“Like a study session,” I said, avoiding Paige’s questioning gaze.
I stood and waited at the foot of the bed as Mom straightened Paige’s blankets and fluffed her pillows. Ever since the bathtub incident, she’d been in maternal overdrive, taking care of Paige and making sure she wanted for nothing. She handled the responsibility with the same energy and focus she’d once used at work, which was a promising change. It also meant Paige was rarely alone, and that allowed me to go to school, spend time with Willa, and do everything else I needed to without worrying about a second transformation attempt.
I wanted to talk with Paige more, but Mom was thorough. After the pillows, she checked the thermometer and sat on the bed while holding a cold compress to Paige’s forehead. She seemed to be in no hurry to leave, and Paige wasn’t protesting her presence, which made me think Paige welcomed the chance to process everything I’d just told her.
When ten minutes passed, I excused myself and told Paige I’d come see her when I got back.
I dashed to my room, where I’d laid out everything I needed for the night. I’d raided Mom’s boxes of designer clothes earlier and found a tight black satin miniskirt, a silky red sleeveless blouse, and black pumps with four-inch heels. I kept the accessories simple, opting only for sheer black hose and a pair of ruby earrings. A fitted black satin trench completed the outfit.
Once dressed, I undid my ponytail and brushed my hair until it fell straight down my back. I put on foundation, blush, lipstick, and mascara, all of which I’d bought at the drugstore that afternoon, and sprayed vanilla-and-clove-scented perfume on my neck and wrists.
Not bad, I thought, examining my appearance in the full-length mirror. Not me either, but that was sort of the point. I grabbed my phone and clutch from the bed, listened by the closed door to make sure no one was in the hallway, and ran downstairs.
“Vanessa?” Dad called from his office as I breezed through the living room. “Is that you? Can you come here, please, I want to—”
“Going out, be back later!”
Outside, I ran down the steps and up the sidewalk. My ankles wobbled in the heels, but any fear I felt about falling and breaking something was overwhelmed by nerves. After planning this
night for days, I just wanted it to be over as soon as possible.
“Hey, beautiful.”
I stopped, but my heart kept racing. Parker stood beneath the awning of Il Cappuccino, an Italian restaurant that, according to its Web site, promised fine cuisine and the most romantic ambience Boston had to offer. He’d dressed for the occasion and wore black pants, a white button-down shirt, a fitted black suit vest, and a striped tie. He carried a black wool overcoat. His hair was brushed back from his face, like he’d run his fingers back after taking a shower and not touched it since.
This is no big deal… you’re just two friends having dinner…. It’d be no different if he were Caleb or Paige or—
He kissed my cheek. It was so soft I might not have believed it had actually happened if my knees hadn’t buckled, leaving me no choice but to take his hand—for balance—when he offered it.
“This was a great idea,” he said. “I’m so glad you suggested it.”
“Me, too.” I tried to smile, but looking at him only made my body sway again.
Inside the restaurant, I declined the hostess’s invitation to check my coat, wanting to stay as covered up as possible. As I followed her across the main eating area filled with cozy booths and dim lighting, I struggled to remember everything Willa had told me about sending signals. I hadn’t mentioned what I was doing with Parker, partially because I wasn’t sure she’d approve and also because I was embarrassed, but she’d given me enough basic information about sirens to work with.
I knew I was supposed to be relaxed. The tenser I was, the less effective I’d be. I was supposed to strike a careful balance in conversation, letting him talk a lot so he knew I was interested, but also talking myself so that he could be lulled by my voice. Eventually, again when I was relaxed, I was supposed to touch him. It didn’t have to be much—brushing his hand with mine or taking his arm when we left the restaurant would do—but the key was that it happen naturally.
Unfortunately, trying to remember everything I was supposed to do only stressed me out. So when Parker asked how my day had been, I told him it had been fine, reached for my water glass—and knocked it off the table. When he started to tell me about his, I rested my elbows on the table and leaned toward him, making the table tilt and the breadbasket fall into my lap. When our candle went out, I raised it to get the waiter’s attention and ask for a new one, and sent a thin stream of hot wax sliding down my sleeve.
To me, this was sign after sign that what I was doing was wrong. Not just because I didn’t know how to do it, but because I wasn’t supposed to be doing it. I still loved Simon even if he no longer loved me, and this wasn’t fair to him. And poor Parker actually thought we were on a real date. He’d probably made tons of girls cry over the years, but that didn’t mean he deserved what I was doing.
There was a reason I wanted to do this: to become as strong as possible so that, when the time came, I could take on Raina
and Zara. But there had to be another way.
“Listen,” I said, starting to wipe the wax from my sleeve.
“Don’t.” He reached across the table and tugged on the cloth napkin. “Once it’s dry you can just pick it off. Wiping it now will ruin your jacket.”
“Oh.” I looked at the wax and lowered the napkin. “Thanks.”
“So I have an idea.” He lowered his voice. “Why don’t we take things down a notch? There’s this place I like to go not far from here. The food’s not fancy, but it’s good. The atmosphere’s unbelievable. We’d be a million times overdressed, but I won’t mind if you don’t.”
“I don’t,” I said, already standing. Once we were outside, I could break a heel and say I had to go. Or I could come down with a sudden, fake illness. All that mattered was that getting out of there was the start of the end of the night.
“Blind date!” Parker called back to our waiter as we slid out of the booth. “Wrong girl!”
Realizing he was talking about us, I stopped short. He kept going until his chest pressed lightly against my back, and then he rested both hands on my waist and nudged me forward.
“Mistaken identity,” he whispered. “Guaranteed to bring any romantic dinner to a grinding halt.”
Which, for some reason, cracked me up. I didn’t know if it was my emotional state finally collapsing under the weight of the past few months, or if the idea of accidentally going on a date with the wrong person really was that funny, but I laughed all the way out the door and was still giggling as we started down the sidewalk. It had been a long time since anything had made me laugh like that—or even a little. The feeling was almost as refreshing as an impromptu swim in the ocean.
“Here we are,” Parker said a few blocks later.
I wiped my watering eyes and peered down the alley to the blinking taco sign. It sat atop a skinny yellow hut covered in painted cacti, sombreros, and donkeys. On the pavement in front of the hut were dozens of plastic chairs—no tables—filled with couples and college kids wearing jeans and fleeces, eating the biggest tacos I’d ever seen and drinking beer. Strings of colorful lights crisscrossed overhead, and tinny mariachi music blared from an old cassette player on the ground by the order window.
“Actually,” I said, “I think I’m a little underdressed.”
He laughed, which only made me start giggling again. I couldn’t even catch my breath to protest when he laced his fingers through mine and led me down the alley.
But then, I wasn’t sure if that was because I was laughing, or because his skin against mine sent a hot shock up my arm.
Either way, I went along with it. We got our food and found two empty chairs in the middle of the festivities. Sitting there with Parker, surrounded by strangers, eating messy tacos, yelling over the music
and noise about TV, movies, and nothing important, I felt different. Happy.
Normal.
I didn’t want it to end. And apparently, neither did Parker.
“Not to brag or anything,” he said, after we’d finished eating, “but I have a pretty sweet entertainment center at home.”
“Yeah?”
He nodded, grinned. “Loews has nothing on King.”
Loews. The theater. He wanted me to come over and watch movies. Most likely on a couch. Next to each other. In a dark room.
“It’s pretty late.” I hated the words when they made his smile falter. “I should probably get home.”
He raised both hands as if surrendering, then reached one toward me as he stood. I took it without hesitating.
I was going home instead of to his house. What was the harm in holding his hand along the way?
As we walked, Parker and I took turns singing—badly—our favorite cheesy movie songs of all time. (Mine: “Danger Zone” from Top Gun. His: “[Everything I Do] I Do It for You” from Robin Hood.) Halfway home, I was laughing so hard I had to stop and ask him to be quiet until I calmed down enough to keep walking. The delay extended our time together by thirty seconds, which made me happy.
“Now I understand,” I said when we reached my block.
“What’s that?”
“The Parker King phenomenon.”
“I’m sorry—I have a phenomenon?” He sounded pleased.
“You know you do.” I stopped walking in front of a brownstone a few down from ours and faced him. “It’s your magical ability to turn every single girl you meet into a puddle of sweet, messy goo.”
He made a face. “Can’t I, like, turn them into angels? Or rainbows? Or something prettier than goo?”
I smiled up at him as he stepped closer.
“If you understand this phenomenon,” he said, his voice softening, “does that mean you’ve experienced it?”
Now my smile faltered. “Maybe,” I said, knowing I shouldn’t. Even though it was true. Especially because it was true.
My heart fought to break free of my chest as he lifted my hand, touched my sleeve, and gently plucked off the dried wax.
“Good as new,” he said.
He was talking about the jacket. Logically, inside my head, I knew he was talking about the jacket. But every other part of me interpreted this statement another way.
“Parker,” I whispered, watching his lips come closer.
He kissed me in response. His lips were warm, and salty, and careful. They pressed gently against mine, like he was afraid I’d pull away.
Which is what I should’ve done. I should’ve pulled away and run down the block and inside my house. Instead, I kissed him back, softly at first, but then harder. When our lips parted and the tip of his tongue touched mine, I inhaled sharply, like I’d been punched.
Except it didn’t hurt. It felt good. Amazing. My legs steadied, my arms grew firmer. My heart still thundered, but it sounded different in my ears—strong instead of weak, excited instead of scared.
And the taste. I knew the salt on his lips lingered from dinner, but there was more to it than that. It was fresh, and invigorating, the way I’d imagined a glass of ocean water would taste after drinking tap water for weeks. Each kiss only made me want more.
“Get a room!” someone yelled from across the street.
Remembering we stood in full view in the middle of the public sidewalk, I took the lapels of Parker’s coat and, still kissing him, gently pulled him onto the narrow strip of grass between two brownstones.
“Vanessa,” he breathed, leaning against me so that I leaned against the building.
I was aware of his fingers by my neck, unbuttoning my jacket.
“Come with me.”
“Where?” My eyelids slid closed as his lips trailed across my clavicle, my bare shoulder.
“Anywhere.” He brought his mouth back to mine. “Away from here. Across oceans.”
“On your boat,” I said, vaguely recalling his post–high school plan.
“Yes.” He smiled against my lips. “You and me. On my boat.”
I could see it. The two of us. Nothing but blue sky and water for hundreds of miles. We could just disappear, together. No one would have to know. No one would get hurt.
“Okay,” I whispered.
For a brief second, he stilled. “Really?”
I nodded, kissed him, pulled him closer.
In the distance, an engine growled, tires squealed.
“And your boyfriend?” Parker asked. “You guys are definitely done?”
My boyfriend. Simon.
My eyes snapped open. I squirmed out of Parker’s grasp and dashed out onto the sidewalk.
Just in time to see a green Subaru with Maine license plates reach the end of the street and fly around the corner.
CHAPTER 26
THE NEXT MORNING, I checked on Paige, who was still sleeping—just as she’d been when I got home the night before—made small talk with Mom and Dad over breakfast, and then, instead of walking to school, caught the bus to South Boston. Willa wasn’t expecting me and I didn’t have her phone number to call before coming over, but I had to go somewhere. Facing Parker today was impossible—especially because part of me ached to see him again, to pick up where we’d left off before I’d disappeared into the house without so much as saying good-bye—and I didn’t think she’d mind my stopping by unannounced.
I didn’t consider that she might not be home.
I stood on the front stoop, shivering in the cool morning mist and knocking on the door. I waited several seconds and tried again. When the door remained closed, I leaned over the iron railing and tapped on the window. Through the sheer curtain, I saw that the living room was empty.
Guessing she must be out for a swim, I sat on the top step to wait. I took my phone from my backpack and, for the thousandth time since seeing Simon drive away the night before, checked for messages.
“Morning, sunshine.”
I glanced up. A middle-aged man smiled at me through the open window of a Department of Sanitation truck parked across the street.
“What’s a pretty thing like you doing in this part of town?”
I looked down, held the phone to my ear, and pretended to be listening to someone on the other end.
“Need a ride?” the man’s coworker asked. He tossed a fat garbage bag into the back of the truck and stepped into the street, toward me.
Afraid my voice would entice them further, I shook my head and hurried down the steps. A cracked wooden gate divided Willa’s tiny front lawn from the back, and I pushed against it, relieved when it gave with little resistance. I closed the gate and lugged a heavy wrought-iron table in front of it, just in case.
Willa’s back lawn was actually a patio. Like the house’s interior, it was neat and simple, with an outdoor dining set and a few ceramic pots of wilting marigolds. A narrow wooden stair-case led up to the back door.
As I sat in one of the chairs, my head throbbed once, then stopped. A few seconds later, it did it again. It didn’t hurt, but there was definite pressure, like a bulging vein pushed against my forehead.
It’s just stress…. You’re freaking out, and your body’s reacting….
Trying to relax, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The throbbing came stronger, faster. I opened my eyes and dug through my backpack for a water bottle. I was taking a long swig when I noticed cream-colored curtains floating out from three open windows on the second floor. The material lifted and dropped as if caught on a sharp, shifting wind—only there wasn’t any wind. There wasn’t even a breeze. The cool air was completely still.
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