by Lori Adams
We sail over the edge and down the long diving road. We’re airborne for seconds and then drop to the ground with a hard bang. Sparks fly out. A canopy of trees shrouds us like a tunnel and white tree trunks whiz by in ghostly blurs. Each car fights for the lead, edging side by side down the road. Headlights catch the approaching hill, but neither car can make the dip at the bottom without tearing up the undercarriage. Dante and Wolfgang don’t seem to care. We plunge ahead with more power than imaginable. Taking the dip at full throttle, sparks fly out like flames. We climb and reach the top, and I thank God no one is coming from the opposite direction.
My relief dies a quick death. The road curves sharply to the right, and we aren’t slowing down.
“Dante! Stop!” I yell, but his face is dancing with excitement and shows no sign of hearing me. We approach the curve, neither car giving any ground. We bump against the Bugatti but Wolfgang holds steady and returns the hit. I can’t believe these idiots are damaging their cars for a stupid race!
We take the curve hard, and I gasp and hold tight. Rear tires slide sideways, and Dante cranks the wheel in the opposite direction. We drift around the corner, nearly hitting Wolfgang. The Bugatti copies our move, only ten feet away. I squeeze my eyes shut and hear tires squeal and expect to slam into Wolfgang and Vaughn any second.
But we straighten out and cut into another curve to the left, and I’m thrown against the door. We drift with smoke-squealing tires, and I clench my teeth while every curse word I know bangs around in my head looking for an exit. The Bugatti slides into my peripheral vision and eventually overtakes us. It drifts hard around the next curve. Dante yanks the wheel, and we’re drifting blind into Wolfgang’s smoke. The haze is thick and endless, and time seems to jamb up. Everything moves in slow motion. I have the sensation that we are floating aboveground. Red lights flicker inside the smoke, and I see parts of a car slowly rotating end over end like a child’s toy. Throaty cries of terror and shattering glass claw at my eardrums. Metal scrapes and snaps, and then we are gradually tumbling upside down as the car rotates in a surreal unnatural spin. I’m yelling noiselessly in terror, and my hair rises like it’s floating in water; we are upside down and back again. I look at Dante but it’s not him, and I’m not me. I brace my hands against the window and see Michael outside watching in horror as we tumble by. And then I’m above the scene looking down as a gray Camaro and a white Charger spin uncontrollably while four passengers churn like rag dolls in a dryer. Two are thrown through the sunroof. A guy in a red shirt has a broken collarbone and a collapsed lung. A girl in a blue dress has several broken ribs.
I scream and scream until my throat closes up and everything is black.
“Sophia! Sophia!” Hands cup my face and lift my head. The voice is familiar, one I’ve known for a very, very long time. It belongs to me, or rather, to the one who loves me. Somewhere deep inside, in a place kept secret from myself, I know the voice has always loved me, and me alone.
“Not yet!” the voice commands. “Not like this! Sophia! Open your eyes, at once!”
I hear anguish in the loving voice, and I don’t want to upset it. With great effort, I force my eyes open. A bright light makes me cringe, and I want to turn away but the hands hold me there. “Sophia,” he whispers. I blink and the car’s dome light comes into focus, and then pale green eyes.
I am shocked to see Dante’s face attached to the voice, to the loving emotions coursing through me. “What happened?” I whimper, disoriented.
Dante sighs with relief and releases me. I struggle to sit up and look around. We are in the Lamborghini stopped in the middle of the road. I remember where I am, and the visions hit like a tidal wave. I twist around in panic.
“Where are they?” I wipe moisture from the window. “Where are the other cars? Where are the two people in the ditch? Where is Michael?”
“What?” Dante’s snaps.
I scan the roadside. The black forest makes a jagged outline against the navy blue sky. The moon turns the grass in the ditch into gray fur beneath gnarled trees. No cars. No kids in the ditch. No Michael.
I look ahead at the Bugatti facing us fifty yards away. Through the dim headlights I see Wolfgang and Vaughn staring at us.
“Did you say ‘Where is Michael?’ ” Dante demands bitterly.
I look out the window where I swore I saw Michael watching the crashing cars. “Yeah, I saw him. I mean … I thought …” I look at Dante. “Didn’t we roll the car?”
Dante’s eyebrows rise indignantly. “No, I did not roll the car. I never lost control. You began screaming when we took the last curve.” He strokes my head and brushes hair from my cheek. “I think you fainted, cara.” The tenderness in his voice is unexpected, and I stare into my lap.
A million kinds of embarrassment wash through me. I’ve never fainted in my life, especially not from being too scared. This is so humiliating. But the visions seemed so real, so fresh. I can’t believe they didn’t really happen. I look out the window again but there is nothing there.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, feeling like an idiot. Dante hugs me across the console and strokes my head. His affection reminds me of something. “Dante? What did you mean when you said, ‘Not yet. Not like this’?”
“Hmm?” He sits back and stares at Wolfgang in the Bugatti, contemplating. I repeat my question, and he shrugs. “Perhaps you had some kind of dream when you fainted. Hearing and seeing things that were not real.” He gives me a stern look that says he doesn’t like that I mentioned Michael.
I mull this over. It’s possible, I guess. I’ve never fainted before, so for all I know, people hear and see all sorts of things while they’re out.
Dante revs the engine and grips the gearshift. The Bugatti’s headlights flicker like a question. “Ready for more?” he asks with a spicy grin.
“Are you kidding?” I wail.
“I thought you were enjoying the ride before you fainted.”
“I was scared to death!”
“I knew you would like it.”
“I didn’t say I liked it.”
Dante laughs deep in his throat. “Oh, I think you did. Fear is an intoxicating emotion, no? But not to worry. It may be too soon to admit, but I think you have a dark side, Sophia St. James.”
I bristle at the strange compliment. How long ago was it that I’d had a similar thought? A similar fear?
That night with Steve … what I tried to do after he hit me. What I would’ve done if not for Sundance’s interference. I’d had a dark, unnatural urge to kill.
I close my eyes and hope shutting down my vision will shut down my memory. I don’t want to think about that night or the dark thoughts that have risen in me since then. I don’t want to have a dark side.
“Sophia?” Dante squeezes my hand and there is genuine concern when he asks if I’m all right.
“You shouldn’t say that.”
“What? That you have a dark side? Ah. Yes, well, you only think that because you associate dark with evil.” He leans closer and pale green eyes dilate and draw me in. Warm cinnamon trickles along my senses.
“Isn’t that what you mean when you say ‘dark side’? An evil side?” I whisper.
“Evil is a relative term. Besides, it is not something you can contain. If you’ve got it—then it’s got you.” He tips my chin up to kiss me but I pull back.
“I don’t want to have a dark side.” My heart is racing but I feel unusually calm, almost numb inside.
“Whatever you have is already in you, Sophia. Do you not understand that? It is only a matter of bringing … it … out.” He is leaning in to kiss me but I look out the window. Dante sighs heavily, his frustration as palpable as though it’s another person in the car. I can’t believe how patient he is being; after all, it’s just a kiss. But he can’t know how upsetting his theory is. He doesn’t know about Steve and what I tried to do.
“Please take me home,” I mumble at the window. I feel his eyes on me but refuse to look at him. He
kisses the back of my hand.
“Believe me, Sophia. I will take you home. If it is the last thing I do.”
Chapter 26
One Hot Dog, Heavy on the Miracle
It’s Saturday, the final day of the Harvest Festival. Rides and booths open at ten. The square is inundated with people from surrounding towns, schoolkids bussed in, and shuttles full of tourists; it is by far the busiest day of the celebration. Final competitions, trophies, and ribbons will be awarded. A decent band takes the stage and fills the air with cool music. Every few hours the bands rotate, and I capture photos of each. I’m forcing myself to keep busy. I’ll do anything to avoid thinking about last night and the car accident that never happened or the strange conversation with Dante. He hasn’t mentioned it and I am not willing to either.
By noon, I’ve maneuvered in and around the entire square numerous times. My memory card is nearly full. And Dante’s been at my side for the duration. He seems extremely patient, never bored or interested in anyone but me. Too interested sometimes. He keeps trying to kiss me, like he’s desperate to win a bet or something. I’m strategically keeping the camera between us.
It’s around five o’clock when I notice Dante’s reluctance to go near the Farmer’s Market where Mr. and Mrs. Patronus are working. Dante will follow me up to the wooden carts with colorful fruits and veggies, but when Michael’s parents approach, he turns on his heel and strolls away. This happens not once but three times, while I’m rearranging flowerpots for a particular shot. Michael’s parents haven’t spoken to Dante or given more than a stiff glance, but I can sense the tension, and it blooms into a full-fledged fascination for me.
Since I’ve taken most of the photos on Miss Minnie’s list, and because I’m overly curious, I decide to test my hypothesis.
Dante follows me to the pie-throwing contest, where I line up shots of Mr. Cummings getting it in the face. I ask Dante for a banana from the Farmer’s Market. He brings back a chocolate-dipped banana from Rachel’s dessert booth. Later, I request a Granny Smith from the market, and he delivers apple pie à la mode from Bailey’s pie booth. A bottled water comes back as a pink slushy.
All subsequent scientific experiments are cancelled due to an upset tummy.
I’m exhausted and shaky from too much sugar and too little protein. I stare at the crumpled, sticky photo list I’ve been handling all day. One booth left to shoot: the pony ride, the one I’ve been postponing because Dante has been stuck to me like a dryer sheet. Not that it would matter; Michael hasn’t been there all day. So I trudge over with all the excitement of taking the SATs, and stop dead in my tracks.
Michael is there.
I suck in a breath and hope that Dante doesn’t notice my reaction. Fumbling with my camera, I pretend to check the battery to stall for time. I peek through my lashes and see Michael and Duffy loading kids on the ponies. I’m more than fifty feet away and feel none of the unusual—or should I say the usual—second heartbeat. Michael is busy and doesn’t notice me.
Dante is going on about attending his first American dance, but I haven’t been listening. When he takes a breath, I jump in and ask for a hot dog and a bottled water.
“I really should eat something before the dance. You know, I haven’t eaten any real food today.” I smile sugary sweet and hope to fake flirting enough to gain some alone time.
Dante gives me a wary look but says, “I am happy to please you, cara.”
I watch him walk away before turning my attention to Michael. My plan is to walk right up and demand an explanation for the other day. It’s a good plan; I like it. And then my business side takes over and I decide to take my required photos first.
Okay, so maybe I’m chicken and hope to find some extra courage lying around. But then I will march over and make my demands.
I zoom in and focus on the kids; they are happy and clapping and singing along to some Disney song that I can’t quite hear. I frame up a cute little girl with curly blond pigtails astride a dappled-gray pony. Head thrown back, she is singing at the top of her lungs. I smile behind the camera and snap a photo. The little girl wiggles in the saddle and then fumbles with the safety belt. I widen the shot and there is Duffy, collecting tickets from the next group. Michael is on the far side, bent down tying a little boy’s shoe. The pigtail girl works the buckle loose and squirms out. She struggles to stand up in the saddle as the ponies meander in a circle. She teeters back and forth, jumpstarting my heart.
Oh God, somebody look up! She’s going to fall into the center. She’ll be crushed under the hooves and no one is watching. Look up, Duffy! Look up! He is the closest but his back is turned. The girl wobbles and reaches out for the center pole that is striped like a candy cane. She’s going over.
My hands clench in reflex, causing a succession of rapid-fire clicking noises. Oh God! Oh God! Somebody—Michael suddenly grabs the back of the girl’s shirt just as she falls forward.
What the hell?
I exhale and lower the camera as a wave of awareness ripples through me. Did I just see … How did Michael do that?
There is no way he could’ve seen the girl falling. No way he could’ve reached her in time. The episode couldn’t have taken more than five seconds. But …
How did he know she needed help? Maybe she yelled, and he ran over. But I didn’t see him run over. He was just … there.
I glance around but no one else reacted. It all happened too quick.
Michael settles the girl back in the saddle and rebuckles the safety belt. He is frowning and reprimanding her while she pushes out her bottom lip and tries to hug him. She seems worried that he is angry with her.
It’s not possible, I argue in Dad’s stern lecture voice. I didn’t see what I think I saw. There has to be an explanation. Maybe I blinked or the camera was in the way? I remember hearing it click, so I press a button and retrieve the last few photos and watch them in sequence on the screen. The first shot: Michael and Duffy are busy while in the background the little girl stands on the pony. The second shot: Duffy has not moved, and Michael appears with the girl, his fingers knotting in her shirt.
I recheck five times and with each viewing, my confidence grows. I understand the capabilities of this camera. I’ve taken enough action shots to know it won’t miss a beat. It was locked on the sport setting, which means that the time elapsed from frame to frame is minuscule. The camera really doesn’t lie—Duffy’s hand barely moves from ripping a ticket, while Michael somehow circles the entire area to save the little girl he couldn’t possibly have seen.
A flashback of images plays in my head: Michael watching over the nurse at the accident, Michael saving Casey in the cafeteria, Michael miraculously rescuing this little girl …
I have been meandering through the mysteries of Michael Patronus, caught in blue eyes shimmering with color and emotions and turning things I know into questions. My mind is buzzing like a honeycomb overflowing with sweetness; thoughts ripen and take wing, understanding swarms and then settles on certainty, and I know.
Michael has a special ability to save people.
My scalp tingles with awareness. Mom is stroking my head. I am welling up with excitement because this certainty comes twofold; I am now sure that Michael can sense when I am around, that he physically feels something—maybe a second heartbeat like mine. And he probably wants to keep all of it secret; it would explain why he has been avoiding me. Michael knows I am figuring things out; he knows I have questions.
I want to walk over and demand my answers but Dante is striding toward me.
“Here you go!” he announces magnanimously, holding up a hot dog and a bottle of water like trophies. He has returned with my exact order. He smiles and I stare. My mind is humming with all things Michael Patronus, and Dante takes my silence for disapproval. “Am I mistaken? You said you would like everything on it, yes?” He eyes the disgusting concoction oozing ketchup, mustard, relish, and jalapeño peppers.
Good grief! How can he think about f
ood at a time like this!
“I need to … I’m not finished with …” I panic, desperate to talk to Michael.
I glance at the pony ride. They’ve ended the last round and are closing shop. It’s later than I thought and I slump with defeat.
“Sophia, do you or do you not want this … this disgusting American hot dog concoction?” Dante holds it out so as not to drip on his nice Italian shoes.
“Oh, just toss it,” I mumble, watching Michael walk away with all my answers. I turn to leave and Dante catches my arm.
“What time shall I be at your house?”
I chew my lip, contemplating. Maybe Michael will go to the dance. Maybe I can roofie his drink and demand answers when he is a pile of mush.
“I can just meet you there,” I say offhandedly.
“No!” Dante snaps. “I am coming for you, and then we will walk over together. That is what you agreed to, yes?”
I jerk my arm free. I don’t like his domineering tone or implication, like I’m breaking some sacred contract. But I also don’t want to waste valuable time arguing when I could be home dissecting Michael’s supernatural tendencies. I cop an attitude and say, “I’ll need an hour to shower and change. If that’s okay with you?”
Dante’s scowl breaks into a salacious grin. “One hour, Sophia. And then I am coming for you.”
Chapter 27
Surpassing the Outer Limits of Stupidity and Being Greatly Rewarded
The clock on the mantel ticks off seconds like an ax chopping wood. I’m as antsy as Wolfgang because storm clouds are gathering inside me, and somehow I know, nothing will be the same after tonight.
Exactly sixty minutes after I left Dante, he knocks on the door, and I spring out of the chair. As usual, Sundance trots over to offer his slobbery two cents. But he sniffs under the door and backs away frightened. His ears flatten and his tail disappears. He growls uncharacteristically, and I have to push him aside just to open the stupid door.
