by Lori Adams
I match her stride as she picks up speed. “But your grades are okay? You’re still on track for college?” Bailey is destined for Columbia University, and I have serious college envy.
“Shit, Sophia, you sound like my mom. Grades are fine. I’m fine. Well ahead of the curve. Plus, I’ve got three letters of recommendation in the works, so chill.” She gives me a look that says I should worry about my own grades.
I do. All the freaking time.
“Well, anyway. You won’t believe what Uriel just said to me.”
“Uh … he wants to Faceboink you?”
I don’t even want to know what that means, so I explain about the ducks.
She laughs. “What the hell do you think we’re doing now?”
Up the next driveway is Norah and Gracie’s house. Gracie ushers us around back where their pet ducks live in a mini oasis complete with a tiny pool and two hammocks. Jeez, I wanna be a duck.
We each take a duck by the leash and the four of us waddle up the walk. Bailey isn’t fazed by what we’re doing, but I’m laughing hysterically on the inside.
It doesn’t take long to reach the park; the ducks seem to know the way. As we cross the lawn, we spot Duffy monkeying up the flagpole. He’s wearing a rainbow propeller hat with a NY Jets jersey. Apparently, “somebody” tied a pair of sneaks to the flag, and Duffy has been ordered to retrieve them. Mayor Jones is standing below with his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face. Duffy drops a shoe and nearly hits the mayor on his bald spot. The mayor wails in surprise and startles the ducks. Their heads rise up like ET and they start quacking and flapping erratically.
Duffy yells down, “Hey, shut the duck up!”
Bailey yells up, “You shut the duck up!”
We laugh, but Mayor Jones is flustered by the uproar and can’t be sure if it was obscene or not. He threatens to give us community service if we don’t get to work.
Bailey and I release the ducks into Uriel’s capable hands and we are free to go. As we bisect the square heading to the café, we’re bombarded with “Good morning” and “Hello” from every direction. Shop owners are especially happy, anticipating the customer rush from the festival. Giant signs in their windows scream OPEN! like angry text messages.
I discreetly scope out the square for Michael. I haven’t seen him much since that bizarre conversation at last week’s football game, when he basically told me to stay away from Dante like a jealous boyfriend. And then, nothing. He doesn’t talk to me. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t plan time to work on astronomy. He comes and goes from each class like a shadow, and sometimes doesn’t come at all. I don’t know what to think.
Bailey and I troop into the café, wait at the counter while Mollie the barista makes what she thinks we should drink, and then head to the back. Holden and Rachel are sitting intimately close on the couch, so I steer Bailey to a table against the brick wall. It’s not too crowded; most of the seniors are busy putting last-minute touches on their booths.
When we get settled, I’m too quiet and Bailey’s radar picks up my mood.
“Hey, lamb chop, why so saaaad?” She says sad like a bleating sheep, and I smile vaguely at the lame joke.
I’m hesitant to explain, still trying to figure out my feelings for Michael. Sometimes I sense a unique connection to him, like that night on the hill before things got weird. Sometimes I have an overwhelming physical need to be with him, need being the watchword; it consumes me until I’m trembling and flushed. I wake in the middle of the night covered in sweat. Other times I remember how he spoke to me, how bossy he comes across, how radical his mood swings. And I get infuriated all over again. Mostly I try not to feel anything. I am terrified of letting myself fall in love. I am scared of getting hurt. I don’t know how other girls do it, fall so deeply only to crash and burn. There has been so much pain in my life already, I’m afraid the next heartbreak will send me over the edge.
I could fake it. I could downplay my feelings and tell Bailey that I’ve got a stupid crush on Michael Patronus but I know what she’d say. Line forms to the right, chica.
But I don’t want to be like everyone else. I don’t want to be another Michael Patronus groupie. As far as I can see, this town is crawling with them. So I plaster on a smile and say my grades suck and I’m worried about college. At this time of year, every senior knows exactly what I’m feeling and Bailey doesn’t bat an eye.
Holden leaves and Rachel walks over and plops down beside Bailey. “You’ll never guess what just happened.”
Bailey snatches Rachel’s phone and says, “Uh, you had textual intercourse?” She starts perusing Rachel’s text messages.
“What the yuck? No!”
“She’s textually frustrated.” Bailey winks at me and we laugh.
“You guuuuys,” Rachel whines and grabs her phone.
“Hey, don’t be cellfish,” Bailey says, reaching for it. Rachel smacks her hand. “Okay, fine. Tell us what’s up with you and Texas Holden.”
Rachel withdraws and fiddles with her phone. She’s nervous because maybe we’ve noticed how she and Holden have gotten tight all of a sudden, talking between classes and after school. We have, and I think they make a cute couple.
“He just wanted to know if I was going to the dance with anyone.” She glances at me, beaming shyly.
Bailey smacks the table. “Well, panic! at the disco. He asked you to the dance?”
“Yeah, well, we’re just going to meet there, you know, nothing formal.” She’s trying to play it cool, like Bailey would, but I can see she’s thrilled.
I smile and squeeze her hand. “Good for you, Rach.”
“Yeah, seriously,” Bailey adds. “You guys’ll have a great time. And that’ll leave more guys for Sophia and yours truly.”
“Uh.” I chew my lip. “Actually, I forgot to mention. Dante asked me to the dance, so …”
Bailey slumps like somebody jacked her airbag. “Aw, man. You both have dates and I’ll be flying Han Solo.”
“But you never want a date,” Rachel says. “Besides, you’ll just hook up with Duffy, like always.”
I choke on my coffee and Bailey grins like the Cheshire cat.
“I never really understood your … relationship.” This is Rachel’s way of showing her disapproval. She is the most non-confrontational person I’ve ever met.
“I told you, Duffy’s just for practice.” She laughs at my shocked expression. “Yeah, well. You know the Golden Rule.”
“Do unto others as—”
“Practice makes perfect.”
Ah, the other Golden Rule.
“Anyhoo, sex with Duffy is more like horizontal twerking … with an octopus … on crack. If you know what I mean.”
“Eeuuww! I think I just threw up a little.” Rachel grimaces.
“What about Vaughn Raider?” I ask, and Bailey’s face lights up.
“Mmm, that guy.” She smiles dreamily. “He’s gone viral on me. Can’t get him out of my system, ya know?”
“Have you guys … you know …”
“Not yet,” she says with all the confidence that it’s a sure thing. “He keeps threatening to do all kinds of things to me though. He’s quiet the tease, I must say.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what to say to that, so I look at Rachel. She has that deer-in-the-headlights look she gets when she is out of her comfort zone. No judgment, just startled silence. “Uh, why don’t you ask him to the dance?”
“Well, I sort of felt him out about it. He just said he’d see me there.” She frowns, remembering the conversation that didn’t go her way.
Has the incomparable Bailey Caraway met her match?
Rachel mumbles, “I don’t know about that guy. Seems like he’d take love on a long walk off a short pier, you know?” We do.
“Well.” Bailey shifts her attention to me. “Why aren’t you more excited about Señor Smolder asking you out?”
I don’t know why I’m not excited.
Yes, I do. Michae
l is stuck in my head and attention from anyone else feels flat, like an old Coke. No fizz.
“I dunno about you,” Bailey says. “I’d be shaking my booty like a naughty hottie if it was me. I mean, if it was Vaughn, you know?”
A loud ruckus clangs in the square, startling us. It’s trying to sound like a band, and our eyes fly open. “Shit!” Bailey yells, and we spring up.
The festival is starting without us.
*
Vern Warner’s horrible eight-piece marching band officially starts the festival. The lousy rhythm clangs from the northeast side of town and grows louder until the small ensemble appears around the corner. Behind them is Mrs. Anderson from the elementary school. She is marching into the square with her kindergarteners following like ducks in a row. Along come the first-grade class, second, and so on. Despite the teachers’ warnings to be courteous and walk, the kids descend on the park like ants on a sugar cube.
Mayor Jones’s booming voice crackles over the speakers, announcing the start of the annual festival. The first wave of kids hits the cotton candy booth, the face-painting booth, the petting zoo, the pony rides, and beyond. I stand in the center, snapping photos of the crush, feeling like a giant looking down at their tiny demanding faces.
A band I’ve never seen before takes the stage and plays Noah and the Whale’s rendition of “5 Years Time.” I stroll around, click photos, and hum along. Over the next hour, the game booths spring to life with strange snapping noises, popping sounds, ringing bells, and cheering winners. The aromas of popcorn, funnel cakes, cinnamon rolls, and coffee compete for air space. Santiago has taken charge of the Guitar Hero booth and is pulverizing all competition. Dante and Vaughn are manning the small Tilt-a-Whirl erected on the courthouse lawn. The terrified screams from riders echo off the buildings. Rumor has it that no one could find a booth suitable for Wolfgang.
By the time I reach the south end of the park, the petting zoo is full of kids and animals, and it’s hard to tell them apart. Uriel is surrounded by children and assorted farm animals, and having a wonderful time.
I stop to watch Michael and Raph work the pony rides. Their line is the longest, with no one over four feet tall waiting. Six sturdy little ponies with dapple-gray bodies and long white manes and tails carry children in a circle. Like miniature show horses, they’re healthy and alert, not the usual carnival horses that appear sad and mistreated.
Michael is in the center of a rowdy mob of children clamoring for his attention. Little girls dance on their tippy toes with arms reaching up for Michael to carry them. One boy is clinging to his back and two dangle from his thick arms. The children are laughing with open adoration, and Michael is laughing at his predicament.
I’ve never seen him look so beautiful, so happy, as if watching over children is the most natural thing in the world. He scoops up a little girl who places her tiny hands on his cheeks and kisses his nose. Michael laughs, and I feel a stab of jealousy.
I would give anything to make Michael happy like that.
Acknowledgment hits me hard in the gut and I take a deep, shaky breath. Tears sting my eyes. No, I don’t want this. I can’t handle this. Loving a guy like Michael Patronus is going to crush me.
I swallow the lump in my throat and squeeze my eyes shut. I tell myself to pull it together. I tell myself I’m at work; be professional. Take photos. Look for angles, lighting, subjects. It’s a good pep talk but when I open my eyes, they hit Michael like a locked-on target.
And then I realize something. I am looking at Michael and have zero chest pain. Well, my heart is firing on all cylinders, but the strange second heartbeat is absent. I’m sure it comes from being around Michael but why don’t I feel it now?
I guesstimate the distance between us to be about forty feet. As I watch Michael, he moves around the horses, checking the safety buckle of each child in a saddle. He doesn’t see me and I feel nothing unusual. I step closer.
Nothing.
Closer.
Nothing.
Am I wrong?
Michael works on the tent cover while the kids ride in a circle. He reaches up to tighten a chain at the same time that I take one giant step forward like I’m walking over a threshold. And there it is, a soft fluttering above my heart that grows stronger until it becomes a defined second heartbeat, a rhythm all its own, and Michael freezes.
Ha! I knew it— Wait, what just happened?
I stare at the back of Michael’s head. He touches the center of his chest and then slowly turns around. He looks at me as though I had called his name.
I gasp and feel my eyes widen in disbelief. Michael is gaping like he’s been caught red-handed. We don’t move, but our inaction confirms something. He knew I was here! Holy shit! He feels the same thing I do!
I take another step closer. I want to ask what he feels. How he knew I was behind him. But Raph appears and blocks Michael’s view. Raph is angry like he was that night at the football game, and Michael is straining to see around him. I feel a slight pull at my heart as they argue. Raph eventually steers Michael back to the children, and I am left trembling with the understanding that something supernatural has just happened.
Chapter 24
Love and Other Fatal Diseases
The ceiling above my bed has churned from black to gray to a milky blue haze, indicating that the old-fashion streetlamps in the square have come on. I’ve hardly slept because my mind has a mind of its own, and we can’t stop thinking about Michael. I no longer believe that my second heartbeat is some freak stress thing; Michael must feel it, too. We must be connected somehow and this idea is both frightening and exhilarating, like twins vying for a lover’s attention.
Most of my life I’ve felt lost, like I’m floating in an atmosphere where the altitude messes with my head. I don’t belong anywhere; I never feel safe where I am.
But since moving to Haven Hurst, there have been a few precious moments when I’ve felt absolutely safe.
I realized—at four-fifteen this morning, when the ceiling washed from black to gray—that Michael is connected to every one of those moments: at the accident when he looked at me for the first time, when I was mysteriously pulled against him at the mud pit, on the hill under the stars when he touched me with soft curiosity, and yesterday when he sensed my presence and turned to look at me. They were all mere moments but felt like a lifetime of protection.
Mom always said I lived by my emotions. I never knew what she meant until now.
When Michael looks at me, I feel like someone is brushing up against my soul and filling me with something I’m missing. The pieces fit together. I am whole. I am home.
Heat washes through me like a fever, and I squirm between the sheets. I know without a doubt that I want Michael. Really want him, touching me, kissing me, discovering things about me that even I don’t know. I want that soft second heartbeat thrumming next to mine. I want pale blue eyes holding me in place like loving hands. I want the weight of his body on mine. I want to hear Michael whispering in my ear and telling me what it all means. But mostly I want him snuggled deep inside me like a hand inside a glove.
I know it won’t happen. Michael would rather donate an organ than spend time with me. And so my heartbeat remains singular, my chest an empty coffer, my skin cool and untouched.
My eyelids drop like a curtain at the close of a sad play. Tears slip down my cheeks, and I finally fall asleep.
*
It’s one of the rare mornings when Dad has to wake me up. Since I didn’t fall asleep until early this morning, he is standing over the bed gently shaking my shoulder.
“Sophia? Aren’t you late?” I crack open my eyes and squint up at his frown. “Your eyes are puffy,” he says, looking at my pillow. We’re both instantly aware of the dampness beneath my cheek. “Oh,” he murmurs in recognition, and takes a step back.
For a pastor, Dad is unusually inept at comforting others. No, that’s not true. Just when it comes to comforting me. Before Mom died, he was a
great pastor, full of passion and hope. He connected with the younger crowd and was considered kind of cool for an older guy. Around the time of Mom’s death, he changed and became withdrawn and irritable. We weren’t especially close, because he always treated me like some unusual pet that he didn’t quite know what to do with. Mom and I were a team. She comforted me, always. So now that Dad has detected my sadness, I expect him to leave me to wallow alone.
To my surprise, he pushes Sundance off the bed and sits down. I can’t remember him ever coming into my room like this. He might poke his head inside and say, “I thought you’d keep a cleaner room,” as though I was breaking some unspoken promise. He always seemed surprised when I did normal girl things. I was always surprised when he didn’t do normal dad things.
He raises his hand like he might touch my head but stops. His face falls with his hand. I sit up and lean against the headboard and look at him. He absently straightens my blanket for something to do, noting the faded flowery pattern and loose piping.
“We should replace this,” he says, lacking any real interest. I blink and wait. He looks up for my response.
“It’s fine,” I mumble. He nods and clears his throat, letting his eyes wander.
“All moved in, then?”
I don’t answer but think, Well, it’s been over a month so, yeah.
When I sniffle, his eyes cut to mine. I stop sniffling. We stare awkwardly, and then Dad does something unusual. He asks me what’s wrong.
A lump forms in my throat and I can’t speak.
“Tell me? Please?”
My eyes well up. A tear rolls down my cheek, and I cover my face as more follow. I can’t believe I’m doing this, especially in front of him. But I can’t hold it back any longer and I sob so hard my shoulders shake. I feel Dad’s hands on my arms. He pulls me against his chest, and I cry while he rocks me like a baby, gently shushing me and stroking my head. I try to stop but I can’t. I am soaking his shirt and my pajama top. Dad never did this when Mom died. Dad never did this at all.
