Hidden Worlds

by Kristie Cook

  So, maybe I should just go home with Uncle Jim. I can enroll in some community college for the semester and hope that I can apply to other universities in the winter. Visions of living at home and working at the mall dance in my head, making me want to cry. I have wanted this my whole life; I want to make something of myself so that if the father I have never met does finally show up, he will see that I’m a success and that he has missed out on me. If I go home now, I can kiss that dream goodbye, at least for the foreseeable future.

  Slowly, I begin typing:

  Dear Uncle Jim,

  Hi, I made it to orientation, and I saw Alfred there. He did me a solid by saving me a seat, which was very sweet of him. Afterward, everyone walked to the lake for a barbeque. I met a friend named Russell, who made a pretty funny joke about how trying to hurry the girls walking in front of us would be as pointless as trying to herd cats. I’m meeting him in the union tomorrow—scandalous. I miss you very much.

  Love, Evie

  P.S. We were having a pseudo-intellectual conversation about mind control. Do you know of any technology currently available regarding this?

  P.P.S. I bought you some Twinkies. They’re behind the cereal on the second shelf in the pantry.

  Wiping the tears from my cheeks, I click the send button, reaching a new low.

  CHAPTER 4 - REGISTRATION

  I am knocked back into consciousness by the viciousness of my nightmare—jolting upright from the shadowy fist that leaves a fiery echo of pain against my cheek. I hold my face in my hands as I wait to make it fully back from the dark. Fear like snake venom slowly begins to ease in my veins, allowing me to breathe easier.

  I switch on the lamp, before squinting at my alarm clock—three a.m. I know I should try to go back to sleep for a few hours, but I’m not ready to yet. I feel sweaty and scared, like I’ve been running from the monsters in my dreams for hours.

  As I push myself to a sitting position in bed, I jar the dull, gunmetal gray box cutter resting on the bedside table. With a heart-thumping grimace, I remember how wicked-sharp it is. Lifting my finger, I examine it under the soft glow of the yellowish bulb. There is nothing there, no scarring or redness, just smooth skin.

  With shaky fingers, I reach for the box cutter, feeling the cold weight of it. Exposing the silvery blade, a little drop of dried blood still clings to it. My blood is the same as everyone else’s; it runs red—no different—normal. I slide my fingertip gently over the blade as the razor edge shines pale against the night.

  Occam’s razor, I think. Tend toward a simple theory; the simplest answer is usually correct.

  Before I even realize what I’m doing, I press the razor’s edge harder against my finger until I create a thin slice in the tip of it. Drops of blood well up, staining the blade. I stare fixedly at the cut; a couple of minutes pass and it stops bleeding; two more minutes and it has knit together; and only one more minute for it to become a small red line. By the end of ten minutes, my laceration is completely gone.

  Occam’s wrong, unless the simplest explanation is that I’m a total freak.

  “What’s happening to me?” I whisper aloud as I curl up in my bed.

  Too afraid to turn off the lamp, I drift off to sleep, clutching the box cutter in my hand.

  ***

  I feel as if I haven’t slept at all when my alarm goes off. I get ready with my eyes half shut before walking a little more than a block to the only cafeteria on campus. Everyone calls it “Saga” because it’s a microcosm of drama—with food. When I arrive, I fish in my bag to find my “saga card” so I can get a quick bite to eat before registration.

  The selection of food is what I expect from a cafeteria—appalling. I opt for a banana and a bowl of instant oatmeal. Carrying my tray, I go searching for an empty table.

  I quickly recognize a riotous table of freshmen in the center of the room as being Mason and his associates—Russell’s friends. I hunt for any sign of Russell, but he’s clearly absent from their group. Feeling disappointment, I look around to see if he is sitting at another table.

  I don’t find Russell, but I manage to locate Freddie. He’s alone in the back by the large picture window. Squeezing my way past tables full of gossiping students, I make it just about half way to Freddie when someone begins calling my name from a table nearby. Turning toward the voice, my eyes widen in surprise to see that it’s Mason calling to me.

  “Genevieve! Yo, Genevieve! There’s a seat open at our table!” Mason waves enthusiastically.

  Eyeing the table full of young men skeptically, I can think of no more awkward a place to be at this moment than alone at a table full of freshmen boys. “Thanks,” I say, calling to Mason, “I promised my friend I’d have breakfast with him. Sorry, maybe another time?”

  Unwilling to wait for him to respond, I flee to the back of the room where Freddie is seated. “I can’t tell you how psyched I am to see you, Freddie! Can I eat breakfast with you?” I ask, sitting down next to Freddie in a vacant seat.

  “Evie! Hey, of course,” Freddie says in surprise. “What happened to you last night? I was kinda worried about you. I tried to find you, but you weren’t on the bus, and Russell wouldn’t tell me what happened to you.”

  “Umm, I missed the bus and had to walk back. Sorry I worried you,” I explain.

  His eyebrows shoot up. “You had to walk back, that’s hilarious,” he says, laughing at me while continuing to eat his breakfast.

  “Thanks, Freddie. Remind me why I like you again,” I say sarcastically, but I smile at him because I can tell he’s only teasing me.

  Just then, a boy walks by and says, “Yo, Genevieve, sup?”

  “Hi,” I say in bewilderment, watching him walk away. I don’t recognize him at all. Turning to Freddie with a puzzled gaze, I ask, “Do you know him?”

  “Umm, I don’t know his name, but I think he lives in Brady,” Freddie says.

  “How would he know who I am?” I ask, almost to myself.

  “Ooohhh, it’s that Mothers’ Club thing—that freshman directory—they sent it to all the freshman. The one with all of our pictures in it and bios on everyone.” When I nod stupidly, he goes on, “Well, a bunch of guys in the dorm got together and they were rating the girls in the freshman class using the directory. I think it’s on a standard ten-point scale. You got a really high rating. Most everyone is giving you a ten in the over-all category. I’m not sure how you did in the stacked category, though, but I know you shined in the ass category …”

  Blood flushes my face. I nearly have to put my head down to hide my mortification. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I stiffen as the creepy factor of it all overcomes me.

  “Nope. In fact, I sold my directory to a couple of guys from one of the fraternity houses on campus. They gave me fifty bucks for it. I think they use it for scoping the freshmen girls and for finding out about prospective pledges before rush,” he grins.

  “That’s so nasty … I think I’m going to be sick. Here, do you want my oatmeal? Because I’m no longer hungry,” I ask, pushing my bowl at him in disgust. “And how could you sell your directory when you know what they’re going to do with it?”

  “Evie, it’s simple econ one-o-one: supply and demand,” he explains as he takes a bite of my oatmeal and makes a face. “This is so nasty!” he says, mimicking my earlier outburst, “How do you eat this?”

  I can’t help but laugh at the face he is making while he tries to swallow the mouthful of oatmeal. “Okay, you’re off the hook, but that Mothers’ Club has had it. They’re getting hate mail outlining their flagrant violation of our privacy!” I say passionately.

  “Are you going to sign the letter?” Freddie asks, leaning back almost arrogantly in his chair as if he’s evaluating my indignation.

  “Probably not,” I say crossly, realizing he has me pegged pretty well already.

  “Well, good luck! Power to the people and all that!” says Freddie with a sarcastic grin as he holds up his fist. “I don’t k
now what you’re worried about; like I said, they’re giving you tens.” As he says this, he holds both of his hands palms out to me to illustrate his point.

  “That’s vile, Freddie,” I reply, feeling myself blush again. “What’s up today?” I ask, attempting to change the subject.

  “I have to chill here until I can register for classes. Buy my books—maybe some lunch. Then I have a dorm meeting at four. You know, rules, blah, blah, no girls, blah, blah, don’t prop the doors open, blah, blah, blah. Then I don’t know—dinner I guess,” he shrugs.

  “I have a dorm meeting at four, too. Do you want to meet up for dinner here at around five-thirty?” I ask, hoping he will say yes. I’m realizing that it’s comfortable talking to him. He’s really kind of funny.

  “Sure, I’ll bring a wipe board, and you can rate all the freshmen guys that walk by as a sign of protest,” he laughs as I throw my balled up napkin at him.

  “Okay, I’ve got to run. Wish me luck with my classes, Freddie,” I say, gathering up my things.

  “Good luck, Evie,” he smiles, but as I begin walking away from him, he calls out to me. “Evie.” I turn back around to see him mouthing the word ten and holding up both of his hands again. He’s trying to cajole me out of feeling bad about the directory thing.

  He has a good heart, I think as I hold up my fist to him, shaking it in mock anger before waving goodbye to him.

  Registration is one floor down from the cafeteria. Entering the stairwell, the fluttering in my stomach that I recognize now as the harbinger for Reed Wellington becomes increasing riotous.

  He must be down there somewhere, I think, stopping midway down the stairs to grip the railing in fear. I haven’t allowed myself a moment of time this morning to analyze what had happened the night before. In fact, I’ve gone out of my way to block out almost the entire evening, which is now crashing in on me.

  What’s he going to do when he sees me again? I wonder, feeling fear twist snake-like through my veins to my extremities. It’s a public place. He can’t do anything with all these people around. You’re safe, I reason, willing myself to loosen my death grip on the railing and continue down the stairs.

  Exiting the stairwell, I approach a table set up to administer the registration cards and give the bored-looking female student my name. She hands me a registration card from her stack, and I begin the process of choosing my classes. I have no problem obtaining the English and math classes that I need.

  I move on to the science classes and hit a wall, well maybe not a wall, more like a Reed. He is seated at the registration table designated for the upper level physics classes and labs. There is another student ahead of me in line, so I have a moment to study Reed while he helps the student figure out his class schedule.

  Reed’s dark-brown head bends over the student’s class list as he points out where the freshman should fit in his labs. His broad shoulders stretch his t-shirt to display some of the sleek contours of his muscles beneath it.

  He’s off the charts on the hotness scale, I think grudgingly. The butterflies that have been flying around in my stomach are increasing their tempo with every step I take nearer to him.

  When it’s my turn, I square my shoulders and extend my class list to him across the table, but he doesn’t look up. Instead, he casually studies the pen in his hand like it contains the secrets of the universe within it. I try to read the expression on his face in order to gauge his reaction to me, but he is blank—unemotional.

  Placing my class list on the tabletop facing him, I wait. He remains silent, unmoving, ignoring me. Crossing my arms in front of me, I sigh heavily, shifting from foot to foot. Finally, I decide it’s up to me to get this over with.

  I clear my throat. “Reed, may I please register for the Physics Two Hundred class with Dr. Farrow at nine o’clock on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays?” I ask as politely as possible, trying to pretend everything is normal and that I hadn’t Tasered him less than twenty-four hours ago.

  Not even glancing up, Reed says, “No,” with casual lassitude.

  “Is it full?” I ask dejectedly. “How about Physics Two Hundred with Gertz at eleven o’clock on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays?” I say, trying to find a time that would work with the schedule I have already compiled.

  “No,” Reed says again, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “No … as in ‘no, its full’ or no as in ‘no, I can’t take physics?’” I ask suspiciously, reading the stubborn set of his jaw.

  “No as in you can’t be here. No as in you need to transfer somewhere else. No as in no,” says Reed, his hair falling further over his eyebrows as they draw together in a scowl.

  “Why? Why can’t I be here? What is it with you?” I ask in exasperation. “Do you want an apology for the Tasering? Okay, I’m sorry I jacked you with the Taser. Maybe that was out of line, but you started it with that creepy voice and the Russell thing. Listen, I get that you’re the big fish in the little pond here. I’m just trying to get the best education I can. I just want to take physics so I can get into the honors program. Please,” I end, apparently not too proud to grovel a little.

  Another student lines up behind me to register for physics. Reed glances at him with a look of annoyance on his lovely face. I want to touch his cheek, to soothe him, but before I can make a fool of myself, Reed speaks to the freshman behind me, saying in a low, commanding tone, “I’m not ready for you now. Come back in an hour.”

  I go rigid when I hear echoing undertones in Reed’s voice. The student immediately leaves without a word. Reed’s green eyes shift back to mine as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

  His eyebrow rises thoughtfully as he asks, “Is that what you think this is about? That I’m being a big fish and asserting some kind of supremacy over you?” The corners of his lips twitch with irritation before he asks, “What if I tell you we aren’t in a pond? What if I say we happen to be in an ocean, and the coral reef we’re living in will soon be teeming with the worst kind of sharks that only a fish like you can attract?”

  “And what kind of fish attracts sharks like that?” I ask feebly, wondering if he’s crazy or if I am.

  “A fish that has never been seen before. A brand new fish that could change the ecosystem of the entire ocean,” he replies, watching me close.

  It takes me a second to process his response. I try to give a little laugh, but it sounds hollow, even to my own ears. Faking an indifferent smile, I reply, “That is quite a special fish … and where in this vast ocean could a fish like that go, you know, to avoid those sharks that would like to get it?”

  “There isn’t a safe place for the little fish in all of the oceans of this world,” Reed says flatly, and there seems to be a hint of pity in his response.

  The pity scares me more than if he had sneered at me. I feel crushed, and the air is suddenly too thin to breathe. “Well,” I manage to say as my throat tightens, “what if I stay and try to have as much fun as I can until the sharks come? I promise I won’t mention you to them.”

  “The sharks would know about me, even without your mentioning me to them. They have a great sense of smell, those sharks,” Reed says quietly.

  “But if they just came for me, would they even bother with you? After all, you wouldn’t really have anything to do with me. It’s not like you’re helping me. In fact, I’m pretty sure that you hate me. That may garner points for you, with the sharks.” My voice falters as I add, “I can’t go home. I would bring the sharks there, wouldn’t I?”

  Reed nods solemnly.

  “No, I can’t do that; I have an uncle who loves me …” I say, raising a shaky hand to my forehead.

  I have to think, why can’t I think? Shock—maybe panic.

  I exhale deeply before I ask, “So, since you know I’m not a fish, and I know you’re not a fish, what does that make us?”

  Reed stands up from his chair and leans across the table, motioning to me to do the same. His cheek brushes mine softly as he whis
pers, “That makes us completely and utterly screwed.”

  It takes me a second to understand what he just said because being near him is intoxicating. “That’s not what I meant,” I whisper back when I recover. “What I meant was …”

  “I know what you meant,” he all but growls in frustration.

  “I get that you want me to leave; that’s crystal clear, but look at it from my point of view for a second. What would you do if you were me—if you found someone who seems to know what’s up with you? You asked me about my father, at the lake, remember? What do you know about him?” I ask him, trying to hide my growing desperation.

  “I don’t know who your father is,” Reed says evasively.

  “Okay, who do you suspect he is?” I ask with dogged persistence.

  Reed’s eyes soften, “What are you, prelaw?” he asks.

  “Maybe, I haven’t decided yet. I thought that there would be plenty of time to figure out a major, but apparently, I was wrong,” I say softly. “Never mind. I have to know what you know. You have to tell me what’s going on. Maybe you can tell me why I keep having the same nightmare over and over.”

  “You have seen visions?” he asks abruptly, searching my face for an answer.

  “Well, I’m not sure you can call them ‘visions.’ It’s more like having the same nightmare every night. What do you think it means?” I ask him.

  His jaw sets stubbornly.

  “You know, but you’re not going to say?” I ask in frustration. “Okay, how about an easier question. Why does my stomach flutter like it’s filled with a thousand butterflies whenever I get near you? And I don’t mean when I see you, I mean before I see you,” I inquire as I search his face.

  That question makes him look completely superior because his face changes instantly from stubborn to smug, but he doesn’t answer that one either. “I can tell that I’m going to regret having asked that question,” I say, muttering to myself.

  He loses some of his smug smile as he says, “I can’t tell you anything. You may be what you appear to be, or you may be something else entirely. I have to be sure before I do anything. If you are what I think you are, you probably won’t believe me and will want proof, and I can’t give that to you now. I don’t even know if I should help you out at all,” he says grimly. “But since you’re here, and apparently you’re staying, we will have to see what we can do to camouflage you, at least until I am sure about you.”