Chapter Thirteen
A Fighter
As I walk through the parking lot in afternoon drizzle, I cannot get Luka out of my head. I am so absorbed with replaying our totally unexpected, intimate conversation after class that I don’t process anything Leela says. She obviously has no idea Luka and I are partners for a project in World History, otherwise she’d be grilling me. I wonder how long her oblivion will last. Surely, among all the gawkers, one is bound to tell Leela that Luka and I were spotted walking and talking together.
I can’t stop thinking about my nightmare and the debate in Mr. Lotsam’s class and the things Luka said. If the doctors were wrong about him, could they be wrong about others as well? What does this mean about all the screenings that are happening right now—not just here in America, but all over the world? Are doctors curing women of perfectly healthy fetuses because of a glitch in the system? All the questions make my brain hurt.
By the time we reach my car, Pete is already there, earbuds in his ears. Leela waves at him and heads off to her car. When we get home, Mom asks about our day. I give her the shortest version possible, then lock myself in my bedroom under the pretense of so much homework. Only instead of cracking open any of my text books, I alternate between staring at my ceiling, writing in my journal, thinking about Luka, and trying to block out all the craziness that has conspired over the past two days.
I don’t say much over dinner. Neither does Pete. Mom tries her best to draw us out of our shells, but eventually gives up and talks to Dad about the latest Safe Guard recall, which is always a headache. I do the dishes, retreat back to my room, and fall asleep somewhere in the middle of doing all the homework I should have done earlier.
That night, I have my first dream about Luka Williams.
The ocean is silent. It’s as if somebody has pushed the mute button on nature’s remote control. I’m standing on the rocky beach, staring out at the waves and there is nothing. No caw of seagulls. No crashing of waves. No spray against the rocks. No sound at all.
A soft lavender paints the sky overhead, but the sun is nowhere in sight—not in the west or in the east—so I cannot tell if it’s morning or evening. And there, straight ahead of me, is Luka, wearing a faded pair of blue jeans that fit him perfectly and the same white t-shirt he wore on my first day of school. The silent wind ruffles his hair. Walking toward him, I feel brave, almost reckless, because this isn’t real. I know that much without even having to scratch at my eczema. Oceans are not silent in the real world. I’ve lived by one or another long enough to be well-acquainted with their retinue of sounds.
In contrast to my buoyancy is his posture of alarm. He looks left, right, up, down, taking in our surroundings, as if at any moment the boogeyman will jump out and get us both.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
His eyes stop their frantic searching and he cocks his head in that way I’m beginning to associate with him. “Are you?”
I look around—besotted by our gorgeous surroundings. Everything is brighter and more vibrant—the green of the trees and the granite of the cliffs, the briny sea air, the immensity of the silent ocean. It’s as though turning off the sound has heightened everything else. “I’m more than okay, actually.”
His posture relaxes, but only after painstaking hesitation. “Well, this is different.”
Yes, it is. Incredibly different—instead of a nightmare, I’m in a dream I don’t want to end. “But nice.”
He nods slowly.
“I was thinking about you before I went to sleep. That must be why you’re in my dream.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s my dream,” he says. “Not yours.”
“I don’t think so.” I sense something warm nearby, but I can’t see it. Even so, its presence is this palpable, pulsing, undeniable thing—an invisible sun come down from the sky to share some of its energy. Or maybe it’s not energy, but courage. Because a question I’d never in a million years have the guts to ask in real life escapes without any hesitancy. “Remember the homecoming pep rally?”
His green eyes smolder.
“Did you see something in the gym?” I ask.
“Did you?”
I nod.
So does he. “Me, too.”
Even though this is just a dream, even though I’m totally projecting, my relief is intense and immediate. In dream world I am not crazy. “I see things like that sometimes. It’s why we moved.” The memory of the séance makes me shiver. It’s an unwelcome feeling in such a happy place. “I’m going to the Edward Brooks Facility because my parents think I’m crazy.”
He takes a strand of my hair between his fingers.
I shiver again, only this time, the shiver is not due to fear. “Sometimes I wonder if they’re right. Sometimes I think I’m going insane.”
He steps closer. “You’re not.”
But his voice sounds far away and the rocky sand beneath my feet sinks. I’m sinking, sinking, sinking until the sound returns. Wind whips my hair about my shoulders. Gone is the beach and Luka. I’m standing on the Golden Gate Bridge. I know because of pictures, not because I’ve ever been there before.
A girl stands on the ledge—she can’t be more than fifteen. Fear surges through me, because surely one big gust of wind will have her plummeting into the water below. That man stands beside her. The one with the pale skin and the greasy hair and the emaciated face. He taunts the girl. He whispers in her ear. “You are ugly,” he says. “Nobody loves you. Nobody wants you. Everybody would be happier if you were dead.”
The girl’s mascara runs black down her cheeks as she scoots closer and closer to the ledge and suddenly, I am angry. Pissed off. Seething, even. Because this man has pulled me away from Luka and he speaks words that scrape too close to home. I do not want this girl to believe any of it. I do not want her to jump on account of lies. The anger that tears through me is fierce and hot and before I can stop myself, I lunge at the man’s throat. Using every bit of strength, I tear him away from the girl and the two of us are falling off the bridge.
Falling, falling, falling …
He wraps his cold fingers around my neck and smiles a smile that is terrifying. “I knew you were a fighter.”
The Gifting (Book 1 in The Gifting Series) Page 14
