockets. Others were worse, with one feature malformed or missing completely. Noses like beaks, mouths where noses should be, eyes set too far apart—and yet they danced beautifully, as if they were enchanting and not horrifying. As if it were perfectly normal that a gaping mouth should open to two sets of gnarled teeth.
I wished I could unsee the dancers and their morbid expressions. So far nobody had even glanced at me, a fact I was grateful for. Then the dancers parted as if invisible walls had moved them away from the middle.
Him.
My pulse pounded so hard, my skin rippled. I tried to breathe in deeper, but I couldn’t fill my lungs with enough air. It was as if he commanded all the oxygen, like a vacuum or a black hole. Around him, his cheerful ghouls danced merrily.
Tonight he wore a top hat, which he removed with a flourish when he bowed, reminding me of a wicked Mr. Darcy. He was definitely mischievous—and dangerous. Due to my strict upbringing, my etiquette was impeccable, so of course I curtsied in return and then felt stupid and childish.
The heaving of my chest suddenly embarrassed me. I didn’t wear a bra to bed and his smile suggested that he could see that very well from his spot in the middle of the parquet floor. Crossing my arms over my chest would have been even more obvious, so instead I stood still. Very, very still.
I swallowed as he replaced his hat and slowly paraded past his morbid partiers. They smiled at him adoringly—at least it was similar to smiling—and quickly filled in the middle, never missing a step of their intricate waltz.
Haden stopped in front of me, the material of his formal black suit shimmering like the night sky. “Theia, a pleasure to have you in our company once again.”
His voice caused rolling shivers up and down my spine. “Who are you?”
In response, he only smiled while his gaze roamed my body.
“I saw you today . . . at school.”
He cocked his head. “Did you, now? Would you like to dance?”
He stepped towards me, and I instinctively moved back a step.
“No.” I shook my head, and he laughed the way adults laugh when a child amuses them. Despite the chill in my bones, my skin flushed white-hot. “I don’t . . . dance. I don’t know how anyway.”
“Then we shall teach you. You of all humans should be a wonderful dancer.”
“Humans?”
“Forgive me. I slipped, didn’t I?” He gave an exaggerated shrug. “Still, dancing will be natural to someone like you.”
“What do you mean, someone like me?”
“I’ve heard your violin, Theia. It sings like an angel in your hands.”
Had he been to a concert? Had I seen him before, and that was why I dreamt about him before I met him? Though that explanation seemed safer than any others I’d conjured, I knew it wasn’t real. None of this would be explained by easy coincidence, and that knowledge made me shiver.
I swallowed around the fear that had settled like a ball in my throat. “Playing music and dancing to music are two different talents . . . Haden.”
He pretended he didn’t hear me say his name. “Nonsense. Two different instruments, perhaps.”
“I’m not an instrument.”
Haden stared at my lips until I felt them tingle. “You pluck music from your soul and feed it to your violin.”
“But—”
He circled me. The heat that trailed him wrapped around me like ribbons, as did his scent. I tried to place the spice but couldn’t name it.
The second time around, I followed him. As if there were a Maypole between us, we circled slowly, our eyes locked.
“Hold your arms out to the sides.” I did his bidding without thought. “Look into my eyes and move with me,” he commanded.
He didn’t touch me like the other couples waltzing, yet he moved to the same steps they did, graceful and lithe. And I moved with him, tenuously at first. His eyes anchored my spirit to his, and my body followed along.
Still without touching, we relaxed our arms and faced each other palm to palm as we moved into the throng. The energy between our hands sparked, charging the air around us and causing the hair on the back of my neck to rise.
And I danced.
The sensation of my spirit’s freedom should have overwhelmed me, undone me. But I danced. I didn’t care that I wore a white cotton nightgown at a formal boogeyman ball. I didn’t care that I danced with the devil. Instead of sensible fear, I rejoiced at the physical freedom I’d never known.
And I fed the music to my body.
It was not so different from when I lost myself in my songs, except that I felt it in more than my heart and head. My body felt so alive. I could feel the blood flowing through my veins, keeping rhythm with the percussion of the orchestra.
The menacing connection between Haden and me strengthened. As long as I looked into his eyes, I knew exactly where his next step would take me. My heart stuttered briefly, and when it regained its rhythm I knew it had synced its beat to his.
The expression on his face softened and appeared to me unguarded for the first time. “Did you feel that?” he whispered.
“Yes,” I replied. How had I not seen how young he looked before? He was no older than me. And certainly not menacing.
“Don’t.” His curt voice cut into me as if he’d just called me a name.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t fall under.” He closed his eyes and turned his head away, breaking the link.
I tumbled through darkness, awakening in my own bed with a stranger’s heart beating in my chest.
Amelia had a plan.
It was awful.
We’d been sitting at our usual bench in the cafeteria. As per unspoken custom, I’d given my sensible, nourishing, homemade lunch to Donny in exchange for her cafeteria hot lunch. She thought I was weird, but I never got to have greasy American food anywhere near my father.
And then, holding a folded piece of notebook paper in her hand, Ame blurted out her brand-new plot to hook Mike Matheny, the object of her undying love.
Donny grabbed said plan out of Ame’s hands and looked at it in disgust. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Donny asked her. “Quit pretending you are seven and just go tell him you want to jump him. Stop messing around with notes.”
Ame grabbed the paper back from Donny. “It’s not a note. It’s a poem. Everything is not about sex, you know. Haven’t you ever wanted romance in your life?”
“Not if it means I tread the same three feet of water for four years.” Donny and Am
elia argued like an old married couple, but there was never any venom in it. That was part of their charm. Donny hugged Ame with one arm. “Sweetie, you know I adore you. You are beautiful, funny, and smart. Any guy would be lucky to have you. If Mike Matheny hasn’t figured that out by now, he’s not smart enough to be with you.”
I hugged Amelia from the other side. “You really are beautiful, funny, and smart. And I really like your poem too.”
“So you guys don’t think I should give him the poem?”
Donny groaned and pretended to throw herself on the table and bang her head.
I squeezed Ame’s shoulder. “We just think that passing him anonymous love notes—er . . . poems—is too . . . um . . . subtle.”
She sighed and pulled her heavy braid over one shoulder so she could play with the ends of it. “Well, I like my plan.” Each of her fingernails was painted a different color.
“Amelia, it’s not a plan; it’s a cop-out. Are you going to put boxes on it so he can check yes or no?” Donny hadn’t lifted her head from the table, so her words were muffled.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I should totally take your advice and just throw myself at him. It works so well for you. Where’s your boyfriend, Donny? Oh, that’s right. You don’t have a boyfriend.”
Donny sat up. “If that was supposed to hurt, you missed. I don’t want a boyfriend. Why buy the cow?”
“Huh?” I asked.
“Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free. My grandma told me that when she didn’t like how short my dress was in the prom pictures.” Donny waggled her eyebrows at me. “I think she meant I was giving it away, but it works better for me this way.”
“Ame, have we convinced you not to slip anonymous sonnets in his locker yet?” I wished she would just talk to him.
“No. Besides, you’re one to talk.”
My cheeks warmed. “What do you mean?”
“I couldn’t help but notice you scoping the halls for fresh sneetch all day.”
“I—”
“He’s only been here two days,” Donny answered for me. “Not his entire high school career. Nice try, Ame.” She pinned me with a glance. “Not that you are off the hook either.”
I stuck my tongue out at her.
Haden Black had proven to be very elusive today. I knew he was at school, and I knew every time he was near because the air around me would still, like the world was rearranging itself to accommodate him in it. I’d look up and catch a fleeting glimpse of him, and then the atmosphere would return to normal.
What I would do if I saw him was still a mystery. I mean, I’d dreamt he was some sort of ringmaster in a macabre circus. And that we waltzed without touching. And that our hearts beat as one.
I don’t spend a lot of time talking to boys, but even I knew that was too much too soon.
Not to mention that I suspected that my dreams weren’t dreams and that it really happened, and that weirdness was befalling me at every turn.
Eager to pretend that all was normal, I frowned at Ame’s salad. “Do you want half my burger?”
She shook her head.
“You’re not fat,” I argued, getting my retort in before she had a chance to say hers.
“I’m not skinny either.”
Amelia wasn’t petite, not like her American mom, who wore a size two and was as blond as a supermodel. Ame still held on to a layer of baby fat that made her look utterly huggable to me, but to her it was the mark of total failure.
People gravitated to her because she was kind to everyone. She was also so much fun—quick to laugh and open to new ideas and experiences. There were a lot of boys who circled around her, smart enough to notice how she glowed, wanting to be close if she’d let them. She didn’t seem to understand there could be potential for more than friendship with any of them. She only noticed Mike Matheny not noticing.
Ame’s phone beeped. “Omigosh, I almost forgot,” she said after she flipped it open. “I have a tarot reading tomorrow after school. You guys should totally come. Madame Varnie is supposed to be amazing. Maybe she could do all our cards.”
“Madame Varnie? Are you serious? She sounds like someone you’d find in a circus tent.” Donny didn’t have much patience for Amelia’s psychic readings. “I don’t even understand why you go. Half the time you come back cheery from an unfortunate reading because they tell you your future isn’t set in stone, so if it’s bad, no worries. Why bother getting it read if it isn’t necessarily accurate anyway?”
Ame sighed. “Because I like getting in touch with my intuition.”
“But you’re not,” said Donny. “You’re getting in touch with someone else’s intuition with no promises of precision. Not to mention you could be saving the money you spend on fake intuition for your very real college tuition.”
College tuition was a big worry for Donny. Her family couldn’t exactly stash the money away for it every month.
“Hi, Donny.” A sneetch in a letter jacket stood in front of our table. Willingly.
Ame’s eyebrows were almost touching, she was grimacing so hard. “Gabe Erickson?”
Gabe smiled at Donny, his white teeth gleaming under the fluorescent cafeteria lighting. I wondered what he looked like in black light.
Donny very pointedly did not say “hi” back. She did stretch out her legs, plop her Uggs onto the bench, and yawn.
“I brought you this.” He held out a paperback. Gabe’s sandy brown hair lay in a perfect wave on his forehead like a commercial for the ideal teenaged boy.
“You brought me a book.” Donny wrinkled her nose. “Why?”
“It’s Catcher in the Rye,” he explained.
“So?”
Gabe’s flawless tan pinkened. “Well, I heard you say that you lost yours. And we need it for English. I had an extra copy.” He pushed the book towards her again.
Donny looked at Ame and me for guidance, and we both shrugged. She exhaled loudly and took the book from him like she thought it might have teeth. “I wasn’t planning on reading it anyway, but thanks. I guess.”
He smiled.
She looked at us again when he didn’t depart.
“I don’t want to keep you from your important duties, Gabe. Don’t you head up the swirly brigade? ‘No freshman left behind’ and all that?”
Gabe’s smile faded. “No. I’m not . . . never mind. See you around.”
Every now and then, Donny lets her vulnerable side show through the mask of derisiveness she usually wears. This wasn’t one of those times. She kept up her front while she watched him walk away.
“That was weird,” Ame said, a masterfully understated appraisal of the encounter.
“But nice,” I added.
Donny glared at me. “Never trust a sneetch, little girl.”
Obviously, U. S. history was not my strongest class. Though I was born in the United States, after my mother’s death, Father and I returned to England until business brought him back when I was thirteen.
I tried to keep up but often got confused. I had to learn so much that the other students took for granted; so much of it was already part of their popular culture. And Father was the opposite of helpful when it came to anything American. Donny called him Ameriphobic.
Mr. Frank, the history teacher, partnered up the class for a project. This was never a good thing. Mr. Frank didn’t understand about the chasm between the star-bellies and the rest of us. He also didn’t comprehend that pairing me up with anyone at all was bad, but pairing me with a boy dropped my IQ into single digits.
As he read the matchups out loud, my skin prickled with heat and my ears began ringing. Because there were only two names I was listening for and I hadn’t heard either yet.
Please, God, no.
“And lastly, Theia and Haden,” he read from his notes.
My nerves danced like they were trying to get out of my skin. I turned slowly towards Haden’s chair, trying to swallow and trying not to look like I wanted to pass out.
He
stared back at me, his face unreadable and his dark, dark eyes as mesmerizing as ever. The rest of the class left their seats, making their way to their respective partners while we sat staring at each other.
I wished he would smile, but then I remembered the way he had smiled at me in the hall—the wicked, knowing smirk that made me even more self-conscious than I already was. No, it was best he didn’t devastate me.
He raised his brow as if to question and indicated the now-empty desk in front of me. I nodded and pivoted back in my seat. A few seconds ago, my face could have fried an egg, but now my skin was suddenly stone-cold and clammy. We were doomed to an F on the project. I didn’t see a way around it.
I didn’t look at him but knew when he sat backwards in the chair. Instead, my full attention went to the deep groove scratched into my desk. The air between us fizzled. Did he feel it? I tried to catch my breath, but the more I tried to inhale, the more I felt consumed.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asked.
“Sure,” I answered as if the room hadn’t shifted sideways in the last thirty seconds. I forced myself to look at him. He wore a sapphire blue button-down shirt with a slight sheen and well-worn jeans. The shirt molded to his frame and begged to be touched.
My heartbeat filled my ears, at first a rapid staccato rhythm that resolved into a deeper, resonating thump, like too much bass in a car stereo. I was aware of my blood being pulled in and out of my heart the way the moon directs the tide. And then the pounding hiccuped and the beat was no longer my own again.
Did he feel it too?
I knew the rest of the world was moving right along, time was inching forward, and lives were being led all around me, but I was in the eye of the hurricane as far as all of that went. Timeless and still, we regarded each other over the empty desk between us.
His eyes were fringed in lush, dark lashes and his lips were rich, plump, forbidden. I imagined kissing them and my tongue swept across my mouth as if he were whetting my appetite. He hissed and reared back in his seat, shocking us both with his reaction and flinging us back into the present.
