This time, she chucks an entire handful of popcorn at me. I duck, laughing. "Missed me."
"Yeah, well, she didn't miss me." A voice, young and torqued-off, slices through my thoughts and I glance up into the face of our table neighbor.
His hair is cropped short, with brownish-blond pieces spiked at the front. The boy's jaw is locked. His features hard as he picks the stray bits of popcorn from his hair. Then, his eyes meet mine.
Recognition punches me in the gut. It's him. The boy who watched me from the woods when we were kids. How can he be here, in “Beans and Bravado", my favorite coffee shop? Yet, he's sitting right in front of me, staring at me with those eyes—ice blue—like he always did when he observed me from the cover of the trees.
"How did you find me?" My raspy voice reminds me of a chain smoker.
He frowns. "Does your friend always sit with her mouth open and ask lame questions?" He directs this at Shaz.
"Only on Tuesdays." She glances at her phone. "Oh, good, you're in luck."
"You don't recognize me?" I ask. "I know you remember. You have to." A coiled spring of tension builds in my body. I bite my lower lip.
He rolls his eyes and whips around as he stands. Wait. He's not going to leave, is he? I have so many questions. I want to know why he watched me, who he really is, and more important, why he didn't follow me to the city ages ago?
I blink and then he's gone. "Oh, no." I can't let him out of my sight. Jumping to my feet, I move to rush after him.
"Whoa. Easy there, Jemma. What the hell's going on?" Shaz grabs my elbow. "Your mom and dad are expecting you home in, like, ten minutes. So you wanna tell me why you're running after some guy you think you know, but who clearly doesn't know you?"
"Look, I just have to ask him something. I'll be right back. Wait for me, okay? Two minutes—tops."
She shakes her head, chewing on another kernel. "Fine, but if it's one minute over, I'm coming after you. Got it?"
"Yeah." I'm already at the door. I rush outside, my head and heart pounding. I check the street in both directions, searching for a patch of blond hair, but there's no sign of him. It's like he's vanished.
"Argh!" I let out a small shout of frustration.
When it's clear I won't find him today, I rest my hand against a tree outside the shop. A sharp object pierces my palm. Somehow I've managed to cut myself. Way to go. I back up, surveying the tree and realize it's covered in thorns. A Hawthorne tree—my Grandmother used to have one.
Something darts through my peripheral. A pair of blue eyes stare back at me from inside the tree's trunk. Blue eyes. His eyes.
My lower lip trembles. It's just like before. I blink one more time and it's just me.
Standing in the street.
Wondering if I'm going crazy.
CHAPTER TWO
The Hidden Sketchbooks
Yummy smells slam into me the instant I turn the handle on the front door. Dad's cooking again. Pot roast, I think. He's been baking, too. Fresh bread. Anticipating that first warm bite sends my stomach into a growl-fest.
"Hey, Jemma." Mom glances up from her desk as I hang my coat on the hook by the door. She's piled neat stacks of papers on either side of her—she must be grading a class assignment. "How was B&B's?"
"Cool. Pumpkin lattés, today."
"I'm jealous." Mom grins.
I send her a smile over my shoulder before heading into the hall bathroom to snag a box of Band-Aids from the medicine cabinet. Taking one out, I check my hand for splinters—there aren't any—before affixing the Band-Aid. If Mom asks me how I cut myself, it’ll compel me to share my story about the eyes in the tree trunk and the boy in the coffee shop. Those two things would definitely make her worry. She does that enough.
I stick the Band-Aid box inside cabinet and shove my damaged hand into my pocket, before returning to the living room.
"How was school?" Mom asks
I shake my head. "Brutal. You're going to be getting a call about this." I reach into my bag with my free hand, and pull out Milford's likeness. I drop the assignment on her desk.
Mom's eyebrows shoot up as she surveys the drawing. "I take it you aren't really supposed to be sketching nudes in your high school art class?" Leaning forward, she runs a finger along the single blue stripe of highlights Shaz gave me last week. "You like to push the envelope, don't you?"
"But, Mom." I blow my bangs to the side. "They pick guys from the swim team because they're basically Adonises, but as a subject, this guy was so boring. Even his outfit was boring. He was a clone of all the others. I had to spice it up somehow."
"Mmmm. This seems fairly accurate to me." Her eyes twinkle.
"Health class, Mom. Seriously. It's not like I want to start dating some guy named Milf anyway." I cringe. "You aren't mad?"
She shakes her head. "As long as you're not drawing him, it's fine."
I know exactly who she means by ‘him’. Mom frowns, handing back my interpretation of Milford in all his glory.
I take the drawing, resting my arms on top of the hutch. "My sketches of the boy scared you, didn't they?"
"Yes, Jemma they scared us. Imagine how you'd feel if your daughter started sketching the same boy over and over again and you know she's never met him." Mom softens her words with a smile.
A rush of guilt chokes me. "I'm gonna get started on my homework, okay?"
"K." Mom winks, lifts up a paper from the stack to her right, then circles something on it with a red pen.
The spot where I pricked my hand on the Hawthorne tree throbs as I leave for the solitude of my bedroom. Shutting the door behind me, I turn the lock. Something I don’t normally do.
I should start my homework. Instead, I pull open the top drawer of the small file cabinet next to my desk. The one I've almost made myself forget. The spot where I keep all of my old sketchbooks.
My heartbeat echoes in my head. The cut on my hand burns. "Come on, Jem, they're just drawings." I shake my head.
Dropping to my knees, I run my fingers along the books' black spines. It's embarrassing how many there are. I've gone through even more since we moved. Though I've changed my focus to sketching other people, even distance and time haven't been successful at making me forget my favorite subject. The boy.
Something unseen tugs at my senses, daring me to open the books, to stare into those solemn eyes again. It's as if the boy is alive inside them, calling to me...daring me to look.
Open me...open me, Jemma...you need me...you miss me...
It's his voice. In my head. Just like on that night. How can that be? A chill passes over me, washing my skin in goosebumps. This is so weird, it's not like he's here. I don't have to look at these books if I don't want to.
I do want to, though.
All those times I stared at him through my window. He was almost as good of a friend as Molly was. There's nothing wrong with just peeking—
My hand lashes out like it belongs to somebody else and, in the next moment, I've grabbed a stack of books. Relief forces the chills away and replaces it with happiness. It's like my friend is back. Not Molly, but the blond boy I once knew so well, if only in my mind.
I skim through the first book, taking in each carefully executed creation. One element stands out on every page. His eyes. My mind trolls my memories of him, comparing the guy from today with the boy I've immortalized on paper.
I touch one of my more cherished pieces. Even when I couldn't draw anything well, I could always sketch him. These drawings were extraordinary, as if the boy himself had snuck in during the night and created them. None of my other work has come close since. I have talent, but this...
The boy first made an appearance in the woods behind our house when I was only three or four. Every time I'd pull aside my pink lace curtains and look in the backyard, he'd be there. I'd wave. He'd wave back. He was handsome, like one of the princes in the fairytales I used to read.
I worried about him living alone in the woods, though I couldn't b
e sure if that's what he did. I left food for him. I never saw anyone take it. Yet, it was always gone when I looked outside again.
We never met, so I never learned his name. Now, all I have are my memories.
My hands shake, as they reach for the filing cabinet of their own accord. The same compulsion urges me to open the other books, as if my hands are magnets and the books metal.
A prickly heat flushes my skin. What am I doing? Why am I looking at these sketchbooks again when Mom just told me how much my drawings of the boy upset her and Dad? Maybe I am better off drawing Milford Schefflebein's junk?
Open me...open me, Jemma...
The call, the pull to keep digging into my sketchbooks, nags at me. "No." Shoving the books back inside, I shut the drawer on my art. Yet, I can't block the memories of him and Molly. After all, they disappeared from my life on the same day. Or I disappeared from theirs, depending on how I wanted to look at it. Mom and Dad moved us out of our house that week. As far as I can tell? They’ve never looked back.
The boy in ‘B&B's’ could have been anyone. There's no way he can be my boy, the one I remember so well. Right?
It doesn't matter. Because, just like the blond boy from my childhood, I'll probably never see the boy from the coffeehouse again, either.
And that's fine with me.
CHAPTER THREE
Best Job In The World
It's one of those awesome Saturday mornings—the kind where the sun shines in small patches on my face and the wind whips the remaining brown leaves around in a dance. My breath swirls in front of me as I walk. I'm bundled in my moderately-thick parka. I refuse to dig out the sub-zero one until January. On a whim, I stop off for a cup of to-go coffee from ‘B&B's’ on my way to work.
Work. That's the thing I like most about Saturdays. I have the best job in the entire world. Every weekend, I get to work at the library near our apartment.
Some people might think it’s lame. To me? It's an awesome escape—an artist's dream. Every patron is a sketch waiting to happen. Every book is a possibility, a story about someone's life that's more interesting than my own. My boss even lets me bring my sketchbook. If I get all of my work done and it's slow, I can sit among the stacks and draw. It's a place where prudish art teachers don’t stifle my creativity.
I'm on my way out of the shop, my coffee already burning my hand through the cardboard collar, when I spot him. The guy from yesterday. The one Shaz and I dubbed ‘Angry Popcorn Guy’.
He hasn’t noticed me, so I’m free to take him in. He's something to look at. There are sculpted edges to those cheekbones that I missed before. I’d draw him in charcoal.
Today he's dressed in skinny jeans and bright red chucks. A worn leather jacket hangs on him; the arms run too-long past his wrists like it's not quite his size. He hasn't bothered to zip it up. Maybe he's too cool for warmth? He's leaning against the wall, a book resting on his raised knee.
Now that we're outside ‘B&B's’, it's obvious. He's not my boy. His hair isn't the same. His lips are fuller, almost pouty, like a girl's. The eyes are similar but, it isn't him.
I'd be an idiot if I didn't recognize this guy’s level of hotness. What would it be like to sketch this boy? I'm not even sure how I'd tackle that strong jaw of his. Maybe only a profile? I automatically reach for my sketchbook and realize I don't have it. Darn. There won't even be any drawing at work today. At least, not with my own tools.
It’s not like it matters. This guy, for all his good looks, acted like a major asshat yesterday. He's not likely to want to sit for me. I'm not sure I want to put up with him, either.
I'm about to cross the street and avoid him when he glances up. His face distorts. "It's you. Weird girl from the coffee shop. Are you stalking me or something?" He slams his book shut.
Nice to see you again, too. I sneer when I look at him. "That would require a lot of planning on my part. I mean I have no idea who you are or where you live."
"I suppose so." He says this like he doesn't believe me. Like it’s absolutely plausible I would follow him around. He grunts and picks up his book once more.
"Whatever," I mutter and turn to go to work. Before I leave, my gaze falls on the Hawthorne tree from yesterday—the one that cut me. The one with the eyes. His eyes.
I'm about to examine the trunk when Angry Popcorn Guy snarls, "Are you going to stick around here and annoy me all day? Because if so I'm picking another spot."
"You know what? You can have this entire street. You can have the whole freaking block." Leaving the tree behind, I rush away, relieved when I finally step through the library doors.
It doesn't take long to get my things stashed in the backroom. I visit the head librarian for my instructions. There aren't many. Today, the place is crammed with students from the various universities. It's past midterms, but some of them are getting a jump on their end-of-semester papers. I just need to re-shelve as always, and make myself available for questions.
After I get the rundown on my duties, I grab the cart full of books set aside for re-stocking, scanning the spines for clues about my first stop. History. Great. Not my favorite section to work in lately. There's a problem with the overhead light—something about the wiring—and they've been trying to repair it for a couple of weeks. From the look of things, it’s still not fixed. They’ve installed temporary fluorescents, but they don’t do the job. Most of the stacks are shrouded in shadow where the row dead-ends.
Jemma...
Every muscle in my body tenses. My hands lock around the cart. Just like last night, I hear his voice in my head. It can't be. He isn't here.
God, someone's going to have me committed if I don't snap out of this. Focusing on the cart, I scan the book spines, searching for the one book I know belongs in this aisle. Most of the titles are a combination of newer hardbacks, popular fiction and the like.
The history book is a tome. Seriously. At least five thousand pages. I read the cover: The Book of Trees. Not what I expected a book this size to be about. I shake my head. How ironic that The Book Of Trees actually killed a ton of trees during the publication process.
Jemma...pick it up....
Goosebumps skate across my skin.
Jemma...
"This is stupid. I don't have to pick up that book." Then I realize I'm already holding The Book Of Trees. "But I didn't..."
A glance in either direction verifies no one's around to hear crazy Jemma Stringer talking to herself. Gripping the book, I shove it into the spot on the shelf and reach for the cart again.
"Don't you want to go to him?"
I jump. Standing next to me, on the dead end side of the aisle, is a woman I've never seen before. She seems like she's Mom's age. She'd almost pass as normal, except for the patches of spidery black veins dancing across her face.
"How did you get down this aisle?" I search for some new entrance I've missed, taking a step back.
"He wants to see you."
She couldn't mean...the boy? Not possible. I draw in as much air as I can, but it sticks in my throat. "He does? Who's he?"
She takes a step closer and extends her hand. Black spiders seem to crawl under her skin as it changes, shifting, turning into something else. A crackling sound fills the aisle, accompanied by the smell of smoky wood. Tree limbs shoot out from her fingertips, stretching out toward me, leaving all traces of her humanity behind. They creak and crack as they grow out from within her body.
"Oh, God." I cover my mouth and bite my tongue. Fear trips through me, intermingled with excitement. "I don't understand."
The woman smiles as her other hand changes, elongates into twisted pieces of wood that remind me of a forest around a wicked witch's castle. "Yes, you do. He's come for you, Jemma. He wants you with him. Just like before."
A haze falls over me and the pull is back, as though my heart itself is guiding me. I need to go to him. Right away. He's waiting for me. Just like my hands were drawn to pick up my sketchbooks last night, my body strains for
ward, to go with this woman.
"Just take my hand, young one." She smiles. Her teeth fall out of her mouth, hitting the carpet, and littering the ground at her feet like snow.
I reach out. Peace fills me. I'll be with him again. At last.
CHAPTER FOUR
Psycho On The Library Floor
Inching forward, I'm about to touch the woman's hand. My eyes slip closed. There's this distant part of me crying out—This isn't good, Jemma. Run! Run away! I should be afraid of this woman, but it's like my body's given me permission not to be. She'll take me to him, and then—
"Oh no you don't." Someone grips my arm, jerking me back. There's a gust of wind against my cheek and I force my eyes open.
"What?" Spinning around, my cloudy brain registers that Angry Popcorn Guy is standing beside me. "What are you doing here?"
"You don’t want to go with her," he says. "Trust me."
"Trust you? Why should I?" I try and yank my arm free, but he holds tight.
He rolls his eyes skyward. "Well, just look at her, for starters."
The woman is still standing there, though now she's encased in ice. Her body appears frozen, but her eyes aren’t. They dart wildly around, landing in our direction. She's monstrous, beyond terrifying. A low growl erupts from somewhere in the vicinity of her chest. I take an involuntary step back.
How is it that only a second ago I wanted to leave with her? It's as if someone's snuck up and dumped a bucket of ice water on me. I shake my head again. Then I remember ‘Angry Popcorn Guy.’ I whip my head around.
"What are you doing here?" I blurt out, before I can stop myself. "Are you stalking me or something?" Triumph surges through me as I throw his own words back in his face.
He narrows his eyes. "Pretty much."
"What?" It's then that I realize he's still holding my arm. "Get off of me." I try and move away, but he keeps his hold on me.
"You are not going to him."
"What are you talking about?" I ask. My heart slams against my chest. He can't mean.... Is it my imagination or did the woman's arm just move?
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