by Katie Klein
“You can follow me,” the hostess says.
As we enter the dining room, my eyes land on a table that’s only half occupied. Four individuals. Oh My God. No Way.
For a brief moment I consider turning around, running as fast as humanly possible in the opposite direction. I think quickly. Maybe I can fake an allergy. Confess a fear of open flames.
“Are you coming?” Arsen asks.
“Um . . . sure.” I hurry after him, keeping my head low and pressing my fingers against my temple, hiding my face from view. I can’t see them, but I can feel us moving closer. My worst fears are confirmed when the waitress stops at their table.
I clear my throat. “Isn’t there, um, somewhere else we can sit?” I ask, voice low.
Arsen eyes me strangely, glances at the hostess, and lets out a shaky laugh. “They fill tables in order,” he explains. “We have to eat as a group. I hope that’s okay.” As he sits down, I drop to the floor, pretending to tie my shoe. But then I realize that my shoes don’t even have laces. I’m wearing sandals.
I slowly rise to my full height. When I turn toward the other side of the table, eight eyes are staring at me. Four pairs. One of those pairs I don’t think is a natural color.
“Genesis. It’s so funny to see you here,” Selena says. The corners of her mouth turn down in disapproval.
Beside her sits Carter. On the other side Vivian. And then Jason. “Isn’t it funny?” she asks, glancing at them.
“Um . . . hi,” I stammer, working to smooth my hair, tucking it behind my ears when I’d rather melt into the floor and disappear forever.
“Cool. You guys know each other?” Arsen asks, passing a look between us.
I force myself to snap out of it, to deal with this surprising, if not totally awkward, reality. “Um, yeah. Arsen, this is Carter, Selena, Vivian, and Jason. We . . . go to school together.” I cough. “This is Arsen, we, um . . . work together.”
“This is perfect,” Arsen declares enthusiastically.
“So convenient,” Selena states, her tone flat.
I clear my throat and sit down.
Even as I hide my face behind the menu, I know they’re ogling. My face flushes with heat.
How could this happen?
Carter has never taken me here. Ever. I didn’t even know he liked Japanese food.
As discretely as possible, I peek over the top of the menu.
Carter is entirely too absorbed in his salad. The hurt is transparent: in his eyes, the way he stabs the lettuce with his fork. . . .
Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.
My heart sinks as a wave of guilt washes over me. You are such an inconsiderate ex-girlfriend. A terrible, horrible person. You just broke up with him. And now you’re out with another guy?
I excuse myself for the bathroom, promising I’ll only be gone for a minute. I can feel everyone’s eyes watching as I walk away.
Inside the bathroom, I twist the lock behind me, fall against the door, and scream inside my head. The room is red, and the marble tile glitters, even in the dim light. Brush paintings and Japanese characters line the walls. As zen-like as it is, I’m not feeling very tranquil.
I inhale sharply, moving toward the pedestal sink to wash my hands.
“This is going well.”
My heart constricts in my chest, reacting when I hear the voice. “What do you want?” I fume, trying to swallow the lump wedged deep in my throat.
“Aren’t we in a mood,” he says, eyes teasing.
I glare through the mirror at the figure standing behind me, his arms folded across his chest, lean muscles rippling beneath his t-shirt. “Maybe I need some privacy,” I say, flipping on the water faucet. “You realize this is the women’s bathroom, right?”
“You got it. I just have to say one thing first,” Seth informs me.
I reach for the hand soap. “So say it and get out.”
“I don’t trust this guy.”
I scoff at the image in the mirror. “Are you serious?”
“I don’t joke around.”
“Now that is a total lie,” another voice says. This guy is shorter than Seth. A rounder face. Lighter hair. Younger.
“I thought I told you to stay out of this,” Seth warns.
“What is this? A freakin’ convention? Who are you?” I demand to know.
“I’m sorry. We haven’t been properly introduced,” he says, rolling his eyes. “That’s not my fault, though, and that’s not to say I don’t know everything about you already. It seems that even though I’m always accused of being the talkative one, Romeo over here can’t seem to shut up about you for five seconds.” He throws Seth a dirty look.
Seth glowers at him.
“Then ask him where he’s been lately.” I don’t want to sound hurt, or bitter, but that’s exactly how the words come out.
“Trust me when I say that he’s just as miserable . . .”
“Who are you?” I ask again, interrupting.
“His name is Joshua,” Seth informs me. “And he’s leaving.”
“This is great. I mean, how many of you are stalking me? Let me guess. You’re a Guardian, too?” I ask.
“Yes,” he replies, at the same time Seth says, “No.”
“So who are you guarding and why aren’t you with them right now?” I ask, spinning around on my heel to face them both.
“No one. Joshua is on probation,” Seth explains.
“Oh my God. A miscreant angel.” I fold my arms across my chest, hugging myself. “You look like you’re twelve.”
He scowls. “I resent that.” His expression changes, brows pulling together. “Wait. What exactly have you told her?” Joshua asks Seth.
“She knows what we are,” Seth replies, not taking his eyes off me.
“I happen to be taking a break from the industry,” Joshua explains.
“He’s suspended indefinitely,” Seth clarifies.
“Out of curiosity, how does one become suspended from being a Guardian?” I ask. I toss Seth a withering glance. Maybe we can arrange something. At least then I won’t have to worry about him popping in and out of my life, sending me on an emotional roller coaster every time he decides to show up then leave again.
“Oh, there are plenty of ways,” Joshua begins. “In this case it’s because I knocked out my charge.”
“What?” I ask, hardly believing that this pipsqueak of a kid has enough torque behind his fist to knock out a gnat, much less an actual person.
“It’s not like that. He was about to start a fight and I intervened.”
“You moved a chair, which he fell over, which made him hit the table behind him,” Seth says.
“Which wasn’t a big deal . . . ,” he goes on.
“Except you hadn’t materialized. To everyone watching, the chair moved by itself.”
“That’s freaky,” I mumble.
Joshua shrugs. “Cardinal Sin Number One: Never interfere with free will. Number Two: Don’t materialize unless you absolutely have to.”
“Rule Three: Don’t move things around when no one can see you,” Seth adds.
“Hey, they were all trashed. And that one guy? He totally freaked out. He’s in AA now thanks to me. Getting sober. That has to count for something.”
“Great,” I reply, shaking my head in disbelief. “This is awesome. Well, it was nice meeting you, but I have to get back to my table.”
Seth steps in my way, blocking my path to the door. “No,” he says. “You have to hear me out. This guy you’re with. . . . I don’t trust him.”
“You don’t trust anyone,” I remind him.
“For good reasons. But this guy especially.”
“What is with you?” I ask, eyes narrowing. “I mean, this whole coming and going thing whenever you feel like it is really pissing me off. You yell at me—for something that wasn’t even my fault, by the way—abandon me for like, weeks at a time, brood yourself into a corner, and then you drop in out of nowhere just to tell me you do
n’t like my date?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I hate when you say that. Everything is freaking complicated with you!”
“You have to believe me. And I never abandon you,” he answers, his tone laced with injury. “Ever.”
“I don’t have to believe anything,” I shoot back.
“There’s something about him. . . . I don’t think he’s guarded.”
“Yeah, and there’s something about Carter, Seth. You don’t like him, either, remember? Well you know what I think? I think you’re just jealous.” I reply, digging my heels further into the ground.
“Dude. She’s got you there,” Joshua pipes.
“You need to disappear,” Seth warns, anger simmering beneath the surface, ready to boil over.
In the next moment, Joshua is gone. Just how gone, I don’t know. I look back at Seth, waiting. His features soften, his words quiet and steady. “I know you’re upset with me, and I understand that you’re trying to prove a point, but don’t prove it with this guy.”
I scoff, trying to move around him.
“Genesis,” he begs, blocking my pathway.
“No,” I say, raising my hands in defense. “I don’t even want to hear it. I don’t care. You walked away from me, remember? And I have a date to get back to. At least he doesn’t vanish whenever he feels like it. So thank you for the warning, but in this case I’m going to use my free will to leave. You can use yours to butt out.” I push past him, unlock the bathroom door, and head back to the dining room.
“Everything okay?” Arsen asks.
My cheeks flush. “Everything’s great,” I reply, smiling broadly as I take my seat beside him. Thankfully the chef arrives, ready to cook our meals. Watching him, it’s easy to ignore Carter’s miserable expression, Selena’s resentment, to push Seth out of my mind completely. Because there is no way I’m going to let an indecisive angel tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.
* * *
Mike’s car is parked in the driveway when I arrive home from school on Friday afternoon. Ours isn’t. I didn’t expect to see Moose. Mom is working. What her boyfriend is doing in our house, I have no idea.
I linger in the driveway for a few extra moments, debating whether I should leave or stay. I finally pull out my house key, unlock the front door, and push it open, harder than I probably should.
Mike is stretched across the couch in the living room, entirely too comfortable, still in his work clothes. His blue dress shirt is halfway unbuttoned, exposing a dingy, white t-shirt. A movie is playing on TV, a duo of open beer bottles resting on the floor beside him, one in his hand. Clearly he went shopping before dropping by.
“Hey, Genesis,” he says, not bothering to sit up. His dark brown hair is unwashed. He hasn’t shaved in a day or two—a shadow of stubble overtakes his chin.
I search for my voice. “Hi.”
What are you doing here?
Then, as if reading my mind: “Your mom said I could hang out until she got off work,” he explains. “I hope that’s okay.”
Great. Thanks, Mom.
“Sure.” I nod, moving to the hallway.
“How was school?” he asks.
“Fine.”
“You don’t have to rush off. I’m watching a great movie.”
I ignore him, and hurry to my room, shutting the door behind me, locking myself in. My book bag falls to the floor, landing with a heavy thud. My alarm clock flashes the time. I still have an hour and a half before I need to be at Ernie’s.
I should’ve just gone in early, I think, tumbling onto my bed. Like I’d actually want to watch a movie with him. I scoff. What is Mom even thinking? I don’t know where she finds these losers. Banker or not, Mike is just as slimy as the rest of the guys she’s picked up along the way. And the last thing I need is for this boyfriend to become a permanent fixture in our lives: glued to the couch and television on a regular basis. Having to endure him on the weekends is bad enough. And when it ends badly. . . .
I sit up, thinking I heard my name. I listen for sounds coming from the living room. The TV is still on.
“Genesis?”
I debate whether or not to answer. “Yeah?” I finally call.
“Do you have any of those tortilla chips left?”
I swallow hard. “Um, if we do they’re probably on the counter.”
Nothing.
A chill shimmies up my spine, prickling at my skin. I shudder. I can’t stay here.
A rush of warm air blows through my hair, tossing it around my head. I turn and find the window wide open. I stare at it for a moment, scowling, my lips pressed together in a thin, hard line.
He’s here.
I roll off my bed and push the screen out of the window. It lands on the shrubs below. I’ll fix it later. For now, I hoist my leg up and climb through the opening, careful not to hit my head. As soon as I’m standing safely in our sad excuse for a plant bed, I pull the sash down and leave.
SIXTEEN
I stare at the white board as Mrs. Hines scribbles the formula for an algebra problem across it. I hate numbers. I can never seem to wrap my mind around them. Unless, of course, I’m figuring out how much tip money I deserve based on a percentage of a check. I am a master at determining 15 percent of a food order. Those are real-life math skills. I try to imagine a situation where I’ll need to add a’s and b’s and c’s. I can’t think of one.
I glance furtively around the room. It’s bad enough I’m in a class full of juniors (and a few really smart sophomores), but to not even understand what the teacher is saying? I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
As I inhale, a wave of nausea sweeps over me. In the next moment there’s a flash. A little white car. The sound of squealing tires. An intersection. And the sickening crunch of metal on metal as the car is hit. The sound reverberates. I jerk my hands to my ears to protect them from the noise. In the process, my elbow knocks my books off my desk. They crash to the floor. I lose my balance, falling out of my chair. When I open my eyes, everyone—the entire class—is staring at me. Mrs. Hines pauses her lecture. “Is everything all right Ms. Green?” she asks, tone icy.
I bounce to my feet as quickly as possible, stumbling over my bag in the process. “Um, n—no,” I stammer. My thoughts race through a litany of potential excuses. “I, um, I have a headache.” I rub my temples for effect. “A really bad one.”
She makes no effort to keep from sighing loudly. I can read her thoughts as if they’re my own. I am such a lost cause. “Take the pass and go see the nurse,” she says, waving me away with a flick of her wrist.
I quickly gather my notes and my books, then grab my backpack and swing it over my shoulder. I weave down the aisle, maneuvering around purses and feet and book bags. I’ve almost reached the door when . . .
“Genesis . . . the pass.” Mrs. Hines points to her desk.
My cheeks fill with heat. “Thanks,” I mutter, grabbing the pink, laminated paper that has become my get out of jail free card.
Instead of going to the nurse, I take a detour, winding my way through the halls, heading straight to the library. The room is quiet, only a handful of students scattered about, using the computers or studying at the tables. I move swiftly to the back of the room, not stopping until I reach a table hidden by rows and rows of bookshelves, where I sit down and bury my face in my arms.
Not again.
Instead of just seeing things, I’m hearing them. Loud things. Important things. Someone somewhere is obviously trying to tell me something.
I sit up and close my eyes, attempting to remember what I saw.
Think.
I take a deep breath and focus. A little white car. A white car.
Again, an image of the car flashes in my mind. I concentrate on it, trying to keep it in my sight. A white car. The image replays in my mind. A car, traveling down the road. It reaches the intersection. . . . Someone runs a red light and plows into the driver’s side. The car spins around. . . . I i
nhale deeply and allow the scene to play again. The Strip. Whoever is driving is on The Strip. A white car. The other car is an older model. Green. My hands start shaking. I cover my eyes. One more time. I focus on the white car, zeroing in. Nothing.
I open my eyes and pound my hands against the table, head spinning. What good is a premonition if you can’t figure out what you’re supposed to get from it? I mean, how many hundreds of white cars are there in this town? And I’m supposed to know what this means?
I grab my book bag and leave the library, unable to shake the image of the accident, even as I change out my books for my last class.
In Chemistry, we’re treated to a movie about the advent and implications of the atom bomb. Within the first five minutes, my eyelids begin to droop. Thankfully, the teacher seems more interested in grading papers than making sure we’re paying attention. I lay my head down, resting it on my folded arms, and close my eyes.
In a moment, I see the white car. BOOM! It spins around. I glimpse the front license plate. And an emblem. It’s a BMW. A new, white BMW.
I jerk awake at the sound of the final bell as it rings shrilly just outside the door. Around me, everyone is packing up to leave for the day.
Daddy’s Girl.
My mind swirls dizzily. There’s only one person at this school with a plate like that.
I jump out of my seat, snatch my things, and bolt across the room.
“Hey! Watch it!” someone cries out.
I force my way through the throngs of students. By the time I reach the senior hallway, Selena isn’t at her locker. She’s gone.
No! No! No! No! I scream over and over again in my head, mouthing the words. The parking lot.
I have to get to her before she leaves.
I skip my locker altogether and bypass my bike, which is chained to the rack in a grassy area just outside the building. The lot itself swarms with people. Sunshine caresses my shoulders, and a warm breeze blows in off the ocean. I can smell the brackish water only blocks away.
I spot Selena heading to her car, cell phone in hand.
“Selena!” I call out.
She doesn’t hear me. I run toward her, practically knocking down a freshman guy carrying a tuba case that’s bigger than he is. “I’m sorry!” I call, looking back. “Sorry!” I dodge a few cars backing out of spaces and maneuver around my classmates.
