Tall, Dark Streak of Lightning (The Dark Lightning Trilogy)

by J. M. Richards

  Davin was gingerly rubbing his shoulder. “It is a wild storm. We don’t get many thunderstorms here, not in winter.” We watched the elements dance outside from within the dimly lit chapel as our clothes slowly dried. I uncrossed my legs and tucked a different foot underneath me.

  Davin stretched and yawned. “It’s so peaceful. I could go to sleep in here.” His eyes flickered to me once more, and for a dizzying second I wasn’t thinking about sleep or storms but about pressing my lips to his. I gave my head a slight shake and tried to slow my pulse.

  “So, don’t you think Chad will be getting worried about you?”

  I bit back the desire to laugh bitterly. “No.”

  “No?” he said, frowning. “Why not? He wouldn’t care that his girlfriend was out in a storm like this? Or doesn’t he know you went out?”

  “First of all,” I sighed, “I was never his girlfriend. We only went on a few dates, and we only dated for a few weeks. So, no, I don’t think he’d care. We’re so over now.”

  “Really? What happened?”

  “Nothing,” I shrugged. “He’s cute and nice, but I didn’t get along with his friends, and we just weren’t right for each other.” I wasn’t about to tell him that Chad had noticed my undying interest in Davin.

  Davin sighed deeply. “Well, that’s a relief.”

  My heart fluttered. “Why?”

  “Well, for one thing, I saw him making out with a friend of yours in our dorm the other day.”

  I frowned sharply. “What now? Who was Chad making out with?”

  “Um, it was that girl what went with us to Wal-Mart that one time,” Davin replied. “Tiffany, I think?”

  My eyes bugged. “Wow. I should have seen that coming, I guess.” I frowned and shifted uncomfortably, finding that it stung a little to be replaced so quickly. How could a guy like me one minute, and Tiffany then next? We weren’t anything alike. Had he ever really liked anything about me at all? I suddenly felt very cheap, deceived, and naïve.

  He slowly got up on his knees and crawled over next to me. “I’m sorry,” he said. He put his arm around me, and I sagged into his embrace. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “No, it’s fine. I told you, we’re totally over.”

  “It’s still got to suck, though. Your ex and your friend? I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  I could feel my throat closing up and I swallowed in attempt to keep from getting emotional. Why? I was over Chad. Way over. I had been just as ready to end it as he…but I did regret letting the whole thing happen in the first place. If I’d just been honest with myself, and not so stubborn about trying to get over Davin, I could have saved myself a little heartache. “Actually, I appreciate you being honest with me,” I sighed.

  “And I did tell you he didn’t deserve you,” he reminded me.

  “You did,” I agreed.

  “I have a little experience in this area,” he said after a moment.

  “What area?”

  “Heartbreak. So I won’t say all the stuff people say. Like, ‘there’s someone better for you somewhere out there,’ or ‘you’re too good for him,’ or my favorite: ‘everything will be okay.’”

  “There’s a story in there you’re not telling me,” I said. “How am I supposed to know what kinds of questions I can ask about you, and which are off-limits?”

  “Well, you could always ask, and if it’s out-of-bounds, I’ll just say…I don’t know, that it’s confidential, or classified or something.”

  “Okay, so…you got your heart broken?”

  “Yeah, sort of.”

  “By who? And why?”

  “Classified.” He smiled grimly. “Actually, the story’s not that interesting. I’ll tell you another time.”

  “Another time, then,” I murmured my agreement. I glanced up at his face from where my head was resting on his shoulder. My heart constricted. I still deeply cared about him, but I knew that anything I did at this moment would be construed as being ‘on the rebound.’ But oh, how I enjoyed just having his arm around me! Breathing in his scent, feeling his warmth and being encompassed by his strength….Even though Chad was dazzlingly attractive, I had never felt the same deep, underlying magnetism that I did around Davin. And it was so rare for us to be so physically close that I was afraid to do or say anything to break the spell; I felt I might never get another moment like it.

  “I know I said I’d stay away from clichés,” Davin said, “but anyone who wouldn’t appreciate you for all that you are just isn’t worth crying over, Anna.”

  “I know,” I sighed, with an added emphasis in my words that he’d never understand. My brother had said nearly the same thing about Davin when I’d been home. But Davin did appreciate me…just not in all the ways I wanted him to. Despite all the things that had been said between us, we were still just friends. Nothing more. “The truth is,” I sighed, “I knew we weren’t right for each other. Don’t worry. I won’t be crying over him.”

  We were quiet again for several long minutes, still holding each other. Together we created a warmth that relaxed me, and I felt a slight tingle in my fingers where Davin’s hand was holding mine. I wondered if he felt it, too.

  “Funny,” he said sleepily, “I always feel so relaxed around you. Why is that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said quietly. “But I know what you mean.”

  “I’m sorry I told you to leave,” he added.

  “I’m sorry I got so mad.”

  “Hey,” he chided, “I’m the one apologizing.”

  Ignoring him, I said, “I mean, at the dance, too. I didn’t mean to be so hard on you.”

  He just sighed. “You weren’t, not really. But I guess it’s a good thing we’re both so stubborn, huh?”

  “It is both a blessing and a curse,” I agreed.

  We fell silent again, but it was a good silence. We could have been the only two people in the world. Then Davin said, “I think the storm has passed.”

  We both peered out the windows again; it had. My heart gave a funny lurch, realizing that was my cue to go. I slowly and reluctantly sat up, though we were still close and he kept his arm around me until I stood.

  “Anna,” Davin said softly, as I gathered up my stuff to go once more. “Listen…thanks for tonight. Really. I don’t know what—or Who—brought you here to me,” he glanced to the front of the chapel, and the crucifix that hung there, “but it means a lot. Not just the bandages…I mean, I had a rough night last night, in more ways than one, and…I’m just glad to have you as a friend. Really. Thank you for taking care of me, even though I said I didn’t want you to…it’s funny,” he smiled slightly, looking almost puzzled, “but I really do feel almost a hundred percent better than I did when I came in here.”

  “Good.” I took a breath—a nice, normal, even breath—inhale, exhale. “You’re welcome, Davin. Thank you.” I smiled. “See? You’re not such a bad friend. You leaned on me, I leaned on you. Give and take. So maybe we’ll work out after all.” I meant as friends, but once I said it I was worried he might take it the wrong way.

  But I guess he didn’t, because all he did was smile and say, “Maybe we will.”

  When Jill and I tuned into the news that night to watch the interview with Tony Gale, they prefaced the piece by reminding the audience of DL’s latest activities and the way he had helped many on New Year’s Eve. There was even new speculation that the well-meaning group of students at Point Park had actually attacked Dark Lightning instead of the Hallway Stalker.

  Jennifer Wright started by mentioning that Tony looked surprisingly well for all he’d been through. And indeed, he looked as clean-cut and presentable as ever. He grinned and shrugged. “Yeah, well, it sounds worse than it was, and besides, I’m a quick healer.”

  As I lay in bed that night, words and images from the day kept flashing through my mind. The reports of DL’s activity, and the Hallway Stalker’s. The contrast between how beaten up Davin had been, and how Tony had na
ry a scratch. I had to stop and wonder once more: was there a connection? Dark Lightning gets beat up, and Davin shows up at the chapel all bruised? I’d been trying for months to figure out what Davin’s big, mysterious secret was. For a while, I’d considered the possibility that he had a dark side to him, that perhaps whatever he ran off to do was illegal and immoral. I’d found little in the way of facts to back up my hypothesis, and it certainly didn’t fit with the small amount I did know about him. What if I’d been on the wrong track? I’d been thinking villain, but maybe he was the hero. He’d admitted that he had a secret: what if it was that he was Dark Lightning?

  Of course, Tony was supposed to be DL. He’d admitted it before the world. The police had caught him in the very act. If it wasn’t him, why hadn’t the real DL come forward to refute him? I frowned, thinking intently and replaying more conversations in my head.

  Actually, it would make perfect sense that Davin would let someone else take the spotlight. He wasn’t exactly the public type, and with the city watching Tony, he could do what he needed without inciting suspicion. Except from me, apparently.

  Even though Davin said he sort of liked comic books and superheroes, he acted like he didn’t like DL. But perhaps he was just pretending, the way Bruce Wayne would. I thought harder, trying to recall if there were other times Dark Lightning’s activity coincided with when Davin had been missing or hurt. Once or twice could have been coincidental...though I didn’t really believe in coincidence. Still, maybe I was just making something out of nothing, just like when I’d (briefly) suspected him of being the Hallway Stalker.

  My brain was tired, so even though I was trying to process my weird hunch, I couldn’t quite put it together. There were too many gaps and holes, too many things I couldn’t explain. I had to admit, the possibility was there, however remote. It was possible—but still far-fetched—that Davin might secretly be a superhero. I had no proof, nothing concrete. Just my intuition. I yawned, unable to fight sleep any longer.

  When I awoke in the morning, my midnight revelation seemed more like a silly dream: implausible, disjointed, and quickly fading from memory. Of course Davin wasn’t Dark Lightning. It was Tony Gale, unless I could find some piece of evidence that proved otherwise. As usual, I was overthinking things, and my tired and disappointed brain had just been trying to write a better story.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “From acquaintances, we conceal our real selves. To our friends, we reveal our weaknesses.”

  —Basil Hume

  My alarm went off for the fourth time, loud and jarring; I slapped the snooze button in annoyance and rolled over. Then my roommate’s alarm went off, and I grudgingly gave up sleep. “Why is it morning already?” I moaned to Kim as we both stumbled out of bed. “And who decided classes should start so early, anyway?” It was only the first day of the new semester, but I already hated my schedule.

  She grinned at my melodramatic reaction sympathetically. “I know. It’s bad enough that school is starting again, but making us go to class at eight? That’s criminal.” She would know; she was a criminal justice major.

  “Yeah, but the worst part is, they make us take all these weird classes just so they can call it a ‘liberal arts’ education,” I grumbled. “I mean, what’s the point?”

  “Mm. How dare they try to teach us more than we need to learn,” Kim agreed teasingly. She knew better than to take my early morning grumblings in earnest.

  I gave her a friendly glare. “Seriously. Why do I need to take an art class? I stink at art. It’s not like I’m going to go in, hear a few lectures, and suddenly my stick figures will improve to Van Gogh-quality portraits.”

  “Did Van Gogh do many portraits?” Kim wondered. “I thought he was known for being more of a landscape guy. Then again, he did do some famous self-portraits, so.”

  “Whatever!” I growled, brushing my teeth exasperatedly. “Fee point ish, how ish one art clash gonna help me in da real world?” I rinsed and spat out. “It’s not.”

  “Well,” she said, considerably more optimistic than I, “it probably won’t do you any good. But then, it probably won’t do you any harm, either. You never know.” But I was convinced I did know; and I was certain nothing good could come of Intro to Basic Art. It was a waste of my time. I walked into the class still grumpy, and chose a seat in the back of the room. I had the table to myself, and I was hoping my surly expression would discourage others from joining me.

  I was relieved when, at five after eight, Dr. Jackson began calling roll and I was still by myself. He had just explained that he was assigning us whatever seat we were in for the entire semester—pretty rigid, I thought, for an art class—when one more student burst into the classroom. Bustling in, and yet managing to look completely unruffled at the same time, a girl headed straight for the empty chair beside me and plonked down. My heart sank and I made space for her reluctantly.

  She dropped her heavily patched messenger bag on the floor between us and rifled through its contents with fingers that each sported a different nail color. Then she pulled out a binder that was plastered with pictures cut from magazines and uncapped a sharpie.

  She threw me a brief glance and I got a better look at her. “Did he say anything important yet?” she asked.

  “No, just attendance,” I replied, trying not to stare at her matching nose and eyebrow rings.

  She nodded and looked back at the front. She was beautiful, I noted with surprise; she was strikingly exotic even with the heavy eye makeup—maybe even because of it. Her skin was a honey bronze and she had thick, serious eyebrows under her dark bangs, and a proud, aquiline nose. She was the kind of person everybody gives a second glance, and I found her intimidating. It wasn’t exactly her makeup, unique outfit, or flashy jewelry. It wasn’t even the small tattoo—a pair of wings and a word that looked like it was in Arabic—on the back of her neck. She just had this kind of intensity and focus as she scribbled notes with her sharpie. This was clearly a girl who grabbed life by the reins and made decisions without hesitating—she was everything I was not. And she probably knew how to draw as well.

  When I arrived back at Intro to Basic Art again later that week, I thought for a moment we had a new student who didn’t know about the assigned seats. Sitting at my table was a girl in a long flowered dress, very vintage-hippie. She actually was wearing real flowers in her hair, and hardly any make up. I sat down, ready to explain to this poor lost soul that the seat was already taken, when I looked again and realized it was the same girl. I ended up not saying anything at all; I couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t be rude or just plain stupid.

  Over the next few weeks, I was treated to an array of styles and decades. Each look was unique, and yet each one seemed to suit and flatter her. I never said anything; but then, neither did she. Until one morning, she came in sat down, and said: “Ooh! I love your earrings! Where did you get those?”

  I touched my ears to remember what I had put on. “Oh, these. I got them in Brazil.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’ve been to Brazil? Where? When? Did you like it?”

  Such a barrage of words from her was unexpected. “Um, yeah, I like it. I’ve lived there most of my life.”

  “You’ve lived there?” I didn’t think it was possible for her to sound any more interested and enthusiastic, but I was wrong. “For how long?”

  “Um…Altogether? About twelve years.”

  “Wow.” She sounded so wistful. “I would love that. To go and live in another country for a while, just really get to experience the culture and everything. So why were you there?”

  “My parents are missionaries,” I explained, waiting for the “Ohhh…okay,” brush-off. It never came.

  “Wow,” she repeated. “That is amazing. So did you like, live out in the jungles in huts and stuff?”

  I had to fight to keep a laugh back. “No. Actually, we lived in São Paulo, which is one of the biggest cities in the world. So, we weren’t exactly impoverished
or anything. My dad worked at a church in the city. And my mom is actually from São Paulo.” I just looked at her a moment, surprised by our sudden conversation. “I’m Anna, by the way,” I told her.

  She smiled at me. “Laurel,” she responded, sticking out her hand. “Sorry I’m not usually very talkative,” she added. “I’m not much of a morning person. I’m usually half asleep when I get here; this morning I had my coffee. I want to do really well in this class, because one of the things I’m considering majoring in is fashion design. So I sort of need my art grades to be good.”

  The way she said it made me curious. “What else are you considering?”

  “Theater,” she told me off-handedly. “And Dance. And Music. I pretty much plan on being famous someday for something.” She laughed as she said it. “What about you?”

  “Nothing so artsy,” I told her. “I’m torn between Psychology and Sociology right now. I want to decide soon, though.”

  “Why? What year are you?”

  “Sophomore. What are you?”

  “Freshman,” she admitted reluctantly.

  “What? That’s nothing bad,” I assured her. “We all were freshman at some point.”

  “Yeah. But if I don’t get better grades this semester, I might be a third-semester freshman. And that is not cool.”

  But I quickly learned that if Laurel was anything, it was cool. And with hardly any effort. Within a matter of weeks, we became friends and would often meet at the cafeteria. She was very different from Jill; much more flashy and dramatic. Yet the two of them got along easily if the three of us happened to be together. Neither of them were the type of girl to get possessive over friendships, which was good for me.

  Despite whatever people thought of her because of the way she looked and dressed, I found Laurel to be one of the nicest people I had ever met. We had some deep and interesting conversations over dinner, and one night, we (naturally) ended up talking about boys. Jill and I were quite dismayed to learn that our new, younger friend had vastly more dating experience than the two of us combined. But then I inadvertently impressed her, too.