by Tamar Sloan
As Mr. Dougherty finishes outlining our upcoming assignment, Eden doesn’t glance up from her furious note-taking. At the end of the lesson she leaves the same way she entered, head down, books clutched tightly. I watch her leave, but she doesn’t glance up.
It’s time for phase two.
3
Eden
Next lesson is physical education. I don’t mind gym. I enjoy the release only physical exercise can bring. As I enter the gymnasium I feel like a popcorn machine has malfunctioned in my stomach. In the change room I notice Jacksonville High has followed the educational trend of gender specific classes as I’m surrounded by a small group of chattering girls. They’re all throwing surreptitious glances my way. The all-girls class reminds me of West Boston High. But there the girls threw other things my way.
At least I know Noah won’t be here. That guy is not good for my fragile equilibrium. Even though he barely noticed I was in biology, I’d been hyperaware of his presence. Luckily ecosystems are a favorite topic and I’ve already started the major assessment task. I’m pretty sure the notes I took are going to be in the same hieroglyphics as my timetable.
I’ve come in partway through soccer, and, for a little while, I don’t mind being tall. By halftime I’ve scored two goals. When one of the girls goes to high-five me, I flinch as I see the hand approach. She stops it midair and, for a split second, I’m unsure how to respond. Thankfully, I manage to kick-start my brain and return the universal gesture of good sportsmanship.
“Great goal.” The girl smiles and jogs over to her position on the field. A warm glow radiates in my chest. Then I realize she’s probably pleased I’ve actually been useful to the team.
I’m still a little hot and sweaty as I head to the cafeteria for lunch. Tara, bless her, meets me in the corridor, and I smile at her gratefully. Entering the room with the majority of the school body will be easier with a friendly face by my side. My other good friend, Daunted, is clinging tightly to me. She’s brought Apprehensive and Intimidated to join the party. Scared Witless is tugging on my sleeve, asking if she could come too. I hope I can get through this without giving myself a heart attack.
We join the line, heading toward the dubious smell emanating from the serving area. Tall, narrow windows line the external wall, providing fragmented frames of the grassy oval on the other side. Rectangular tables fill the room in regimented lines, the disciplined look broken by haphazard chairs, strewn paper, and milling students.
Tara chats to students in front of her, and those walking past to join the line. She introduces me to all of them. My brain is too consumed with keeping the extra friends I brought under control to remember their names. I paste a polite smile on my face, hoping I won’t have to shake hands with my damp palms. Their faces pass in a blur of white, smiling teeth, and all I can managed are repeated mumbled ‘nice to meet you too’s.
As we reach the source of the aroma, I reluctantly look through the heated glass. The view is dominated by a huge pan of grey meat, defying gravity as it floats in an expanse of blubbery gravy. A handful of potatoes and pumpkin pieces lean to the side, their oily surface gleaming under the heated lights. Seeing as there are no other options, I go for the roasted vegetables. I think they may have been deep-fried.
Tara leads the way, weaving through the rectangular tables. I kind of wish that someone a little taller and wider had befriended me. A human shield would have concealed me a little better. Instead, I have someone that can probably see up my nose.
Despite her slight frame, Tara is sizeable enough to eclipse where we’re heading. It’s only once she sits down and I’m left standing that I see there are three people seated around one of the tables. Tara, Mitch. And Noah. Once again, the undeniable magnetism pulls at me and my eyes fasten on him. His sky-blue eyes are centred on me and I feel that dynamic jolt. I instantly look down at the tray in my hand.
Tara sits beside Mitch, leaving me the only other space adjacent to Noah. I slide onto the plastic seat, hoping it can hold the truckload of nervousness that just spawned in every cell of my body. My tray clatters to the table, having slipped out of wobbly fingers. The fork bounces once on the table when Noah’s hand flicks out, catching it midair.
“Thanks,” I mumble, my cheeks going infrared.
Noah looks almost as surprised at his lightning reflexes as I am. He recovers nicely with a smile. “No problems.”
He leans in a little to place it on my tray. A warm, masculine scent spills over me. Spiced sandalwood teases my nostrils, encouraging me to breathe deeper, longer. Leaving me to wonder if there is any sense that is safe from this guy.
My eyes return to the greasy food on my plate, my mind whirling with feelings I’ve never experienced before. Feelings that are overwhelming and confusing.
Mitch lazily puts his arm around Tara and drops a light kiss on her nose. “So, how’s your day been?”
“Well, did some important status updating in math, managed to wrangle my way out of gym, worked in the art room, and I’m pretty sure I attended history and English.” Tara ticks each period off on her fingers. At the mention of art, Mitch narrows his eyes at her, then turns to me.
“Eden, what do you think of the color choices Tara has chosen for her masterpiece?” He looks at me expectantly, apparently well-versed with his birthday present.
Tara’s eyes go wide and she opens her mouth to speak.
Fortunately my mother determinedly hammered naiveté out of me long before I understood what it was. “Oh, the pinks are lovely”.
Mitch looks a little stunned. “Pink?” he asks incredulously.
“Oh yes. They contrast beautifully with the purple polka dots on her sculpture.”
“Sculpture?” Mitch has been reduced to an echo.
I look at him in wide-eyed innocence. “Although I figure she’s using artistic license as I’m not sure how the color scheme relates to Justin Bieber.”
Tara grins at me while Noah roars with laughter and slaps Mitch on the back. “You can’t fool this one, bro!”
As is my perpetual tendency around this guy, I blush. Tara turns to Mitch, eyes shooting hazel-colored nuclear missiles.
Noah turns those mesmerizing eyes on me. “So, Eden, how has day one been at Jacksonville High?” Hmmm, I quite like the sound of my name being dipped in that chocolaty voice.
“So far, so good.” My voice sounds like I’ve just been for a hard run around the oval. I quickly jam a piece of greasy potato in my dry mouth, and discover my mistake when it struggles to make it to my throat.
Noah turns his body to face me squarely. The sounds of the other students talking, laughing, walking past, fade as my view is dominated by him. “What did you think of old Dougherty?” So, he noticed I was there. Apparently my skin had finally cooled, because I blush again.
“He certainly knows his stuff, and likes to keep his students on their toes.”
Noah chuckles. His smile lights up his face; up close it leaves me a little breathless. “Well, I think he builds biospheres in his spare time. Have you had a look at the first assignment?”
I’m not sure why he continues to make conversation. Maybe he feels sorry for the girl who obviously is sight impaired as she can’t look anywhere but at him, and has some dermatological problem as she keeps flushing crimson.
“Yeah, I’ve checked it out,” I hedge. If having the preliminary research and initial outline done could be considered ‘checking it out’.
“It looks like a toughie.”
Really? I thought it looked fairly straightforward. But I don’t want to seem rude. “Yeah, just a matter of getting your head around some of the terminology, I suppose.”
“Urgh, you guys are so boring!” Tara has obviously finished berating Mitch, because her elbows slide across the table toward us, her chin in her hands. “So, Eden, where were you before you came to this two-bit town?”
I look up at their expectant faces. My stomach drops a little. I’m the central focus of three pairs
of eyes, one bright hazel and two sets of blues. One blue pair a little more distracting than the other. I trace a fake marble line on the tabletop with my finger.
“Boston.” I shrug.
“Wow, you’re slumming it now,” Mitch states.
Actually, so far it’s been a huge step up. “Everyone has been very welcoming.” I glance at Tara gratefully. I don’t look anywhere else.
Tara, who seemed so friendly and amenable, decides it’s time to burst that bubble. Within minutes, despite minimalist answers, the three people in front of me know I moved with my mother.
“Wow, you must have such a close relationship with just the two of you!”
“Ah, yeah, you couldn’t measure the distance between us.”
That I live at the Clear Creek Inn, where my mother is the new executive manager. “That must be cool! You should totally invite me over.” Have company? At my house? That would involve an alternate universe.
“Well, it’s close to the Reserve.” It has some lovely hiking trails, I’ve already investigated a few of them.
“It has some amazing wildlife,” says Tara with a quirk of her lips.
That yes, I do have Coldplay’s latest album. “Oooh, I knew I liked you for a reason!”
That I plan on studying veterinary science at college. Tara giggles at that one. I’m not sure why that is amusing, and I wonder why she’s laughing at me. Anxious thoughts quickly provide a few likely reasons.
That I’m vegetarian. “Are you on some calorie control diet? There are like, three things on your plate.”
“No...I’m vegetarian.”
“Oh.” Tara’s first single word answer is telling. I really didn’t think it was that big a deal.
Throughout, Mitch looks on amused. Noah is watching me with a quiet intensity, stroking his bottom lip with his index finger. It’s a little unnerving. I have to work really hard to stop my eyes straying to that full bottom lip. I shift a little in the hard plastic seat.
The moment Tara takes a breath, I divert the focus from me. “What about you guys? You all from around here?”
Noah answers the question. “We were born and bred in Jacksonville. Our family is one of the originals around here.” He tilts his head toward Tara. “Tara lives in nearby Wilmot, a fellow founding family.”
Tara splays her hands on the table. “What else did you want to know?”
I’m debating whether I’m brave enough to actually ask anything. Maybe something that will give me an idea about how to disconnect the direct line to my blush reflex before I get permanent sunburn, when the bell goes. Well, that doesn’t seem fair.
We all get up with our trays, and I dump most of the vegetables into the rubbish. I hate waste, but my anxious stomach had too much to deal with. Tara steps up on tippy-toes to give Mitch a quick kiss, and my gracious guide walks with me toward the cafeteria doors.
I have English next; satire and comedy I believe. I don’t see a lot of humor in that. I pretend not to notice Noah and Mitch leaving for the side door. I think I’m feeling relieved.
“See you later, Eden.” Noah is walking backward out the door. He flashes me a grin before turning and leaving.
I sag a little now that his cobalt eyes are no longer providing the structural support for my spine. I don’t like this exhilarating quickening that occurs when I’m in close proximity with this boy. One I only just met. One whose behavior is fascinating and bewildering. One who could never be interested in me.
Every instinct tells me to fortify my defenses.
Well, not every instinct. A small part of me is curious, and delights in these feelings. It wants to spend time analyzing his reactions, looking for glimmers of hope.
It’s this reaction that contravenes all my intentions of remaining detached and safe.
And I’m not the gambling type.
4
Noah
“Noah, where’s that brother of yours?”
I glance up from the application in front of me and flex my shoulders. Every time I complete one page, two more seem to spawn. The kitchen bench is littered with pages, looking like a printer vomited all over its smooth Formica surface.
“I think I saw him in the garage.”
Our father, a giant of a man, growls under his breath. Confirming my statement, the shrill whine of a power tool spills from the east side of the house. Dad stomps to the garage, his police-issue boots echoing down the hallway. From beside me, Stash jumps up and follows, as if to provide canine corroboration for Mitch’s misdemeanor. After a couple of minutes of muffled voices, Dad returns, his massive chest rumbling like distant thunder. He runs a hand through his dark blond hair.
“I should remind him of the last Precept,” he mumbles to himself.
I hide a smile. Maybe I could poke the bear a bit.
“How’s it going in there?” I inquire, eyebrows raised in innocent curiosity.
“Said he’s making something for Tara.” My father’s bushy brows shoot down to meet above the bridge of his nose. “He should be looking at those applications like you.” His tone reverberates with censure.
I sigh. There’s a reason Mitch is avoiding these tortuous documents.
Mitch steps into the kitchen, wiping his hands down stained jeans. Sawdust clings to his dark hair, dusting him like icing sugar. “I’ll just go clean up.” He drags his boots up the stairs and my father’s blue eyes follow his ascent. Those identically colored eyes turn to me, clouded with concern.
“Just give him time.” Isn’t it supposed to heal all wounds? Actually, personal experience has taught me all we do is camouflage the scar tissue in lame clichés. And, although the pain dulls and the nerve-damaged edges go numb, nobody acknowledges that the weakened, puckered skin is never the same.
I guess it depends on how much fate likes to pick at it.
Dad turns his solid body away from the staircase, I suspect signaling that particular well-worn conversation is over. “How’s school going?” Yep, over.
“Fine, getting warmed up for midterms.” I begin to tidy up the spewed paper.
“Mitch said a new girl started.” Dad moves about the kitchen, making himself a coffee. He pulls down a ceramic mug, one I made in elementary school. It’s supposed to look like Kung Fu Panda, but the googly eyes protruding from the chunky, black-and-white clay look more like a disfigured badger.
I barely miss a beat. “Yeah, Tara took her under her wing.” The paper is stacked neatly, and I’ve run out of things to occupy my hands.
Dad’s cup pauses on its journey to his mouth. His eyes narrow, measuring my response. Unfortunately, spending my early life preparing me for my supposed birthright entailed long periods of time with this man. Entire days spent hiking and training and learning. My father’s voice rumbling through the history of our family, startling flighty sage grouse from the bushes. Moose lazily raising their racked heads to watch Dad kneeling in the tall grass, translating tracks into an animal’s diet, age, habits. His great big mountain of a body, always there, apprenticing me with the skills and knowledge I needed to take on my future role. Thanks to him the Precepts are carved into my cerebral cortex.
Although that all stopped two years ago, it’s meant he knows my nuances well.
“If she’s with Tara, then she’s not far from you guys.” Doggone perceptive police skills. “She nice?” He takes a cautious sip of his hot brew.
I raise one shoulder, my head leaning as if to meet it midair. “I think so, kinda quiet.”
Dad continues to regard me over the rim of that darned cup. I’m determined not to squirm like I’m eight and Mitch and I just got caught offering Uncle Joe Oreos with toothpaste for icing.
Mitch thwumping down the stairs saves me. I quickly grab the stack of paper and head over to the nearby desk. Mitch grabs a travel mug and fills it up from the coffeepot.
“Ready?” he asks Dad.
The censure is back in my father’s glare. “I was ready twenty minutes ago.” Mitch rolls his eyes, co
nveniently behind Dad’s back.
Dad squeezes my shoulder as he walks past. He used to say ‘next time’ each occasion we endured this routine. Now he is silent. I stay by the desk, just as soundless.
He grabs the car keys from the hook, calling out, “Back after dark, love.”
Mom calls her assent from the lounge. Tonight is scrapbooking night. We all keep clear of the room littered with baby photos and the guaranteed ride down memory lane.
I head to my room. I want to avoid the awkwardness that would be inevitable if I were to stay and watch their departure.
“Bye, Noah.” Mitch calls out, his voice flat, weighed down by unanswered prayers. I don’t know who wishes I was there more.
“Get one for me,” I call out. At least I try for buoyant. I sense rather than hear Mitch’s heavy sigh. Every time they go out, I feel that wound splinter a little. A bit like a zipper that can never quite do up and quickly unravels under the pressure of two years of disappointment and disillusionment.
I don’t begrudge them; it’s who we are.
Correction, it’s who they are.
Once the truck has rumbled down the driveway, I return to the kitchen. I’m hungry again. I make myself a ham and cheese sandwich. On second thoughts, I make two. And just for good measure, I add an extra helping of ham on both. As I head upstairs to my room, I think back to my conversation with Dad. Eden. A bite of sandwich has a little difficulty descending as those forest-green eyes hover before me. Framed by dark hair swept back in a loose knot, pale skin contrasting against parted red lips. I wonder if she ever wears its unknown length down. I rub a palm on my chest as my mark becomes oddly warm.
With a jolt I realize these feelings are the realest I’ve felt in almost two years. For so long I’ve been wandering, drifting, purposeless. Now electric attraction is coursing through my veins; intriguing potential has me curious. I pause on the steps. It’s like one look from this girl has charged new energy into my life. Who is she? And how do I get to know her?
