Intangible

by C. A. Gray

  Bruce let that comment go. They never talked about Peter’s mother, who had died in childbirth from a pulmonary embolism. Peter once looked it up, and discovered that though it was unusual for women to die in childbirth in modern times, when it did happen, that was frequently the cause. There were no pictures of her in the house, and Bruce never told him why, but Peter had assumed it was because his dad didn’t like being reminded of what had happened to her. Still, Peter was curious, and occasionally brought her up at strange moments just to see if he could catch his dad off guard and convince him to reveal anything new about her. His dad never fell for it.

  Bruce took a deep breath, and changed the subject. “Anyway,” he said, “we could use another set of hands for lab cleanup – a gopher to start. I could talk to Al if you want. Just say the word.” Al was the head of the physics research department.

  “Mmm,” Peter murmured, noncommittally.

  “What do you mean, ‘mmm’?” Bruce demanded, a little more heatedly than necessary. “It’s a great idea!”

  “I know it is,” Peter admitted. “It sounds really good, but…” he trailed off.

  “Buuut?” Bruce prodded, making a reeling motion with his hand.

  “But what if nobody likes me?” Peter blurted out. “What if I’m the nerdy, scrawny kid in the corner and I don’t even have Cole and Mr. Richards to talk to anymore?” He closed his eyes and thought of Celeste. If he went to university now, he’d probably never see her again. He didn’t know if that part was good or bad.

  “Of course they’ll like you!” Bruce exclaimed. “You’re a genius! Everybody loves a genius,” he said, as if that were self-evident.

  “Dad,” said Peter, and raised his eyebrows.

  “Well,” Bruce amended, “everybody loves a genius when he isn’t setting anything on fire. Or destroying their personal property. Or wrecking the curve. Or making them feel stupid by comparison…”

  “Okay, Dad! I get it,” Peter interrupted irritably, holding up a hand.

  “I promise you’ll fit in better at uni,” Bruce said soothingly. When Peter still looked unconvinced, he dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin and said, “Tell you what. I’ll drive you to school tomorrow morning and have a chat with the headmaster. We’ll see if we can’t come to some sort of compromise where you still go to King’s for a while, but can work in our labs, too. That way you’ll have a chance to try out the university before you’re committed.”

  “I doubt Mr. Stone will go for that,” said Peter. “He wants to get rid of me, remember?”

  “That’s true,” Bruce agreed, “but there’s an angle for him as well. If you’re already doing research somewhere else, maybe it’ll give you an outlet for your intellectual curiosity that will keep you from blowing up the school. At least for the time being,” he winked.

  Peter tried to look appropriately ashamed, but the edges of his mouth curled in a tiny, reluctant smile. “It’s worth a shot, I guess,” he said, and shrugged.

  Peter lay awake for hours that night. Every time he tried to fall asleep, he had visions of a blond boy in breeches with a bow and arrow slung over his shoulder, stumbling up a steep incline through a forest filled with plants that glowed fuchsia and aquamarine and vibrant orange. Finally, he drifted off to sleep with the same scene repeating in his mind:

  As the boy breaks through the clearing, he sees a golden sword shoved almost to the hilt into a large boulder at the top of a clear waterfall. The boy climbs to the top of the waterfall to approach the sword. When he gets close enough, he can see two ferociously red dragons on the gilded hilt, their eyes set with emeralds. The handle fits perfectly into the boy’s hands, almost as if crafted specially for him. He knows intuitively that he has to free it somehow. He grasps the hilt and pulls, and to his amazement, the sword slides through the boulder easily. The boy stands looking at the sword afterward, transfixed.

  There are markings on either side of the sword in unrecognizable characters, but the boy knows what they say anyway. They are written in the Ancient Tongue, and one side of the sword says, ‘Take me up,’ and the other side says, ‘Cast me away.’

  The sword is Excalibur, and the blond boy in breeches is Peter himself.

  Chapter 3

  Peter awoke with a start to the obnoxious beeping of his alarm clock. He rubbed his forehead, still feeling the weight of the pommel of Excalibur in his hands. How long had it been since he last dreamt of it? Seven years? He shook his head, trying to dispel the haunting memories of the dream.

  As he got ready for school that morning, he tucked a one pound coin into his pocket from the change bowl he and his dad kept on top of their refrigerator. He always bought a Mars bar from the vending machine just outside the LCR, which was usually the highlight of his day. He stifled a sigh and tried not to think about how pathetic it was that a chocolate bar was the only thing he looked forward to at school.

  Bruce stood checking his teeth in the circular mirror by the front door, and turned to Peter. “How’s my hair?”

  It was sticking up as usual; but considering his father was wearing a shabby blazer with threadbare elbows and trousers that didn’t quite clear his ankles, his hair was the least of his worries.

  “Fine, Dad.”

  Peter followed Bruce to the dingy brown Fiat. The engine was already running to warm up and melt away some of the condensation that had accumulated during the night.

  “Nervous?” said Bruce, about a block away from King’s.

  “I just hope he says yes,” said Peter. “To trying it out part time, I mean.”

  “You don’t want to leave King’s because of that girl you fancy? What’s her name, Angel or Heaven or something?”

  “Celeste.” Peter’s cheeks reddened. “It doesn’t matter. Not like she knows I exist, anyway.”

  “Well, then, time to move on, isn’t it?” Bruce declared with a grin.

  The ancient car clunked to a stop right smack in front of the school as students who lived nearby locked their bikes in the rack beside it. To make matters worse, Brock and his entourage of football players walked by right at that moment. Peter grimaced. Whenever he visited Cole at their house and Brock was there, Brock just ignored him. But in public, he made a point of ridiculing Peter every chance he got, as if he considered it to be some sort of social obligation. Peter reluctantly climbed out, and opened the door to the backseat in order to retrieve his bag. He counted in his head: one, two, three…

  On cue, Brock called out, “Hey, Stewart, did your dad get that hunk of metal from the junkyard?”

  His buddy Harry chimed in. “Looks like something my Gran would drive!” They both sniggered and high-fived each other.

  Peter stiffened and shot back, “Yeah, well at least my dad bothers to drive me to school. Where’s yours, Brock, London again?” Peter knew from experience that there was no point in retaliating, but sometimes he couldn’t help it. He could tell from Brock’s face that he had hit the mark.

  “Peter!” Bruce hissed reproachfully. The passenger door still hung open and he could hear every word.

  Brock shot back, “The only reason my dad doesn’t drive me to school is because we can afford a driver – something you can only dream about!”

  Before Peter could reply, Cole emerged from behind Brock and Harry. Brock and Cole rode to school together in the mornings.

  “Hey Pete! Hey, Dr. Stewart!” Cole called. He was oblivious as always to the bitter exchange between his brother and his best friend.

  Peter’s dad leaned to the side so that he could see Cole better and greeted him, “Hey, Cole, haven’t seen you in a while. How’s school going?”

  Cole answered him cheerfully, offering the sort of superficial information that could be conveyed in a couple sentences, but Peter stopped listening almost as soon as he had begun, distracted by a girl who was locking up her bike a few paces away.

  He had never seen her before, which was the first reason he noticed her. Having attended the same school
for his entire life in a place as small as Norwich, new students were something of a novelty. She was rather plain-looking, with her curly hair pulled back into a ponytail and a smattering of freckles in a butterfly pattern across her cheeks and nose.

  The other reason he noticed her was because she was staring at him. She wasn’t just casually glancing in his general direction, either: she looked at him as if he had a second head, or was an escaped criminal.

  “Um,” Peter said, feeling very uncomfortable. “Can I help you?”

  “Where is it?” said the girl, almost accusingly.

  Peter looked over his shoulder, wondering if she was talking to somebody else. “Where is what?”

  Then she closed her eyes like she was hitting a reset button, and when she looked at him again her expression cleared. “I’m sorry,” she said, too politely. Then she walked the few paces that still remained between them and stuck out her hand. “I’m Lily Portman. I’m new here,” she added.

  “You’re, uh, from London,” Peter said uncomfortably, referring to her accent.

  “Yes, I just moved here.” She was still scrutinizing him, and her eyes kept darting over his shoulder and all around him, as if she were cutting his silhouette from the air with her eyes.

  “Right,” Peter said awkwardly. He had no idea what else to say.

  “What’s your name?” Lily demanded.

  “Peter!” Bruce called behind him, still in the car, and Peter jumped, startled. Bruce leaned out the window of the Fiat, and beckoned him with his index finger. Even though he had called Peter’s name, he looked at Lily, almost as intently as Lily had been staring at Peter the moment before. Lily followed behind him as Peter approached the car.

  Peter turned back to Lily, feeling very flustered. “Um, Dad, this is Lily Portman… I guess,” he said, glancing back at her. It seemed strange to be introducing someone he had only just met. “Lily, this is my dad. And I’m Peter Stewart,” he added, realizing he hadn’t even given his own name yet.

  “I’m Cole Jefferson!” Cole piped up cheerfully, sticking out his hand. But Lily didn’t take it; she was still too preoccupied with the Stewarts. She looked from Bruce to Peter and back again, as if she couldn’t believe her own eyes.

  “She’s from London,” Peter said to his dad, just to fill the silence.

  “I see,” said Bruce very slowly, but something in his tone gave the impression that he was not responding to Peter’s comment. He said to Lily, “How long have you been here, then?”

  “I just got here last week,” said Lily.

  “Ah. Is Norwich much different from London so far?” Peter noticed that Bruce emphasized the names of the cities, as if they were speaking in code.

  “They were exactly the same until this moment,” Lily responded, her voice thick and even.

  Peter looked from Bruce to Lily and back again. Despite their superficial words, their eyes locked on each other as if there was a depth of understanding between them.

  Peter shuffled his feet. “So the headmaster will be waiting for you, huh, Dad?”

  Bruce blinked at Peter as if he had forgotten he was there. “Oh! Yes, quite. I should be going.” Then he added earnestly, gesturing from Peter to Lily, “I do hope the two of you will be getting to know each other!”

  Peter blushed, confused. “Sure,” he mumbled, and waved as his dad drove to the car park behind the headmaster’s office.

  “What’s he talking to the headmaster about?” asked Cole, as if nothing strange had happened at all.

  “Oh!” said Peter, seizing gratefully upon the subject change. “Dad wants me to work in one of the labs at the university. He’s going to work it out with Mr. Stone.”

  “Pete, that’s brilliant!” Cole clapped him on the back. “Way to go, mate!”

  Lily fell into step beside them, without invitation. Cole carried most of the conversation, talking about homework, classes, Peter’s brilliant future research and a number of other topics that Peter tuned out, acutely aware of Lily’s presence on his other side.

  Since Cole was two years younger than Peter, his classes were in a different building. When their paths diverged, Cole said, “Well, meet you at the LCR for lunch!” and waved to both of them.

  When he was gone, Peter and Lily fell back into an uncomfortable silence.

  Finally, Lily asked, “So what’s your first lesson?”

  “Maths,” Peter said stiffly. “Yours?”

  “History,” she said, waving her timetable.

  Their feet crunched over the fallen leaves strewn along the path. Peter became acutely aware of his arms and legs, and tried very hard to act natural, though he suddenly couldn’t remember how.

  “So, why did you move here?” Peter asked awkwardly.

  “I’m in the system. Foster kid,” said Lily, her voice flat, and she shrugged. “This is where they sent me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Peter said, not sure if that was the right thing to say or not.

  “It’s fine, whatever,” Lily said flippantly, but then she amended after a pause, “I mean, actually it’s not fine at all, it’s horrible, but I reckon I shouldn’t say that to a complete stranger.”

  Peter paused for half a beat. “Right.”

  Lily bit her lip. “I did it again, didn’t I?”

  “Did what?”

  “I’m always just saying what I think. Other people don’t do that. You probably think it’s weird. Do you think it’s weird?”

  “Uh,” said Peter. He was grateful that they came to the door right then, so he could hide behind it long enough to regroup. He started to wish he could figure out how to end this conversation. “Well, I mean, I can’t say much. I’m not exactly popular either.”

  “So you do the same thing, then?” she demanded, and Peter noted that she started scouring the air around him again.

  “Not... really, no.”

  “But...” she leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “how can you help it? When you hear them whispering to people, how can you just pretend you don’t? I know that’s what all my foster parents wanted me to do, and I tried to pretend, but I just couldn’t!”

  Peter took a step backwards.

  Suddenly Lily’s expression faltered. “You do know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  “Actually, no,” said Peter, contemplating how rude it would be if he just walked away, and whether he really cared.

  She stared at him for a minute, not comprehending. Then she stared over his shoulder again as if she were working out a calculation of some kind in her head.

  “You keep doing that,” said Peter, getting annoyed. “When you first saw me, you said ‘where is it’. What did you mean? Did you think I was someone else or something?”

  “No,” said Lily, her frown deepening.

  “Then what were you talking about?”

  To Peter’s surprise, Lily planted a hand forcefully in the middle of his chest. Her expression was so earnest that he took an involuntary step backwards. “You really don’t know?” she demanded.

  “N-no,” Peter stammered.

  She turned just as abruptly and kept walking down the corridor. “Maybe it’s some kind of a genetic thing,” she muttered to herself, but loud enough that he could hear.

  “What’s a genetic thing?” Peter persisted, frustrated. He jogged to catch up. “I think you’re doing this on purpose!”

  “Your dad doesn’t have one either,” she went on, as if she hadn’t heard him.

  “Would you please tell me what you’re talking about? He doesn’t have one what?”

  “This is my class,” said Lily brusquely, comparing the number on her timetable to the number on the door.

  “Wait!” Peter scowled at her. “Aren’t you going to answer my question?”

  Lily paused and regarded him for a moment. Her expression became briefly vulnerable, as if she were engaging in some internal debate, but then it hardened again and she said evasively, “It’s my first day. I don’t want to be
late.” Her fingers curled around the door handle. “I’ll catch up with you later, okay? I know you might try and avoid me now, because lots of people do, but I hope you don’t, because I like you. Even if you are thick.” Then she flashed him a tentative smile that took him off guard after her aggression a moment before, and she ducked inside before Peter could respond.

  Peter wandered off to maths slowly, wondering what in the world had just happened.

  Chapter 4

  The door behind Lily softly clicked shut. Involuntarily, she glanced back over her shoulder through the window in the door, wishing Peter had been in the same class. Then she turned back around and surveyed the classroom. Even though there were no surprises and nothing she wasn’t used to, she felt claustrophobic. She hated enclosed spaces filled with people, and every one of the thirty or so desks had a student in it.

  And next to every student, of course, hovered a specter.

  She wasn’t surprised to see them: they were everywhere, all over the campus at King’s just as they had been all over every campus she had ever attended, and attached to every person she had ever seen. Lily called them specters for lack of a better name. The specters were shadowy, wraith-like creatures that took different forms, depending, she supposed, on which form appealed most to an individual host. She could tell a lot about a person by the form his or her specter took, especially if the specter and host were entwined. Some of the specters were several paces away from their hosts, while others were so completely enmeshed that Lily couldn’t tell where the host ended and the specter began. The only people worth talking to were the ones whose specters were further away (like that kid Cole’s, she thought), because they were mostly capable of speaking for themselves. There was no point in trying to talk to the ones who were enmeshed. It was like talking to a puppet.

  Lily had been able to see the specters ever since her parents’ murder when she was six. Two robbers had broken into the Portman house late one October night, evidently not expecting anyone to be home. Lily’s parents had put her to bed hours before, but she was sneaking cookies from the pantry. There was a perfectly good hiding place behind the butcher block in the kitchen, but she froze in terror, standing in full view of the intruders. Lily’s father must have heard the noise downstairs, and he had grabbed the only weapon he could find, which was a crowbar. When the first shot fired and her father fell down dead, Lily had tried to scream, but had no voice. Seconds later, her mother ran frantically downstairs to see what had happened, and met the same fate.