by Linda Gerber
She pursed her lips. “Well, my phone died, so I never got your text.”
I ran my finger along the stitching on my backpack. “Oh.”
“I didn’t mean to be so harsh yesterday,” she said.
I glanced over at her. She actually had tears in her eyes. “I appreciate you looking out for me,” I told her.
She managed a smile. “It’s got to be hard,” she said, “but I know you can get through this.”
I just nodded and stared out the window. She meant without the meds, of course. I wasn’t going to correct her.
All day at school, I couldn’t stop thinking about my phone call with Kyra. It got so I couldn’t concentrate on anything else. I went through my classes on remote, there but not there. With each passing hour, the walls around me seemed to get tighter and tighter.
By the end of the day, I couldn’t bear to be stuck inside any longer. I needed to clear my head. Finally, in my last class, Spanish, I just picked up my books and left. No, that’s not exactly accurate; I told Señora Rodriguez that I had to use the restroom and then I just never returned to class.
Instead, I went straight to the locker room and changed into my running gear and walked out to the track. The seventh-period P.E. class was still out on the football field playing some watered-down form of lacrosse, but no one questioned me as I began my warm-ups. That’s usually how it happens; if you pretend like you’re where you’re supposed to be, people tend to leave you alone.
I kept running when they finished their game and wandered off the field, running when the bell rang, running when my teammates started trickling out to the field after school for conditioning. If I couldn’t outrun the sting of her rejection, at least I wanted to sweat it out of my system. By the time the rest of the team started to trickle out to the track, my legs were numb and my chest was on fire, but I kept going.
Michelle jogged up beside me on the track. “You didn’t wait for me!”
I spared her a glance and then focused on the track again. “I’m sorry,” I puffed. “Got. Out. Early.”
“Whoa,” she said. “You’d better take it down a notch. You’re sounding winded.”
“I’m fine,” I said automatically.
“So what are you doing tonight? Trey and some of the guys are having movie night at his house and they invited us to come.”
“I have . . . to work,” I wheezed.
“Oh.” She looked like she was going to pout for a second and then her face brightened. “Ooh. Then you can see that cute music-store guy.”
I shot her a sideways glance. I don’t know why it bugged me that she never seemed to be able to remember his name, but it did. “Jake,” I corrected.
“That’s him. I do like that boy.”
I slowed to a walk and she slowed with me. “No,” I rasped. “Go. On.” She pulled ahead with a steady stride.
That’s when Coach Mendenhall blew his whistle and gathered the team by the pole-vaulting mats. He gave some instructions for the day’s drills and then he released everyone . . . except me.
“Greenfield? Could I speak with you for a moment?”
Just the tone of his voice was enough to make my stomach sink. “Yes?”
He waited until everyone else had cleared out of earshot, then he tucked his clipboard up under his arm. “I spoke with Mrs. Spinelli today.”
“Oh.”
“You shouldn’t be here, should you? Why didn’t you tell me about your mishap yesterday?”
“It wasn’t a mishap,” I protested. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“So you have your doctor’s note?”
“Just one from my dad.”
He shook his head. “You know the rules, Greenfield. I appreciate your dedication, but we have to follow procedure. Bring in a doctor’s note and then we’ll talk.”
“But the meet.”
“You’ll have to miss it. That gives you all of spring break to get your paperwork together.” He must have read the disappointment on my face because his tone softened. “It might do you well to take some time off. I appreciate how hard you’ve been working to get your strength back, but we don’t want to push you too hard.”
“No! I—”
He shook his head. “No arguing. Don’t come back without the note.”
I was still angry as I stuffed my clothes into the washer later that afternoon. Angry at Mrs. Spinelli for butting her nose into practice. Angry at Coach Mendenhall for sitting me out two days before the meet. Angry at myself for not figuring out where I was going to get a doctor’s note.
Maybe I should have told Dad, but he wasn’t going to spend good money for some doctor to tell him I was fine. I’d figure out the note. I just didn’t know how.
I grabbed my wet clothes from the day before and started to turn out the pockets before sticking the pants in the washer. The folded-up piece of paper from AP lang fell out from one of them. My breath caught and I grabbed it off the floor. I abandoned the washer and took the note into the family room, sitting down on the couch before I carefully unfolded the paper. These numbers were written neatly, almost timidly. I dropped my chin onto my hand as I studied them. What did that mean?
The clock in the hall signaled the half hour and I jumped up. “Crud!” If I didn’t hurry, I was going to miss the bus to the mall and then I really would be late for work. I folded the note back up and tucked it inside my backpack as I ran out the door.
I dreaded going in to ShutterBugz that night because I didn’t want to see Jake. No, that’s not completely true. I wanted to see Jake. I just didn’t want Jake to see me. After how I had freaked out when he took me home on Saturday, I didn’t know how to face him. I was only scheduled from six until nine, but three hours was plenty of time to be humiliated.
All the way to the mall, I dared to hope he wasn’t working that night, but when I got there, I could hear his music before I had even made it through Nordstrom. My heart sank.
At ShutterBugz, Gina sat on her stool, thumbing through a magazine with a bored expression on her face, just like the first time I met her. When I slid behind the counter, she opened the pages wider so that I could see the strollers and car seats, empty and sterile. A baby catalog.
“You see how much more interesting this stuff would be if they actually stuck a kid in them?” she said. “I mean, they should show them in use, give them some life. These things”—she gestured at the open pages—“I don’t feel them at all.”
“This one’s kind of cute,” I said, pointing out a jogging stroller with a little plastic drop-down windshield.
She just hmmphed and slapped the magazine shut. “They’re all ‘cute,’ ” she said. “That’s the problem. I don’t need cute, I need . . .” She clapped her hand over her mouth.
I thought she was going to be sick and I didn’t know whether to jump out of the way or rush forward to help her. I did neither, but froze where I stood. “What is it?”
“I just about said ‘practical,’ ” she whispered.
“What?”
“Practical. Practical. I’ve turned into my mother!” She dropped the catalog into the garbage can and stood. “That’s it. I can’t take it anymore.” She pulled her bag from under the counter. “I’m out of here.”
I took her place on the stool and tried to busy myself with sorting through the day’s order forms, but I couldn’t help sneaking a peek at the music-store window. Jake was inside, helping a lady and a young boy with some kind of long, silver instrument. I couldn’t tell from my vantage point what it was.
I reached for my backpack again and gingerly took the note from the pocket. If I could decipher the numbers, I’d be one step closer to figuring out what the trance was trying to tell me. I’d be one step closer to making it stop.
I spread it open on the counter and stared at the string of numbers.
1 + 1 + 2 + 5 = 9
1 + 5 + 4 + 5 + 2 + 3 + 7 + 5 = 32
3 + 2 = 5
There had to be something in them I was sup
posed to understand, I just couldn’t figure out what it was.
“What’cha looking at?” Gina slipped up behind me. I’d been so intent on the numbers that I hadn’t even heard her there.
I jumped and slapped my hand over the paper. “I thought you went home.”
“Can’t find my keys.” She leaned in as much as her stomach would allow and tried to peek over my shoulder. “What’ve you got there?”
Closing my fingers around the paper, I turned to face her. “Nothing.”
“You should know you’re only going to make me more curious by being so secretive. What is it? A love letter?”
“Hardly.” I inched my hand behind my back.
She laughed at that. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to wrestle you for it.” She opened up the drawer beneath the counter and began rooting through the flyers and sales slips. “Where did I put those things?”
I felt more than a little ridiculous for my reaction. It’s not like anyone was going to know where the numbers came from. “It’s just a note,” I offered.
She looked up at me, grinning, and abandoned her search. “From who?”
“No one. I mean . . .” I sighed and uncrinkled the paper. I don’t know, maybe in a way I wanted to show it to her. Since Kyra wouldn’t even speak to me, I had no one to talk to about the numbers. Even if I couldn’t tell Gina what they were, at least by letting her see them, I wouldn’t feel so alone.
I held out the note to her and she glanced at it quickly. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises. I never would have pegged you for being into numerology.”
“I—I’m not, really,” I stammered.
She held out her hand. “May I?” I handed over the paper to her and she laid it on the counter, smoothing it with her hand. “Whoa. Whose numbers are these?”
I shook my head, looking over her shoulder now. “I don’t know. Why?”
“Whoever’s it is, is in trouble.”
My mouth went dry and my lips could barely form the question. “What do you mean?”
She looked at me strangely. “The number vibrations,” she said. “These numbers are warnings.”
Vibrations. Warnings. I felt like she’d dumped a bucket of ice over me. “You . . . you know how to read these things?”
She shrugged. “I like to dabble.”
“Dabble,” I repeated. “So you . . . do numerology?”
She straightened and pressed one hand to the small of her back. “Well, I don’t do it do it. I mean, I’m not a numerologist or anything. I’ve read a bunch about it, ran my own numbers, that kind of thing.”
“Oh,” I murmured. “And these numbers are . . . bad?”
“I thought you . . .” She shifted her weight, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “How did you say you got this?”
I stared at the writing on the page and debated how to answer that question. How much could I say? “My sister,” I began.
Gina cocked her head to the side, eyes never leaving the paper. “Ah. I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“She moved out a while ago.”
She glanced up at me quickly. “Hmmm,” she said, and turned her attention back to the paper. “But it’s not hers, is it?”
I shrugged. “You . . . you said it was a warning,” I said cautiously. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go there, but I had to know. “How do you see that?”
“Well, first let me sit down. My feet are like water balloons.” I moved out of the way and she eased herself up on the stool. “I’m telling you,” she grumbled, “this is not what I signed up for when I wanted to have a baby.”
“The warning,” I reminded her, pointing to the end number of one of the equations. “I thought five was a good number.”
She nodded. “It is. Or, it can be. But look at the compound numbers before it. Eleven signals hidden dangers. And twelve, well, that’s got victim written all over it right there. And sixteen? That’s the tarot association for the Shattered Citadel. It’s a signal that a strange fatality awaits. So, like I said—”
“No.” I shook my head. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about with the signals and citadels and everything. I’ve never heard of any of that.”
“Right.” She smoothed her hands over her stomach. “Because you’re probably used to looking at the Pythagorean System. But the Chaldeans taught that the compound number vibrations were just as important as the single. So if you look at these compounds before you reduce them, you’re going to get more insight to add to your reading.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. Anyway, Kyra and I already knew that the visions were warnings. What we didn’t know was what to do about it. “Can you tell anything else by this? Like who or when? What’s going to happen?”
She leaned back, resting her elbow on the counter, and gave me a hard look. “Ashlyn, what is this thing?”
I shook my head. I’d already said too much. “It’s nothing,” I said, and took the paper back. I folded it carefully and stuck it in my pocket.
Gina watched me for a moment and then shrugged. “Whatever.” She lowered herself carefully from the stool. “I gotta get going.” She reached into her pocket and then rolled her eyes. “Can you believe this?” she said, holding up her keys. “I had them the whole time.”
13
I hoped Jake would be busy all night and would never have the chance to notice I was working. I sure noticed him. I couldn’t help myself. No matter how much I tried to pretend I didn’t care, I’d find my attention shifting to Kinnear Music. Every time I saw Jake seated at the piano, my breath caught for an instant. I thought of riding on the back of his Indian, my arms wrapped around his waist. My face turned hot at the memory.
The whole mall seemed to be unusually slow that night. I pulled out my homework and lost myself in conjugating the Spanish vowels I should have finished in class. I didn’t even notice that someone was standing in front of the kiosk until he cleared his throat.
I glanced up and a warm shiver ran through me. Jake stood before the counter, holding a little plastic cup in each hand.
“Mango-passion fruit or guava-strawberry?”
“Excuse me?”
He half-shrugged. “They’re giving away samples at Smoothie King, so I brought you one.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Aw. Thanks. I’ve never gotten a smoothie from a boy before.”
“First time for everything.” He held up one of the cups with a flourish. “This one is mango-passion fruit. And this”—he held up the other—“is guava-strawberry. Which one do you want?”
“Uh . . .” I didn’t really care. It was enough to know he’d been thinking of me—and apparently not in a bad way. I tried not to smile too big. “I’ll try the mango one. Thanks.”
“You bet.” He handed me the cup.
“Cheers,” I said, and we touched cups together. Both of us downed our sample in one swallow.
He threw a quick glance back at the music store. “I guess I should get back to work,” he said, but he made no effort to go.
I wondered if I was supposed to say something that would release him. “Um . . .”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Um . . . do you need a ride again tonight? I brought my dad’s car this time. Not as loud.”
That was even sweeter than the smoothie. Had he brought his dad’s car in anticipation of giving me a ride? “Are you serious?”
“Of course. Well, okay, it could use some muffler work, but relatively, it’s not that loud.”
“No, I mean—” One look at his grin and I could tell he knew exactly what I meant, and for a moment, I actually considered taking the ride. But I couldn’t risk him seeing me slip into a trance. He’d think I was a total freak. It was better for me to stay far away from Jake. “I appreciate it,” I said, “but I have a ride tonight. Thank you, though.”
His smile faltered, but he recovered it quickly. “Well. Good. Some other time, then.”
“Thanks for the smoothie.” I raised the empty cup
and tried to return the smile. I’m not quite sure I succeeded.
“I’ve got to get back to work,” he said again, and this time he hurried back to the music store, dropping his cup into a garbage can along the way.
Michelle was way too perky when we went running the next morning, jabbering on about the movie night at Trey’s and our upcoming spring break. “I can’t wait for South Carolina,” she said. “My uncle has a house right on Seabrook Island. It’s going to be like eighty-five the whole time we’re there. I’m so sick of the rain, aren’t you?”
I nodded but tried to concentrate on my stride so I wouldn’t have to give her a real answer. Truth was, I wasn’t looking forward to spring break. There was nothing to look forward to. Dad would be traveling, I would be working. Woo-hoo. To be fair, Michelle had invited me to vacation with her family, but I turned her down, for obvious reasons.
I also couldn’t forget what Gina had said about the numbers. A Shattered Citadel, she’d said. A strange fatality.
The dark road flashed through my head, the rain, the bright lights, the boy standing there . . .
“I said, I wish you’d come with us,” Michelle practically yelled. “Are you even listening?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sorry. Just a little winded.”
“We can take it slower,” she offered.
Now she thought I was an invalid. I stretched my stride a little longer and picked up the pace. “Not necessary,” I said.
She laughed and sped to keep up with me. “Man, we could use you at the meet tomorrow.”
I just nodded. I didn’t need to be reminded of all the things I was missing.
That afternoon I sat at my desk and tried to concentrate on my homework, but the house was too quiet. I couldn’t stand to look at the emptiness where Kyra should have been. I couldn’t stand the silence where there should have been conversation.
I wandered aimlessly through the house until I found myself standing outside Dad’s office door, wondering if he might have Kyra’s address hidden in there somewhere, like he had the phone number.
