I stare at the display of choices, eventually picking the rarely chosen, completely unavoidable door number four.
I take my tray outside and eat on the steps.
Alone.
In the rain.
The remainder of my classes pass in a blur. The teachers pretend to learn my name, the kids hardly even know I’m there. Gym is hell, though I never expected it to be anything else. Despite my many complaints and assurance that I must have left my doctor’s note at home, I’m forced into playing a rousing game of touch football. It quickly becomes the longest hour of my life.
School lets out with a final, jubilant bell, and the hallways stream with the excitement of a first day over and done with. The rain has stopped, and I have no reason to wear a hood on my way out the door. Thankfully, Logan is nowhere to be found.
I zone out during the short, routine drive home. Main Street is bustling with afternoon shoppers, visitors who travel to our tourist trap of a town for sightseeing and after–holiday discount sales. Shopping bags swing hypnotically from arms as their owners walk the broad street, hurrying from store to store, eager to be out of the cold. An elderly woman jumps as I drive by, mistaking my exhaust backfire for a gunshot. She shakes her fist angrily at me as I pass, realizing it’s only my Chevette, and not an assault rifle.
I pull into the driveway of my grandmother’s quaint, two–story brick house with a sloppy, right turn, knocking over the recycling containers at the curb. The car gives a final shudder as I cut the ignition, like it’s happy to finally get a rest after all its hard work. I pet the dash affectionately and head inside, letting my fingers linger on the twists of ivy covering the front porch railing. “Gran!” I call, dropping my book bag on the kitchen counter. The lights are off, a telltale sign she’s not home. “Gran!” I try again anyway, attempting to throw my voice around the hall corner. A square, pink post–it note decorated with flowery handwriting hangs from a pineapple magnet on the refrigerator.
At the Garden Society social. Stay out of trouble!
Love, Gran
Stay out of trouble? Is there another option I’m not aware of? While most normal, red–blooded adolescents might be thrilled at the prospect of an evening home alone, I’ve never been one to find comfort in private time, least of all in a house belonging to a sixty–eight year old woman.
While the rest of humanity might have shifted into the 21 century, Gran’s house remains resolutely fixed in 1976. It’s as if she was sleeping when the new millennium came around, and simply refused to redecorate once she woke up. Matching avocado green appliances crowd yellow, linoleum countertops, while plaid curtains hang from the living room window, touching the floor at the hickory colored, shag carpet. There’s no computer. “It hurts my eyes,” she would tell me whenever I used to pester her. No TV either. “Television will turn your brain to soup!”
What to do? That is the question: Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous homework . . .
I settle for the stack of dirty dishes sitting on the counter, setting up a towel and filling the sink with warm, soapy water. But the scrubbing, drying, and washing a few of the plates twice just to fill the time doesn’t take nearly as long as I’d hoped. I manage to finish the dishes, do two loads of laundry, complete my homework, and vacuum the living room and hallway before giving up on killing time.
I eat dinner standing, chewing each bite with care, hoping to fill the silence with every spoonful of macaroni. I would never tell anyone this–who would listen anyway?–but I almost prefer the chaotic, unpleasant world of North Chamberlain High. A tiny voice in the back of my head tells me I’m insane, and I should be thankful Logan Cartwright isn’t here dumping my small bowl of mac and cheese down my pants. But another, slightly crazier voice tells me at least it would be a minute of company, a minute of not being stuck in solitary confinement, and that there are worse things than a lap full of pasta.
My feet drag as I head upstairs. I shower in the small bathroom at the end of the hall, letting the water run until it’s cold, once again hoping the icy temperature will numb the painful burrowing inside. My bedroom waits patiently for my return, familiar and welcoming, with creaking wooden floors and walls painted a color favored by prisons and psychiatric hospitals. It doesn’t bother me. Gran says it used to be my dad’s room before he left for college, and now I can’t imagine being anywhere else. Sleep is a relief. I flop facedown onto the aged mattress, the old springs groaning under my weight. Forcing my eyes closed, it isn’t long before the sweet release of unconsciousness washes over me. I don’t dream; I never have. No light, no sound, just the deep, recurring nothingness that always accompanies shutting my eyes.
“Don’t turn on the light.”
My eyes snap open at the presence of noise, a voice coming from somewhere by the door.
“Why not? Can you see in the dark?” This voice is different, distinctly female, but harsher than the first. “Is that your ability?”
“He’s sleeping, dufus. There’s no need to wake him up.”
I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep. Minutes? Hours? I remain frozen, face pressed to my pillow, listening as one of the figures stumbles into dad’s old bookcase.
“Shhh!” the male voice hisses.
“Quit telling me what to do! You’re not the boss of me!”
“That’s funny, because last time I checked, I was! Now come on. And try not to run into anything else while you’re at it!”
My hand inches toward the lamp resting on my nightstand. The voices don’t sound particularly menacing, more annoyed at one another than anything. But still, better not take chances.
“Hello?” I call out, lying prostrate against the comforter. “Is someone there?” There’s no answer. “Whoever you are, I think you should know this house has a silent alarm system, and the police are probably already on their way. So it would be in your best interest to leave!”
The voices continue as if I haven’t spoken.
“Great. Now he’s awake,” the man says, not bothering to whisper.
“I’m really not kidding about the alarm!” I bluff again. I can almost reach the small, twist knob to the lamp. “This is your last warning!”
The girl raises her voice. “Why are we here anyway? It’s two in the morning for crying out loud!”
“Well, I thought maybe for a change of pace I could supply you with something to complain about,” her comrade snaps sarcastically.
“This is pointless,” the girl grumbles, completely disregarding his last comment. “We can come back any time we want! We’re invisible, remember? I mean it’s not like the guy can–”
Her ranting is interrupted by the soft click of a turning switch. Lamplight fills the small bedroom, casting orange and gray shadows over the walls and floor. I flip over on my back and stare at the owners of the bickering voices.
The girl’s mouth falls open as she finishes her sentence. “–see us.”
She’s pretty. No, stunning, that’s the right word, with deep set blue eyes, and long layers of blonde hair that seem to glow silver beneath the room’s dim lighting. I rest back on my elbows and rub my eyes. The soft haze of light around her slim figure doesn’t disappear.
The same can be said for her friend. His tall frame and mess of tawny hair hold a pale glow as well. Neither of them is dressed like anyone who would purposefully break into a house. There’s not a tool belt or ski mask to be seen. The girl has on a black tee, and denim jeans complete with gaping hole at the left knee. Her friend looks even less like a burglar, unless of course that burglar were appearing on Jeopardy. He’s wearing a white button–up shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a navy blue tie pulled loose at the collar.
But perhaps most unusual, is that both of the people standing in the center of my room are staring at me, eyes wide, mouths agape, as if I’m the one who’s in the wrong house.
I decide to take charge of the situation. “Who the hell are you?”
I shout, hoping to intimidate them. My voice cracks, ruining any hope of instilling a sense of fear.
She turns to stare up at her much taller companion. “He’s not . . .” she stammers. “He’s not . . . talking to us, is he?”
“Of course not,” her friend answers, though the apprehension in his eyes challenge his own words. “He’s dreaming . . . or sleep walking . . . or something.”
“He’s not asleep!” she cries, her big, blue eyes betraying pure dread.
“What are you doing in my house?” I yell at the pair of them. “If the two of you don’t get out right now, I’m calling the cops! I swear I will.”
A look of realization washes over him. “Holy–”
“Shhh!” the pretty blonde whispers. “Maybe if we stand really still he won’t see us.”
“This isn’t Jurassic Park, Billie!” He runs a hand through his hair. “Not good. This is not good,” he begins to chant. “This is so not good.”
She, Billie, takes a step forward and looks me dead in the eye.
“You . . . you can see us?”
What does she mean, I can see them? What sort of question is that? “Of course I can see you!” I back slowly against the headboard, putting as much distance between myself and the intruders as I can. “Get out!”
The girl turns back to her partner. His eyes swim with an expression I can’t begin to understand.
“Back to HQ?” she asks.
He nods. “I think that’s probably a good idea.”
Then, without another word or glance in my direction, both of them vanish, leaving only a soft shimmer of light in their place.
That’s when I start screaming.
Tucker
“Can you believe him?”
Billie whirls on me the instant we’re through the Captain’s door, her face a mask of incredulity and anger. “I mean, come on! How can he do this to us?”
The way she says “us” sends a tiny, hypothetical shiver of happiness through my body.
“Telling us we’ll just have to work around our little problem?” she rants. “The guy can see us for crying out loud! I don’t see how we’re supposed to get around that.” She whips back to the front, flinging her hair in a circle of light behind her. “And then throwing us out of his office? What’s up with that?”
“Well, you did call him a bitter, power–crazed old man who wouldn’t know sympathy if it bit him on the ass,” I say.
“Some people can be so touchy.”
“Yeah, imagine that.” I laugh. I pick up the pace, loping along at her side. “So I guess we know what we have to do now.”
“What?” She turns to face me. “Cap seemed to think our perfectly reasonable request of asking for a new assignment was way out of line.”
I smile down at her. “We go back.”
“To the Captain? Good luck.”
I shake my head, feeling my bangs slide into my eyes. If only I had gotten them trimmed like my father suggested, I wouldn’t have to deal with the eternal problem of not being able to see. I push my hair back with my hand. “Not to the Captain,” I tell her. “To work.”
She halts mid–step, her eyes wide as they stare up at me in identical blue pools of disbelief.
“Why do we need a new assignment?” I start again, trying my best not to laugh at the expression of incredulity on her face. “I’ve been thinking about it, and the Captain’s right. This could work. It’s weird, yeah, but I think being seen is actually kind of fortuitous. Maybe it’ll make our job easier.”
“Easier?” She purses her lips together, and her eyes flash with a spark of insight. “Exactly how much easier are we talking about here?”
I should have known this would be the one angle she would choose to go along with. “Really?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “You’re that lazy?”
She pauses as if genuinely considering. “Possibly.”
Unbelievable.
“However,” she says before I have a chance to get another word in. She spins on her heel, walking backward so we can talk face to face, “after giving your idea a considerable amount of thought . . .”
“You mean the two seconds it took you to realize I’m right?”
“. . . I’ve decided to stay with the assignment.”
“How very noble of you.”
She smiles and spins on her heel, leaving me no choice but to follow after. As if I would ever choose differently.
A black canister zooms by as we make our way back through Human Resources, up and out of sight. With only one tube for both incoming and outgoing messages, I’ve never been able to understand how the containers pass one another without colliding. One would assume the canisters would eventually meet, succeeding in blocking the passage and preventing communication. But the clear, long cylinder remains perpetually open for messages to dispatch without ever offering a single explanation as to how it stays that way.
“Oh, Mr. Reid!”
The voice belongs to Abby, the friendly receptionist I met earlier. She’s waving me over with one hand, holding down the button to a small, black callbox with the other.
“Mr. Reid,” she says as soon as I reach her side of the office.
“Please. Call me Tucker,” I say, laying on the charm.
“No thanks,” she smiles. “Mr. Reid, the Captain wants to see you in his office ASAP.”
I glance around, confused. “I just left his office,” I tell her, not completely understanding the message. “In fact, I vaguely remember being thrown out. Are you sure you’ve got the right Mr. Reid?”
“NOW, TUCKER!” the Captain’s deep voice issues from the intercom on her desk. A few Guardians standing within earshot snicker at his tone.
Abby’s smile doesn’t remotely falter. “I’m sure.”
“What’s the hold up ?” Billie asks, sauntering over, hands slipped into her jean pockets.
“The Captain wants to see me.”
Her brow furrows in puzzlement. “But we were just in there,” she says, glancing at Abby. “In fact, I vaguely recall being thrown out.”
I shrug and cock my head toward the desk. “I tried telling her that.”
“I DON’T LIKE BEING KEPT WAITING,” the Captain’s voice rings once more.
Billie composes herself and leans down to speak into the callbox. “We’ll be right in, Cap.”
“NOT YOU, FOSTER,” comes the reply through the crackling speaker. “I ASKED FOR MR. REID, WHO, I MIGHT ADD, IS STILL NOT IN MY OFFICE!”
Message received. “Wait here,” I tell Billie, sprinting back down the familiar hallway. I reach the Captain’s office in record time, bursting through the door without knocking.
“Sit,” he says, hardly glancing up from the stack of papers on his desk. He begins separating them into two piles as I take a seat at the opposite side.
“I’m glad you found time to fit me into your busy schedule, Mr. Reid,” he says after a moment of shuffling papers, his ginger head backed by a wall of perfect blue sky.
I decide to play along. “No sweat,” I offer with a chuckle. “Anything for you, Captain.”
“Your derision is not appreciated in this office.”
“Right. Of course not,” I gulp. “Sorry, sir. I just don’t understand why I’m back here.”
“You’re here because I told you to be here.” He pushes himself up and out of his chair. “And because I believe you and I share a common interest.”
“Common interest?” I query, turning in my seat so I can continue to face him as he slides around the desk. “You mean Benedict Ford?”
“Not quite,” he replies coolly, strolling to the far side of the office. He halts at the door only a moment, grasping the handle and flinging it open in one swift movement.
To my surprise, Billie falls through, landing on the floor in a heap.
“Oh, hey guys!” she smiles, climbing quickly to her feet. “I didn’t mean to interrupt or anything. And I certainly wasn’t eavesdropping if that’s what you’re thinking. I
was just taking a walk, you know, down the hall, completely not listening at the door, and I could have sworn I heard this super strange noise coming from inside the office. Like a buzz . . . or a hiss . . . or something. Anyway, I thought I would check it out for you. Funny, I don’t hear it anymore.”
She continues rambling as the Captain takes her by the forearm and ushers her out the door.
“Okay! Good talk! Glad I could help. Let me know if you need anything else! Just say the word and I can be here in a flash! Don’t hesitate to call. I wasn’t eavesdropping, I swear! Son of a–”
Her dubious goodbye is cut short by the door slamming in her face.
“I’m talking about Foster,” the Captain continues as if there’s been no interruption.
“Billie?” My back stiffens instinctively. “What about her?”
Be the Death of Me Page 3
