by Sophie Davis
The hardwood was freezing beneath my bare feet as I scurried down the stairs. I didn’t bother to look through the peephole; I knew who my uninvited guest was.
“How did you know where I lived?” I demanded, flinging the door open.
Kannon did give me a sheepish grin. His hands were shoved deep in the pockets of his dark jeans, and the white shirt he was wearing accentuated the golden tan of his skin.
“Can I come in?” he asked hopefully, artfully dodging my question.
“Tell me how you knew my address,” I shot back.
“If I tell you, will you let me in?” he countered, mischief glinting in his jewel-like eyes.
I thought for several long moments. Did I want him to come in? Of course I did. But what about Jamieson? I might have visions, but that girl had a sixth sense for where her boyfriends were at all times. I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that she tagged them with GPS.
“Well, I won’t let you in if you don’t tell me,” I finally said. There, that wasn’t exactly a promise.
“Fair enough.” Kannon nodded his head, still grinning despite my hostile attitude. He searched my face for several seconds before continuing, as if he were trying to decide how to phrase his disclosure. “Terrence’s little brother, Brent. His girlfriend plays travel field hockey with some girl named Hope something or other, who is a sophomore at Westwood. Apparently, Hope’s cousin is a senior at Westwood and plays soccer with some guy named Cooper who, according to the gossip mill, is very good friends with you. Cooper passed the information down the line,” he finally admitted, looking only marginally embarrassed for having gone to such extreme measures to find out where I lived. My stalker theory suddenly didn’t seem so farfetched. “So, can I come in?”
I swallowed my misgivings and stood back so that he could enter. We stood awkwardly in the foyer until my mother’s lessons about being a good hostess, even if you hate your guest, forced me to remember my manners.
“Follow me,” I said, crossing my arms over the ribbed tank I was wearing with my shorts. I led Kannon to my kitchen table and gestured for him to sit.
“Want something to drink?” I asked, still playing the good hostess.
“Sure. What’ve you got?”
“Water,” I replied dryly.
“Water’s great,” he said, easing into one of the kitchen chairs.
I took my time filling two large glasses with ice and water from the refrigerator door. Then I set one glass in front of Kannon, blatantly disregarding his outstretched hand. I placed the other glass on the red quilted placemat and squeezed through the small space between the table and chair.
Kannon took a long drink from his glass, peering at me over the top of the cup. He licked his top lip to catch the stray water droplets. The natural gesture on his part provoked me into biting my bottom lip as I wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Kannon laughed as if he knew what I’d been thinking. I shifted uneasily in my chair, debating whether I should demand that he leave.
“So why did you want to see me?” I began, as the heat in his eyes intensified.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the other night,” he replied, taking a smaller sip of his water this time. His honesty caught me off guard, and a smile spread across my face involuntarily. But it evaporated just as quickly as it had formed.
“You have a girlfriend,” I snapped, my words coming out more harshly than I’d intended.
Kannon tore his intense gaze away from my face for the first time, his eyes darting around my kitchen, and he sighed with something akin to frustration.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he insisted.
“Does she know that?” I demanded. I wished I’d saved the text from Jamieson so I could show him they clearly weren’t on the same page about their relationship status.
Kannon didn’t answer, pointedly staring at the ice in his glass and poking at one cube with his index finger.
“Look, you are relatively new to St. Paul’s, so you probably don’t know the whole history between Jamieson and me; but let me just tell you that if she catches you with me, castration isn’t out of the question.”
Kannon laughed. “Oh, she told me. Jamieson is all bark and no bite, though. She talks a big game, but underneath that spray tan she’s a softy.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. “Tell that to Camille Cross. Camille flirted with Jamieson’s boyfriend in the seventh grade, and then Jamieson spread a rumor that Camille had herpes; and now the poor girl is home schooled. Your girlfriend is a certifiable head case.”
“She is not my girlfriend,” Kannon said, emphasizing each word. “And I don’t get the impression that you are the type of girl that scares easily, so I don’t know why you care what she thinks. And you’re an adult now. Shouldn’t you be above the petty drama?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “I am not here to talk about Jamieson, anyway.”
Petty drama? Was my rivalry with Jamieson petty? Yeah, it totally was. But in my own defense, she’d started it. His words did shame me, though. Normally I didn’t let Jamieson get to me like this; she wasn’t worth getting upset over.
“Then why are you here?” I demanded, still stung by his comment.
“I think you know.” Kannon watched me closely for some sign of understanding.
He was right. I did know. But after the conversation with Devon the night before, I wasn’t eager to revisit the topic.
Neither of us spoke, the silence stretching into an uncomfortable barrier between us. Kannon continued to play with the ice in his cup, and I tried not to wonder if he was a good kisser. I doubted that his hands would be sweaty or his breath would smell like beer, and the odds of his family winning the lottery and moving to Canada were slim. The last part I knew for sure ― Devon and I had Googled it once, and apparently the chances of being crushed to death by a vending machine are higher than winning the lottery.
“How old were you when it happened? I was sixteen,” Kannon finally said, startling me out of my thoughts about the weird ways that an alarming number of people die each year.
“When what happened?” I asked, unsure if maybe I’d missed something while trying to determine whether he was right- or left-handed since the odds of a left-handed person dying from using a product made for right-handed people were also higher than hitting the jackpot.
Kannon’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How old were you when you died?”
I gaped at him. If my mother had been there, she would have insisted I close my mouth before the flies got in. “Died?” I repeated weakly.
“You have died, right? I mean that’s the way it works.” Kannon started fidgeting in his chair, running one hand through his hair and sliding the other up and down his water glass, smearing the condensation.
“Died,” I said again, because I didn’t know what else to say. Then I pinched myself on the thigh, hard. It hurt. I wasn’t dreaming. But it felt like a dream, because I’d had this conversation before, for real. With Jamieson.
When I was little I had nightmares about being strangled. Sometimes it was a rope that would cut off my air supply. Sometimes hands would close around my neck. Sometimes there was just a crushing force on my windpipe. No matter how the nightmare unfolded, I always woke up screaming and clawing at my throat. I threw a fit whenever my mother tried to dress me in a turtleneck, and even in the dead of winter I refused to wear a scarf.
The nightmares became so frequent my parents finally told me the truth about my birth. The umbilical cord had been wrapped around my neck, and the doctors couldn’t cut it away fast enough. I was dead for two minutes on the same day I joined the world. Eventually the nightmares stopped, but I still felt like I was suffocating if I wore anything too close to my throat.
Since the Wentworths were longtime friends of my parents and Jamieson was my best friend for so long, she knew the truth. It was one of my only secrets she hadn’t shared with the cyber world after I moved to Westwood. I wasn’t ashamed of it. I just
didn’t like to talk about it. Not even Devon knew.
My hand flew to cup my throat. Kannon was saying something, but I cut him off. “Get out,” I growled.
Kannon’s eyes widened, startled by the venom in my voice. “Endora–” he began.
I didn’t give him a chance to finish the sentence. “I don’t know what sick game you and Jamieson are playing, but I don’t want to be a part of it. Get out before I call the cops.”
Kannon stayed seated. Instead of looking embarrassed at being caught or amused that I’d temporarily fallen for his charade, his expression indicated hurt. “Endora, listen to me. Please. This isn’t a game.”
I was on my feet. The chair toppled over, hitting the linoleum with a bang. “I can’t believe she told you about that,” I shouted, still holding my neck. Tears prickled behind my eyes and I dug my nails into my throat to keep them at bay. Long ago I had promised myself that I would never let Jamieson Wentworth make me cry.
Kannon was on his feet now too. He rounded the table and started coming towards me. I grabbed another chair and thrust it between us.
“Stay away from me,” I demanded.
Kannon held up his hands, palms out. “I’m not going to hurt you, Endora,” he said softly. “I thought we were alike, but I guess I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
“Leave,” I demanded, hating the quiver in my voice.
Kannon backed up slowly. “You have my number. If you change your mind and want to talk, call me. Okay?”
I said nothing. I just pointed over his shoulder at the front door. Kannon sighed and turned to leave. I waited until the roar of an engine coming to life in my driveway signaled his departure; then I collapsed on the kitchen floor, curled into a ball, and let the tears fall.
Eventually I pulled myself together and made my way to the bedroom. I joined my calculus book on the bed and tried to distract myself with integration and derivation. When it became obvious that homework was not in my immediate future, I picked up the house phone to call Devon. She answered on the third ring.
“Eel, not a good time,” she panted by way of greeting.
“What are you doing?” I asked, fearing she and Rick had decided to make up and ‘watch a movie.”
“Treadmill,” she choked, her labored breathing becoming heavier.
“Oh. Well, okay. Call me later?”
“As soon as I finish sweating out the mint chocolate chip,” she wheezed.
I replaced the handset in the receiver and stared at the phone for several long moments, debating. I needed to talk to someone, anyone. Admitting that I’d fallen prey to Jamieson and her mind games was mortifying. The more I thought about what they’d done, the angrier I became. I found my new cell and punched in Jamieson’s number with so much force I jammed my finger. Then, I typed “low, even for you” and hit send. Seconds later the phone came to life in my hand, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin. When I looked down, I saw Devon’s number across the screen.
“Hey,” I said into the phone.
“It’s me,” Devon answered, no longer sounding like she was sucking wind.
“How was the treadmill?” I asked.
“Awful, but if I don’t get my ass in shape, I’ll drop dead running up and down that field all season,” Devon complained. Bedsprings whined through the phone and a click signaled the television turning on in Devon’s bedroom, followed by a Real Housewives catfight.
“No doubt,” I agreed. “What are you doing tonight?”
“Hanging out with you. What’s up? You sound funny.”
I hesitated. Telling Devon about the meeting with Kannon over the phone wasn’t something I was prepared to do. If I was going to tell her that I’d been played, I preferred to do it in person.
“Still haven’t heard from my dad,” I said. This was, of course, true; and it was easy to channel my anger and disappointment over what had happened with Kannon into my feelings about my missing father.
“Where do we start looking for him?”
I could tell I had Devon’s full attention now, the Atlanta housewives forgotten.
“No clue,” I replied, blowing out a long, exasperated breath. “I know nothing about his current life.”
“Come over,” Devon said decisively. “Let’s have a brainstorming session. Bring that folder the guy at the Moonlight gave you. Mom made lasagna and garlic bread for dinner.”
“On my way,” I said before disconnecting.
Brainstorming my father’s whereabouts with Devon was unlikely to yield results. But it was better than sitting around my house dwelling on the incident with Kannon or listing all of the horrible tragedies that could have befallen my father on his way to meet me. At least Devon would force me to be objective and optimistic about why Dad stood me up.
Ten minutes later, I rounded the cul-de-sac and parked next to the Holloways’ mailbox. Italian herbs met my nose the moment Devon’s mother opened the front door.
“Hello, dear. Come in, come in.” Sarah Holloway gave me a long, motherly hug before taking my overnight bag and leading me to the kitchen.
Devon sat at the counter, a huge piece of lasagna and a glass of milk in front of her. She waved one hand in greeting. Mr. Holloway lounged near the sink with his customary tumbler of bourbon. Heavy lids sagged over his bloodshot eyes. The big gray mustache over his upper lip twitched when he saw me.
“Endora, good to see you. It’s been a while,” Mr. Holloway said.
A week wasn’t really that long; I had been at their house for dinner the night before my birthday. But I usually did hang out at the Holloways’ house after school when I wasn’t busy with lacrosse or homework.
“School’s been nuts this week,” I told him, taking the chair next to Devon.
Mrs. Holloway placed a plate piled high with layers of cheese and thick noodles on my placemat.
“Eat up, dear. You’re too thin,” she said.
I laughed. Mrs. Holloway always thought we looked too thin. It amazed me that her daughter managed to remain a size zero with all the home cooking. Devon rolled her eyes and gave her mother a look that said, “You’re ridiculous.”
“Thank you,” I said to Mrs. Holloway.
Devon’s parents asked about lacrosse and how my studying for the AP tests was coming along. They had been at all of our games so they knew our season was going well, but I liked that they asked anyway. Mr. Holloway congratulated me on my goal, something my mother still didn’t know about since she’d failed to inquire. I told them I was spending all my spare time studying for the world history and calculus exams, even though I had yet to crack a book. The conversation was so normal and easy. Both Holloways were actually interested in my answers and showed the appropriate amount of concern when I admitted that I was nervous that I wouldn’t earn high enough scores on the APs.
“Sorry about the third degree. My parents are so nosey,” Devon commented once we’d retreated to her bedroom.
“You know I don’t mind,” I replied.
In truth, I liked how invested they were in my life. My mother often asked about my life, but she never seemed to hear the answers. It all went in one ear and out the other.
“So, did you meet him?” Devon asked, plopping down on the bed next to me.
I debated for several seconds. After the encounter with Kannon I’d been desperate to tell her what had happened. Now, though, I didn’t feel like rehashing the incident. Devon wasn’t fooled. She jumped on my silence, taking it as an admission.
“What happened? Did he say you were soul mates? That your future together was written in the stars?” Devon teased.
I stared at the plaid-papered walls. For Devon’s fourteenth birthday, her parents allowed her to redecorate her bedroom. After spending hours wandering around Home Depot, she’d decided on green-and-blue plaid wallpaper, of all things. What her parents hadn’t explained was that Devon had to be her own interior designer. The two of us spent the next three weekends learning to hang wall paper while Elizabeth observed,
since she said that the paste would ruin her manicure. The walls didn’t look bad. But more than a handful of bubbles still remained, looking like giant mosquito bites underneath the paper.
“Nothing like that,” I mumbled uncomfortably. “I think Jamieson set me up. Kannon knew things about me that he shouldn’t have unless she told him,” I continued, when Devon didn’t comment.
“Like what?” Devon asked.
I played with the hem of my tee, pulling at a loose thread until it unraveled several inches. Devon didn’t press; she just waited until I was ready.
She’s your best friend. Just tell her, I lectured myself. It wasn’t even that big of a deal. I surely wasn’t the only person we knew who had died at birth. According to my parents, it wasn’t exactly uncommon.
“You know how I have that weird phobia about wearing turtlenecks?” I asked, not waiting for her confirmation nod. “Well, when I was born, the cord was wrapped around my neck and I died, briefly. I used to have nightmares about it. I know it’s stupid, but I don’t like to talk about it. Besides my family, only Jamieson and her dad know.” I spoke without taking a breath. Now that the words were out, I felt a million times better. The whole ordeal really wasn’t a big deal, and I didn’t know why I hadn’t just told Devon in the first place.
I thought she might be hurt that I hadn’t confided in her before now. If she were, she didn’t let on.
“And Kannon knew about it?” Devon asked.
“Yeah. I mean, who starts a conversation with a question like, ‘So when did you die? I was sixteen,’” I replied.
Devon laughed. “Just when I thought the kid couldn’t get any weirder.”
“You and me both.”
Devon turned pensive, all traces of humor gone from her features. “Wait. He told you he died when he was sixteen?”
I thought back on the exchange in my kitchen. Kannon had said that. Until just then I hadn’t processed the weight of his words. At the time all I could think about was the fact that he knew I’d died.
“I guess he did,” I said slowly.
Devon was off the bed and booting up her laptop.
