I don’t know. Am I? The warmth is still there, on the outside, like a cloak. But inside, my bones are cold.
“Tess, look at me.”
I do what he says. It does nothing to de-frazzle my nerves.
“Are you okay?”
Caution keeps me silent. Because what if I imagined it all again? What if Luka didn’t really see what I saw? What if he simply thought I was having some sort of panic attack and so he grabbed my arm in an effort to calm down the crazy girl who ran into him on the way out of the Edward Brooke’s Facility yesterday morning?
His divot deepens. “Tess?”
“Are—are you okay?” Great, now I’m turning into Dr. Roth. Answering questions with questions.
“I’m not sure. I’ve never …” He shakes his head and curls his hand around the back of his neck.
“Never what?”
“I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“What do you mean?”
“That thing.” He jerks his hand toward our classroom. “It was almost as if it was trying to interact with you.”
That thing. So he saw it. He really saw it. All my despair and fear and questions evaporate. I want to grab a hold of those two words and hug them close. “You saw it.”
“Of course I saw it.”
“What do you think it was?”
“I’m not sure.”
“If you had to guess?”
“An angel.”
A laugh bubbles up my throat and tumbles into the air. It sounds panicked. Slightly hysterical. “An angel? In our ceramics class?”
“Do you have a better explanation?”
I think about the bright light in the gym my first day of school. And other instances, too. Ones that can’t be explained by science or logic, no matter how adamant my father is that the world is not supernatural. “If your theory is right, then that means everyone else is wrong.”
A student walks toward us. Luka takes my elbow and pulls me off to the side, then scratches the back of his head until the kid passes. When he does, he leans in and whispers, “Just because a lot of people believe something doesn’t make it true.”
Swallowing, I look away from his eyes, glance at his lips and settle on his nose. Safer territory. There is nothing sexy about a nose. Scratch that. There’s nothing distractingly sexy about a nose. “Okay, so let’s say it was an angel. Why couldn’t anybody else see it? Why was it even there in the first place?”
A muscle ticks in his jaw—in, out, in, out, like a heartbeat. “I don’t know,” he finally says.
“This is crazy.”
“I know.”
“Up until twenty minutes ago, I didn’t even think last night happened. I thought it was a dream.”
Luka quirks his eyebrow.
I scratch my wrist. “For all I know, right now is too.”
“You must have very realistic dreams.”
“In first period, you acted like nothing happened. You …” I trail off, unwilling to admit how much his dismissive attitude hurt.
“I’m a good actor, remember? I’ve been doing it for years and I didn’t want to draw attention to us.” He stands so close, I can see specks of pine-needle green in his eyes and smell the cool mint in his breath. “I’m real, Tess. This isn’t a dream.”
“Dream Luka would probably say the same thing.”
He takes my hand and puts it against his chest.
I might hyperventilate.
“You can feel my heartbeat. Would that happen in a dream?”
“I—I don’t know.”
Luka drops my wrist. “I think we should meet up after school. Get a head start on our history project.”
The sudden departure from heartbeats and angels to school projects spins me in a circle. “O-okay.”
He pushes off from the wall. “My house or yours?”
“Yours.” I blurt the word so fast that Luka cocks his head. I envision my mother and cookies and an embarrassing grand tour. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “My brother’s into angry music. We’d have a hard time getting anything done.”
He smiles a crooked smile. “My house it is, then.”
Chapter Eighteen
Anticipation
Trigonometry and Physics are painful. All I want is to fast-forward the day. I have so many questions for Luka. So many things I could tell him. And then there’s the memory in my palm—of his heartbeat and the warmth of his chest. All of it pings around inside my brain, making concentration impossible. Still, I force myself to take notes, because the last thing I need is plummeting grades.
By the time lunch rolls around, I am a fidgeting mess. Leela and I find a table with our trays and in my search for Luka, my attention snags on Pete. He’s not sitting alone today, like he has over the past several weeks. He’s sitting with two others—fork-tongued Jess and barking Wren. Not exactly a happy crowd.
Leela slides into a seat, her eyes glued to the same table. “Why is your brother sitting with them?”
“I have no idea.”
My brother looks darker, almost gothic in his black shirt and jeans. Discomfort squirms in my stomach, but doesn’t stick around for long. Not when I spot Luka across the cafeteria. Summer sits close to him, jabbering in his ear. As if sensing my stare, he looks up. Our eyes lock and in the span of our connected gaze, a sharp pain stabs my head. Like a lightning bolt splintering through my brain. Wincing, I press my fingers against my temples and look down at my tray.
Ouch.
When I look back up, he’s still staring, his head cocked, a funny look in his eyes.
I spend Study Hall at the library, Googling crazy things like spiritual realm and angels and demons and evil spirits and good spirits and ghosts and Ouija boards and prophetic dreams—which apparently, have happened to various people throughout history. When I’m finished, I delete my search history, head to Honors English, and listen to the class engage in a heated debate over whether or not Fitzgerald attacks conventional ideas about masculinity in The Great Gatsby. Even though it’s one of my favorite books, I cannot engage.
As soon as the bell rings, I speed walk to History. I find a seat toward the back and make an awkward, self-conscious attempt to save the spot beside me by placing my backpack on the chair. A girl takes the seat to my left and Beamer asks if he can sit where my bag is. I’m not really sure Beamer is his real name, but it’s what everybody calls him. He has blonde highlights and wears skinny jeans that sag halfway down his butt and expensive-looking V-neck sweaters. He floats somewhere between the jock crowd and the hipster-crowd.
I’m too chicken to tell him no. So he sits beside me and fills the space between us with idle chatter while I give him the occasional nod or grunt, my attention fixed upon the door. When Luka enters, his attention flickers to me, then to Summer, who wiggles her fingers at him from across the room. Seriously, how does someone turn a wave into something seductive? Letting out a long, resigned breath, I fold my arms over my backpack and give Beamer the courtesy of some eye contact, but he stops talking.
I follow the direction of Beamer’s stare. Luka stands behind me.
“Hey Beamer, do you mind if I sit there?”
“There’s plenty of empty seats, bro.”
“I know, but Tess is my partner. I think we should sit together.”
The entire class stares.
So much for remaining inconspicuous.
Beamer looks from me to Luka, hesitates a few agonizing seconds, then stands up and moves a few seats down. Luka slides into the seat beside me and I’m not entirely sure, but I think he scoots his chair closer. I put my elbow on the table and Luka puts his elbow on the table too—so close our skin almost touches. I tell myself this is a coincidence, that Luka doesn’t honestly care about being close to me, he’s only happy that he’s not crazy. Still, I do not move my elbow. I keep it in place.
Luka gets out his notebook to take notes—something I’ve never seen him do before—and in the process, his forearm touches m
ine. I don’t move. I don’t reach for my pencil. I sit like a statue, unwilling to break the contact of his warm skin against my own.
Mr. Lotsam explains that we won’t have much partner time in class. The majority of our project will need to be completed outside of school—as homework. I bite the inside of my cheek and stare straight ahead, while Mr. Lotsam writes the word Holocaust on the board.
“I want to hear what you know about it.” He focuses his attention on Luka, no doubt thinking about the comparison he made in Current Events a couple days ago, about fetal modification being a modern-day Holocaust. But Luka doesn’t raise his hand. He keeps his arm right where it is, touching mine. For the remainder of the period.
When the bell rings, he leans close and whispers, “See you soon.” His breath tickles my ear and before I can respond, he slips out of class. Across the room, Summer scowls. I can’t bring myself to care. Or heed Leela’s warning.
*
“What’s your deal?” Pete stares at my thumb, which taps the steering wheel.
“Nothing.”
“You’re speeding.” Pete eyes the speedometer. “You never speed.”
“I’m eager to get home.”
“Why?”
“I’m … meeting someone.”
Pete shakes his head disgustedly. “Is it that Williams kid?”
“How do you know?”
“I overheard some seniors talking in gym class.”
I turn off the winding road onto Linden Avenue, which brings us to the gates leading into Forest Grove.
“I don’t like that kid.”
I scrunch my nose. “Why not?”
“He’s full of himself”
Full of himself? Matt Chesterson is full of himself. Luka, no way. Those are about the last words I would use to describe Luka. “Pete, you don’t even know him.”
He slouches in his seat as the iron gates slowly open. “It’s a feeling.”
“Well, I have a feeling about the kids you’re hanging out with too.”
I drive into Forest Grove, my mouth suddenly dry. Luka’s car is parked in the driveway. He is home. Waiting. For me.
“Since when do you hang out with the popular kids?” Pete asks, unbuckling his seat belt.
I pull into our driveway. I have no idea how to respond. I don’t even care to. For once in his life, Pete is being the pestilent younger brother, a role he has never played. A piece of my brain knows I should ask him what’s going on—the change in clothes and the loner attitude and the awful music. But I’m too anxious to get to Luka. “Since when do you have a problem with popular kids?”
Pete shrugs.
I roll my eyes, open the car door, hurry through the cool fog, and step inside our house. Mom is there, as always. I can’t think of a time she hasn’t been. Ever eager to ask us about our day, about our friends and classes and how we are doing. Usually it isn’t a big deal. Usually I don’t have much to report, but today is different. Not only do I have something to report, I really don’t want to report it to her.
Pete slinks in behind me and lets Mom kiss his cheek. “How was your day, sweetie?”
“Not nearly as interesting as Tess’s,” he says.
I shoot him daggers.
Mom gives me an interested, sideways look. “Oh?”
“She has a boyfriend.”
“He is not my boyfriend.”
Despite my denial, Mom’s eyes go bright. Pete heads up the stairs, leaving me alone with the nosy parent. “Who’s he talking about?”
“It’s nothing. I’m going next door to work on a school project.”
“Next door? To the Williams’ house?”
I kick my shoes off into the closet. “You know them?”
“We met a few weeks ago. Mrs. Williams came over to welcome us to the neighborhood. Are you really doing a project with their son?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow.” Mom follows me up the stairs. “He’s a hottie.”
“Mom!”
“What? Isn’t that the lingo you kids use these days?”
My cheeks grow warm. “Please never use that word again.”
She follows me into my room. “So tell me about this project you’re working on.”
“We have to research genocides throughout history and give a presentation on it.”
“Cheery.”
I stand in front of my full-length mirror and run my hands down the front of my sweatshirt, wondering what it would be like to be sexy like Summer or pretty like Bobbi or even cute like Jennalee. I consider putting on eyeliner or eye shadow or mascara. Anything that might make me less average. But what if Luka notices? What if it looks like I’m trying too hard?
“You look beautiful, honey.”
I dip my chin at Mom’s reflection in the mirror. “You have to say that.”
“Yes, but I really mean it.” She puts her hands on my shoulders and squeezes. “Have fun at Luka’s.”
I take a deep, rattling breath and try to return her smile.
Chapter Nineteen
Confessions
The short walk over to Luka’s doesn’t give me enough time to gather my courage. I find myself wishing he lived on the other side of the country instead of next door. In all my seventeen years, I’ve never worked alone with a boy before. At the library in groups, sure. But never one-on-one.
I hike the strap of my backpack over my shoulder and step onto his front stoop, inhaling deeply through my nostrils. I can do this. I can work on a history project with Luka. If the topic is broached, I can talk to him about insane, impossible things—like spiritual beings that aren’t supposed to exist. I shake my head, wondering if psychosis would be the better scenario. At least then medicine could solve the problem. But angels and demons that nobody else can see but me and him? There’s no solution that I’ve heard of.
I glance at my house, then back at Luka’s door. How long before he regrets asking me to be his partner? How long before he realizes the girl with the frozen tongue is an idiot? I lick my bottom lip and stare at the doorbell. Why is it so hard to reach out my finger and push a stupid button?
The door swings open.
I step back and almost stumble off the step behind me.
Luka stands on the threshold, his hand on the door, his head cocked, his eyebrow quirked. “I was starting to wonder if you were ever going to knock.”
“You were watching me?”
“Maybe.” He opens the door wider—a nonverbal invitation to step inside.
The foyer is large and tall with a hanging chandelier that looks like it came straight out of the nineteenth century. The house is warm and quiet. I look past Luka toward a kitchen that is different from our own.
“Looking for somebody?”
Oh, just an angel. Maybe some evil spirits. Perhaps a parent. I bite the inside of my cheek. This is all so preposterous.
“You rarely say what you’re thinking.”
I pull my gaze away from the great room and look him in the face.
“I can tell you have a million thoughts racing through your head, but you keep them to yourself.” Something like amusement sparkles in the green of his eyes. “You’re very mysterious.”
Me? Mysterious? I think painfully shy is more accurate.
“My mom does Zumba on Thursdays. She won’t be home until dinner. Can I get you anything? Water? Chocolate milk?”
“Chocolate milk?”
“Your drink of choice at lunch.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. “Water’s fine.”
He disappears into the kitchen and I’m left standing in his tall, empty foyer with dark polished floors and textured, copper-colored wallpaper. My attention follows a wide-set staircase up to the second floor. A family portrait and school pictures of Luka through the years hang on the wall in gold, ornate frames. We don’t live in one of those neighborhoods where every house is a slightly different version of every other. We lived in one like that in Illinois for about a year-and-a-half and Mom was
perpetually pulling into the wrong driveways. The houses in Forest Grove are all unique and old—mansions from the early twentieth century.
A can cracks open behind me. I swivel around.
“Pretty embarrassing,” he says, raising his Mountain Dew toward the portraits.
“My mom does the same thing.” Only unlike Luka’s flawless transition from adorable boy to striking young man, mine are filled with awkward years. The winner being seventh grade, when no girl should ever be photographed. My hideous haircut is forever memorialized in a frame in our hallway. “Mine are more embarrassing though.”
“I doubt it.” Luka hands me my water. “Want to go up to my room?”
“Um …” Gulp. “Sure.”
He leads the way up the stairs, past several open doors, and into his bedroom. It’s large and not at all like the typical teenage boy room—at least not at all like Pete’s. He has no posters on his walls or dirty clothes on the floor or unidentifiable smells. The room is tidy with warm, brown walls, a large window that overlooks the ocean, a desk with an opened laptop, a dresser with an attached mirror, a queen-sized bed with a navy blue comforter, and an insanely huge bookcase that covers an entire wall. Several pictures are pinned to a bulletin board—not of girls or friends—but a couple of the ocean and one of his parents. There’s a water glass on his nightstand, a pair of glasses, and an intimidating book titled World Dictators: Past and Present.
“You like to read.” It’s a nice discovery.
He stands in the doorway looking uncertain, as if he’s awaiting my approval. “A little.”
I walk over to his nightstand, run my hand over the cover of the thick book, and raise my eyebrows.
He shifts on his feet. “I like history.”
I twist the cap off my water.
Luka sets the Mountain Dew on a coaster on his desk, pulls out his computer chair, and sits on it backward. He nods toward his bed. “You can sit down if you want.”
Positive he can hear the lame thumping of my heart, I take a sip of water and sit on the very edge, trying hard not to think about the fact that I’m on his bed. The air feels charged, like it does whenever a storm rolls in and lightning is about to strike. I wonder if Luka can feel it too. I twist the cap back on the water bottle and clear my throat. “So where should we start?”
The Gifting Page 11
