Kiss

by Francine Pascal

  Heather took a deep breath. "I know that you have some kind of ... relationship with Gaia Moore."

  Sam could tell it was painful to her to say the name, and he felt awful.

  "I know that you know her somehow, and I need you to tell me what's going on between you."

  Sam swallowed. Jesus, Heather had a knack for getting right to the point. He hoped his face didn't betray his dire discomfort. He needed to choose his words carefully. He cleared his throat. "There's nothing going on."

  Liar. You think about her every hour of every day.

  "I barely know her. I've hardly ever spoken with her. There's never been anything . . . romantic between us."

  But you wish there were. You dream about her at night.

  Sam glanced up, reminding himself that he was having a conversation with Heather and not with himself.

  "So what is there between you?" Heather pressed. "Why was she there the night we ..." She trailed off and then started again. "How did she know you'd been kidnapped? Why did you need to leave in such a hurry the last time we were together in your room?"

  All the saliva in Sam's mouth had dried up, and from what he could tell, it was never coming back. He tried swallowing again. "Honestly, Heather, I don't know. The last couple of months have been so strange. I really don't know anything about her." That last bit, finally, was a sincere answer.

  "Have you ever ... been with her?" Heather stopped and tried again. Here was a girl who accepted no cowardice, particularly not in herself. "Have you kissed her? Hooked up with her? Had sex with her?"

  "No," Sam answered firmly. But God, how I've wanted to.

  Heather looked relieved but no less serious. "Okay, here's the really important thing I need to say to you." She pulled one sleeve of her sweater up over the palm of her hand. "I don't like Gaia Moore. I hate her. I think she's dangerous, and I wish she'd stay away from you." Heather caught her breath for a second before she rushed on. She was nervous, but admirably determined. "I need you to tell me now that whatever there is between you is over. That you won't have anything to do with her anymore." She fixed him with her eyes again. "Because if you can't, it's got to be over between you and me. You have to choose."

  Whoa. Sam looked down at his jeans, pressing his hands into his thighs, raising his shoulders up around his ears. This was hard-core. This was much more than he'd ever expected. He had to think.

  Heather was not only offering him a choice; she was offering him a way out. He could be free of the guilt and the craziness. He could be free to figure out what the hell was going on between him and Gaia.

  "So is it over?" Heather asked, her voice quiet and wobbly.

  Sam turned to her. The answer he'd been contemplating withered in his throat. Her eyes were round and glazed with tears. Her jacket had fallen open, and the low V neck of her sweater revealed a long, jagged rent in the delicate white skin along her collarbone. The cut through which she'd lost so much blood and nearly her life. It was still angry red in color. Still unhealed.

  His mind flashed back to that night. Finding Heather in the park, lying in a puddle of her own blood. The strange, dissonant whirlpool of hospital sounds and smells and colors, then the unsettling piece of information that a girl from Heather's class, a girl named Gaia Moore, had seen the gang member with the knife in the park and she'd passed up an easy opportunity to warn Heather.

  Sam's gaze was riveted on the wound. He couldn't seem to look away. All the while Heather kept her head up, seemingly unaware of what he was seeing and feeling.

  "Sam?"

  He dragged his eyes back up to her face. He was miserable. He was filled with shame. He was torn in two. "Heather, it's not only over. It never began."

  Her arms were around him, her heartbreaking scar pressed against his chest, her lips against his ear by the time he realized that he hadn't said which girl he was talking about.

  MARY MOSS

  "Why are you like this?"

  That is a question I've heard from a lot of adults in my life. Some of them related to me, some not. If they don't ask it out-right, I see the question in their eyes. And I'm not being paranoid. Trust me.

  "Like this" in my case means loud, impulsive, messed up, combative, undisciplined, annoying. Other stuff, too.

  The reason the question gets asked so often, with such impatience, is because there's no easy explaining when it comes to me.

  I come from a nice family. Two parents, not one. We're rich, not poor. We're well educated. Or I should say, they re well educated. They pay lots of attention to me. They read me books when I was little. They made me drink my milk. It s really not their fault.

  I have two nice brothers. They both go to good colleges now. Growing up, they only teased me and beat me up the normal amount.

  Why am I like this?

  I don't know. Some people have a lot of space between thinking and saying or thinking and doing. I don't have any. Some people look at themselves from the outside and try really hard to make what they see look good. I stay on the inside. I'd rather feel good than seem it.

  Sometimes I love that about myself. Sometimes I hate it.

  Why am I like this?

  I don't know. I have a couple of theories, though.

  . . . like a woman scorned

  It was not of "utmost importance" that the "subject" be kept alive. That had been their mistake from day one.

  Worse Than Stupid

  GAIA RESTED HER HEAD IN HER hand, staring at what remained of her frozen pizza, trying to fight off a terrible wave of loneliness. It seemed mean-spirited of biology to have left fear out of her DNA but to have made her feel loneliness so acutely.

  The Nivens' brownstone was empty and quiet except for the odd siren or car alarm blasting from Bleecker Street. Those were sounds you stopped hearing when you lived in New York City. Like a buzzing refrigerator or the hum of an air conditioner. You incorporated them into your ears.

  The kitchen was sparse and orderly as usual. There was no sign, other than her plate on the faux-country wooden table, that a seventeen-year-old girl had just prepared and eaten her dinner there. Gaia was camping at the Nivens' more than actually living there. Low-impact camping. After five years in foster homes she'd learned never to settle in too much, never to get comfortable.

  George had been called away on business just before the Thanksgiving holiday. She liked George. He was awkward with her, but sweet and well meaning. He had known her father. She would even feel disappointed by his absence, but like the sirens on Bleecker Street, disappointment was something so customary, Gaia hardly felt it anymore.

  On the plus side, when George was gone, Ella was usually gone, too. And Ella was most nearly likable when she was gone.

  Gaia washed her plate, dried it, and returned it to the cabinet. No trace.

  Thanksgiving wasn't Gaia's favorite holiday. The day was designed around warm family get-togethers, parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins. Blitzing yourself on great food. Thinking about all the wonderful things your life had brought you and feeling grateful for it.

  Gaia had no family anymore (save one recently discovered man claiming to be her uncle, whose name she didn't even know). On account of that, she had trouble feeling grateful. Instead it brought to mind the wonderful things that life had taken away from her, which sent her down the spiral of thanklessness. And that didn't require a special day. That was every day.

  Gaia peered into the fridge. She was still hungry, craving something sweet.

  Apparently George had done the shopping for Thanksgiving before he'd been called away. The refrigerator was crammed with food, including a massive raw turkey on the bottom shelf.

  It was a little depressing, seeing all the food that George had bought and now wouldn't get to cook. Depressing but not exactly tragic. Although George could find his way through a tuna casserole, Gaia suspected his culinary talents fell a few drum-sticks short of turkey with all the trimmings.

  Ella certainly wasn't going to do it.
Gaia doubted George's dumb wife could figure out the recipe for ice. The only way Ella would put her hands in a turkey was if her Celine Dion CD had been shoved inside.

  It was revolting how tightly Ella had George wrapped around her finger. For a person who made a living in the intelligence community, George Niven was pretty moronic when it came to matters in his own home. You didn't have to be in the CIA to see that Ella was playing him.

  No, the only way that bird was getting cooked was if Gaia did it herself.

  Without warning, Gaia's mind was flooded with a rush of overlapping images. Memories of another time, another place.

  Chestnut stuffing . . . cranberry relish . . . a fire in a stone hearth . . . an ivory chess set, the pieces carved to look like Norse gods: Odin, Frigg, Thor, Loki . . . a man's sudden, shocked laughter: "My God, she just beat me, Kat!" . . . a gravy boat shaped like a swan and a woman's accented voice, saying: "It's lovely, isn't it? It was my grandmother's. Her name was Gaia, too. . . ."

  The mental pictures evaporated at the sound of the front door being unlocked, followed by the sharp, staccato click ofhigh heels on the marble entranceway. The hall light snapped on.

  Gaia glanced over at the wall clock. 9:51.

  Great. Apparently Ella's coven decided to wrap things up early tonight.

  Quickly Gaia reached across the counter and flicked off the light. She closed the refrigerator, not hungry anymore.

  It was uncanny: No matter how hungry Gaia was, whenever Ella approached, appetite retreated. Maybe it was an allergic reaction to Ella's unique combination of silicone, hair spray, suffocating perfume, and spandex microminis.

  With the refrigerator door closed, the kitchen was swallowed up in shadow. The only light now came from the hallway and the faint red glow cast by the microwave's digital display.

  Gaia stood silently in the reddish gloom, mentally urging Ella to stay away from the kitchen. She was hoping to hit the park this evening, maybe see if she could lure a mugger or two. A run-in with Ella would put a damper on that plan. Ella would pull the Carol Brady routine, and Gaia was in no mood to answer stupid, pointless questions at ten o'clock at night. "How was school?" "Great! I purposely blew my history exam and scammed sixty bucks at the chess tables before dinner, and now I'm gonna go to the park to kick some punk ass clear into tomorrow. Thanks for asking!"

  She had the sneaking feeling Ella would not be amused.

  Gaia listened closely for signs of life, but all she could hear was the loud ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. When Ella still hadn't appeared after sixty more ticks, Gaia stepped cautiously into the corridor.

  Maybe this was her lucky night. Maybe Ella had gone upstairs already, sparing Gaia the scary sight of a grown woman who still looked to Barbie for fashion cues.

  No such luck.

  Ella was standing smack-dab in the middle of the foyer. True to form, she was sporting a metallic turquoise miniskirt with matching pumps, topped off with a fuzzy pink angora sweater that had probably been too tight on the baby she stole it off of.

  Gaia's luck hadn't completely abandoned her: Ella was faced away from her and hadn't heard her approaching. Gaia could still avoid detection. In fact, she was all set to scurry back into the kitchen -- until she saw what Ella was holding.

  Avoiding detection suddenly stopped being important. "What do you think you're doing?"

  Ella spun around, one hand still buried deep in the pocket of Gaia s electric yellow-green Polartec coat. For a second she just stood there -- frozen, guilty -- then she narrowed her eyes, jutting out her chin in defiance. "What does it look like? I'm searching for drugs." She started rifling through the pockets once again, as if daring Gaia to stop her.

  Gaia was across the foyer in three swift strides. "Let me save you some trouble, Ella. There aren't any." Grabbing hold of her coat, she yanked it hard out of Ella's manicured clutches.

  Ella reacted as if she'd been slapped, her hands recoiling like two wounded pink spiders.

  Gaia stared her flatly in the eyes. "And for future reference? I don't do drugs." Then, just in case Ella still didn't understand, she added: "Leave my stuff alone."

  Ella's nostrils flared. "You think I don't know what you do?" she accused. "You think I don't see you sneaking out of here at night, heading to the park? I know what goes on out there." She jabbed her finger at the front door, tossing her copper-colored hair indignantly.

  Gaia rolled her eyes. "Please." To Ella's blow-dried mind, the only reason Gaia might possibly want to go to Washington Square Park was to do drugs. Well, if that's what she wanted to believe, let her. There was no way Ella would buy the truth, even if Gaia had the patience to tell it to her. Which she didn't.

  Besides, how did you explain that your hobbies included luring out and beating up would-be felons for sport?

  Hell, even someone with a measurable IQ would have a hard time believing that one.

  Gaia turned to leave, but Ella suddenly seized her sharply by the arm, spinning her around.

  "I know what you are."

  Ella's press-on nails felt like five plastic knives gouging through the flannel of Gaia's sleeve.

  Gaia jerked out of the woman's grasp. "Trust me, Ella. You don't know the first thing about me."

  Ella was physically shorter than Gaia, but her stiletto pumps put them at roughly the same eye level. Idly Gaia found herself wondering just what color Ella's eyes would appear to the color-blind Ed Fargo. To her they were the ugly, radioactive green of mint jelly. Did that mean they would look red to him? Or would Ella's hair look green? Somehow the mental image of a red-eyed, green-haired Ella wasn't too hard to conjure.

  Ella's lips curled into a sneer. "I knew you'd be trouble the minute you set foot in this house. George wouldn't listen to me, of course. 'Poor little Gaia, she's had such a hard life. She needs our help.'"

  Gaia was impressed. For a bimbo with no discernable skill as a photographer, Ella could do a pretty mean impression of her husband's voice. She'd obviously missed her calling in life.

  Ella continued tauntingly: "Well, I got news for you. Maybe that wounded-bird routine works on George, but it never fooled me. Not for one minute." She punctuated the last two words with two sharp pokes to Gaia's shoulder.

  Gaia glanced down at the spot where Ella had touched her. "Are you through?"

  "Not quite. I also know you're doing everything in your power to flunk out of school."

  Gaia raised an eyebrow. "Really?" And what was your first clue, Nancy Drew? The string of F's, maybe?

  "That's right. Your principal called to say that you're officially on academic probation." Ella smiled smugly. "Congratulations, Gaia. And after only three months. I hear at your last school, it took you a whole semester."

  Whoa. This was definitely not the Carol Brady moment Gaia had anticipated five minutes ago. Gaia didn't know what role Ella thought she was playing tonight, but if the woman was hoping to get some kind of reaction from her, she'd have to keep on hoping. Gaia wasn't going to give her any satisfaction.

  Ella crossed her arms and shook her head in mock pity. "Poor George. He still has some misguided notion that you're intelligent -- that we'll actually get rid of you in a couple of years when you go to college. Ha!" She made an ugly snorting sound. "That's a joke. Do you think colleges would even touch a person with your grades? Do you?" Ella leaned forward, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Or do you think colleges simply let in little blond girls who can beat old drunks at chess and are friends with cripples?"

  Gaia's hands involuntarily curled into fists. Her heartbeat accelerated. But she kept her voice remarkably cool and collected as she warned: "You should watch what you're saying, Ella."

  "This is my house!"

  Ella's voice exploded with such raw, unbridled rage that Gaia found herself backing away defensively. "In my house I say what I want and you listen!" Her breath was hot on Gaia's face.

  My God, Gaia thought, who is this person? This wasn't the old Ella who Gaia knew and
disliked. She had seen that Ella angry before, and it had never been anything even remotely close to this. This person ... this was someone different. Someone wholly unfamiliar.

  The woman's face was contorted in a mask of fury. Her pupils were mere pinpricks in two poisonous green irises. Her lips were curled away from her teeth.

  "Things are going to change around here, starting now! From now on, you come straight home from school. No stops in the park, no chess games. Understand? You're going to go to your room and you're going to do your homework. No phone, no TV. And at night you're going to stay in this house if I have to nail every damn window shut myself. You're going to stay in this house if I have to nail your goddamn feet to the floor!"

  Whoever this person was -- Ella or her more evil twin -- Gaia had finally had enough.

  "I don't have to take this from you," she informed the crazy woman standing before her. "You're not my mother."

  "I'm not?" Ella reared back, slapping her left breast in a truly third-rate imitation of shocked dismay. "No, I suppose I'm not," she continued, leaning forward again, green eyes narrowing into slits. "My heart's still beating."

  Gaia watched her fist smash into Ella's face before her brain even knew she was throwing the punch. It was that automatic. That impulsive. As uncontrollable as a sneeze and (good thing for Ella) about as sloppy as one, too. Unlike her more thought-out punches, this one barely connected with its mark, catching the underside of the woman's jaw.

  Not that it made a big difference.

  Ella spun, crumpling to the marble floor like a sack of bricks, landing on her hands and knees.

  Everything was suddenly deathly quiet.

  For the next fifteen seconds there was nothing but the sound of Ella's steady, heavy breathing and the slow, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall: Ticktock. Ticktock. Ticktock.

  Gaia felt like she should do something -- saysomething -- but she didn't know what. "Sorry" didn't seem right. For one thing, she wasn't sorry. Not yet, anyway. Maybe later she would be.