by Katie Klein
Seth fumbles with the key to the pool house, the doorknob. I stand beside him, gritting my teeth, lips trembling, unable to keep my body from shaking with cold. The moment it opens he pushes me through. "Go."
The air is cooler inside, if that's even possible. Seth rushes to the thermostat, and, in a matter of seconds, the air reeks of dusty smoke. The heater. Spring and summer disuse burning away.
The bathtub is filling with water by the time I arrive. Seth meets me at the door, lifting my damp tank top over my head, tossing it to the floor. Chills dance across my skin. He feels my cheek with the back of his hand. I grab it, pressing it deeper into my face, stealing the warmth.
He runs his thumb across my lips, eyeing me uneasily. "You're ice."
The mirror is already fogged with heat when Seth shuts the door behind him. There's a massive struggle to peel off my soggy jeans, and my feet tingle when I step into the warm water, scalding. I close my eyes, sinking deeper, still trembling, waiting for the cold to melt away.
NINETEEN
I open my eyes and stare at the sky beyond the trees. The sun has already dipped below the horizon and the pool and patio are shaded with dusk. A breeze rustles the leaves overhead. I straighten one leg, lifting it out of the warm water.
"How does it feel?" Carter asks, rolling the legs of his jeans up to his knees. He sits down on the edge, lowers them into the water, then lies down beside me.
"Perfect," I reply.
He turns his head, glancing my way, studying me carefully. It seems a habit of his now, checking for new injuries each time he sees me.
I'm fine, I want to tell him. No scrapes, cuts, bruises to speak of today.
"Any news?" he asks. And I know he's talking about the Diabols. Viola.
"No. I saw her—in my head, I mean—but then she didn't show up."
He turns back to the sky. "Can't say that I'm sorry."
"You and Seth are exactly the same," I mutter.
"Wow. I didn't realize caring about you—worrying about you—was such an awful thing. So . . . the two of you are pretty serious, I guess," he goes on after a few, quiet moments.
"He would go to Hell and back for me."
Quite literally.
"Why are you out here, then?"
I shrug, shoulders lifting off the concrete. "Just needed some time. I don't know. It's been crazy. Ever since. . . . Everyone's stressed. It's kind of driving me insane."
"We should do something about that," he says.
"Like what?"
He sits up. "I don't know a thing a cookout with friends won't cure."
A sigh.
"Seriously," he says, nudging my leg with his foot beneath the water. "We'll fire up the grill. Make a few phone calls. It'll be fun."
"Fun?" A bitter laugh. "God. I don't even know what fun is, anymore."
"Exactly. Which is why this is the best idea I've had all summer." He pulls his feet out of the water and stands. They drip between us, pooling on the concrete.
"What about your parents?" I ask.
He hovers over me. "They're out. We'll have the whole backyard to ourselves."
It would be nice. To spend some time outside. Away from . . . everything.
"Yeah. Okay."
"Go get Seth. Joshua. Whoever. I'll call Selena."
I climb out of the pool.
Seth meets me at the door. "We have dinner plans," I announce. "Carter is grilling out." I push on the French doors and slip inside. Mara is sitting at the table, sharpening knives.
"Joshua!" I call.
"He's inviting Joshua?" Seth asks, disbelieving.
"He's inviting everyone," I say. I glance at Mara. "Carter is putting together an impromptu cookout. You should come," I tell her.
"Oh. Thank you, but . . . no," she replies, setting a knife aside. "I wouldn't want to intrude."
"It wouldn't be an intrusion. You practically live here, anyway. It's just . . . friends. Hanging out."
That I've called Mara a friend seems to surprise her. Her dark eyebrows pull together as she carefully considers the invitation. "All right. Thank you."
I slip on my flip flops, spirits lifting as I step back into the warm, summer night.
Carter is already at the grill, cleaning it. A patio grill is too easy for the Flemings. Instead, they have a makeshift kitchen built into stone. A grill and stove top covered in stainless steel. A tiny refrigerator and wine cooler, a sink, cabinets.
"Selena is on her way," he says. "Vivian is in Monaco."
"Lucky girl." I look around the patio, at the long table and umbrella, the fire pit. "What can I do?"
"I pulled out some sodas. They're on the counter." He nods toward the house.
I squeeze through the sliding glass door and step into the Fleming's breakfast nook, just off the kitchen. The house is quiet. Still. Perfect. Spotless. Shiny copper pots and pans hang from the rack above the island, and a stack of cookbooks is placed just so on the counter. It looks like something out of a catalog. Livable, but never lived in, if that makes any sense at all.
I grab the two liters from the counter. When I return, Seth is at the grill, watching Carter.
"Did you find Joshua?" I ask.
"Yeah. He's coming," Seth replies.
"Was he excited?"
His smile widens. "You have no idea. We're apologizing in advance," he tells Carter.
"Hey, you should call James, too," I say.
Seth opens his mouth to speak, hesitates, then shakes his head. "It's not a good idea to . . ."
I force my eyes not to roll. "Oh, come on! He already knows about you guys, anyway."
"Who is James?" Carter asks.
"Your Guardian. James!" I shout into the night.
"The problem isn't Carter," Seth says.
"So we'll make sure everyone knows not to talk about demons over our cheeseburgers and baked beans," I reply, shrugging casually. "Selena doesn't have to know. We'll pretend they're with you."
I feel Carter looking at me. "I have a Guardian?"
"Everyone has a Guardian," I tell him. "Unless you're a reprobate."
"Wow. I just thought. . . ." He trails off.
"You're assigned a Guardian the moment you're born. James has been with you since the day you moved to South Marshall."
Seth heaves a sigh. In the next moment, he's gone.
"That's creepy." Carter studies the empty space where Seth was standing.
"You get used to it."
The gate to the patio slams shut, and Selena heads toward us in a pair of too-tiny shorts and a tank top, sunglasses perched on top of her head. The hours spent in the sun have turned her skin a warm brown.
"I brought dessert," she announces, setting a box on the counter. "As a guest of this little shindig I felt it was only right to bring something. All I'm saying is that you're lucky the bakery was still open."
I lift the lid. Nestled inside is a cake covered in chocolate icing. I run my finger along the outer edge, sampling the tiniest bit. It's a rich, dark chocolate, and it tastes like Heaven.
"What is that?" Selena asks.
I quickly replace the lid, caught. But she's not referring to me. She's watching the guys—Seth, Joshua, James—crossing the patio.
"You know Seth. The other one is James. The shorter guy is Joshua. They're friends of Seth's," I say, smiling.
"Okay, and speaking of, I am de-friending you as of this moment, because I recall asking if your guy knew anyone I might be interested in, and you said no."
I stifle a laugh. "These are not guys you would be interested in."
Can't be interested in is more like it.
"So . . . is this James guy on the market?" she asks, voice lower, eyeing him approvingly.
"Not exactly."
"Drat. Any chance I could change his mind?"
"Probably not."
She continues watching, humming in displeasure. "You realize that makes him all the more desirable, right? And now that I've labeled him a challenge there
is no limit to what I might try."
I laugh. "I know."
"So what's the problem? Girlfriend? Fiancée? In the middle of a torrid love affair with his married college professor?"
"It's, um . . . complicated," I say, for lack of a better word.
Her shoulders fall, lips pulling into a frown. "Is he gay? Because I swear to God it’s like every guy with a six pack and a tan . . ."
"No," I interrupt. "It's not like that."
"God! You had me worried! You're such a pessimist!" she accuses. She links her arm in mine. "If you introduce me, I'll forgive you."
We circle the pool, meeting the guys halfway.
By the time I return to the grill, Carter is preparing to put the hamburgers on. He's not alone.
"You look nice," I tell Mara.
She's traded her typical ensemble, the yoga pants and t-shirts we work out in, for a pair of cut-off denim shorts and a tank top. Instead of a braid, her hair falls in soft waves around her face. She got everything right, down to the elastic on her wrist.
"Really?" she asks, pulling on the hem of the shorts. "You're sure?"
She looks so normal, so wholly like one of us that I have to remind myself she's thousands of years old and trains angels to fight demons. That she's training me for the fight of my life.
"I almost didn't recognize you," I tease.
When the burgers are ready and drinks are poured, the seven of us grab seats around the patio table. The sun has fully disappeared, and Kitty Fleming's garden lamps light up the evening sky. A few citronella candles grace the table, defending us from summer bugs.
"Before we eat, I'd like to propose a toast," Carter says, lifting his plastic cup.
Joshua returns the cheeseburger to his plate, chewing slowly.
"To friends. Health. Happiness. Long lives and prosperous roads ahead."
"To friends," Selena says.
"Friends," Seth murmurs.
"To the chef," I add, lifting my glass to Carter.
He tips his back to me.
* * *
I press two fat marshmallows on the end of a skewer and position Seth's hand closer to the fire. "Hold it here, just above the flame," I tell him.
"I can't believe you guys have never roasted marshmallows before," Selena says, helping James. "I mean, whatever happened to the Boy Scouts?"
"There's no such thing as Boy Scouts where we're from, Love," James says. He and Seth exchange a knowing look.
"That's awful. I mean, I'm the first to admit I'm not Scout material, but I can," she continues, removing her skewer from the flame, "roast a damn good marshmallow."
Joshua crams three marshmallows on the end of his stick, and plunges it directly into the flames.
"Joshua," I chide. "You're supposed to lightly roast them, not set them on fire."
He offers an impish grin. "I like my marshmallows with extra crunch."
"Pyromaniac," James mutters.
When my own marshmallow is sufficiently cooled, I pull it off and bite into it. The outside is crispy, the inside warm and gooey. I lick what's left of the white, sticky substance off my fingers.
"You are way too meticulous," Seth teases.
"I'll bet Genesis was a Girl Scout," Selena says.
"Wrong. I've never actually roasted a marshmallow over fire. We—my mom and I, I mean—always used the stove top."
We plow through half the bag before Selena's phone buzzes. She pulls it out of her pocket and flips it open. "God. My parents. Yes," she continues, typing a text message with her thumb. "I know what time it is." She shuts the phone and tosses it behind her. "I swear, I will be so glad when they lift this whole curfew thing. I have no life."
"It's okay. We should probably clean up and go, too," I say, rising. "I need to get in another run tonight."
Carter puts out the fire, and the rest of us gather our trash. I follow him through the sliding glass door and into the kitchen.
"Thank you for doing this," I tell him, returning what's left of the sodas to the refrigerator. "It's just what I needed."
"Well, it goes without saying," he says, reaching around me to put away the ketchup and mustard bottles, "that I'd do whatever I could to make you happy."
He stops, standing almost on top of me, his eyes burning into mine.
A slow, embarrassed heat creeps to my cheeks, the cool air from the fridge raises goose bumps on my arms.
"You were always too good to me, Carter."
He shrugs. Tears his eyes from mine. A small, defeated laugh. "And, somehow, I'm still not enough."
TWENTY
The air is warm. Beyond the trees the sky is endless and full of stars. Seth and I cross the street, jogging at the edge of the road.
We run quietly, the only sound our feet striking the pavement beneath us.
"I'm going to live in a place like this one day," I finally say, referring to the sprawling, impeccably landscaped lawns. Homes backing up to tee boxes. Houses that, until I met Carter, I only saw pictured in magazines. Magazines I could never afford. I stifle a laugh. "You know, provided I can keep the power on."
"What?"
A sigh. "It was just this thing. With my mom, I mean. Seems like no matter where we were or what we were doing, we could never keep the power on more than a month or two at a time."
When I was younger and stupider I thought losing power was fun, that it happened to everyone. It was my mom’s fault. I would come home from school to find blankets set up in the living room and a stash of books and food close by. Mom always acted like it was this special thing. Grounds for a celebration.
We played games by candlelight. Mom read aloud from some cheap paperback she picked up for a quarter at a yard sale, censoring all the parts unsuitable for young ears. We snuggled on the couch, or pulled a mattress into the living room and spent the night together on the floor.
Then, I made the mistake of inviting a girl in my class over to spend the night. At the time we were living in some podunk town. I forgot the name of it. I forgot the girl's name, too. All I remember was that the power went out, and she refused to stay the night. In her world, the power only went out if there was a storm, and it always came back on a few minutes later. When it didn't, she begged my mom to take her home. I watched from Moose as Mom walked her down the gravel driveway, knocked on the front door, and delivered her back to her parents.
Two weeks later we moved.
"Where do you think she is?" Seth asks, interrupting my thoughts.
"My mom? God only knows. I've literally lost count of how many times we've moved. South Marshall is the longest she's ever stayed in one place. She decides she's meant to live in the city, so we move to some fifth floor walk-up. Then she'd rather be in the country. Back and forth. Again and again. Always looking for something else. Something better."
"I'm sorry," Seth says.
"Yeah, well, I'm over it."
"Sounds like it."
I can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not.
"I have no control over her. If she wants to leave town and not tell me where she's going, that's on her. Any day spent wondering or worrying about her is a day wasted. She's fine. She's settled in by now, found some crappy job. Two or three months and she'll be on the move again."
"She's your mom," he reminds me.
"Not really."
After the power incident, I knew we were broke. I mean, I figured we were before this, as I lugged the same Hello Kitty backpack from school to school, grade to grade, even after we had to duct tape the bottom so my books wouldn't fall out. But thinking we were poor and having it confirmed are two entirely different states of mind. And once Mom knew I knew, she didn't try to hide anything from me. I was privy to conversations with landlords where she begged for one more week. Just until the next paycheck.
Please, God, I'll do anything.
The understanding was that I would keep whatever sorry rental we were living in at the time in order. I was the one who dusted and cooked the noodles and
set out roach traps. But then something changed. Mom was waitressing at this hole-in-the-wall country kitchen that catered to guys in camouflage and t-shirts without sleeves. The restaurant doubled as a store, selling cigarettes and sodas in glass bottles and vials of liquid guys bought on fall weekends to make them smell like deer piss.
I was sitting on the stockroom floor, working on my homework and trying to ignore the flies swarming around the crusted caps of a line of ketchup bottles, when the owner came back.
The owner was straight up backwoods. He was also fat. The kind of fat that could be separated by a belt in the middle. Half the weight above, the other half swinging low on his hips. He spent ten minutes ranting about how disorganized the room was and how pathetic his employees were, then offered me five bucks to fix it. I did, and, at the end of mom's shift, handed the money over to her, proud of everything I accomplished.
After this, I looked for things to do. Sweeping floors. Clearing tables. He paid me with a wad of cash he coaxed out of his back pocket, flipping through fives, tens, twenties, even one hundred dollar bills. Maybe he felt sorry for me. My mom. I don't know. What I do know is that it set the next five years of my life in motion. Wherever we moved after this, whatever our situation, I was always expected to find a job.
I was twelve.
All these years, and I can't shake the feeling that Mom was just using me. I guess part of me always knew that one day it would come to this. We'd go our separate ways. It's a relief, actually. I want—I need—my own life. Away from her. To get it right. Whatever that means.
We circle the block.
"Tonight was kind of perfect, you know?" I finally say, breaking the silence. "It felt . . . normal. It was nice."
"I was hoping you'd say that."
I glance swiftly in Seth's direction. "Why?"
"Because there's nothing keeping you from this," he reminds me. "This life. And I wouldn't blame you, Genesis. If you chose this, instead."
"No. It's not up for discussion."
"This would be an easy decision for anyone else."
"I'm not anyone else." I shove the loose strands of hair away from my face. "And choosing this means giving up something even more important to me, and I'm not going to do that."
