The Gay Teen's Guide to Defeating a Siren_Book 2_The Siren

by Cody Wagner

  “Do you think a person who is smarter than others should have the right to rule over them?”

  I formed my arms into a giant letter X. “Count me out. I’m not getting involved.”

  Cassie, already in Debate Mode, said, “You can’t just say smarter. If the person is more intelligent, logically and emotionally, I think it’s an obligation.”

  “To step up and offer help, maybe,” Roze said.

  “Most people don’t know they need help. A gifted person would have an obligation to save others from themselves.”

  Roze pointed a French fry at her. “But saving means different things to different people.”

  “It shouldn’t,” Cassie said.

  I smiled; Cassie always took the unpopular side in their debates.

  “Things have become so jumbled,” Cassie continued, “that the key things—survival, behavior, decency—are incorrectly prioritized. Or don’t exist at all, anymore.”

  “You can’t lump everyone into the same group,” Roze said.

  It was nice seeing Cassie back to her old self. Even if she was discussing something I wanted no part of. It was hard for me to see debates like that in black-and-white. I mean, maybe Cassie’s argument would work for some people and Roze’s for another.

  As they talked, I devoured my hamburger, waiting for a subject change.

  Finally, it came, but not the one I wanted.

  “Did your first period teachers talk to you this morning?” Cassie said.

  Roze set down her fork. “Yeah. I’m surprised we haven’t had more of those talks.”

  I purposely shoved a giant wad of fries into my mouth, so when they looked at me, all I could do was point at my puffed cheeks and shrug.

  “Pig,” Roze said.

  Cassie smiled. “Anyway, do you think it meant anything?”

  “Like what?” Roze said.

  Cassie shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe something happened.”

  “Maybe,” Roze said. “It can’t be easy when the parents are here over Christmas. Maybe someone got hurt. Or tried to hurt themselves.”

  I looked at Cassie. She stared off at nothing again, but I could tell her brain was running the Boston Marathon. I suddenly wondered if she’d told the school about Mr. Cooke’s abuse.

  “What do you think, Cass?” Roze nudged Cassie.

  If Roze didn’t know by now, Cassie clearly didn’t want to talk about it. I forced down my fries and interjected. “I don’t know about Cassie, but I don’t think it was a singular thing.”

  “Singular?” Roze said. “Good word.”

  I ignored her and said, “So much crap was going on over Christmas. It’s like a stupid dog show.”

  “Huh?” Roze said.

  “It’s like we’re all on display. We have to walk and look just right. One mistake and it becomes a huge deal. Just look at my parents.”

  “I think it meant something more,” Cassie said.

  If I’d been taking a drink, I would have done a spit take like in the movies. I thought she wanted to change the subject.

  “What do you mean?” Roze said.

  Cassie looked at me. “You may be right. But why didn’t they give this speech last year?”

  I managed to say, “They didn’t? I don’t remember.”

  “Good point,” Roze said. “I don’t remember, either.”

  Cassie nodded, but she didn’t look convinced. I silently cursed her for being so intuitive. But since I liked that about her, I only said nice curse words before returning to my food.

  * * * * *

  One frozen morning a couple weeks later, I made my way—half-asleep—outside and started heading to class. Ice coated the sidewalks, and I walked extra flat-footed to give myself tons of surface area. That didn’t stop me from almost busting as I descended the stairs outside my dorm. Flailing, I grabbed the handrail—which was so cold, my fingers almost stuck to it—and righted myself.

  After looking around to make sure no one saw, I gingerly inched down the steps and noticed a flyer at my feet. At the top sat the words We’re here for you! It was Sanctuary’s next attempt to find the Seeker. They’d circulated these flyers about how to reach the counselor if we needed to talk. I was worried at first, but everyone thought it was just a follow-up to the speech we’d received. In fact, within a couple days, I found most of the flyers in the trash.

  Grateful for my anonymity, I bent down, picked up the flyer, and walked it to a trash can. I gave a mental thanks that the semester had been quiet so far. It meant I could focus on Siren research and staying on top of homework. I thought nothing outside of a Zimmerman’s Zealots attack could interfere with my life.

  That is, until I looked up and saw Timothy holding hands with another guy.

  My body stiffened as if the temperature dropped to absolute zero. An ache started in my stomach and blossomed through my chest. I started breathing like I’d just run fifty laps. Seeing him with another guy felt like I’d been kicked in the face.

  I desperately wanted to run and hide, but as if he’d sensed me, Timothy turned, and we made eye contact. Part of me expected him to point at his guy and gloat. Instead, he gave me a thin smile and turned back to his boyfriend.

  I thought that reaction would make me feel better than his shouting, “I found someone and it’s not you!” But it didn’t. His not acting like a jerk made me realize, again, how amazing he was. It made my entire body hurt. In the moment, I felt like the world’s biggest idiot for distancing myself from him.

  Looking at the sky, I took a huge breath, confused why these feelings were so intense. Seriously, what was wrong with me? I was the one who’d put a halt on me and Timothy. It was my decision, and while a piece of me missed him, I was doing OK. Why did it suddenly feel like my heart was shriveling?

  The other guy leaned in and kissed Timothy. I watched both their eyes close. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but it felt significant. Tears filled my eyes, and I tried to breath deeper to stop them. It didn’t work. Timothy peeked back at me just in time to witness me quickly wiping my face.

  I heard him say, “Give me a second?” and his boyfriend nodded.

  Timothy approached.

  It took everything in me, but I put on a smile and chirped, “Hey you!”

  He gave me another thin smile. “I didn’t do that to hurt you.”

  I forced a laugh. “Do what? Oh, that?” I pointed at his boyfriend. “It’s totally cool. In fact, it’s awesome. I’m so very super happy for you.”

  Timothy’s smile vanished. “You don’t have to pretend. I saw you crying.”

  I kept the grin plastered to my face but couldn’t say anything. Part of me desperately hoped he’d reach out and wipe the tears away.

  Instead, he shrugged. “I don’t understand. You made it very clear you weren’t interested.”

  “I did?” He was right, but I wanted to hear what he’d say.

  His eyes grew sad. “I’ll never forget what you said on Halloween.”

  I nodded with my stupid grin, while inside, I fell apart. The words I’d said to him suddenly felt disgusting. Then, I remembered last year, when he’d invited me to work on the farm with him. I never did. Something always kept me away from Timothy, and now those reasons felt utterly, utterly stupid.

  “I think we were drawn to each other,” he said. “But that’s not always enough. Sometimes, things happen that keep people apart.” He looked from my feet to my face. “In our case, I don’t know what it was. I wish I did.”

  That made sense, but for some immature reason, my body reacted to Perfect Timothy with anger. I don’t know why, but I got defensive, and found myself saying, “What’s your point?” Regret immediately seeped in, and my face dropped.

  Timothy didn’t get mad or upset. Calm, he said, “The point is, my dating Randall is nothing personal. I’m happy.”

  His demeanor erased my defensiveness. I nodded without looking at him and whispered, “That’s great. I’m happy for you.” I wanted to mean
it.

  He went to put a hand on my shoulder then pulled it back. “Maybe, somewhere in the future, we can be friends.”

  The thought of just being friends with Timothy—as he hugged and kissed his new boyfriend—was unbearable. He might as well have said, “Maybe in the future, I can stab you in the face with an umbrella.” The hurt plowed over everything inside me. All I could do was utter, “OK.” My voice cracked as I said it. Still, I made myself look at him. We stood for several seconds just watching each other. His face was unreadable.

  “Timmy?”

  It was Randall, Timothy’s boyfriend.

  I wanted to punch Randall, for two reasons. First, it sank in that he was really handsome, with blonde hair that looked like it had been kissed by the beach. Second, I was sure that, given a few more seconds of eye contact, Timothy was going to remember what he was missing with me. Part of me actually expected him to stand there, entranced.

  But he didn’t.

  Timothy turned, and without glancing back, went to his beach boyfriend. Together, they walked toward the Classroom Center. I meant to follow them, acting like I couldn’t care less. But my legs had a mind of their own. Before I knew it, I was running the other direction, as far from Timothy as I could get.

  As soon as I rounded the library, I leaned against the wall, slid to the frozen ground, and buried my face in my hands as some truths invaded me. In the back of my head, I’d always thought Timothy and I would eventually spark into something. I guess I was so arrogant—without even realizing—that I figured he’d never have that spark with anyone else. At least not the same spark we had.

  I was wrong.

  And seeing him with another guy crumpled me more than I’d ever thought possible. It’s like I was last year’s model, replaced by a newer, better gadget.

  Part of me knew that was stupid. Timothy and I were never official. And I was the one who’d pulled away from him. That didn’t mean the other guy was better than me.

  But I couldn’t convince myself of anything logical. Instead, I felt like the world’s biggest idiot. Suddenly, the idea of making time for Timothy, while fulfilling my other responsibilities, seemed easy. I believed it was my fault we weren’t holding hands on the way to class.

  Before I could stop myself, I started crying again. Infuriatingly, I still couldn’t explain why I was so torn up. But I sat against the wall, sobbing, until the bell rang.

  * * * * *

  The next couple weeks were rough, to say the least. I hadn’t felt such turmoil since Jimmy died. It sounds awful, but in some ways, the experience with Timothy was worse. While I felt extreme guilt over Jimmy, I hadn’t suffered this heartbreak.

  For days after my encounter with Timothy, I lay in bed at night, wondering what I’d done wrong. If I’d said just the right thing during rehearsals, maybe he wouldn’t have been able to find a spark with someone else. Or maybe if I’d looked at him just the right way, he wouldn’t have been able to go back to his boyfriend.

  Instead of finishing homework, I found myself typing letters to Timothy. They ranged from apology notes to begging haikus to angry song lyrics. Then, I’d sit back and read them about a million times, making tiny little edits, thinking they were momentous. Like writing I miss you would get me somewhere, whereas I’m missing you was catastrophic.

  Cassie knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it. I didn’t want to expose that level of vulnerability. Either that, or I feared looking like a giant idiot. I mean, Timothy and I were never officially an item. True, we were really drawn to each other from day one. But in Cassie’s eyes, I’d never even hung out with him.

  I thought it was just a stupid tiny phase, and that I’d get over it in a few days. Every morning, I’d think, Today is going to be better! And sometimes I was right, and I’d go to bed thinking I’d moved on. Then, one stupid little memory would hit, and the next day would flatten me like a dump truck.

  I guess one benefit of the whole ordeal is I didn’t think much about the Seeker business. Honestly, I didn’t care if the school found out about me. In fact, I had fantasies about telling the whole school about my power. Timothy would see I was different—and special—and ditch his guy. But I kept my mouth shut; it was a horrible reason to out myself.

  One night, a month after Timothy and I had talked, Cassie said, “I know.”

  I was lying in bed, pretending to listen to music. Pulling out a single ear bud, I said, “You know what?”

  “Your friend has a boyfriend.”

  My heart started pounding, but I said calmly, “What do you mean? Which friend?”

  “You don’t have to pretend. I just wanted to let you know it’s OK to hurt.”

  My voice almost choked as I responded, “OK.”

  “You really liked him?”

  I found myself whispering, “Yes.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And I can truly feel your pain.”

  I stared at the ceiling. How could she feel my pain? Was she talking about Roze? That couldn’t have been it; they were still super close. Besides, I knew for a fact Roze didn’t have another girlfriend. I couldn’t keep skepticism out of my voice as I said, “How?”

  She didn’t speak for a minute. Then, she whispered, “Just trust me. I understand being in agony at the thought of losing someone you care about. And how every day is a roller coaster. And even though you tell yourself tomorrow is going to be better, it may not be.”

  She hit the nail on the head, and before I knew it, I felt a tear leak out. “Does it get better?”

  “Of course. One day you’ll realize you didn’t think about him for 2 minutes. Then the next it will be 3 minutes. Before you know it, entire hours will go by.”

  “Doesn’t that also mean he won’t be thinking of me?”

  It’s embarrassing, but that thought almost made me want to hurt. It’s like if I was sad, I could convince myself Timothy was, too. If I started feeling better, it meant he was moving on as well. Sure, that was stupid, and he’d probably already moved on. But it was a thought that kept the vicious cycle going in my brain.

  “That feeling isn’t real,” Cassie said.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s your ego,” she said.

  I shook my head. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  “Your ego wants him to hurt. Because then it builds you up. It makes you think you’re important because you’re making him sad.”

  I turned to face her. That was something I’d never thought about.

  She stared straight up at the ceiling as she continued. “To move on, you have to stop thinking about what he’s doing.”

  “But—”

  She cut me off with, “And you can’t think that what he’s doing is so much more important or fun than what you’re doing. That’s an insecurity.”

  I couldn’t respond, as I’d thought that many times.

  “Just focus on yourself,” she said. “Realize you have a good life. And what we’re trying to do is more important than anything he could be doing.”

  Although I knew it would be short-lived, a tiny sense of happiness flowed through me. She was right.

  “How do you know all this?”

  I saw her eyes shine as she said, “I have my own struggles. Every day.”

  I propped myself up on an elbow. “I know I don’t pry into your life much. But please know that any time you need to talk, I’m here.”

  She simply nodded, when suddenly, her phone buzzed.

  Cassie sighed, reached over, and grabbed it. She took one look at the screen and dropped it like it was on fire.

  “What?” I said, sure it was a message from stupid Mrs. Cooke.

  Cassie didn’t answer. Instead, she flew to her computer.

  Alarmed, I climbed out of bed and joined her. She was already online and going to YouTube. Before the site came up, she handed me her phone. I looked at the screen and saw the following message from Roze:


  Go to YouTube and search “Tracey Sanctuary Confession” NOW!!! EMERGENCY!!!!!

  I didn’t know what that meant, but my body hummed with nervous energy. I set the phone down and gripped the back of Cassie’s chair. My teeth started chattering.

  A video—only minutes old—came up. Cassie hit play, and I stepped back, trying to understand what I was seeing. Tracey Bridges stood outside, behind what looked like the cafeteria. It was dark, and she was alone.

  She was also glowing purple.

  I let go of the chair and covered my mouth in horror. I was glad Cassie couldn’t see me, because my hands started shaking and I bounced from side to side. Things got worse when Tracey spoke:

  “This message is for Senator Joseph and Zimmerman’s Zealots. My name is Tracy Bridges, and I’m a student at Sanctuary Preparatory Academy near Forreston, Arkansas. For some reason, our school has slipped under your radar. And I can’t, in good conscience, let that go on. You see, Sanctuary isn’t what it appears. The school is actually a refuge for gay teenagers. Everyone here is gay, and the teachers don’t try to heal you. Students are even allowed to date each other. Please. Don’t let this continue, so I can get the help I so desperately need.”

  Suddenly, Tracey looked around, and as if someone was coming, quickly stopped the video.

  Eighteen

  The Visit

  I felt paralyzed when Tracey’s video stopped. There were so many things I wanted to do, my brain couldn’t decide which to act on. I didn’t know whether to scream in fear, call my parents, protect Cassie, talk to Principal Wolcott, or run to Roze’s room. And so, I just stood there like a Medusa statue.

  Cassie bolted up. “We have to tell everyone.”

  I absently nodded, as my mind went off on its own tangent. Tracey was the real victim here. Sure, she was ungrateful and mean and all kinds of other negative words, but she wasn’t a traitor. Her life was ruined. Again. Rage built up inside me. The Siren was destroying another life. And Sanctuary was next.

  “Are you OK?” Cassie walked up but didn’t touch me.

  For the first time in my life, I felt like I was hyperventilating. Breaths couldn’t come fast enough. I seriously thought I was going to have a full-on attack, when I saw Cassie’s face. She must have registered my fear because she started crying. Seeing her crumple did that thing where I felt I had to be the calm one. A bit of control flooded back into me, and I suddenly knew what I had to do.