by S. L. Naeole
I walked around the side of the house, smiling to myself. It was odd how good it felt, seeing the two of them together. Wasn’t it just twenty-four hours ago that I couldn’t stomach the thought? I shook my head, ashamed at my selfishness. He needed to be happy. He deserved to be happy.
Who deserves to be happy?
I stopped short, stunned at the strange voice in my head. No. Not strange at all. It had been there yesterday. But he had also been right in front of my face, too.
“Robert?” I called out nervously. I walked towards the driveway, past Janice’s little SUV, and there he was, sitting on that death machine. My legs started quivering at the memory. “What are you doing here?”
“You didn’t answer my question. Who deserves to be happy?” he said, folding his arms across his chest.
“My Dad, if you must know. He and his…um…girlfriend are moving in together.” I replied. Why didn’t you just go digging through my head to find out, instead of asking me?
He shook his head. “You said not to do that anymore, remember?”
Oh.
He laughed. “Now, to answer your question, I’m here to see if my new friend wanted to ride to school with me.”
I felt the warmth flow through me, blooming in my cheeks, rushing to my toes and fingertips. I winced at the pain that suddenly shot through my hands. “Ahh.” I cried, dropping my backpack onto the ground.
He was off the bike and holding my hands before the sound had finished leaving my throat. I blinked as I looked at the spot where he had been and where he was now, and wondered how he had moved so quickly. His hands were cradling mine; he was looking at the bandages, and then into my eyes, asking me silently for the story. I concentrated, focusing on the events that led up to Janice putting the bandages on, hoping he could see them as clearly as I had seen the thoughts he had projected into my mind yesterday.
He pulled us down to the grass, both of us on our knees; He started removing the bandages that Janice had so neatly wrapped my fingers in. “Robert wha-”
He shook his head, warning me to be quiet. When the last ointment drenched pad had been removed, and the now angry, blistering skin was exposed, he hissed.
My eyes grew wide at the sound, and a slight tremble ran through my body. I was tempted to yank my hands out of his, but he read my thoughts as quickly as they had appeared and he clamped his fingers around my wrists like vices, locking them in place.
Slowly, he lowered his head towards my hands. I stopped breathing. I don’t think I could’ve started again even if I wanted to. He pressed his lips against the bubbles that were slowly appearing and blew on them. I stared in complete awe. Who would do something like that, much less to someone like me?
I should have been grossed out, but I was too busy trying to keep myself still; my entire body was growing warm and I was fighting the urge to run away as his lips continued to press against the red flesh of my hands. He continued to blow on them and it slowly dawned on me that the heat that I was feeling was no longer stinging, but rather comforting. He pulled his face away from my hands, looking down at them and smiled, his grip loosening.
I snatched them out of his quickly, not wanting him to continue to view the ugly blisters that were beginning to form, and braced myself for the pain, but there was none. Curious, I looked down at them. They were…fine! The redness was gone, there were no blisters—no pain. I looked up into his face, looking into the deep pools of his eyes, asking him for an explanation.
That’s for a later date. I didn’t want you holding onto me with your hands in pain. You might fall off.
“But you will tell me,” I demanded.
He nodded and then stood up, offering his hands to help pull me up. The strange mixture of awe, curiosity, fear, and something I couldn’t place that I had felt yesterday on the ride home returned to me like a tidal wave, nearly causing me to stumble. He sensed this, and didn’t let me go as he grabbed my back pack before the two of us walked to his bike. He placed my hands on the seat. For support. He pulled something off of the handlebars and placed it on my head: the helmet, of course.
You ready?
I smiled, pretty sure that he couldn’t see it behind the visor and mouth guard. It felt good to smile at him, even if he couldn’t see it.
I see it. Let’s go.
Yes, that was definitely going to get on my nerves.
He climbed onto the bike, waited for me to follow, and then turned the key and started the engine as soon as I had done so. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement a few yards away. A pair of green eyes were staring at the two of us. Angry green eyes.
Before I could take a better look, we were off. The wind whipped around me, getting very cold as we traveled at who knows what speed. I just knew that I was riding on the back of a very expensive motorcycle, my arms wrapped around someone I had met only yesterday who knew more about me than I did about him, and I was fine with it. Perhaps my reputation for being a freak wasn’t undeserved after all.
You’re too critical of yourself.
I know myself better than you do. I let the words bounce around in my head. I’ve been called a freak since I was seven-years-old—since my mom died—but I didn’t do anything that was freakish in any way until yesterday, when I got on your bike and let you invade my mind like a parasitic worm.
I felt his body shake. It took me a while to realize what he was doing, but when I did, I couldn’t help but feel a bit miffed. He was laughing! You were only too willing to allow me to ‘invade’ your mind. But it was necessary, Gee, to be sure that I could trust you with my mind.
Why are you calling me ‘Gee’? No one calls me that. It’s an interjection, for crying out loud.
His body was shaking again. Why did he think I was funny, when that was the furthest thing from my mind? I’d bet that you’re probably the only female at that school who would take offense to me giving her a nickname.
Why would I want a nickname anyway? I like Grace. It’s the name my mom chose for me. It’s different. I pouted. An actual, bona fide pout. Is it because it doesn’t sound like ‘Erica’ or ‘Becca’? It’s not girly enough for you?
His head moved back and forth in disagreement. I happen to think your name is lovely. Grace is a name that few can carry without contradicting its definition. You’ve managed to epitomize everything that that name stands for, and I much prefer it over Erica and Becca.
We were nearing the school now, and I could see that Robert on his bike was drawing a lot of stares from the students who were outside. They were staring at me, too, I realized as the looks of adoration towards him turned into something much darker when their eyes focused on me. The initial joy I had felt while riding with him was instantly stamped out by embarrassment once more. Self-conscious as always, I lowered my head, turned away from the school, and tried to pretend that I was alone while Robert maneuvered the bike into a stall in the student parking lot.
As soon as we had come to a stop, I was climbing off the seat. My legs weren’t so mutinous now, having had two previous trips that were twice as long under my belt, but I still felt unsteady. I fumbled with the helmet, not wanting to remove it and expose the complete abstract sculpture made up of my human hair beneath it, yet not wanting to look even weirder by keeping it on long after stepping away from the bike. I knew it wasn’t shielding my identity from anyone. These kids knew me as soon as they saw my shirt. Only Grace the Freak would wear a secondhand t-shirt with a skull on it, as if I were mocking death, while everyone else wore their best department store brand clothing.
I like your shirt. That’s one of my favorite movies, too.
Robert was standing there, waiting for me to stop fidgeting with the helmet. Once I did, he placed his hands on either side of it and removed it slowly. As soon as it was off, my hands were in my hair trying to smooth out any knots that had formed there with my fingers. What they met with were silky strands that weren’t out of place in the slightest. I stared at him, remembering the visio
n he had shared with me yesterday. He had reached out to touch my hair, and the immense tangle that had been there had disappeared. My jaw dropped. That hadn’t been a phony vision at all. He had really done it.
You’ve guessed my secret. I’m Vidal Sassoon.
I fumed. “I don’t think this is funny. You’re trusting me with a lot of secrets, Robert, and I don’t even know what it is that I’m keeping to myself!” I tried to keep my voice down as low as possible. I didn’t want others to hear our conversation, but I also didn’t want to have this conversation with him silently in front of everyone. Let them think me a freak for wearing a black shirt among a sea of pink. Just don’t let them think of me as a freak because I can read minds.
You can’t read minds, though. You can only hear what I want to share with you.
I glared at him, unable to say anything, by thought or voice.
Well, you aren’t a freak because you can read minds, since you can’t. That’s what is bothering you, right? You’re afraid that they’ll think you’ve got this freakish gift or something? Well, don’t worry, because you don’t. Your head is just as boringly normal and utterly predictable as theirs is in their minds
His words hurt. They weren’t any different in tone than what I had heard every day for the past ten years, but for whatever reason, they were able to cut me like no one else’s could. Lifting my chin up, determined not to cry, I grabbed my backpack from his hand and threw it onto my shoulder before turning around and walking away.
I could hear him calling for me. He was actually shouting and not trying to throw his thoughts into my mind. But I was too angry to let him in there. I slammed that door shut, locked it, and the key was now resting comfortably in my back pocket. People were turning their heads to look at me, then towards him. He must not have noticed because he continued to call after me, running now. I kept on walking.
I half expected him to grab my arm and make me turn around to face him. Isn’t that what guys did when they wanted your attention? When they were rejecting your rejection? But it never came. I kept on walking, and he stopped calling out for me. I walked through the school doors, down the long hallway leading to the cafeteria, and headed towards the counter to buy a bowl of powdered scrambled eggs. I took my eggs and sat down at an empty table at the far end of the cafeteria; as far away from the doors, and people, and disappointment as possible.
I knew I wasn’t a mind reader. I was being sarcastic in my own thoughts, for crying out loud. If I can’t be sarcastic with myself, who in the world could I be sarcastic with? But did he have to call me boring and predictable? Just like them? I’m sure that they would have told me to take that as a compliment, that I should only be so lucky. Lucky to be what, exactly? Someone like Becca? So self-absorbed, she’s oblivious to everything around her? Or like Erica? Mean and spiteful and as close to evil as one could get in high school?
I sighed. She was also beautiful. In truth, anything that was the opposite of what I was had to be beautiful since I seemed to be incapable of drawing the attention of the opposite sex in any capacity other than friendship, and even that was up for speculation. I was too skinny, too plain, too quiet, too smart…too different. I was also too weird. The only girl in Heath to have never been friends with another girl—instead depending on the most popular guy in school for all the companionship I received, and being so blinded by that very companionship, I mistook it for affection.
So much for being too smart. I snorted. I got the joke now, the joke that I’d been the butt of all summer. I could afford to be humble, now that there wasn’t anything else to be. Would it turn out that Robert was also in on it somehow? That the reason he hadn’t continued after me was because he was having a nice laugh with Erica about how big of a sucker I was?
I shook my head. I might not know much about him, but something inside of me told me that he wasn’t the type to mess with people’s minds like that. Not when he could so easily read what was inside of them.
When the bell rang, I gathered the thoughts that I had strewn across my mind, tucking them someplace safe. I wasn’t going to be taking any chances that Robert wouldn’t try to sift through them and pluck out things to prove just how boring and predictable I was.
I walked into Mr. Frey’s class, choosing an empty seat near a rear window, and placed my head on the desk, tuning out the chatter that was going all around me while Mr. Frey snored soundly at his desk. I had nearly perfected the silence when a hand gently touched my shoulder.
I raised my head to see who it was. It was a girl I recognized, but couldn’t quite remember her name. She had very familiar features: tip tilted almond-shaped eyes, hair the color of jet, straight and thick, a round face that complimented her round mouth that was pulled up in a friendly smile, and a small nose, all set on a backdrop of perfect porcelain skin the shade of an aged piece of ivory. Instinctually, I knew she was Korean, like my mom; Korean, like me. No one was like me.
“Hi. We’ve been in the same homeroom class for the past three years, but we’ve never spoken, and…um…I thought today would be a good day to start. My name is Stacy,” she said matter-of-factly, and held out her hand.
I stared at it, a little confused. No one just came up to me to talk. It wasn’t what normal people did. Automatically I thought that either something was wrong with her, or something was up. “I’m Grace,” I said, still eyeing her hand, trying to figure out whether or not I’d accept it, or hedge my bets and keep my hands to myself.
Hand still extended, she smiled. “I know.”
I didn’t know what possessed me to do it; it seemed like I was being friendly to a whole bunch of strangers this week, but I reached for her hand and shook it. She was eager to return my handshake, and smiled brightly at me. “So what classes do you have this year? I’ve got trig next, and then Spanish and open period,” she jabbered, flowing into a conversation as smoothly as if we had been doing it for years.
“Um. I have ]French Four next, and then Calculus,” I answered hesitantly. “I also have open period after that.”
She seemed thrilled by that. “Ooh, that’s great! Where do you go? I go to the cafeteria ‘cuz my mom works there and I can get some lunch while it’s still hot.”
I couldn’t imagine the food here tasting that much better while hot, but it would be a great concept…imagine that, hot cafeteria food. “I went to the library yesterday…”
She nodded her head, seeming to understand why I would choose isolation to food. “Maybe I’ll join you today. Would that be alright?”
I shrugged my shoulders, half hoping that she’d make the same decision she had made yesterday. “Sure, why not?”
She beamed at me as if I had just given her a gift. “Thanks!”
An awkward silence began between us, but I didn’t have much experience speaking with other girls, so I couldn’t exactly start up a conversation with her about the things she’d probably be interested in, and she appeared to be trying to read my thoughts. The idea of that made me laugh. Loudly.
She stared at me, startled. “What’s the punchline?”
“Er- I was thinking about something I had read yesterday.” I improvised quickly.
She seemed to accept it, and was about to say something else when mercifully the bell rang to head to first period. Sighing, she waved at me. “I’ll see you in the library, Grace!”
“Sure,” I said back, and looked around as a couple of heads turned to stare at me.
I grabbed my backpack and headed out of the classroom towards Madame Hidani’s class on the next floor. She was once again writing something on the board. From what I could see, it appeared to be the same assignment we had had yesterday. Obviously having only two out of twenty students turn in their assignments wasn’t going to fly with Madame Hidani.
I ignored the stares of the other girls in the classroom. I ignored the way their eyes felt like they were burning holes into my skin, ignored the way they seemed ready to either ask me a million questions about Robert—
I wondered if they even know his first name—or strangle me for having the audacity to share the same airspace as him. I focused on my desk and headed towards it. I’d be bombarded with questions, accusations, and insinuations soon enough. I might as well be comfortable while it happened.
Placing my bag on the floor beside the chair, I sat down and awaited the onslaught.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, he did.
One minute the entire room was on edge, and the next, it was as though a wave of calm and serenity had washed over everyone, leaving them drenched and satiated. Everyone except me, that is, because I was irritated by the source of that calm. I watched as he was surrounded, like a wounded calf by starved lions. He was glowing amid their attentions and for some reason that annoyed me even more.
I had to turn away then. I couldn’t watch the fawning and the cooing. But mostly, I couldn’t have him see it on my face, or perhaps hear it in my thoughts if he were trying to do that, too. The way I was feeling was as close to jealousy as I wanted to allow, and there was no reason for me to be jealous; how could I lay any claim on someone I had known less than twenty-four hours? He was, to quote Graham, in a different league than I was: the league of the impossibly beautiful and otherworldly.
When the bell rang to announce the beginning of class, I switched into student mode. I listened to Madame Hidani give out instructions, basically a repeat of yesterday only with an emphasis on turning it in or failing the semester on the second day. I wondered if I was exempt from having to do the assignment, since I had turned a completed one in yesterday…even if I didn’t actually do it. Not wanting to take any chances, I removed my binder from my bag and took out a sheet of filler paper. I reached for my pencil and started the process of identifying my paper.
But it already was covered in writing…and not my own.
I scanned over the words and realized who had written it, the elegant handwriting familiar. I turned my head to look at him and saw that he was staring at me, his eyes pleading. I looked back to my paper, the fluttery feeling in the pit of my stomach threatening to crack my hard exterior.
