by M. Kircher
"For crying out loud!" I exclaim and slam my locker door. I turn around to ream out whoever's attitude problem is infringing on my peaceful morning, but the words get stuck in my throat. The person standing next to me is definitely not somebody I want to deal with right now. A noisy exhale escapes my lips. Despite all the times I've been a total evil witch to him over the past week, Gabe simply refuses to accept that I don't want to talk to him.
"Hi there." He leans back against the lockers, folding his arms across his chest.
I grab the rest of the books I need for the day and shove them into my backpack. "What do you want now?" I grumble and try not to notice how great the guy looks today. He's torn the hem of his paper-thin T-shirt and stuck little metal studs into it. The wretched thing sticks to his chest like a second skin, but he's covered most of it with a vintage leather jacket. His hair is a Mohawk, as usual, and his jeans are tighter than they should be. But it's his cocky grin that slays me most of all. It's like he knows how hot he is and doesn't care one bit what it's doing to my insides. Ugh, I'm a mess!
Gabe opens his mouth to answer my grumpy question, but before he can utter a single word, a group of giggling girls flitter by, Stephanie at their lead. She sneers at the two of us, the ugly expression twisting her normally perfect features.
"Snotty's got a boyfriend," she singsong chants, and all the girls around her snicker.
Steph doesn't take rejection well, and the fact that Gabe's been pretty much stalking me and completely ignoring her… Well, let's just say she's not a happy prom queen. It's almost as bad as when I first came to Southern and Steph figured out I had a famous author for a mother. Man, did she try to get me on her good side then. It was a brief — but glorious — week for me, being courted by the popular crowd. I'd been a geek in elementary school, and horribly poor in middle, so it was nice to feel wanted. Of course I couldn't let it last, not if Mom and I were going to keep our secret. So I'd torturously turned my back on all that high school glory and snubbed everyone. Steph hated me then; no one had ever refused her friendship before.
Even the popular kids think I'm a stuck-up snot bag now.
I ignore Stephanie and the glares from the other girls as they pass by, their mocking laughter echoing back at Gabe and me from down the hallway. My shoulders hunch as I shrug on my backpack and walk in the opposite direction of the girls, toward Ms. Phelps's art room. I have art class next, and unfortunately, so does Gabe — something I'm sure he's taking great joy in. He saunters after me despite the fact that I haven't given him the least bit of encouragement to do so.
"Leave me alone, will you?" I snap and frown at him. Inside though, my heart is pounding at his nearness, and I feel giddy. I inhale the intoxicating scent of worn leather and cologne emanating from his body.
"We have the same class, Em," he informs me in a patient voice.
"It's Emily," I answer him haughtily. I know I sound harsh, but I have to act this awful. How else can I get Gabe to forget about Mom? He needs to back off, and he needs to do it now.
"Is that so?" he counters, sounding mock-surprised. He shifts his bag from one shoulder to the next. As we near the classroom door, he picks up his pace to match mine. "I distinctly remember you telling me to call you Em when we were on the train. Remember? It was only a couple of days ago."
I turn my head around and scrunch my face at him; the punk is just trying to annoy me now. Gabe grins and grabs my elbow, tugging me back a step.
"Hey!" he cautions, and I stumble under his grasp, tripping awkwardly over my own feet. It takes me a moment to steady myself.
"Stop it. What are you doing?" I fire back at him and yank my arm away.
"You almost ran right into Taylor," he shoots back. "You should watch where you're going."
After gaining my balance, I glance up and see that Gabe is partially right. Taylor is a couple of steps in front of me, heading through the art room door. But I am nowhere near the kid.
"Why are you acting so weird?" I ask Gabe grumpily. He just shrugs, the same cocky smile plastered on his face, so I whirl around and stalk into the art room. I can feel him close at my heels.
"Emily Dal Monte and Gabriel Sobel, you two are a pair," Ms. Phelps announces as we step through the doorway. I hear her words, but they take a moment to register. Wait…pair? As in, partners? My eyes sweep the room and narrow when I see all the other students sitting together in twos, a single easel shoved between their stools.
I've been tricked.
Ms. Phelps cheerily waves Gabe and I over to a couple of unused seats by the window, and as we move toward them, I see a twinkle of smugness in his brown eyes.
"You knew!" I rage at him under my breath as I make my way over to our seats, seething inwardly. I slam my bag onto one of the stools and pull a wooden easel between us. There's a roll of paper hanging on the wall next to me, and I rip off a piece and clip it to the stand. Gabe lets his bag fall onto the floor and straddles the other stool, watching me with an amused expression on his face.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he whispers back in an overly innocent tone and steeples his fingertips like the villains do in movies.
"Yes, you do. You're such a pest," I mutter and line up my drawing pencils as Ms. Phelps explains today's assignment. Gabe's punk friends must have had art earlier today and filled him in on the whole partner thing. So all that 'bumping into Taylor' crap had been a ploy to make sure we'd be put together.
If I didn't already know that he's more interested in Mom than me, I might have been flattered. I can't deny I'm attracted to the guy, even if he gets on my last nerve. But all he wants is to meet his favorite author, not date me. And so I have to be extremely careful.
Gabe doesn't say anything when I insult him, but he arches a studded eyebrow at me and then moves his gaze to the blackboard, as if he's totally absorbed in Ms. Phelps's instructions. Annoyed, I tune into what Ms. Phelps is explaining, hoping I haven't missed too much.
"….spend time in class today working on one of these two portraits, which is why I paired you randomly. The other portrait will be done on your own time, as homework, but only after spending a minimum of five hours with your partner outside of school. You will have two weeks. During this time, you must get to know each other. At the end of the assignment, each of your two portraits will be displayed in an art show for the whole school to see. I like to think of this as a social experiment as well as an art project. It will help you see how your perceptions of someone can change when you get to know them better."
I tug on the sleeve of Gabe's worn leather jacket. "Wait, what?" I whisper. "What did she just say?"
"I thought you weren't talking to me," he mutters back over his shoulder. And then he turns his head slightly and grins. Crap, he knew about this too.
This can't be happening. I can't spend time with Gabe outside of school. I can't even spend time with him inside of school; it's too dangerous. Without realizing what I'm doing, I shoot my hand up into the air.
"Yes, Miss Dal Monte?" Ms. Phelps asks as the entire classroom swivels their heads around to stare at me.
"Can I switch partners?" I ask and immediately feel my face burn bright red. Everyone is gaping at me like I'm some kind of circus sideshow freak. It kind of stinks to see how little liked I am, but there's not much I can do about that. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Gabe cross his ankles and lean back on his stool.
"And why do you need to switch?" Ms. Phelps counters, and I'm thrown for a loop. It's a perfectly reasonable thing to ask, but I have no good reason to give her, so I just gape, my mouth hanging open like a complete idiot.
"Because," I could tell them, breaking the entire scenario down, "Gabe is getting way too interested in my life and in my mother. Mom and I have this special thing we can do, you see — this freakish ability to sleep for as long as we want and never need food or water. Oh, and we wander around in our dreams too. And if anyone ever finds out about us, they'll torture us, or probe us, or send us to Sing
apore or somewhere for testing. Whatever it is, it'll be bad, and that's why he can't be my partner."
I could explain all of this to her, but then it wouldn't be a secret, would it?
So I shut my mouth and lower my hand. Ms. Phelps nods approvingly and turns back to the rest of the class.
I sneak a glance at Gabe, hoping maybe I've made him mad at me by embarrassing him in front of the class. But instead he has this expression on his face, the look a spider gives to a fly when its wings stick fast in her web. He knows he's caught me now.
* * * *
As soon as class is over, I shove my pencils into my pack and bring the half-finished portrait I've made of Gabe up to the front of the room. I don't say a word to him and place the drawing on the top of the pile. A bunch of disembodied heads with frozen smiles stare up at me.
"Good job, Emily," Ms. Phelps comments, and I nod a quick thanks before scurrying out of the room. I want to put some distance between Gabe and me. But as I enter the hallway, I notice a group of his black-clad cronies waiting for him by the water fountain. Oh, no. I do not want to walk by any of them right now.
I execute a quick U-turn and head down the opposite hallway, even though my next class, Mathematics in a New Age, is literally two doors away from where Gabe's friends are congregating. A girl can be late to class once in a while, I reason inwardly. It won't do any real harm. My sneakers plod toward the blissful oblivion of the girl's bathroom when I hear the tread of footsteps behind me and Gabe's voice calls out.
"Hey Em! My place or yours tonight?"
The nerve of this guy! I don't turn around, but wave my hand in the air in a motion I hope he takes as, "We'll talk later," and run toward the bathroom. I make it there without Gabe catching up, but as the door swings shut behind me, I can hear the sound of laughter echoing through the hallway. Stupid punks. Why am I letting any of them get under my skin like this? Especially Gabe. Who does he think he is anyway?
I breathe heavily and stick my hand over my heart. It seems I've managed to dodge a bullet — for now, at least.
Chapter Five
The train feels curiously empty as I ride home, but maybe it's because the now familiar, lurking presence of Gabe is noticeably absent. I should be relieved. And I am. But I can't deny the tiny sinking feeling that jolts through me when I don't see his spiky hair sticking out from behind any of the seats.
He's nosy, arrogant, and rude, I remind myself. Being alone is far better than having him poke around in my life.
The other people on the train sway back and forth as it rushes along on its cushion of air. Their heads are all bent, buried in the screens attached to their wrists. Our government wants to embed the screens in our skin soon, instead of everyone having to wear them attached to a band. There's going to be a vote about it sometime next year. The news stations try to justify the change, explaining that the skin screens will help with public safety, that they'll give us better access to information, and a bunch of other nonsense. But what the government actually wants is a better way to keep tabs on everyone, to know where we are at all times.
I study the screen strapped to my own wrist and send a silent plea up to heaven for the vote to fail, or get canceled. I could never get Mom to agree to have the screen put in. And even if I did manage it, how would I explain the fact that she hardly ever leaves the bedroom? The government would be onto us faster than the blink of an eye.
The train eases to a stop, and a little red light goes on next to my seat. It's my turn to get off. I gather my things and step off onto the street. I shiver as the cold air outside hits me, and I pull my jacket more tightly around my body. The train huffs once, and then it slides silently away to deliver the rest of its passengers home.
The late afternoon light is just beginning to fade into evening as I head into my neighborhood. Burnt orange leaves fall softly from the trees lining the street, and the wind picks them up and swirls them around my feet like a beautiful tornado. I often wonder why God wanted fall to be so colorful and bright — it's a season of death, after all.
I reach the tall brick walls surrounding the private community where Mom and I live and walk up to the front gate, poking my arms through the bars. Even though the gate has the appearance of iron, it's actually made of this new plastic polymer stuff, which is supposedly indestructible. Instead of feeling cold, like metal, the bars are warm and smooth against my skin. This place is safe, I tell myself. A bunch of other rich people live here, and they all want to be left alone, just like Mom and I. Nobody cares who we are as long as we pay our community dues and keep to ourselves.
"How are you doing, Gus?" I ask and stick my nose through gate after my arms. I love Gus. He never asks any personal questions and always has some kind of baked goodie to tuck into my hand from his wife.
"I'm doing just fine, Miss Dal Monte," Gus answers with a grin. He punches in a keycode and swipes his scan card through the sensor, and the gates start to swing open. I untangle my arms from the fake iron, step through, and then thrust my head into the gatehouse.
"Anything for me today?" I stare at the ceiling but let a squirrely smile play at the corners of my lips.
"Well now," Gus says as he turns around in his chair to face me. "I just might have some chocolate crispies from Rachel. But she has specific instructions this time."
"Oh?" I inquire, intrigued.
Gus nods his head seriously. "The wife specifically stated I was not to give these here chocolate wonderments to a living soul, unless that soul first gave me a big hug."
I beam at him. Windy Acres has been my sanctuary for three years now, and during that time, Gus and I have come to understand each other. The man knows how to play me all right. And while he never asks any questions, never seems to pry, he's definitely figured out there aren't many special treats or hugs waiting for me at home. He'll never know it, but Gus the gatekeeper is closest thing I have to a friend.
My long arms reach down and give the middle-aged man a squeeze. I wonder, and not for the first time, if he and his wife have any children. They would be awesome parents. But I don't ask. I don't want him nosing around in my life, so I try not to snoop too much into his.
Gus grins at me and drops the crispie into my hand. "Get on with you," he tells me, switching his gaze back to the array of computer screens in front of his chair and shooing me out of the gatehouse. "You must have a lot of homework to do tonight."
"Loads," I groan, and I try not to think about Gabe, the portrait assignment, and all of Mom's overdue pages waiting for me at the house. Gus chuckles at me as I thump dejectedly out of the gatehouse and begin the long climb up the hill toward our house. I pass enormous mansion after enormous mansion, nibbling away small pieces of the heavenly treat as go. Mrs. Gus sure knows how to bake.
Ten minutes later, just as I finish licking the last remnants of chocolate goodness from my fingertips, I reach the stone steps leading up to my front door. Most of the stairway is swallowed by the same thick trees that cover our land and surround the rest of the house. I picked the most secluded place in the neighborhood when we moved in. I didn't need any of the neighbors figuring out Lily Dal Monte was the new tenant. Bunches and bunches of tall oak trees crowd the lot, concealing our house at the top of the hill. It's the perfect place to hide away.
I race up the steps, and after I get to the front door, slightly out of breath from the climb, I flip open the panel covering our security keypad. I start to punch in the code to open the door when all of a sudden I hear someone let out a low whistle behind me.
Startled, I whirl around and can't believe what I see. Gabe is standing just four steps below me. He's not looking at me but staring up at my house, appreciation evident in his dark eyes.
What is he doing here? How has he gotten inside the gates?
I should say a million things — there are a million things to say — but none of them come out. My body is frozen in place, and I have no idea what to do. And so I just stare at him, my hand hovering over the
security pad.
"Now this is a house!" he proclaims admiringly, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black leather jacket. He takes a step up toward me, and I feel like a deer in headlights. What do I do? What do I do?
"Don't you take even one more step Gabriel Sobel!" I command, finally finding my nerve. At the sound of my voice, Gabe miraculously stops in his tracks. "You can't be here," I threaten and hate the wobble I hear in my voice.
"Why not?" he asks and cocks his head, his dark Mohawk tilting to the side. "Is it because you're rich? Don't sweat it, Em. I'm rich too. I might not appear like money runs in the family, but I promise you, the clothes don't necessarily make the man. I'm not gonna steal anything."
"You're rich?" I have no idea why this is the only thing I can think of to say.
Gabe takes a hand out of his pocket and scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah well, not me exactly," he answers. "My parents are rich," he explains. "They're scientists."
