by Katie Klein
“But you do exist!” I scream, shaking, rage-induced tears stinging the corners of my eyes. “It’s too late for that! If I’m such a problem for you, why do you even bother coming around?”
“Because he’s in love with you,” Joshua says, snickering, amused that this seems to have been lost on me.
Ice flows through my veins, sending chills rippling through my body. “Is that true?” I ask Seth, breathless.
He refuses to look at me, face pinched, eyes fixed on the ratty brown carpet.
“Answer me, dammit!” I demand.
“Yes,” he replies, eyes flashing. “Yes. I love you, all right? I’m not supposed to, but I do. But you’ve got to believe me when I say that this is dangerous. And maybe I’m being selfish, but I’m doing this because I love you. It’s too much of a risk. I can’t lose you, Genesis. You’re too important to me.”
I turn away from him. On my dresser, the white rose glimmers, still flawless in its vase. There’s not a thorn to be found. No blemishes. Not one tiny, brown spot. The petals are even, the tone consistent. . . . It’s living perfection. I gaze at myself in the mirror. Damp hair, the top frizzing as it dries. No makeup. Shabby clothes. I swallow hard, and speak to my own reflection more than to Seth, or Joshua, who remain in the background looking on.
“I’ve spent my entire life feeling inadequate—like I was somehow inferior to everyone else. I’m tired of just existing. I don’t want my legacy to be pouring drinks and balancing trays at Ernie’s.” I spin around to face them. “And I need you to understand that this is something that I want to do . . . that I have to do,” I tell Seth.
“Then do it,” he replies. “You have free will, remember? I’m powerless here.”
“You’re not powerless,” I say softly. “You mean a lot to me.” I clear my throat. “Your protection means a lot to me.”
Just tell him that you love him, too!
“If you do what you say you are, then no one’s protection is going to mean anything. Once this spreads, there will be no such thing as protection.”
“That’s my choice to make.”
“Sounds to me like you’ve already made it.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t be part of it.”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“It doesn’t have to be either/or,” I explain. “Why can’t I have both? Why can’t I help the Guardians, and still have you?”
“Because I don’t work that way,” he states angrily, the hurt registering in his features. “I’m not hanging around to watch you get yourself killed. It’s all or nothing.”
“Then that’s your loss.”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” I repeat.
In an instant, Seth is gone. I let out a frustrated sigh, all the way to the last bit of air trapped in my lungs, hoping that he just needs time. Time to get used to the idea that we’re on the same team.
“Tell them I’m thinking about it,” I tell Joshua, who is already fading around the edges. “And make sure he’s okay,” I add, speaking of Seth. “Please try to make him understand.”
He nods, then disappears.
I look around my empty room, feeling . . . alone. Anxious. The entire house is quiet. Too quiet. I pace, turning, spinning in circles, thoughts racing through my head. One after the other after the other. My emotions at war: rage, fear, excitement, sadness. Not one of them makes sense in relation to the other. My insides twist until, before I even know what’s happening, I grab the glass vase holding the white rose and hurl it across the room. It shatters the moment it hits the wall, tiny shards of glass gleaming as they sprinkle to the floor. The rose plummets, landing among the fragments. I hold my breath. Frozen. Hands trembling. I stare at it for a moment, wondering if it’s worth watching Seth leave forever for a chance to do something that counts, something that matters. I walk over to the rose and kneel, plucking it from the wreckage. It’s still full. Still pure. Still perfect.
TWENTY-SIX
“Three words,” Stu says. “Chocolate. Strawberry. Waffle.” He lifts a finger with every new word, counting, leaning against the kitchen window. Behind him, Arsen flips over a stack of burgers and places a slice of cheese on each, ignoring us. “Smothered in whipped cream,” Stu throws in.
I tie my apron around my waist, knotting it in the back. “Um, yeah, that’s more than three. Am I supposed to know what this means?”
“I stumbled across a recipe this weekend, and I’m gonna try it.”
“Are you saying that you’re going to make a strawberry chocolate waffle?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. And you will be my official taster.”
I shrug. “Why not? You totally converted me with the pancakes at dinner thing. I’m not entirely sure chocolate and whipped cream are ‘part of this complete breakfast,’ but I’ll try anything once.”
He taps his palm against the stainless steel counter. “Excellent.” One final smack, and he turns back to the grill, picks up a spatula, and tosses it in the air. I smile, happy that the old Stu—the one who never lets anything stand in his way—has returned.
My mom brushes past me, tea pitcher in hand, animosity radiating in waves. “You can take Table Eight,” she says. “They need refills.”
I roll my eyes. “I just got here.”
“Then get to work,” she demands.
I bite into my lower lip, crushing it between my teeth. Because if I don’t, I’ll unleash a torrent of loathing, hate-filled words. If I accidentally open my mouth, I will create the biggest scene in the history of Ernie’s dining room. And so I bite, harder and harder, jaw smarting from the pressure.
Because the truth is, it’s all her fault. Everything. She’s the reason our lives suck. And the worst part is that she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care. And it’s like she expects it. She expects me to work, to pay the bills, to go behind her and clean up her mistakes. To pack my things and follow her everywhere she goes. She doesn’t care about me or my feelings or that every wrong thing about my life traces directly back to her. All she cares about is that I slap my signature on the back of my paycheck every Friday afternoon so she can cash it. All she cares about is that I hand her my tip money when there’s not enough to cover the electric and water bills in the same month. She is worse than a leech, latching on when convenient and sucking me dry, leaving my life bankrupt in every sense of the word.
“Why are you still standing there?” she asks, her voice thick with irritation. “Table Eight.”
I narrow my eyes, but she won’t look at me. She completely ignores me, even, as she fills a pitcher with ice.
“I’m done,” I announce, feeling both the weight of the words and the burden they release.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” she asks. She glances over at me, withering under my icy glare.
Through clenched teeth: “I said I’m done.”
She gives a curt laugh. “I don’t understand what that means.”
Blood courses through my veins, temples throbbing, heart pounding. Anger simmering beneath the surface as seventeen years of absolute nonsense consumes me.
“It means that the day I turn eighteen it’s over. I’m moving out.”
In a spark of irrationality, I want, more than anything in the world, for Seth to be here, to be with me as I say these words. But then I remember: Seth is gone. The idea that he isn’t lurking in the shadows sweeps over me. The anger quickly dissipates and my heart constricts in a spasm of anguish. It’s enough to choke and overwhelm me. I am empty and no one. I am truly and wholly alone in this world.
“Order up!” Arsen’s voice, though muffled, is powerful enough to crack my thoughts. A swell pulls me back inside my aching mind. Everything goes quiet as I walk over to the window and pick up the plates, loading them onto my tray. But then I feel it. That familiar roll. Darkness, then tiny bursts of light. I wait for the vision, terrified of everything it could mean.
The sound of ceramic exploding against tile functions as a
cruel jolt to reality. My tray spins on the floor, faster and faster and faster until it sputters to a stop, food littered among plate rubble.
In the back of the restaurant, Ernie bursts out of his office.
“What is this?” he asks, stopping short of the debris. “What is this? Why you so clumsy?”
“It was an accident,” I mutter, lacking the energy to defend myself.
“We no have accidents! This food is ruin! My plates! Ruin!”
“Relax,” I say. “I’ll clean it up.”
Ernie’s ears transform to an unnatural shade of magenta, his whole body shaking when he speaks. “No,” he replies, pointing his craggy stub of a finger at me. “You fired.”
I laugh, disbelieving. “What?”
“You hear me. You fired. Go. Get out.” He flicks his hand toward the door, as if to shoo me away, like I’m some kind of pest in need of eliminating.
I stand there for a moment, mouth gaping, thoughts spinning, working to process the words coming from his lips.
He’s firing me? For real?
“It was an accident,” I repeat firmly. “It won’t happen again.”
“It won’t happen, because you no work here. Get out.”
My cheeks flush with heat. I scoff. The entire restaurant has stopped to watch the drama unfold, dozens of pairs of eyes bore holes right through me with their laser stares. I couldn’t have been more on display than if I’d been standing there naked.
I reach behind my back and pick at the knot of my apron.
“Fine,” I say, prying the string apart with awkward fingers. “Because I don’t need you.” I tug. I pull. I groan and stomp my feet when I can’t untie it. I twist the apron around and work at the knot from the front. It finally loosens. “Fine!” I repeat. “Fire me all you want! I’d rather starve than work for an asshole like you! I Quit.”
“Stu?” I call. He’s watching from the kitchen, eyes steady and warm, radiating courage.
I blow him a dramatic kiss. “You’re my favorite chef.”
A flicker of a smile pulls at his lips. “You’re my favorite waitress!”
I toss my apron at Ernie’s chest. It flutters to the floor, landing at his feet in a pile of rebellion. I turn on my heel and wind between the tables, heading for the exit.
“This place can burn for all I care,” I mutter, pushing my way through the door and diving into the warm sunlight. The bell above jingles happily, announcing my departure—my freedom—to the world.
TWENTY-SEVEN
In the blackness I hear a gurgling. A gulping. Swallowing. Waves thunder. The sea water froths into foamy bubbles, hissing and fizzing as it whooshes to shore. It stops, suspended, drawn back to the ocean. A deep terror pulls at my chest. A scream pierces my dreams.
I jolt awake, shivering while my room bakes in the morning sun. Tiny pearls of perspiration bead along my hairline. I crawl out of bed, passing the still perfect rose lying on my dresser. The circles under my eyes have grown darker and more prominent in the last week, taking on a violent purple—a shade no amount of concealer will mask.
I need sun.
I reach in my dresser drawer and pull out my bathing suit.
Moments later I’m on my bike, towel tucked beneath my arm, heading toward the beach. The sun heats my pale shoulders, and sand buries itself between my toes as I fasten my bike to the rack in one of the closest public access parking lots.
The beach is already filling as I make my way across the sand, searching for a deserted area to relax. I find a place about ten yards from a lifeguard stand, just to the side of a grouping of condos. My towel flaps in the wind as I work to spread it out. The sand smolders, burning the pads of my feet.
I lie down on the towel, adjusting my position until I’m comfortable. The sun glows behind my closed eyelids. I push the excess sounds away from my ears—the kids shouting, radios blasting—and instead focus on the wind, the waves, the occasional squawk of a seagull or sandpiper.
A scream slices the stillness in two. I bolt upright, looking around. The ring echoes in undulations, drowning out the ocean and everything around me. No one else appears to have heard it. I rub my temples with my hands. The sounds that faded away, muffled, slowly return to their normal pitch.
On the surface, at least, everything seems fine. Couples are laying out, people are walking along the shoreline. Kids are playing in the surf. A few body boarders are further out, trying to catch waves before they break.
I remember my dream.
A girl appears from behind, stepping around me. I jump when I see her, startled. She moves a few feet down the beach, then lays her towel on the sand. I scan the perimeter: studying people. The lifeguard blows his whistle. He waves at a group of kids roughhousing in the water, motioning for them to come in. I watch closely. Everything seems so . . . normal.
I’m lying on my back again, facing the sky, eyes shut tightly, when that familiar sense of dread washes over me—enveloping my body from head to foot. I grab at my breath, sitting up, heart racing. I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs.
Something’s wrong. Something is really, really wrong.
I pinch my eyes shut. The scream inside my head returns, goose bumps prickling the surface of my skin at the sound. I shiver, a chill traveling through the length of my body.
Seth, where are you?
My throat constricts, tears sting the corners of my eyes. I take a deep breath, forcing them away. Tension writhes inside me, wrapping around my muscles, squeezing the air out of my lungs. I wipe a trail of sweat off my cheek, an uneasy feeling settling in the hollow of my stomach.
When I close my eyes I see the edges of a girl thrashing underwater. She reaches for the surface, struggling. The water swirls above her in kaleidoscopic currents. In a moment, the flailing stops. She gives in, eyes rolling as she sucks in a lungful of briny water. She jerks, fighting for another heartbeat, then sinks.
The last of the tiny air bubbles trickle from her mouth, escaping to the surface. Her face remains frozen, mouth open in a primal scream. Eyes gaping: flaming red. Skin glowing a chalky white, lips the co lor of hydrangeas. Her blonde hair hangs suspended in the water. Floating. Falling.
My eyes flicker open. I scramble to my feet, legs shaking. Unsteady. I pitch forward, falling into the sand. I push myself back up and brush the grit and broken shells off my hands and knees. My stomach churns, turning at the memory of the dead girl’s empty eyes glaring back at me. I gag, stumbling toward the dune, retching as the bile rises in my throat. I heave, coughing. Sputtering. Eyes stinging and throat burning. I wi pe around the edge of my mouth and turn from the yellow mucus in the sand.
Someone is going to drown.
I move away from the towel, closer to the lifeguard. The same girl from earlier is watching, eyes guarded, following me.
“Hey, stranger! Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
I flinch as his fingers graze my elbow, pulling it away. Arsen .
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
My heart beats double time. “No. It’s fine.” I exhale, swallowing. “Hey.”
“Is that all the hello I get?” he asks, his lips turning up in a teasing smile.
“Sorry. It’s been a long day,” I confess. I wipe my lips again, wishing for a stick of gum.
“Really?” He glances at his watch, encased in a waterproof plastic. “It’s not even lunch time.”
“Time is relative.” I shield my eyes with my hand, studying the water, looking for anyone with blonde hair.
A thick stretch of gray clouds blows in. An answer to prayer.
“So, I’m sorry that stuff happened. You know, with Ernie,” he says.
“I hate Ernie,” I reply, still searching. “Actually, I take that b ack. Hatred requires passion. Ernie isn’t worth an ounce of my passion.”
He shrugs. “Have you found another job yet?”
“No.”
“Oh.” He pauses for a moment. “Your mom seems k
ind of stressed, too.”
“I wouldn’t know. She’s not talking to me.” Arsen shifts uncomfortably.
I shouldn’t be so rude .
“I’m sorry. It’s just . . . complicated.”
He smirks. “That’s the story of your life, isn’t it?”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I mumble, almost inaudibly.
A group of surfers catches my eye. I recognize the red ha ir instantly. The girl’s tattoo sleeve snaking down her arm. They’re sitting on their surfboards behind the breakers. Waiting. The cloud that cloaks the sun slips away, the water sparkles in the light as it dances around them. A wave sweeps through, liftin g them up before gently descending. Golden tresses shimmer.
“There she is,” I murmur.
“I’m sorry, what?” Arsen asks.
I clear my throat. “Um . . . nothing. Sorry.” I tuck my wind-swept hair behind my ears, refusing to take my eyes off the girl.
“It’s no t the same without you at the restaurant,” he goes on. “Everyone misses you.”
I scoff. “Not everyone, I’m sure.”
“ Flavia . Stu.” He clears his throat. “And, you know, I kind of miss you, too.”
I glance over at him and our eyes meet. I want to smile, but m y lips refuse to cooperate. Realizing what I’ve done, I jerk my attention back to the surfers. They pass behind another wave.
“So . . . you aren’t surfing today?” I ask, changing the subject. The sun dips behind another cloud, rays of light spilling throu gh the cracks. A cool breeze blows off the ocean. I cross my arms and shudder, goose bumps prickling my skin.
“I was out earlier,” he explains. “The waves aren’t that great. They’re calling for some kind of front to come through in a few days, though. I ca n’t wait. It’s gonna be wicked.”
The surfers ride on their stomachs, paddling further out to sea. I watch the blonde, head throbbing and heart pounding.
