Blood

by Francine Pascal

  “I know this is a hard time,” Gaia said. “And I’m not telling you to go screw yourself. But I have this paper due. I’m tired of all the teachers getting on my case. I just want to do some stuff, get them off my back. I’m sorry if that’s inconveniencing you.”

  Dark brown eyes bored into her blue ones. “Gaia …”

  “Gotta go,” Gaia said briskly. “Bye.” She made a quick pivot around his wheelchair and strode toward the east side entrance of their high school. The one with stairs. The one Ed couldn’t follow her out of. She could feel him watching her. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter.

  Girl, 17, Slain in Park

  “MOON MAN. COME ON.” KEON WALTERS gestured toward the tiny black-and-white TV perched on Mike’s footlocker. “We’re talking national play-offs here.”

  By squinting, Sam could just make out minuscule football players moving toward each other through the thick snow on the screen. A bent wire coat hanger was stuck into the antenna outlet, and Mike was standing behind it, maneuvering it in tiny increments to get a better picture.

  “There! Right there, man,” said Keon.

  “I can’t, guys,” Sam said. “I’ve got to review some of this comparative anatomy stuff.”

  “Oh, is Heather coming over?” Mike asked innocently. Keon snorted.

  “Ooh, Heather, baby,” Keon said, scrunching up his lips to make a kissy face.

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Sam, heading out the door.

  He was near the staircase at the end of the hall when a door opened and Sherri Banks stepped out, holding a stack of newspapers. “Oh, hey, Sam. Where you headed?”

  “To the library. What about you?” Sam asked, pulling on his jacket.

  “I was just running down to the recycling bin. Actually, since it’s on your way, would you mind taking these down for me?” Sherri asked, holding out the newspapers.

  “Yeah, sure,” said Sam, taking them.

  “Thanks!” Sherri disappeared behind her door, muffling the sounds of Smash Mouth that had been drifting out behind her.

  Sam trotted down the four flights of stairs, then headed to the big recycling bins in a small room off the dorm lobby. He threw Sherri’s newspapers into the paper bin. A headline on the top sheet caught his eye.

  GIRL, 17, SLAIN IN PARK

  Instinctively Sam grabbed the paper and scanned it rapidly. Oh my God. Goose bumps tightened the skin on his arms, legs, the back of his neck. “Mary Catherine Moss, age seventeen, was killed on New Year’s Eve in Washington Square Park in what was an apparent drug hit,” the article read. Sam devoured the details. No suspect as yet; police following leads. Young girl—only witness, tall, blond hair, wishes to remain anonymous—questioned at the scene.

  Mary. Gaia. Sam was supposed to go out with them on New Year’s. Then he’d shown up at Gaia’s, seen Ella Niven, and totally lost it. He’d fled the scene like a frightened rabbit. So Gaia and Mary had gone out without him. And Mary had gotten killed. And Gaia had been there.

  Sam reread the article, leaning against the cinder-block wall. Oh my God. Mary was dead. Mary had been one of Gaia’s best friends, along with Ed Fargo, Heather’s ex. Gaia had seen her best friend killed right in front of her! And it was Sam’s fault. If he had been with them—if he hadn’t stood Gaia up—they might not have been in Washington Square. Or the killer might have seen Sam and left them alone.

  He had to talk to Gaia right away.

  Mugging Is a Big No-no

  “UMPH.” GAIA COULDN’T RESTRAIN the involuntary grunt of pleasure as she bit into her hot German sausage. Only one street cart she knew sold real German sausages, and man, they were killer. Well worth a detour anytime, even though it meant getting a bit of a late start on her Faerie Queene paper for Mr. MacGregor’s Brit lit class.

  It was dark now, or as dark as it got in Manhattan, what with streetlights, traffic lights, building lights. Gaia was taking a shortcut down Great Jones Street, heading for the NYU library. The street was cobbled, the sidewalks accessorized by shiny black piles of garbage bags. One really good thing about winter, Gaia mused as she chomped, was that the trash froze, eliminating a lot of the smell.

  Taking another bite, Gaia remembered how Mary had introduced her to knishes a few weeks ago. Mary had grown up in Manhattan and was on intimate terms with every street-food vendor around. When Gaia had taken her first bite of a knish smeared with yellow mustard, Mary had laughed at the wondrous expression on her face.

  Suddenly Gaia had an instantaneous prickle of awareness. Without even thinking, she quickly stepped away from the curb. The next moment she heard the distinct whir of a bicycle’s wheels. Then she felt someone grab her bag and yank, hard. If her preternaturally acute senses hadn’t told her to sidestep, this jerk would have knocked her down with his bike. As it was, he was almost pulled off balance as he pulled on her strap.

  In an instant all her reflexes were on full alert, her muscles pumped and ready for action. Her right hand clamped around the strap of her bag, hoping it would hold. She gave a sharp pull, and the biker swung in a large, wobbly arc around her, trying to steer, pedal, and pull her bag away at the same time.

  Gaia chewed quickly, swallowing bits of sausage.

  “Let go!” the biker shouted. “I’ll kill you!”

  “You idiot,” Gaia muttered. Using both hands, she swung her pack out and around, forcing the biker’s front wheel to smash against the high stone curb.

  He let out a confused yelp, pitching headfirst over the handlebars and onto the sidewalk. Amazingly, he hadn’t let go of the bag. Gaia was bent over, the strap pulling heavily through her jacket. She took a big step forward and stomped on the biker’s hand, pinning it to the sidewalk.

  “This … doesn’t … belong … to … you,” Gaia said slowly and carefully, punctuating her words by leaning on his hand. The biker’s face was contorted with pain, and his other hand scrabbled at her ankle, gripping her pants with his fingers.

  Bending down, Gaia gave him a swift uppercut to the nose, putting enough power in it to snap back his head and make his hand finally release her pack. Stepping back quickly, Gaia straightened and pulled the bag onto her shoulder with both straps. Her breathing had scarcely altered, but her senses were humming: She could smell his stale sweat through his cheap jacket, smell the tangy, coppery scent of the blood trickling from his nose. Bright red blood. The night air felt cold and crisp and seemed to sharpen her vision.

  The biker scrambled back to his bike just as Gaia reached it. She anchored her body weight, then spun in a quick, smooth roundhouse kick that knocked him backward onto the sidewalk. He lay there awkwardly for a moment, like an upended turtle. By the time he’d crawled to his feet, Gaia had kicked out several spokes on his front wheel.

  “You bitch!” he screamed, coming at her again. Almost effortlessly she grabbed his hand and twisted it back, forcing him to his knees.

  “Mugging is bad.” Gaia’s voice, unnaturally steely, cut through the mugger’s cries. “People don’t like being mugged. You got it?”

  The biker whimpered as she slowly pulled back on his arm. “Got it!” he finally screeched.

  Suddenly she let him go. He crumpled to the sidewalk. “You bitch,” he croaked.

  “You started it,” Gaia snapped childishly. She headed down the sidewalk, leaving the mugger behind as she had left Ed behind several hours earlier. She walked quickly, wanting to put as much distance between her and the biker before the familiar lethargy hit her. With great luck, she was almost two blocks away and right in front of a lighted bus stop with a bench when the weakness overwhelmed her, making her knees give out. She sank down on the bench next to an older, bundled-up black woman who gave her a disgusted look. Maybe she thought Gaia was on drugs.

  Gaia leaned against the clear Plexiglas bus shelter, feeling all sensation pool in her feet like they weighed a thousand pounds each. A few moments later the bus pulled up and the woman got on, shooting Gaia another angry look. Gaia almost laug
hed.

  After a few minutes Gaia felt the return of nerves, of muscle strength. She mentally checked herself out: All systems were go. The NYU library was just another two blocks to the west, on West Fourth Street, facing Washington Square. Gaia decided to find a library seat where she would have a view of the park through a picture window. Who knew? Maybe she would see Skizz slinking into the park.

  Every time she thought of Skizz, an odd trickle of sensation crept up her spine. In her short life she had beaten some losers senseless. She had sometimes even enjoyed the physical and mental challenge that a closely matched fight presented. But this was different. There was no turning back from murder.

  Gaia’s thoughts turned to the guy who had killed Mary. The one who had actually pulled the trigger. Now, there had been a closely matched fight. He had been unusual, Gaia thought as the NYU library loomed ahead of her. Most people she fought were pathetic, unschooled, unskilled—sitting ducks compared to her, with her finely honed reflexes, supernatural strength, years of training, and lightning-fast reaction times. But that guy—he had been different. He had been as good as she was. Maybe better. It was the first time she had met someone like that. Besides her father, that was.

  Inside the library Gaia flashed her Village School ID. The guard nodded, bored, and let her through the turnstile. There was a bank of computers in the right-hand reading room. Gaia headed there. The computers had access to both the Internet and the library’s card catalog. It would be a good place to start. And the reading room had a view of the park.

  In the room bright fluorescent lights made everything look sort of washed out and off register, made the students look even more pasty faced and hollow eyed.

  Now Gaia needed a chair that faced the doorway. It was a habit she’d picked up from her father. There was an easy chair with a view of the window, but it was mostly hidden behind a scratched Formica end table with a depressed-looking philodendron on it. Gaia headed toward it, automatically checking out the scene for weird vibes, possible sources of danger, likely escape routes. It was something she did without thinking, almost without being aware of it. Even in an innocuous place like a library.

  As she glanced around, she became aware of someone watching her—and a moment later she found herself staring into a pair of beautiful, startled hazel eyes. It took her brain less than a thousandth of a second to register why those eyes looked familiar. They belonged to Sam Moon.

  This Is Mrs. Moss

  “I’LL GET IT, DARLING,” GEORGE Niven called. There was a muffled reply from Ella as George headed into the study to grab the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello. This is Patricia Moss,” said an unfamiliar voice. “Mary’s mother.”

  George had a sinking feeling. He’d seen the article in the newspaper. He’d only noticed it because of the headline, GIRL, 17, SLAIN IN PARK. Then he’d scanned the paragraph and recognized Mary’s name. It was more than strange that Gaia hadn’t mentioned anything to him or Ella. His knuckles tightened on the phone. “This is George Niven,” he responded. “Gaia’s guardian. Let me say that I’m so very sorry about your loss.”

  A hesitation. “Thank you. This is a very difficult time for us.” Her voice broke. “I know Gaia must be extremely upset. I wanted to tell her that if she would like to come be with our family during this time, she’s more than welcome.”

  “Thank you,” said George. “I’ll be sure to tell her.”

  “I also have a favor to ask her,” continued Mary’s mother. “But I’ll wait until I speak to her. If you could ask Gaia to call me.”

  “Of course,” said George. “I’ll see that she does. Take care, and please let us know if there’s anything my wife and I can do to help.”

  “Thank you,” Patricia Moss whispered hoarsely, then hung up.

  George replaced the receiver and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He hadn’t seen Gaia much lately. He’d promised Tom to keep closer tabs on her, but agency work kept him away most of the time. When he had seen Gaia, he hadn’t noticed any signs of grief. Mrs. Moss had assumed he knew about Mary’s death, and he had, but not because of anything Gaia had said. This whole thing was getting so much more complicated than he had expected. He loved Tom Moore like a brother and would do anything for him. He’d jumped at the chance to take Gaia in, shepherd her through her last years of high school. But it was all getting so complex.

  The study door swung open, and Ella came in, holding out a cut-glass tumbler full of scotch and water.

  “Thank you, darling,” said George.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” Ella asked. She smoothed her fluffy, chartreuse wool sweater down over her full breasts and tugged it down on her waist. Then she curled up on the leather sofa, one leopard-print leg coiled beneath her.

  “That was the mother of a friend of Gaia’s,” said George, taking a sip of his drink. He hid his recoil at its bitter taste. Everything tasted bitter to him these days. Ella, considerable though her charms were, had never been a cook. Last night she had made a risotto that had tasted so awful, she herself hadn’t been able to eat it. Still, she’d looked pleased when he’d managed to choke down half a plateful.

  “Is everything all right?” Ella’s remarkable green eyes opened wide in concern.

  “You know that article I showed you in the paper earlier? About Gaia’s friend, Mary Moss, being killed on Sunday night?” said George. “Mary’s mother wants to talk to Gaia. She knows she must be pretty upset.” He looked at his wife to confirm the unstated question.

  Carefully arched auburn brows drew delicately together. “Upset?” Ella said musingly. “I haven’t really seen it. You know what Gaia’s like. But since Sunday—no, I have to say she hasn’t seemed upset. Are you sure she knows? Maybe she thinks her friend’s just out sick or something.”

  “Mary’s mother seems certain Gaia knows,” George said, frowning in concern. “Poor Gaia. She must be keeping it all bottled up inside.”

  Ella made a tsk, tsk sound. “That’s dreadful. I feel so sorry for Mrs. Moss. And poor Gaia. No wonder she’s been so … difficult lately.”

  George nodded. Ella pushed her mane of tangled red curls over her shoulders. She gave him an inviting smile. George felt the quickening of his body. His wife lay back against the leather couch, her hair floating out behind her like sea coral. She held out one slim white hand. He moved toward her.

  HEATHER

  I am not the type of girl who has to wait around, hoping for the phone to ring. I mean, I never have been. Ever since I was thirteen, guys have been asking me out, and it’s always been easy come, easy go. Except for Ed. I really did love him. He was like my soul mate. Until the accident.

  The accident changed both of us so much, split us apart. It wasn’t like I dumped him just because he couldn’t walk anymore. It was so much bigger than that. I mean, I was almost sixteen—I had the whole rest of my life ahead of me. And Ed hated what had happened. He hated himself—the new postaccident self, that is. And it got so he hated me, too.

  Which is why I’m psyched about us maybe being friends again now. We went bowling not long ago, and it was so fun. Being with him is easy, uncomplicated, light. Not like being with Sam.

  Yeah, Ed’s still in a wheelchair. And I can’t say he’s the same old guy. He’s harder now, not as sweet or eager to please me. And there’s something else, too, some other layer to him. He’s not just good-time Shred anymore. He’s a little more than that now. I don’t know how to explain it.

  Maybe he’s just older.

  not longing. not love.

  He would be lying there, flatter than a pancake but still somehow looking good.

  The Backup Sister

  OKAY, I’M A MODERN WOMAN, Heather thought. I can express my needs. Right now I need a boyfriend who adores me.

  Heather picked up the receiver and punched in memory dial #1. On the other end the phone in Sam’s dorm suite rang and rang. “Pick it up,” Heather said softly. “Pick it up. Be there.”

&nb
sp; Things with Sam had been weird for too long. If she left it up to him, they would just drift along like this forever. It was time to put her Reclaim Sam plan into action.

  Last summer things had been so great. She and Sam had had such a good time. They had gone to movies, gone dancing, hung out with friends. They’d slept in the same bed a few times but hadn’t had sex. She hadn’t been ready then.

  Now she was ready. Because when she and Sam were making love, she could forget about everything else for a while. Forget about Gaia, forget about Ed, forget about her family.

  “Hello?” a voice answered at the other end of the line.

  Heather instantly assessed it as a non-Sam voice.

  “Hi. This is Heather,” she said.

  “Hey, Heather. It’s Mike.”

  “Hi, Mike. Listen, is Sam there?”

  “Nope, sorry,” said Mike. “He’s wearing out the study chairs over at the library. His dad had his hide over Christmas because of his grades.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Heather. “So he’s at the library?”

  “Yep. I’ll tell him you called, okay?”

  “Okay.” Heather hung up the phone. So Sam was studying at the library. He wasn’t somewhere with someone else. Like Gaia. As soon as the thought intruded, Heather quickly shut it out. God, if only Gaia would disappear. Heather’s life would be almost bearable again. For Heather, Gaia’s existence was like getting clubbed on the head constantly and still trying to go around and live a normal life.

  Hmmm. With Sam unavailable, Heather had to move to plan B: be busy, be popular. Then when Sam called, she would be out. Everyone knew that guys always liked girls who seemed a tiny bit out of reach.