The Gifting (Book 1 in The Gifting Series)

by K.E. Ganshert

  Chapter Eighteen

  Anticipation

  Trigonometry and Physics are painful. All I want is to fast-forward the day. I have so many questions for Luka. So many things I could tell him. And then there’s the memory in my palm—of his heartbeat and the warmth of his chest. All of it pings around inside my brain, making concentration impossible. Still, I force myself to take notes, because the last thing I need is plummeting grades.

  By the time lunch rolls around, I am a fidgeting mess. Leela and I find a table with our trays and in my search for Luka, my attention snags on Pete. He’s not sitting alone today, like he has over the past several weeks. He’s sitting with two others—fork-tongued Jess and barking Wren. Not exactly a happy crowd.

  Leela slides into a seat, her eyes glued to the same table. “Why is your brother sitting with them?”

  “I have no idea.”

  My brother looks darker, almost gothic in his black shirt and jeans. Discomfort squirms in my stomach, but doesn’t stick around for long. Not when I spot Luka across the cafeteria. Summer sits close to him, jabbering in his ear. As if sensing my stare, he looks up. Our eyes lock and in the span of our connected gaze, a sharp pain stabs my head. Like a lightning bolt splintering through my brain. Wincing, I press my fingers against my temples and look down at my tray.

  Ouch.

  When I look back up, he’s still staring, his head cocked, a funny look in his eyes.

  I spend Study Hall at the library, Googling crazy things like spiritual realm and angels and demons and evil spirits and good spirits and ghosts and Ouija boards and prophetic dreams—which apparently, have happened to various people throughout history. When I’m finished, I delete my search history, head to Honors English, and listen to the class engage in a heated debate over whether or not Fitzgerald attacks conventional ideas about masculinity in The Great Gatsby. Even though it’s one of my favorite books, I cannot engage.

  As soon as the bell rings, I speed walk to History. I find a seat toward the back and make an awkward, self-conscious attempt to save the spot beside me by placing my backpack on the chair. A girl takes the seat to my left and Beamer asks if he can sit where my bag is. I’m not really sure Beamer is his real name, but it’s what everybody calls him. He has blonde highlights and wears skinny jeans that sag halfway down his butt and expensive-looking V-neck sweaters. He floats somewhere between the jock crowd and the hipster-crowd.

  I’m too chicken to tell him no. So he sits beside me and fills the space between us with idle chatter while I give him the occasional nod or grunt, my attention fixed upon the door. When Luka enters, his attention flickers to me, then to Summer, who wiggles her fingers at him from across the room. Seriously, how does someone turn a wave into something seductive? Letting out a long, resigned breath, I fold my arms over my backpack and give Beamer the courtesy of some eye contact, but he stops talking.

  I follow the direction of Beamer’s stare. Luka stands behind me.

  “Hey Beamer, do you mind if I sit there?”

  “There’s plenty of empty seats, bro.”

  “I know, but Tess is my partner. I think we should sit together.”

  The entire class stares.

  So much for remaining inconspicuous.

  Beamer looks from me to Luka, hesitates a few agonizing seconds, then stands up and moves a few seats down. Luka slides into the seat beside me and I’m not entirely sure, but I think he scoots his chair closer. I put my elbow on the table and Luka puts his elbow on the table too—so close our skin almost touches. I tell myself this is a coincidence, that Luka doesn’t honestly care about being close to me, he’s only happy that he’s not crazy. Still, I do not move my elbow. I keep it in place.

  Luka gets out his notebook to take notes—something I’ve never seen him do before—and in the process, his forearm touches mine. I don’t move. I don’t reach for my pencil. I sit like a statue, unwilling to break the contact of his warm skin against my own.

  Mr. Lotsam explains that we won’t have much partner time in class. The majority of our project will need to be completed outside of school—as homework. I bite the inside of my cheek and stare straight ahead, while Mr. Lotsam writes the word Holocaust on the board.

  “I want to hear what you know about it.” He focuses his attention on Luka, no doubt thinking about the comparison he made in Current Events a couple days ago, about fetal modification being a modern-day Holocaust. But Luka doesn’t raise his hand. He keeps his arm right where it is, touching mine. For the remainder of the period.

  When the bell rings, he leans close and whispers, “See you soon.” His breath tickles my ear and before I can respond, he slips out of class. Across the room, Summer scowls. I can’t bring myself to care. Or heed Leela’s warning.

  “What’s your deal?” Pete stares at my thumb, which taps the steering wheel.

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re speeding.” Pete eyes the speedometer. “You never speed.”

  “I’m eager to get home.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m … meeting someone.”

  Pete shakes his head disgustedly. “Is it that Williams kid?”

  “How do you know?”

  “I overheard some seniors talking in gym class.”

  I turn off the winding road onto Linden Avenue, which brings us to the gates leading into Forest Grove.

  “I don’t like that kid.”

  I scrunch my nose. “Why not?”

  “He’s full of himself”

  Full of himself? Matt Chesterson is full of himself. Luka, no way. Those are about the last words I would use to describe Luka. “Pete, you don’t even know him.”

  He slouches in his seat as the iron gates slowly open. “It’s a feeling.”

  “Well, I have a feeling about the kids you’re hanging out with too.”

  I drive into Forest Grove, my mouth suddenly dry. Luka’s car is parked in the driveway. He is home. Waiting. For me.

  “Since when do you hang out with the popular kids?” Pete asks, unbuckling his seat belt.

  I pull into our driveway. I have no idea how to respond. I don’t even care to. For once in his life, Pete is being the pestilent younger brother, a role he has never played. A piece of my brain knows I should ask him what’s going on—the change in clothes and the loner attitude and the awful music. But I’m too anxious to get to Luka. “Since when do you have a problem with popular kids?”

  Pete shrugs.

  I roll my eyes, open the car door, hurry through the cool fog, and step inside our house. Mom is there, as always. I can’t think of a time she hasn’t been. Ever eager to ask us about our day, about our friends and classes and how we are doing. Usually it isn’t a big deal. Usually I don’t have much to report, but today is different. Not only do I have something to report, I really don’t want to report it to her.

  Pete slinks in behind me and lets Mom kiss his cheek. “How was your day, sweetie?”

  “Not nearly as interesting as Tess’s,” he says.

  I shoot him daggers.

  Mom gives me an interested, sideways look. “Oh?”

  “She has a boyfriend.”

  “He is not my boyfriend.”

  Despite my denial, Mom’s eyes go bright. Pete heads up the stairs, leaving me alone with the nosy parent. “Who’s he talking about?”

  “It’s nothing. I’m going next door to work on a school project.”

  “Next door? To the Williams’ house?”

  I kick my shoes off into the closet. “You know them?”

  “We met a few weeks ago. Mrs. Williams came over to welcome us to the neighborhood. Are you really doing a project with their son?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow.” Mom follows me up the stairs. “He’s a hottie.”

  “Mom!”

  “What? Isn’t that the lingo you kids use these days?”

  My cheeks grow warm. “Please never use that word again.”

  She follows me into my room.
“So tell me about this project you’re working on.”

  “We have to research genocides throughout history and give a presentation on it.”

  “Cheery.”

  I stand in front of my full-length mirror and run my hands down the front of my sweatshirt, wondering what it would be like to be sexy like Summer or pretty like Bobbi or even cute like Jennalee. I consider putting on eyeliner or eye shadow or mascara. Anything that might make me less average. But what if Luka notices? What if it looks like I’m trying too hard?

  “You look beautiful, honey.”

  I dip my chin at Mom’s reflection in the mirror. “You have to say that.”

  “Yes, but I really mean it.” She puts her hands on my shoulders and squeezes. “Have fun at Luka’s.”

  I take a deep, rattling breath and try to return her smile.