Wander Dust

by Michelle Warren

  Chapter 14: Extended Contemplation

  “Oh no, you must stay. I’ve been designing your room for weeks, hoping you would join us. Your room—it’s the absolute pinnacle of my creative prowess!” Gabe appears frantic, concerned his hard work as an interior designer will go wasted.

  My gaze locks on the boy—my stalker. He’s very carefully concealed where no one else but me will notice him in the darkness of the tunnel. His face barely escapes the shadows. They conform to his face, accentuating the angular features of his chin. This time, he doesn’t smile. Shouldn’t he be happy that I’ve wandered? After all, that seemed to be the reason for our meeting in the first place. He wanted me to discover the truth about myself.

  He looks down, casting his gaze away. I want to chase after him, to finally ask him everything I need to know. Can it only be one day since I’ve seen him? So much has happened since then.

  “Sera?” Mona shakes me. “What’s wrong? Rethinking your decision to stay already?”

  I turn to Mona, pretending to debate, but in seeing him here, I’ve already made up my mind. “Um…” I look back at the dark tunnel, but the boy has left.

  “Sera!” Gabe squeals. “Have you changed your mind?” His eyes plead, putting all puppies to shame.

  “Um, yeah. I guess.”

  •

  Normally, I overanalyze everything. For some reason, the moment Gabe and Mona pushed me for an answer, I felt compelled to give in, to know more. I abandoned my typical extended contemplation to have all the answers. After all, wasn’t that what I resolved to do last night? Find all the answers?

  Will it really matter if I stay at the dorm or a few blocks away with Mona? Mona will be nearby and, I suppose, if I hate my new accommodations, I can change my mind. Besides, I cannot deny my piqued interest after my special academy tour today.

  I tell myself that the appearance of the boy has nothing to do with my decision to move to school. It’s not a complete lie. I’m curious about the other students. Curious about what I am, and who the people are on my list of the weird and unknown. Most importantly, I want to feel closer to my mom. If this is what it will take to find her, then I want to throw myself into it headfirst.

  Being a Wanderer can’t be too terrible. Haven’t I always known that I’m different, never quite fitting in anywhere? Maybe this is what I’ve been looking for since I moved here. I’ve had a nagging suspicion that I’m here for some reason. This must be it. How can anything be more important?

  •

  Mona insisted on taking me shopping for a new outfit for Gabe’s “Saturday Night Soirée.” That’s what he called it, anyway.

  Upon handing me the gold invitation, Gabe took his time explaining the intricate color scheme and the artwork he’d chosen. Then he ever so humbly promised it would be “the event of the year.”

  Now I have to find an outfit for such an event. I’m not exactly sure what that entails. I think anything that looks like it just came off the runway in Paris will work. But that’s just an educated guess based on Gabe’s outfit today.

  Unsure, I roam from rack to rack, picking up items, turning them over, and then placing them back. Nothing seems cool enough. For once in my life, I’m not in the mood to shop. I’m not sure this has ever happened, but I know it’s because I have too much on my mind.

  I’m dreading a phone call to Ray this afternoon. I will have to lie to him from now on. Even though I’ve done it a million times before, this is actually something I would like to share with him. I’m a Wanderer, Dad, a time traveler. Maybe he’d be proud that I’m special, different, and important.

  Luckily, Mona has already formulated an explanation. She’ll simply explain to Ray that I’m doing so well in my studies that the Academy has offered me admission to their prestigious boarding school on the same campus. He will be thrilled and probably proud of at least this—for a little while.

  I stare out the glass window. Through the reflections of passing taxis and pedestrians, I see Mona. She’s in the bookstore in the next building. A large sign hangs over her that reads Travel. She’s engrossed in a book.

  I think she left me alone on purpose, which I appreciate. It allows me time to think and process all that I’ve seen today, if that’s even possible.

  The underground city of Olde Town, the colors and warmth of it, now seems like a dream. The pencil—the lions—I just don’t even want to think about them. I think it’s because those things are tangible proof that I’ll be part of a world where the impossible exists.

  By now, I should be able to handle it. I’ve already experienced many unexplainable things for myself. I even convinced myself that I was going crazy. Now, I need to accept that I’m just not a Normal.

  With a deep sigh, I let go of everything I’ve ever held true in my existence and tell myself there are no boundaries in my new world. No boundaries to hold me to any predefined laws. I’m limitless.

  My mind drifts. I think of my dream of being between the field and the desert, and I think of my fireflies. I find a strange peace remembering them swarming around my body, absorbing me into their world.

  When Mona returns, I’ve accepted my new life, settled on a new jacket, top, and skirt, and chosen a pair of shoes, just in case she’s feeling extra generous. Happily, she is.

  •

  As a favor, Mona takes me to Mom’s favorite pizza joint, Louis Guarino’s Pizzeria. The restaurant sits a few blocks from the Academy. I dump a pile of grated Parmesan on my pie, reveling in the moment.

  The four-inch-deep pizza requires a fork and knife to eat it. I take the first bite. It’s so hot that I burn my tongue. Now the rest of the meal will be ruined by my useless taste buds. Of what I can taste, the pizza is delicious. Fresh tomatoes explode in my mouth. The crust, more pastry than dough, melts on my tongue.

  I might have to choke out the words to admit that Ray’s right about something. I consider that this could be the best pizza on the face of the earth. Still skeptical, I decide that I’ll have to try it again, on another day with fully functioning taste buds, before I admit defeat.

  “So, what are your thoughts about everything?” Mona doesn’t waste time with pleasantries.

  Immediately, I want to ask her about the day I hid behind the bushes, the day British Stalker Boy led me to with his note. Who were the rest of the people she spoke about on the phone that I added to my list of weird and unknowns, Max and CC? Something tells me I wasn’t supposed to be there that day, to overhear what she said. I keep these questions to myself, hoping the answers will quickly reveal themselves on their own.

  “Um, I’m not completely sure about everything yet. It’s so—unreal. You know what I mean?” I say instead.

  “Yes, of course. It’ll take some time.” She takes a swig of water.

  “What’s with the lions?” I hedge with a mouth full of food.

  “They’re what we call Animates. The lion gate protects Olde Town.”

  I gulp. It seems impossible that a pair of rusted mechanical lions can be as dangerous as the real things, but they are pretty scary. “Has anyone not made it across the bridge?”

  “A few,” she says, unconcerned. She dishes herself a second slice.

  “And the pencil?” I hope it won’t make her mad that I ask about it again, but how can I not?

  “Well, Samantha is a Seer, as you know. She sees the history of inanimate objects. We call that history a life path and the inanimate object a relic. Anything without life can be a relic. For instance, a pencil or this salt shaker. But not a human, bug, or plant—you see?”

  I nod. “But the floating?” My voice trails off.

  “When a Seer engages an object with their minds, their concentrated thoughts suspend the relic in the air. It helps to separate the item from other energies in the room that may interfere. It simply helps to see better.”

  “Here, I’ll show you again,” she says and looks around the restaurant. “Tell me if someone walks this way.”
She pushes her plate and utensils to the side, next to the hot pepper flakes and sugar.

  She pulls out a plum-colored velvet pouch, releases the drawstring, and pours the contents onto her palm. She lifts her hand and allows a long chain to drop from her fingers. It falls straight and slack. At the end hangs a bronze medallion. She allows me to inspect the necklace as though she’s preparing to perform a magic trick.

  She allows the chain to rest, jumbled, on the shellacked surface of the table.

  “Remember, if anyone approaches,” she says with a pointing finger.

  I nod once more.

  Then she begins.