KEEPER

by Ingrid Seymour

  “Yeah, sorry. I’m Greg. Gregory actually,” he gave a nervous chuckle, “but everyone calls me Greg. Are you all right?” The question was normal enough, but Greg sounded so full of concern, and suddenly intimate, that it took her aback. It was as if he knew something wasn’t right. A wave of shame swept through her.

  “Excuse me?” Sam asked. The appropriate answer should have been, “Doing all right, and you?” but the intimacy in his voice made Sam defensive.

  “Well . . . um . . . Mr. Wright gave me a list of tutors I could call, and you were at the top,” Greg said.

  “Do I know you from school?” Sam thought hard, trying to remember anyone named Greg. She stepped out of the tub and dried herself, holding the phone awkwardly between her ear and shoulder.

  “No. I—I’m new. I just moved from New Orleans. I’m making up trig this summer, and Mr. Wright recommended a tutor. You aren’t all booked already, are you?” he asked hopefully.

  “No, you’re the first one to call, actually.”

  “Great! Can we start today?” He seemed in a hurry.

  “Hmm . . .” She wanted to say yes, but didn’t want to seem eager. Greg was probably anxious to get started so he could pass the class. She, on the other hand, just needed company. Badly. No need to divulge how pathetic her life was.

  “Any time will work for me,” Greg said a bit more casually.

  “All right, sure. Today’s fine.”

  “Awesome! Where do you want to meet?”

  “It’s up to you, really. You’ll be the one paying.”

  “Well, in that case . . .” There was a smile in his voice. “I’m new in town. I only know a few places. The school will be a bore, but since I’m already here . . . this first time, anyway.”

  “That works for me. Do you want to get together now?” Get me away from this place. She had to pack and be at James’s by five, but she didn’t care. She’d be damned if she was going to play nice.

  “Sure, now would be great! I mean, take your time. Short notice and all.”

  “I should be there in twenty . . . at most. Let’s meet at the library.”

  Sam had never gotten dressed so quickly. Even though it was hot outside, she slipped into a pair of jeans. She had only managed to shave half of one leg, so shorts were totally out of the question. After shrugging into a white top, she grabbed her purse and trig textbook. She was halfway out the door before she remembered to put on shoes.

  Ten minutes later, she parked in her usual spot and speed-walked toward the school’s front entrance, a desperate and inexplicable urgency bouncing in her chest. She hurried down the hallway leading to the library, but before she reached the door, she slowed down and composed herself. Calm down. Why was her heart racing, anyway? Probably because she was still alive. Great reason to be giddy any day, right? And this guy, Greg, had saved her, even if he didn’t know it.

  When she walked into the library, she didn’t have to search. There was but one person sitting in the open reading area, and her gaze immediately locked with his. He stood and walked briskly toward her. Sam couldn’t help but notice his height, and the awkward way he moved, like his body was too big for him. As if he were a magnet, Sam felt drawn to him, but managed to stay put by the door. When he reached her, Greg stopped abruptly. Sam could have been another girl visiting the library, but something in his eyes said he knew she was the person he’d been waiting for.

  She looked at his face and felt a measure of recognition. She’d never met him before, but she had met someone like him. The memory of Ashby rushed back into her mind as she examined Greg’s fair face. There was something similar in their features, an unlikely resemblance in their strong, masculine faces that somehow put them in the same mental category, in spite of their marked differences. They were both tall, fit, and extremely gorgeous.

  “Sam!” Greg exclaimed with something like relief. “You’re all right.”

  Great. Yes, like Ashby, here was another guy, strange and erratic, who said off-the-wall things. Yet also a guy whose presence immediately made her feel safe and. . . hopeful, for the first time in a while.

  Chapter 11 - Greg

  The weight of the world rolled off Greg’s shoulders as soon as he laid eyes on Sam. She was in one piece, or at least appeared so. He had driven here sensing an impending tragedy, somehow knowing that reaching his Integral in time was a matter of life or death.

  Greg cleared his throat. “So, you made it.” He tried to sound casual as he carefully examined her from head to toe, making sure she was alright.

  She didn’t say anything, but also looked him up and down, surely wondering about his ridiculous clothes—another pair of Dad’s too-short chinos and a button-up shirt. After a moment, she rubbed her arms and looked back toward the door.

  Probably figuring out an escape plan, you idiot. Greg kicked himself mentally for his over-the-top concern. “Uh, sorry, you’re Sam, right?” He didn’t need to ask. His blood was singing with awareness, his built-in GPS flashing a bright, “you have reached your destination,” message.

  “Yeah.”

  “And you’re all right?” It was half question, half statement.

  Her eyes filled with uneasiness and a crease crossed her brow.

  Damn. Try again.

  “Uh, Mr. Wright said, ‘Call Sam, my best tutor.’” Greg tried to sound like the jolly old man, but failed. He winced, a crooked grimace on his lips. He was trying too hard. “He . . . he thought you must have the chickenpox or something. Said you haven’t been around.”

  “No chickenpox. I’m fine,” Sam laughed, breaking the tension and graciously ignoring his social ineptitude. “Not a single pockmark. Skin’s clear.” She put one arm out. “See?”

  Obeying a strong protective instinct, he took hold of Sam’s wrist and examined it. As they touched, a strange current of energy snapped between them, making Sam pull her hand back with a yelp.

  “What the heck?” She rubbed her wrist.

  “Uh . . . static electricity . . . I guess,” Greg said sheepishly, shaking his hand and feeling his whole body, even the tips of his ears, tingle. He shook to dissipate the odd sensation. “Ready to start?” he rushed the question, before the awkwardness sent her running out the door.

  “I . . . guess.” She didn’t sound sure at all, but walked toward the table where he’d been sitting and chose the chair across from his.

  Greg took a seat, unable to take his eyes off her, try as he might. Sam cleared her throat and checked her watch.

  “Trigonometry!” he exclaimed, drawing the word out as if he’d just unearthed a long-forgotten memory. Opening the textbook, he thumbed aimlessly through the pages.

  “Well, what’d you need help with?” she asked, keeping her gaze fixed on the table.

  “Uh, here. This is what Mr. Wright said they covered on Monday, I think. I start class tomorrow, so I need to go over that and all the stuff from Tuesday. Plus today’s material.”

  “Okay,” Sam said, opening her book to the same page and immediately lunging into a detailed explanation of the first problem.

  Greg’s math brain was down, though. His thoughts went as far away from the subject as possible. She’s a teenager and . . . a girl, Greg thought as he watched her explain. He’d expected a guy, but boy, had he been wrong!

  “Does that make sense?” Sam pointed at the equation with her yellow pencil.

  “Uh, I think so.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, not really.” Greg hadn’t been paying attention in the least. He had been busy imagining what Sam would look like once she morphed. By human standards, she wasn’t what anyone would call pretty, but with his Morphid’s eyes, he could see the dormant beauty within her—like a lush garden, seen through a foggy window.

  After a second and even third explanation for most of the problems, Sam’s impression of Greg’s mathematical skills had to suck. True, he was no Pythagoras, but he wasn’t that bad either. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying
to concentrate, but it seemed impossible with Sam so close.

  His fascination with her wasn’t the only distraction. Ever since he’d left home, a battle had been raging inside Greg’s head. His Morphid and human sides were still wrestling for control, sending him mixed signals, even though his parents said his pre-metamorphosis self would slowly die out. In truth, it only seemed to be worsening. And, at this particular moment, the turmoil had tripled.

  -You have to tell her why you’re here.

  No way, stupid. She’ll freak out! She hadn’t said anything to acknowledge their Morphid heritage. It was only sensible to play it cool today.

  As she explained a particularly difficult problem for the third time, her hands traced the page. Almost hypnotized, Greg’s gaze wandered slowly from the tips of her fingers to her face. As she spoke, her nose twitched a little. It made him smile. Her lips moved, but he didn’t really hear the words. He was too mesmerized by the narrow curve of her lower lip, which glistened with a shade of pink gloss. He swallowed, feeling his palms go clammy under the table.

  -What the hell?! Why are you staring at her like that? That’s wrong.

  But she’s so . . . beautiful.

  -No. Stop thinking that way, his Morphid side shot back. She’s not beautiful. She needs your protection.

  Greg shook his head, frustrated.

  “Is something wrong?” Sam looked a bit uneasy.

  “No, no. I . . . I’m fine. Just a little tired, I guess. Didn’t sleep one bit last night.”

  “How come?”

  “Oh, I was driving. Just got in from New Orleans this morning. I hope I don’t smell too bad.” He wrinkled his nose and offered a wry smile.

  She ignored his joke. “New Orleans?”

  “Mm-hmm. I drove about thirteen hours nonstop to get here.” Greg exhaled, tired just to remember the feat.

  “Did your parents relocate?”

  “Um, something like that.” Greg didn’t know what else to say. He could hardly explain what brought him here, even if his Morphid side thought he should spill his guts. She seemed freaked out enough already. Jumping into the “by the way, you’re my Integral” speech was so not the right idea.

  Sam narrowed her honey-colored eyes and looked put out by his evasive response, so he added, “I’ll tell you one day when we know each other better.” He gave her a meaningful look, hoping she would pick up the hint that he was her Integral. Instead, she just gave him a shy smile and flicked a strand of long, brown hair behind her ear. It was a quick, habitual motion, but, as she tilted her head to accompany the maneuver, Greg understood—for the first time—what femininity was all about. His heart hammered inside his chest.

  “Oh, man,” he mumbled, as his Morphid and human sides began yelling—one in disapproval, the other in encouragement.

  “Something wrong?” Sam asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Um, maybe we should continue tomorrow,” she said, looking at him with a frown.

  “O-okay,” Greg said a bit disappointed.

  “Greg, you’re obviously exhausted. Go home and get some sleep.”

  “Yeah, home.” Greg rubbed his eyes to hide his sarcasm.

  “The lessons won’t stick if you’re too tired to concentrate. We can catch up later.”

  “I guess you’re right. A nap would be nice.” No need to tell her that until his parents made it up here, home would be his car. “Tomorrow, then? Same time?”

  Sam nodded, and Greg thought he saw a fleeting smile on her lips. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. They walked outside together without saying a word. He accompanied Sam to her car and gave her another meaningful look, hoping she would ask what a handsome Morphid like him was doing in Indiana. Nothing.

  As she drove away, no sense of dread assaulted him. She was safe now, and somehow he knew that if she needed him again, his instincts would give him a fair warning. Kicking a pebble, Greg walked to his car. He’d parked under the shade of a huge oak tree, away from the school, where he’d be safe sleeping in the back seat without being discovered or roasting to death. Stepping inside, Greg was grateful that Mom had thought of packing a pillow. Resting his head, he closed his eyes and relished the comfort and blissful quiet inside his head.

  His stomach growled, but sleep was his most immediate physiological need. Food could wait. It’d been a long, desperate ride from New Orleans, almost a thousand miles, stopping only to refuel. He got to the school before it opened and bit his fingernails, waiting to enter the classroom where the next clue would be.

  Enroll in Mr. Wright’s trigonometry class at West Lafayette High School, his brain had ordered soon after he left home. During a quick call to his parents, Dad had assured him that he’d contact the school and find some way to enroll him. If everything happened for a reason, Greg’s struggles with math were no accident.

  To his relief, the school officials signed him up, on the condition that his parents completed the required paperwork as soon as possible. Dad must have some connections through the University, he thought. His parents had immediately purchased plane tickets for the next day, making Greg wish he’d known the situation better before his frantic, thirteen-hour journey. They could have just flown together, sparing his butt all those hours in the car.

  Greg’s breathing was slow and deep now. For the first time in the last couple of days, he relaxed. He’d found Sam. Better yet, his sense of calm meant she was out of danger. He sighed, remembering her face and her sad, amber eyes. As he drifted off to sleep, his heart swelled with a strange fondness. His Morphid mind tried to shut the emotion away, but even as he slipped into nothingness, he knew he wouldn’t let the intruder in. Something was incomplete about his transformation. The side of him that should be gone had taken root instead, while his new self fought to pull it out.

  -This is wrong. Unnatural. You shouldn’t feel that way about her. Get out.

  Nope, you’re not getting rid of me. Not now.

  Not after meeting her.

  Chapter 12 - Sam

  The Sam who arrived home was an entirely different person than the one who had left earlier that afternoon. At ease, with a pleasant feeling of harmony in her chest, she now realized that all her troubles, which had seemed staggering before Greg’s call, now looked insignificant. As she parked, she wondered how this odd boy could have lifted her spirits so much, especially after all that epic awkwardness.

  How can a good-looking boy like that be so socially challenged? She wondered.

  Again, she felt like someone was playing a joke on her, just like the day she met Ashby. Something told her there was a link between the two, but she decided to ignore the eerie gut feeling. Better to just relish the fact that her self-pity was gone—even if it didn’t make sense why.

  Walking toward the front door, she pulled out her cell phone to check the time. Five twenty-two. How was that possible? Had they been studying that long? It certainly didn’t feel like it. She should have gotten to James’ place by now, and she hadn’t even packed. Then again, she wasn’t in a hurry. None at all.

  She stepped into the foyer, threw her backpack on the floor next to the coat rack and headed for the kitchen. A proper meal hadn’t crossed her lips in several days. Now, her soaring spirits had ignited her appetite.

  The refrigerator contained very little to work with, but enough to make something tasty. After beating two eggs in a small pan and mixing in some milk, she sprinkled sugar and cinnamon and whisked it with a fork. Licking her lips, she dipped a slice of white bread in the mixture and let it get nice and soggy. When she placed it on the skillet, hot oil jumped and sizzled, making her smile in delight. The last time she had eaten French toast was one morning at Brooke’s house, after a slumber party. Sam had cooked the special treat for her friend, and it had been finger-licking delicious. She jigged to the pantry and pulled out a bottle of honey.

  “What are you doing here?” The voice behind her was like the screech of an angry bat.

  Sam cringed
, but faced Barbara calmly, fighting to put on a smile.

  “I’m making French toast,” she said. “Would you like some?” She walked toward the stove and placed the honey on the counter next to an empty plate.

  “Don’t play dumb,” Barbara said. “You know you’re supposed to be at your father’s.”

  “I had to tutor and didn’t have time to pack.” She grabbed a spatula and flipped the piece of bread over. It had browned nicely and looked delicious. “Sure you don’t want some?” Sam tried again.

  “No, I don’t want your stupid French toast. I want you to pack your clothes, and . . .” she trailed off.

  “And leave?” Sam finished for her, surprised by her own composure. “What difference does it make when I leave? We don’t even see each other as it is. I always stay out of your hair and never bother you. Why do you hate me so much?” The question came out before she could stop it, but only because she’d wanted to ask it for so long.

  “Spare me the melodrama,” Barbara said, unfazed by her daughter’s demands. “I gave you an order. You’re going to your father’s right away. It’s not open for discussion.”

  “I’m not your pawn, you know. It’s not my fault James did this. You guys never . . .”

  “I don’t need psychoanalysis from you,” Barbara said with disdain. “I’m your mother, and you’ll do as I say. Now!” She pointed a finger, indicating the stairs.

  “A mother isn’t the same as a good mother.” The words serenely glided out of Sam’s mouth. She was beyond anger, and well beyond caring what Barbara might think. Now that she knew the truth about Barbara’s “motherhood,” she finally felt empowered to speak her mind.

  “How dare you?! If you knew the half of it, you’d bite your ungrateful tongue.”

  “And what is it that I need to know . . . Barbara?”

  Barbara’s face twisted into a grimace of cold hatred.