Chapter 16: Confrontation
Metal crashes into metal. Horns wail. Piercing screams rip through the darkness, and finally there’s yelling. It’s wrenching and painful, but it’s not mine. It belongs to someone else. The hair on my arms prickle with goose bumps. I can’t see anything, which makes everything worse.
Somehow, I’m floating through a tunnel as dark as ink. The shadows encase me, wrapping isolation around my body, constricting my muscles. I didn’t will myself to wander—which, now that I think about it, I should have. It would’ve been the perfect escape. Now it doesn’t matter, because I’m positive that I’m dead.
It’s strange. Death feels exactly the same as wandering. Black nothingness rolls around me. Bright lights appear at the end of the tunnel. So cliché. Fingers of illuminated beams crawl into the darkness until they reach me.
I’m definitely dead. Maybe Mom will be waiting for me?
I realize that the tunnel hasn’t closed in on me as I initially thought. Instead, someone’s arms wrap tightly around my waist. Their face nestles, buried in my neck. I can’t see them, but I’m definitely not letting go.
“Mom?” I say. It has to be her.
Even though she doesn’t move or respond, I return the embrace and hold firm. Tears stream horizontally and roll off my cheeks into darkness.
Together, we’re drawn forward. The force of both of our bodies acts as an anchor, pulling up and over the edge of the light. We land into what seems like a wonderfully soft cloud.
I look up to see her, here in our heaven. With my mom here, I’m happy to be dead. When my eyes focus, I don’t see the woman I admired in a photo my entire life. Nor do I see a pair of violet eyes that mirror mine. I only see the mystical green eyes of a boy. A boy I have put entirely too much thought into lately. Our gazes lock for an incalculable amount of time.
“Are you okay?” he finally asks. His honey-sweet accent rolls off his tongue.
I nod, but don’t verbally respond. He’s on top of me. His warm breath, his body, his legs are tangled with mine, and his arms wrap tightly around my waist. I can’t breathe. I’ve never been this close to anyone in my life, and I can smell his seductive aftershave—leather and citrus. I inhale the scent again, momentarily drugged by his presence. My eyelids flutter.
When I look up at him, he’s staring. I must look like an idiot. My face flushes with blazing heat, and I react from complete embarrassment.
“Get off!” I push him. He elbows my rib when he moves. I automatically roll in response. He falls off of me with a thud, then moans.
Where am I? I look around the dark room expecting to see the evil lair of the Grungy Gang. Instead, I’m lying on a sofa, not a cloud, and British Stalker Boy sprawls, strung out on his back on the floor below. He looks at me expectantly.
“You could thank me, you know?” he says.
I look down at him and frown. I roll off the couch and stand over him. My feet straddle his torso. I pick up a foot and shove it into his chest. To hold him in place, I press down. The tip of my boot nudges into his neck, where I put the full weight of my body onto his throat.
“Thank you for what—for almost killing me?”
“Are you mad? You nearly died out there!” he chokes, erupting at my ungrateful attitude.
He halfheartedly tries to get up, but lies back down with a laugh. “Do you really think you can hold me here?” He smirks, amused.
I nod confidently, but of course I’m not sure.
He grabs my ankles with both hands, ripping them out from underneath me. The rest happens in slow motion, or at least it does to me. My body flips sideways, airborne, and my legs circle over my head. His hands cradle my back and head until I land gently on the floor.
To the outside observer, I’m sure it happened much faster. They might have cringed when he tossed me so easily onto the floor. I can see he’s proving a point, but not by hurting me in the literal sense. Only my pride will suffer. With his stealthy switch of our positions, I now lie under his feet with the air knocked out of me.
This angle accentuates his lean muscles and height. He doesn’t bother to restrain me on the floor. The shock of him throwing me here so easily holds me in place. I struggle to catch my breath.
“Who are you?” I ask with a growl.
He laughs again, smug. “Surprise, Miss Parrish, I’m your Protector.” He bows ceremoniously.
“What?” I snap up from the floor so quickly, my hair flies forward into my face.
The boy walks away, reaching to open a pair of French doors that lead from the study into the open lobby of the Academy. I’m sitting in the room Mona and I waited in earlier this morning for Gabe.
The doors fling open, crashing against the walls. The glass rattles within their panes. A blonde girl, with a look of disgust on her face, stands on the other side. With her arms locked across her chest, she eyes me up and down. Pathetic, her expression says. The boy pulls her away into the main atrium, and they disappear into the sound of a wild party.
I still don’t know his name, who the Grungy Gang is, or why they’re hunting me, but at least I know he isn’t my stalker—a real one. And he isn’t available. Figures.
I haul myself off the floor and back onto the couch. My body melts into mush, and I let out a long, exaggerated breath. I allow myself time to assess the events of the previous ten minutes.
First and foremost, I can knock British Stalker Boy off my list. I know who he is now—my Protector. I sniff.
That would explain the pull I feel toward him. The same pull I feel toward Samantha, but stronger. Stronger in a different way. How can I help it if I’m also attracted to him?
At least I can be happy he isn’t going to kill me like I originally thought. Now I only have the gang to worry about—and whoever else remains on my list. I flip through the remaining names in my head: CC, Max, Francis Germ Bum, and the Grungy Gang. I’ve knocked so many items off in just one day. Only four more to go, but I can hardly get excited about that at the moment.
I stand up and walk over to the window, pull back the curtains, and peek out. Cars sit in gridlock one block away. Sirens wail and red lights flash repeatedly onto the buildings surrounding the mayhem. The accident is hidden from here, but I realize that I probably caused it. The scene sends instant shivers over my skin. I narrowly escaped being crushed by a truck, and with no help from my so-called Protector. I would have been well beyond the danger if he hadn’t tackled me into the road. I think.
I scan the city scene: the people on the street, the buildings, the cars, and the courtyard. No one scary lurks in the shadows. My heart still races in my chest from the chase and meeting my Protector. He must know something about the gang, but I’m too ticked to ask him now.
For now, I need to pull myself out of my frenzy. I take a deep breath then turn my attention to a nearby mirror. I’m a wreck! I run my fingers through my hair, smoothing out the worst of the tangles. I straighten my clothes so I won’t look like I’ve just been tackled. I rearrange my necklaces, including the one just gifted to me by Mona. I pull a tube of lip gloss from my pocket, smooth the peach goo over my lips, and press them together.
I’m slightly calmed, but still perturbed with the boy when Gabe pops his fake, butter-colored curls into the study. “Hello, possum. Don’t you look—” He stops, reaching out to rearrange a misplaced piece of my hair and tucks it behind my ear. “—perfecto!”
“Thanks,” I say, relieved that I know someone at this party, even if it’s just Gabe.
“Come with me.” He drags me forward, pulling me into the main atrium, just as he did earlier today.
“How did you know where to find me?”
“Bishop.”
“What bishop?” I look around.
“Max Bishop, silly. You know, your Protector.”
“Max Bishop.” Max—the name from my list. I should’ve known. Now I’m down to three items: CC, Francis Germ Bum, and the Grungy Gang.
I have a sinki
ng feeling they’ll be the hardest mysteries to unravel, but I don’t have too much time to wallow in my negativity, because Gabe shuffles me into the back atrium between the large sweeping stairs and the pool. He fluffs my hair one last time before playfully patting me on the head.
“Stand here. It’ll be the best spot,” he says.
“For what?” But he doesn’t hear my question. He’s already meandering around the group on a mission to host a party. Not just any old party, mind you. Seeing it for myself, I have to acknowledge…it really might be the party of the year.
Wander Dust Page 16
