As I scramble for how to explain myself to this angelic little girl, with her dimple and her face full of gray-green eyes, my mom speaks instead. Can you help Nalena, Grace? Would you be her connection?
The little girl steps out from behind my mom’s legs and nods to me with a shy, baby-toothed smile. I can’t help but smile back when I look at her.
What is she going to do? I ask my mom.
Grace rubs her eyes like it is past her nap time. My mother reaches down with her free hand and tucks a wisp of Grace’s hair behind her ear. I feel my mom’s touch tingling behind my own ear too. Grace steps closer to my mom’s leg and nuzzles her little head against my mom’s thigh as if there is no place in the world she’d rather be. I remember feeling like that too.
Grace is going to be your connection during the Impressioning. She’s going to help you through.
Through what? What do I have to do?
You’ll hold the Cornerstone in your hand and your nervous system will be redesigned. You will become the warrior the world needs you to be.
I motion to Grace. How is she going to help me with that?
Don’t worry. You’ll see. The little girl hides her giggle behind chubby hands. Grace waves to me and gives my mom’s leg a euphoric squeeze, eyes pressed shut, her smile wide. My mom reaches down and pats the little girl’s back and then Grace is gone. My mom’s field sheds, petal by petal, until we are standing in Garrett’s back yard again.
Garrett steps forward. I feel as though I’ve been away a long time. When I see him, it’s like finding money. I take a step toward him but my leg muscles melt and he catches me before I slam face first into the ground.
I laugh, embarrassed, as he pulls my body against his for support. It seems like I should be scared about feeling like this, but I’m too tired to figure out why.
“I feel like I just got knocked out.” I slur.
“It’s normal.” Garrett chuckles. “I wanted to sleep for three weeks after I met my connection. Twisting fields does that.”
“Yeah sleep. Weeks. Good.” Talking feels like I’m just smearing language all over my lips.
My mom doesn’t look tired at all. She puts her arm around my waist from the other side.
“Let’s get her to bed.” she says.
The French doors appear to be twenty miles away. They drag me along until I stumble and Garrett catch me.
“I’ve got her.” he says. I feel like I’m floating and then I realize Garrett has scooped me up in his arms. I’m curled against him, my cast draped awkwardly at the back of his neck and my lips only inches from the hollow of his cheek.
My thoughts are so topsy-turvy that when I assure him I can walk on my own, I realize moments later that I didn’t even say the words out loud. They are still stuck in my head.
Without being able to tell him how capable I am of walking, I remain in his arms. My head is a rock that becomes heavier and heavier as he carries me. I finally give in and drop my forehead against his neck. I breathe in the scent of his skin. There is nothing in the world, not the ocean, or chocolate, or award-winning flowers, that smell as good as Garrett’s skin.
I let myself think, I hope he loves me, and then I wonder if I’ve said it out loud. I try hard to remember if I’d formed the words with my lips. No. I didn’t. I’m sure I didn’t. I’m convinced of it, until he murmurs back, “Don’t worry. He does.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and that’s all it takes to fall asleep.
~ * * * ~
I thought Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest. But I guess God exempted the Reese’s house.
It smells warm and sweet. The TV is on. I open one eye, find the ceiling, and identify the slats on the ceiling as being in the Reese’s living room. I confirm it by listening to Sean and Mark’s heated discussion in the kitchen, concerning dish-washing duties. I shut my eye again and listen to Iris squawking at the dining room table about her granola being too mushy and Mrs. Reese telling her that’s what happens when you go off and play for an hour without finishing your breakfast first.
I hear Brandon bounce into the room, knocking around his Hacky Sack and I begin to drift back to sleep, listening to the rhythmic thunk, thunk, thunk of the bag against his foot. It is a pleasant sound until I hear him squeal, “Wha!!!” and the thing smashes into my forehead.
My body feels like pulverized meat, so even though I groan, I don’t put my arms over my face or open my eyes. I feel the foot bag slide off and land on the pillow beside my left temple.
“Get out of here with that.” Garrett growls and the heat of his skin brushes my face, the scent of him here and gone too fast. The end cushion of the couch jerks under my feet and I hear the tiny bag whizzing through the air and then Brandon’s grunt on impact.
I remember. My energy zapped after meeting Grace. Garrett carried me. I was talking and not talking. Not talking and talking. I was hoping Garrett said something. He does. Did he actually say that? Was he answering the question I thought I’d asked? I lay there with my eyes closed and let the hope come back again.
It’s not the couch, but Garrett, under my heels. I try to shove myself into a sitting position, but the best I can do is leverage my shoulder blades onto the arm of the couch. Ugh. The minute I get there, I look down at my feet and see Garrett watching me. I slide my heels off his lap and hope my hair is not standing on end. It feels as prickly as if I’d had a balloon rubbed on my head.
“How are you feeling?” he asks. He doesn’t say it like a boy that has confessed his love for me. He says it with concern, like any good friend would. My heartbeat drops to a crawl.
And the truth is that I feel like a dog that’s swallowed grass. I could be the inside of a hot sneaker. But if he said what I hope he did, I don’t want him unthinking it by me blabbing about dogs and sweaty shoes.
“Great.” I tell him.
“Liar.” he laughs and I’m grateful when he drops it. “Your friend, Cora, called.”
“How did she know I was here?”
He shrugs. “She actually talked to Sean and she asked him if I knew where you were, so he told her.”
“Oh no...” I groan. “He said we’ve been staying here?”
“Uh...sorry, Nali.” Sean says from the doorway behind me. “I thought she was a good friend of yours and she sounded really worried. Like she was crying.”
“She’s got post-nasal drip.” I groan again. I throw my good arm over my face. In the dark of my elbow I think of all the phones, across the Simon Valley student body, that are probably ringing right this moment.
“C’mon, sleepy head. Shake it off.” My mom says and I remove my arm to look at her. She looks...chipper. The polar opposite of every single thing going on in my body. Garrett glances at his watch.
“Whoa, it’s already nine.” he says. Nine is too early to be acting so alive. I pull up a corner of my lip to prove it. At least, I think I do.
“We’ve got to get going before these cookies cool.” My mom says, holding up a steamy bag of cookies. I stare at them, mesmerized.
“Are those real cookies?” I ask.
“Oatmeal raisin.” she nods with a grin. She opens the bag and waves them around my face, releasing sweet cookie vapors that I suck up like a vacuum.
“You made them?”
“Yes, I made them.” She laughs like she’s Betty Crocker. “Come on. I’ll give you one if you get moving. Grace isn’t going to wait around forever.”
Garrett stands up and puts out his hand to me. I let him drag me onto my feet, taking the cookie my mom hands me. I grip it with my fingertips and feel the heat of the cookie inside my plaster arm cage.
“What’s Grace got to do anyway? She’s like...two.” I say. Then I close my eyes and try to savor my cookie instead of focusing on how the Addo will burn a mark like Garrett’s into my own hand.
~ * * * ~
My strength returns after I eat half the bag of cookies, quietly, in the back seat of Garrett’s car. Mr. and Mrs. Reese follow behi
nd us in their old Suburban.
At the Addo’s there is only one parking space, which Garrett pulls into. We wait on the sidewalk for Mr. and Mrs. Reese to walk up to the Addo’s door with us. Mr. Reese knocks and walks right in, followed by everyone else, and I walk in last.
“Hey there, everybody! Oh, and hello there, Gracie! Did you bring cookies?” Addo shouts to us from across the room. My awe over him knowing that I’ve even met a little girl named Grace completely escapes me as my eyes travel around his blazing, yellow kitchen in horror. The room is packed with strangers. Strangers in every seat around the table and strangers standing, crowded, against the walls. It looks like a jury deliberation except that the place is lit up with lively conversation and the cozy smells of warm tea and people in their Sunday best. This is a party. A party that needs cookies.
I grip the top of the plastic bag with my fingertips. My mom turns to me, looks down at my hand, and sees the half-empty bag. Every drop of blood in my body goes gushing into my cheeks. Garrett is cracking up, which makes it even worse.
Addo’s laughter roars in the back of my head. Happens to me all the time!
My mom gives me a look that says, Are you kidding me? as she takes the bag and turns back to the room.
“You know, I haven’t baked in so long, I’m not sure I made enough.” she says, putting what’s left on the table.
A thick woman, with a head full of thick yellow curls, makes an awww sound.
“Oh, Evangeline, you know us! We’re just teasing you.” All the strangers around the table begin to laugh. Another woman leans back and taps my cast sympathetically.
“Addo, where are you hiding the food?” A man with a cowboy hat asks.
The Addo motions to the fridge and some cupboards and the table becomes a grabby assembly line, with trays of desserts passed around and sampled as they go.
“You see now why I need this monstrous kitchen?” Addo asks. “No one ever wants to sit in a living room.” He hands my mom and I cups of tea.
Garrett wanders away, shaking hands, and the woman with the curls hands him a mug of tea too. I hold the mug but the ceramic is too hot. My palms start to sweat, thinking of how the Addo is going to burn my identification into my skin and I have to set my mug down before it slips out of my hand.
“Are you okay?” My mom whispers to me and I nod yes even though my stomach insists I should be shaking my head no.
Everyone eats for too long and it seems years have passed before the Addo clears his throat and the chatter evaporates.
“For those of you who might have missed all the gossip, I want to introduce Nalena Maxwell. She is the daughter of Alo Evangeline...” There is a low mumble of sentiments like good to have you back, and we’ve missed you, Evangeline. The Addo continues, “And also of Alo Roger Maxwell.”
An itchy silence follows my father’s name. A wiry man at the far end of the table clears his throat and says, “Roger Maxwell is one of The Fury. He’s not Alo in my book.”
A woman drops her warm brown eyes to the table cloth and says, “No. Not in anyone’s book, I think.”
A murmur wiggles around the edge of the table. My mom looks at her feet. I look at her feet too.
“That,” Addo’s voice booms suddenly, strong as cast iron and flat as calm water. “is not for anyone here to decide.”
“Well, has he been redeemed yet?” A tiny woman in plaid sniffs.
“Is that any of your business?” Addo asks briskly. He waits a moment, searching faces for someone else to comment but when no one does, he turns to my mother and smiles. “We are honored, Alo Evangeline, for your daughter to join our community.”
“Why am I here again?” The wiry man asks.
A squat man with glasses agrees. “Yes, Addo, we’re all curious. We welcome Evangeline and her daughter, but since when have so many Contego been called to sit in on an Alo Impressioning?”
“You all assume so much.” Addo says, taking a cookie from the bag my mom brought. His mouth is full as he says, “Nalena has been given the sign of Contego...you bunch of smarty pants.”
It’s not a collective gasp but something close to it. Garrett has worked his way back to me but there is little room between the people seated at the table and the people standing against the walls, so he stands at an angle that shields me from most of the people who are staring. He seems oblivious as he ducks his head and sips his tea but I notice how his eyes scan the room. I reach out and take my mom’s hand. It’s smooth and warm as she gives me a tiny, comforting squeeze. Then she shakes loose and steps forward.
“I asked my daughter to choose a Simple Life.” my mom says out loud. “To keep her from all the gossip as well as the truth about our family, but now she knows everything and she’s still chosen to be among you. I ask, as her mother, will you accept her?”
There are murmurs again and this time the conversations jump and pop around the room like bubbles in boiling water. The woman with the curls raises her hand and smiles at me.
“I accept her.”
The woman that tapped my cast and the man seated beside her both raise their hands and say in unison, “We accept her.”
The wiry man throws up a hand of surrender and smiles at me. “’Course I accept her.”
It goes around the table like this, everyone saying they accept me, even if a few of them seem hesitant at first. Garrett is last and he looks me in the eyes as if we’re the only two people in the room as he tells the Addo, “I accept her.”
I want to soak in the moment, but Addo wrecks it.
“Fine, fine.” he says and he works his way around everyone to the refrigerator. He opens the freezer door on top and reaches in up to his arm pit, feels around, and withdraws a thing that hangs over the sides of his hand like a black tongue. I squint. It’s an old sock.
“Eww, cold, cold, cold!” Addo juggles the sock between his hands as he makes his way back to me. I was thinking he’d use a hot poker for Impressioning. Or a piece of coal. Not something out of a sock from his freezer.
“You need more storage.” Someone laughs and someone else agrees. I have no idea who is saying what anymore because I am watching Addo grip the middle of the sock and shake whatever is in it, out, onto his own hand.
First there is a jar of something that sloshes inside, even though the glass fogs in the warmth of the kitchen. He hands the jar to my mom and she unscrews the cap. Then he stops shaking the fabric and feels around in the sock, pulling out a red plastic paint brush that looks like it came from a paint-by-numbers set and hands that to her too. Lastly, he turns the sock upside down carefully and works something that looks like a corner piece of a broken rock out of the end. He keeps hold of that himself and drapes the sock in the crook of his elbow.
“Give me your...left hand.” Addo takes the paintbrush from my mom. He smiles, skimming his eyes over the cast on my right. “Good thing we don’t need the other one, huh?”
I know he’s trying to put me at ease. He can’t.
“Well, come on.” Addo says, dipping the brush in what looks to be dirty water in the jar. I hold up my left palm and I can’t control it from shaking. I glance out the corner of my eye at Garrett. He’s not grinning. His lips are flat, with his eyes glued on my hand. I focus on it too, trying to hold it still. Nothing works. I look to the other side, afraid to see my mom flipping out, but when I catch a glimpse of her, she looks perfectly calm. She’s concentrating on holding the jar so it doesn’t spill.
The room has gone so quiet that whispering seems inappropriate. I want to ask Addo what he is going to do next, how much it’s going to hurt, when it will be over, but I can’t open my mouth against the silence. Addo taps the brush on the edge of the jar and in a panic, I project my question, like a screaming bottle rocket, at his forehead.
Addo flinches and looks up at me serenely.
Do you see how I almost spilled that all over myself? He asks. Easy on the energy there, kiddo, I’m only doing this once.
His lifts hi
s brush from the jar as he explains, in the privacy of my mind, This is soil from the very first ground. Mixed with the water from the very first river.
Where did you get it? I ask.
Outside. Where do you get your soil and water? He asks. I see him pinch his own cheek with his teeth but his released giggle ribbons through my head. It’s not like the first drop of water and the first speck of soil has gone anywhere. Duh. What are we going to do with it? Ship it off to the moon? The first stuff is still here. Talk about recycling.
Addo keeps babbling as he paints the watered down dirt onto my hand. I finally have to interrupt him to ask why he’s slathering me in dirt anyway.
Eh. It’s just part of it. He says with a tiny shrug. I glance around the room and notice that everyone’s eyes are closed. They look peaceful or dead or maybe just suspended, as if time has stopped. It’s startling.
Are they okay? I ask.
Mmm hmm. They’re just praying.
For what? He finishes painting and blows on my palm to dry it.
Strength, courage, wisdom. But probably—mostly—that you won’t muff this up.
He grins, holding up the rock in his other hand. The shape is familiar from geometry class: an obtuse, scalene triangle. It’s gray, old concrete, smooth on the outside edge. The inner part is jagged and crumbly, as if it’s been busted off from a larger chunk. There are tiny flowers engraved all over one side. Some patterns are whole but most are incomplete where the rock is broken.
Addo holds the rock over the top of my hand and with a grin, drops it onto my palm. I brace myself, expecting it to burn a hole through my skin. Instead, it just feels like a cold chunk of brick straight out of the fridge.
Let me guess, I think to him, ancient concrete from your busted steps out front?
Those are fiberglass steps. He corrects me. And this is a piece of the first cornerstone.
From the first temple.
Really? I try not to project a hole in the Addo with my excitement. Like from the Garden of Eden?
Cornerstone Page 21
