Trance

by Linda Gerber

  I knew what that was like.

  “Hope your car windows are rolled up,” Gina said as she got back from her break. “It looks like it’s going to storm out there.”

  Oh, great, I thought. There goes my run. “How bad does it look?”

  “Nothing starting yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we drive home in a downpour.”

  I looked anxiously beyond the food court. From where we were situated, I couldn’t see to the doors that led outside, but I hoped I might be able to tell how bright it was out there.

  “What’s wrong?” Gina asked.

  “I was planning on running home,” I told her.

  “Yikes.” She looked up from the receipts. “How far do you live?”

  I shrugged. “Two miles, maybe. Three, tops.”

  Her mouth hung open. “You’re going to run that? Are you insane?”

  “I run the 5K in cross country. It’s about the same distance.”

  “Too much work for me.” She went back to tallying the totals.

  I looked toward the food court again. “Would you mind if I changed real quick? If it’s going to start raining, I want to take off as soon I can.”

  She glanced up and tucked her hair behind her ear. “You can just go. I’m almost done here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She glowered at me. “You want me to change my mind?”

  I gave her a quick hug. “Thanks, Gina. You’re the best!”

  She pulled back, looking stunned. “Go on. Get out of here.”

  I grabbed my backpack and sprinted to the women’s restroom to change out of my work clothes. By the time I made it outside, the clouds hung low and dark. The air felt heavy but it didn’t smell like rain yet. I was willing to take my chances. Since I didn’t have much time, I abbreviated the stretching and warm-ups and then took off.

  About halfway across the parking lot, I thought I heard a voice behind me, calling my name. I glanced over my shoulder and my breath caught. Jake was running to catch up with me. He was at work! I wondered why I hadn’t seen him all day.

  I jogged in place as I waited. “What’s going on?”

  “You left early,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Yeah? What’s up?”

  He slowed to a walk as he approached me. “You doing anything tonight?”

  “Running,” I said.

  He grinned. “After that.”

  “Why?”

  “You want to go out or something?”

  Go out? How fair was that? I would have loved to go out with him, more than anything in the world, but not when I could slip into a trance at any moment. “I can’t.”

  His face fell, and I felt awful. More than awful. I was miserable. I turned around and started running again.

  He followed. “Is there something wrong?”

  Yes. Everything. But I shook my head, no.

  “Did I do something? ’Cause it seems like you’re always running away from me. Should I be getting a complex here?”

  My heart tumbled. No, it isn’t you. “I . . . I just can’t get involved with anyone right now.”

  “I’m not talking about getting ‘involved,’ ” he said. “I’m talking about dinner.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He kept up with me, stride for stride, even though I knew his motorcycle boots weren’t made for running. “You do eat, right?”

  “Look, no offense, but I’m in training.”

  “Got it. We’ll only eat healthy food.”

  I gritted my teeth. He was making it hard. “No, I mean right now. I need to run. I have a meet in a couple of weeks.”

  “Time or distance?”

  “What?”

  He gave me another cockeyed smile. “Are you going for time or distance?”

  I was perversely pleased to note that he was beginning to sound out of breath. “Both,” I said. “I run the 3200 so I’m working on endurance and time.”

  “So we should go faster, right?” He sped up just enough to pull ahead of me.

  I dug in so that our strides were matched again. “We shouldn’t do anything,” I puffed. “I run alone.”

  “I can take a hint,” he said. “I’ll be quiet.” He kept the pace beside me, his footsteps stomp, stomp, stomping the pavement in perfect rhythm with mine.

  By then, I figured that arguing with him wasn’t getting me anywhere, so I decided to ignore him instead. Of course, that would have been a lot easier if he didn’t keep inching into the lead. It was hard to lose myself in the run when I kept seeing him out of the corner of my eye, pulling ahead of me. There was no way I was going to let some musician in clunky motorcycle boots show me up. By the time we reached the fire hydrant at the end of my block where I always ended my run, my lungs were burning and my mouth felt like it had been dragged through the Kalahari. I burst through my imaginary finish line and slowed to a jog, then a fast walk, sucking in air.

  Jake walked in circles nearby, hands clasped behind his head as he tried to catch his breath. He gestured at my wristwatch with his head. “How’d we do?”

  I realized that I had completely forgotten about the time. “Fine.”

  “So,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

  “Look, Jake. I would love to go out with you but—”

  “No, no. You’ve got it all wrong. The correct answer is ‘yes.’”

  He looked so vulnerable standing there with his shirt soaked in sweat, his stupid music-note tie askew, his hair all tousled from the wind . . . and yet, he was still grinning. I wished I could have that kind of confidence.

  “Look, Jake—”

  That was when it began to rain. Not just a gentle shower, but an icy torrent, sudden and angry. We were both soaked through in seconds.

  “Come on!” I yelled, and motioned for him to follow me. We ran down the street to my house, splashing along the sidewalk with every step.

  At the front door, we ducked under the roof overhang as I fished my keys out of my sodden backpack. I unlocked the door and we stepped inside the house, shivering and dripping. It felt strange, coming home and not being alone. Strange in a good way.

  Inside the hallway, I flipped on the lights and as much as I tried to resist it, my eyes were drawn immediately to my mom’s couch. I was afraid I might see her sitting there, shaking her head in disapproval. It was empty as always.

  “Nice place,” Jake said.

  “Thanks.” I stuffed my keys into my backpack. “My mom loved to decorate.” I wondered if he caught the catch in my throat at the word mom.

  I dropped my backpack to the floor and kicked off my shoes. “Stay here,” I said. “I’ll get you something to dry off with.”

  When I ducked into my bathroom to grab the towels, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair was a mess—tangled and stringy wet—my makeup was gone and my clothes were smeared with mud, but for the first time in months, the eyes that looked back at me were bright, eager. A flush of color warmed my cheeks. I quickly ran a comb through my hair to smooth it down and hurried back to where Jake waited, dripping, in the hallway.

  “Here you go.” I handed him one of the towels, and spread the others on the floor to wipe up the water we had tracked in. He bent to help me and our hands touched. His eyes met mine and suddenly, I felt shy. I gathered the towels and stood quickly.

  “If, um . . . if you want to come on back to the laundry room, I can give you something to put on and we can stick your clothes in the dryer. If you want.”

  He gave me a reassuring smile. “That’s okay.” He held up his towel. “I’m good.”

  “Well, I need to get out of my running clothes. Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”

  In my room, I slipped quickly into my old, comfy jeans and my Springfield hoodie. I pulled my hair back into a quick ponytail, trying not to think about what I was doing. Thinking made me question and I didn’t want any more questions.

  Outside, the storm blew and howled. Rain beat on the roof, th
under rattled the windows. But inside, it was safe and warm and normal, and that was enough to know. For just one night, I wanted to be a regular girl spending time with the boy she liked. That didn’t seem too much to ask.

  16

  Jake had kicked off his boots and peeled off his dress shirt and tie. He stood in the front hall in his jeans and white T-shirt—just like on the first night I saw him. A flush of pleasure followed the memory of him on his Indian. I smiled until I saw that he was examining the pictures on the living wall. I walked quickly toward him. Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t . . .

  But he passed up the photos of my mom and pointed to one of me in a purple tutu with fairy wings from my third-grade Halloween party. “Niiice,” he said. “Good look for you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll remember that.” I flipped off the light in the hall and led him back to the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? We have Gatorade, milk, orange juice . . .”

  “Water?”

  “You got it.” I grabbed two glasses from the cupboard and filled them with ice. My hands were shaking more than they should, but I chalked it up to nerves. I poured the water from a pitcher in the fridge and handed his glass to him, and we stood in awkward silence as we both drank.

  “It’s so quiet in here,” Jake said finally. “Where is everybody?”

  “My dad’s out of town on business,” I said, and set the glass on the counter. I brushed past him to the great room before he could ask for any details. “You want to watch a movie or something until this storm dies down? My dad’s a Bond fanatic if you like action. We have every Bond movie ever made, although, to me, there is only one, true Bond.”

  He followed me into the great room and flopped down onto the couch. “Who? Roger Moore?”

  “Ew. No. Sean Connery all the way. No one can even say James Bond the way Sean Connery can.”

  “What about Daniel Craig?”

  I dug through the DVD drawers. “Nope. Nice to look at, but his movies were straight action. Not classic Bond.”

  “A Bond connoisseur. I’m impressed.”

  “Yeah, well.” I sifted through the Sean Connery titles, selecting Dr. No, Goldfinger, and You Only Live Twice. “It gave me something to do with my dad.” I dropped the DVDs on the ottoman and headed into the kitchen. “Okay, those are the classics of the classics. You choose which one and I’ll make the popcorn.”

  When I walked back into the room, the DVDs were still on the ottoman and Jake was looking at something else. He glanced up at me.

  “What’s this?” In his hands was my journal.

  I stopped cold. I had forgotten it was still there. “Nothing,” I said too quickly.

  His brows shot up. “Really.”

  “Yeah.” I dropped onto the couch and set the popcorn bowl on the ottoman. “Just a bunch of pictures.”

  He turned the page. “A bunch of really good pictures. Did you take these?”

  I tried to wrench the book out of his hands. “Let’s watch the movie.”

  He held on tight. “You’re avoiding.”

  “I am not,” I said automatically.

  “Denial,” he said.

  I let go of the book and turned away from him in a huff. “Are we going to watch the movie or not?”

  “Soon.” He stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed one foot over the other. “Tell me about these. I’m interested.”

  I couldn’t make myself speak for several seconds. But there was no judgment in Jake’s eyes. Nothing but sincerity. “It’s my journal,” I said finally.

  He looked down at the pages again. “A photo journal. Nice.”

  I raised my shoulders. “I guess.”

  “What is this?” he asked. He pointed to the photo on the first page.

  I scooted closer to him so I could see. “That’s the pattern left in the sand from the waves where we were on a family vacation in South Carolina. See how it looks like stalks and leaves? And this one”—I turned the page—“is the same beach with little craters left in the sand after it rained.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said.

  I ran my fingers over the picture. “We were stuck inside for three days on that trip because it kept pouring. My parents had rented a cabin out in the boonies, so there was nothing to do but hang out together.” I remembered how Kyra and I had found a pack of Uno cards in one of the kitchen drawers and made up about ten different card games during those long days. We even got Mom and Dad to play with us a couple of times and it was like they were kids like us, the way they argued over the rules. “It’s one of my favorite memories.”

  “Interesting.” He flipped through several more pages. “And this?”

  “That’s from when I went on a walk with my dad in the fall a couple of years ago. These are some leaves that were caught in the crevice of a rock. I liked how they looked protected there. Safe.”

  “I didn’t see any pictures of people in here. Do you ever take pictures of people?”

  “No,” I said flatly.

  “Except for the portraits at the mall.”

  “Except for those.”

  He closed the book. “You’re just a walking contradiction, aren’t you?”

  I reached up to scratch the back of my neck. “I suppose.”

  It took a few seconds to realize what was happening. Why my neck was itching. My stomach lurched and I dropped my hand. Already, I could feel the darkness closing in. I shook my head, trying to fight the panic tumbling through my chest.

  If I could start a trance, I could stall it. Right? I tried to tune out of the vibration. To think about something else. Anything to keep the trance from taking over.

  “Are you okay?” Jake asked.

  “Yeah. I just . . . I forgot something.” I stood unsteadily, but managed to keep my balance. “I’ll be right back.”

  My whole skull was vibrating by the time I reached my room. I swiped at a tear with the back of my hand. Just one night. Why couldn’t I have just one night?

  I staggered over to my desk and dropped into the chair. Picked up a pencil. Okay, I thought. Let’s have it.

  Immediately, my room disappeared.

  I’m standing on the same dark road. Shivering. Wet. I blink away the rain and look toward the road. He is standing where I saw him last. Still. Watching. I try to call to him, but my voice makes no sound. I can help, I cry silently. Just show me your face. But, of course, he can’t hear.

  I run to him, but the road gets wider with every step. Before I can reach him, a car speeds past. It spins me around. I can feel myself falling. . . .

  I jerked out of the trance as if I had physically been thrown back. To keep from falling off the chair, I grabbed for the desk, but my flailing hands only succeeded in knocking my lamp and the flowerpot onto the floor. I tumbled down after them.

  When it hit the ground, the flowerpot shattered, scattering coins and folded paper like confetti. My hand landed right on top of one of the broken pieces of terra-cotta and pain sliced through my palm. I cried out before I could stop myself.

  Blood welled up from the cut and I hugged my hand close. And then I heard footsteps. Too soon, Jake stood in the doorway.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  I sat up straight. “Yes. Uh. I’m fine, I just . . . I knocked this over. I’ll be right out.”

  He took a step inside the room. “You want me to help?”

  I took one look at all the folded notes lying among the ceramic and drew in a sharp breath. “No! I mean . . . that’s okay. I’m just about done.”

  He looked unsure, but he turned away. I could hear him walking back out to the family room, settling onto the couch. Quickly, I gathered the papers and the broken pieces and dumped them into the desk drawer to deal with later. As I pushed to my feet, I saw the latest note on the desk, so I grabbed it and stuffed it into the drawer with the rest of the papers. I didn’t even have to look at it to know what numbers were written on it. I practically had this sequence memorized by now.

&nbs
p; In the bathroom, I ran my hand under the faucet. Blood and water swirled pink down the drain. Grabbing a towel, I pressed it against the cut until it stopped bleeding. It didn’t take long, but there was a noticeable red slice in the skin. I tried to cover it with a bandage, but I couldn’t grasp the edges of the adhesive well enough to peel back the paper, so I gave up.

  When I walked back out to join him on the couch, Jake was sitting stiffly on the edge, hands dangling between his knees. He looked up as I entered the room and gave me a wary look. “You okay?” he asked cautiously.

  “I’m fine.” I sank down onto the couch next to him. “Cut my hand, though.” I held it out for him to examine. Better to head off any questions before they arose.

  He visibly relaxed, leaning back against the cushions, and gently lifted my hand. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not bad.” I rested my head on the cushions next to his.

  “Doesn’t look too deep,” he said. “I’ve had worse.”

  “Oh, we’re comparing scars now, are we?”

  “This is hardly a scar.”

  “What about this?” I reached up and traced the line above his cheek with my fingers. He flinched and I pulled my hand away, afraid I’d been too bold, but he caught it in his.

  “Sliding glass door,” he said. “Wrestling on the deck with my brother.”

  “Ouch.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Ah.”

  “So, you like photography.” He turned to look at me so that our foreheads were almost touching. So close that my breath caught and I had to force myself to breathe normally.

  “Yeah. I really do,” I said softly. I hadn’t realized until I said it that it was true. I missed the way I saw the world when I was looking through the viewfinder. “What about you. Piano?”

  “Music in general. Current love is bass guitar.”

  I thought back to what Gina had said. “Oh, yeah. Two-thousand-dollar amps.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” He wove his fingers through mine. “Someday.”