by Diane Farr
I wish I could put my finger on what’s bothering me, but I can’t.
Maybe there’s nothing wrong with it. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. I know that’s what Lance thinks. After all, what’s the harm? So we can twinkle around town without breaking a sweat. Big whoop, right? Who does it hurt? Nobody.
I’ve got to give this some serious thought.
Anyhow, there I was. On the porch. And there was Lance, leaning against the rail and looking at me. The night air was cool and slightly breezy. The leaves of the peach tree rustled and danced. It was like our trip to the mall had never happened.
It had, though.
“Hi,” said Lance. “I thought I’d walk you home.”
I thought I’d kiss you goodnight.
The unspoken words hung in the air between us. I shook my head. “No,” I said. Out loud. But I couldn’t prevent him from hearing the whisper in the back of my mind: Not yet.
He smiled as if I’d promised him something. “Cool,” he said. And he was gone, leaving me with about ten thousand unanswered questions.
I wonder where he goes?
If I pick the information out of his brain right before he goes there, can I follow?
And, by the way, what happens if I try to skatch to somewhere I’ve never been? Do I splinter into a million pieces? Or what???
I sat on the porch for a long time, numb. My mind was racing too fast for my emotions to keep up.
In a way, I’ve done a classic teenage thing: I’ve fallen in with The Wrong Crowd. I now, officially, am sneaking out at night to hook up (sort of) with a boy who breaks the law. And who plans to introduce me to a life of crime. Or something.
Lance is clearly going to be a bad influence on me. Anyone can see that. I mean, yeah, I didn’t hurt anybody tonight. I didn’t steal anything. But wasn’t it trespassing or something? I dunno. I don’t think I did anything wrong. Not in any cosmic sense. But I probably did something illegal. Technically.
Bottom line? The very first time I give in and let Lance teach me something, we use our spellspinner powers to do something illegal. That can’t be good.
Plus, even though I keep fighting it and fighting it and FIGHTING IT, Lance and I grow closer each time we meet. And in ways that I’ve never been close to anybody. In ways that I never knew were possible. How can we be so much alike and still be so different?
More important, to me: will I be able to stay different? Will I keep my Zara-ness??!!
How much of my identity will I lose, if my mind keeps merging with Lance’s?
Because, frankly, the more I see into his mind, the less I like what I see. But he’s stronger than I am. Much. Every time my mind meets his, I can feel his power.
I don’t want to be like Lance. He’s cold and arrogant and manipulative. In all the times I’ve peeked into his mind, I’ve never seen an ounce of real empathy for anyone but himself.
But I do understand where he’s coming from. And not just because I can feel what he feels. I can easily imagine that a spellspinner raised by other spellspinners might not have a lot of sympathy for regular people. He might feel superior. I mean, most people feel superior to somebody, right? There’s always somebody who’s dumber or less talented or uglier than you. And, human nature being what it is, it’s easy to forget that there’s always somebody smarter, more talented, and prettier than you, too, and that, in the final analysis, we’re all equals.
Yeah, I can see how Lance might find it tough to think of sticks as his equals.
And once you’ve acquired that attitude, it’s a small leap to conclude that stick rules don’t apply to you. I mean, come on. If the laws of space and time don’t even stand in your way, you’re not likely to obey the speed limit. And shoplifting? Oh, please. Go ahead, arrest me. Before you can get the cuffs on, I’ll be in Honolulu. Or at least Weaverville.
This is about the point in my ponderings where my hands started to shake.
Skatching has HUGE implications. Don’t get me wrong, it’s fabulous to know that nobody can ever jail you. Or bury you alive, come to think of it. If I survive an earthquake, I won’t be trapped in the rubble—unless I’m unconscious, in which case, who cares. I should be feeling, like, major relief at this realization. I could, conceivably, rejoice. Gloat, even.
Except for the huge implications.
And hasn’t this been my problem all along? Everything about my power, or gift, or curse, or whatever it is, has huge implications. Whether it’s turning a poodle blue or muting the TV volume, everything I’m able to do that other people can’t do is a big problem for me. Morally, okay? Let’s call a spade a spade. I have ethics issues.
Okay, I think like a stick. Can’t help it. I’ve been brought up to believe in right and wrong. I believe that certain rules apply to everybody. It’s not that you can’t break them. It’s that you shouldn’t. Any fool can steal. That doesn’t make it okay.
Of course, until tonight, I would have said that the laws of space and time apply to everybody, too. So Lance is obviously right that some of the stick rules don’t apply to spellspinners.
Great. Now I have to figure out whether teleportation is one of the rules that you can break, but shouldn’t—like the rules about stealing—or whether it’s more like “people can’t fly,” which was only a rule until the airplane was invented.
!!!!!
It sucks that I have to wrestle with this question all by myself. But this is so obviously not a discussion I can have with Lance.
If I let him—and I have a feeling I’m going to let him—he’ll show me a bunch of stuff I had no idea I could do. And I’ll have the same frickin’ problem with every little trick he tries to teach me.
And if—no, when—I don’t want to learn? He’s going to be very, very mad at me.
Lance isn’t somebody you want very, very mad at you.
I’m in trouble. Big time.
10
It started right away. I have no one to blame but myself. I knew he wouldn’t back off once I let him start. I asked him to teach me something, and he did, and now he thinks I’m his. His what, is the question.
Lately I’ve avoided being alone with Lance, but I can’t keep that up forever. The three of us hang out all day. And at night? I feel him out there, waiting. It keeps me awake, but I resist the pull. It’s tiring, but so far I’ve managed to keep him at arm’s length. So to speak.
I’m teetering on the brink, here. Right now it’s still my call. I get to say what I am to him. I guess this is what they call a ‘window of opportunity.’ If I don’t define things soon, he’s going to define them for me. I know this in my bones.
So ... will I be his friend? Enemy? Apprentice? Partner in crime? ‘Casual acquaintance’ is already off the table, unfortunately. And I’m sorry, I’m taking ‘girlfriend’s best friend’ off the table, too.
Today I went to the movies with Meg and Lance. Big mistake. And again, I have no one to blame but myself. I should have suggested we see Bloodbath. I have no interest in seeing Bloodbath, but I should have suggested it anyway. We might have had a rip-snorting good time. At the very least, we could have had a laugh. Instead, we went to All I Ask of You. It’s hard to rip and snort at a tear-jerker romance.
The thing is, I always let Meg pick the movie. It never occurred to me that having a boy in the mix would change things. Duh. Lance agreed right away to Meg’s choice, and let’s face it, that should have tipped me off.
All I Ask of You is the biggest date movie ever. Even the cheap-ticket matinee was full of couples. But, as I think I may have mentioned, I'm not exactly in synch with the dating crowd. So I didn’t think of this until we walked into the dim, cool theater and saw all the canoodling going on.
Meg and Lance were sharing a popcorn. Very chummy. A little too chummy, I soon realized. And, wouldn’t you know, I made matters worse by being unwilling to sit next to Lance. I couldn’t exactly explain to Megan that if our elbows collided in the darkness, weird stuff would happen. So when
I stepped aside so that Lance could lead us into the row, then waved Megan in ahead of myself, she assumed that I was helping things along, or giving my blessing, or something.
Like I said, I'm not really in touch with the mating rituals of my peers. Protocol evidently dictates that when two girls go to the movies with one boy, they sit girl-boy-girl. Unless there is a romantic interest in the mix. So when we sat girl-girl-boy, Meg and Lance looked like they were together. And this, unfortunately, made Megan practically drunk with joy.
The instant we sat down, she started swiveling around in her seat, scanning the theater for anyone she knew. She was just dying for somebody from St. Francis to show up and see her sitting with a seriously hot boy. Sharing popcorn, no less.
Sheesh.
All I wanted was a normal summer. If Lance were just a boy like any other boy, this could have been so fun. Meg and Lance could have hooked up and it wouldn’t have bothered me a bit. Meg would have sworn me to secrecy and then told me all the juicy details. The three of us would hang out and go to the movies or the mall or the lake or whatever, and laugh and tease each other and do crazy things ... and not have all these COMPLICATIONS.
I had a hard time concentrating on All I Ask of You. I was too aware of Meg, next to me, leaning into Lance and sharing his arm rest. Lance didn’t exactly encourage her, but he didn’t discourage her, either. I kept sending him fierce telepathic messages telling him to back off. I know darn well that he heard me. He just ignored me. I could feel him getting a huge kick out of the situation. In other words, he was having a laugh—secretly—at my best friend’s expense.
I thought that movie would never end. By the time the hero whispered farewell to the heroine, I seemed to be the only girl in the place who wasn’t sniffling and dabbing at her eyes. Megan was just as weepy as everybody else, so when the final credits rolled she ducked out to the ladies’ room to wash her face. Lance and I stayed behind, claiming that we wanted to see “Thanks to the community of such-and-such” so we’d know where it was filmed. The instant Meg’s head bobbed out of sight around the corner, we were in each other’s face across the empty seat between us.
“You have got to leave Megan alone,” I hissed. “It’s not fair.”
“I’m not doing anything. What did I do?”
“Come off it, Donovan. You know she likes you.”
“Awwww. ”
He looked so smug I wanted to slap him. “Her feelings don’t count, right? She’s just a stick. She’s not even real to you.”
“You want me to back off? It’s up to you.”
I didn’t trust the gleam in his eye. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll leave Meg alone if you let me in. You want to keep fighting me? Keep your distance.” He shrugged. “Then I have nothing better to do with my summer. May as well break Meggie’s heart.”
My jaw actually dropped. “You conceited prick. I hope she breaks yours.”
We both knew there was zero chance of that happening. But I had to say it.
Everyone had left by now except us and a couple in the back who were still making out. Lance smiled at me as the lights faded up. He looked as if I had just paid him a compliment. “So do I spend my summer with you? Or with Megan? It’s your call, Zara. It’s always been your call.”
“Right,” I said bitterly. “I have all the power. I’m so sure.”
I’ve never felt so powerless in my life.
I stood up and marched out of the theater without looking at him. I was pretty sure Megan was waiting for me in the ladies’ room, so that’s where I went. Besides, Lance couldn’t follow me there.
The mall movieplex has only one ladies’ room, so it’s enormous. When you enter it you first walk through one of those old-fashioned mirror-lined lounge areas with couches that nobody ever sits on. Sure enough, Meg grabbed my arm the instant I stepped through the door.
“I thought you’d never get here.” Her eyes were shining. Even her ugly glasses couldn’t dim the glow. “Wasn’t that great? Do you think he likes me?”
Good old Meg. She gets right to the point. I was still steaming, though, so I was in a foul mood. “Everybody likes you,” I said shortly. I shook her hand off my arm and tried not to scowl. “But I wouldn’t get my hopes up about Lance, if I were you.”
“Why?” She went from Cloud 9 to panic attack in about a nanosecond. “Did you talk to him? Omigod. You talked to him.” She shoved her glasses higher up her nose. “What did he say?”
“Nothing, okay? Nothing.” I couldn’t look her in the eyes, so I turned to the mirror and started digging in my purse. “I don’t think he’s right for you, that’s all. I don’t think he’s The One.”
“But why? That’s so unfair. You just don’t like him.”
“It’s not that I don’t like him.” I dragged out a comb, to give myself something to do. I didn’t hit any tangles, so the plastic teeth floated down the length of my hair and scraped across my bare arms. “You like him too much.”
“I can’t help it. He’s gorgeous.” Meg spun dramatically and pretended to collapse in a swoon against the counter. “He’s the first guy to ever pay any attention to me, and he’s gorgeous. What are the odds? I have to go for it, Z. I have to.”
I studied Meg’s honest, innocent face in the mirror. It would kill me if Lance Donovan broke her snub-nosed, curly-headed heart. I would feel responsible. This so totally sucks.
I tried again. “Don’t you think there’s something weird about him? He came out of nowhere. And those eyes. Come on.”
“He’s no weirder than you, and you’re my best friend. What about your eyes? Hey.” She was laughing. “You should talk.”
Ouch.
I stared glumly at my reflection. My amethyst eyes stared back. I tried to think how I must look, to someone who’d never seen me before. Violet eyes, framed with starry black lashes. White skin, long black hair. Meg’s right; I shouldn’t talk. I look even more unearthly than Lance does. And wearing light colors is a lousy disguise.
Come to think of it, maybe my clothes make matters worse. If I dressed like a Goth, people might assume the pale skin and black hair were fake. I’ll add this to the list of things I need to think about. Later.
I let my eyes meet Meg’s in the mirror. “Just slow down, okay? Don’t get all worked up.” Inspiration struck. “For all we know, he’s gay.”
Now she looked smug. “I don’t thiiiink so.”
It was my turn to grab her arm. “What do you mean? Has he really been hitting on you??”
“Jeez, Zara, don’t freak. What do you care?”
“Has he?” I was having trouble breathing. The idea of Lance touching Megan—maybe, God forbid, kissing her—yeah, I was starting to freak. Big time.
“No! Ow! Not that it’s your business.” I let go and she rubbed the place where I’d grabbed her. “What is with you, anyway? What do you have against Lance? He’s always nice to you. I don’t get it.”
“Sorry.” I tried not to let her see how relieved I was. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Well, thanks.” She was all sarcastic. “I’m not a moron, you know. I’m not a baby. I can take care of myself.”
“I don’t think you’re a moron. I think Lance is a jerk. Okay? It’s not about you.”
“It’s not about Lance, either.” Her face was getting red. Uh-oh. I’d gotten her Irish up. “It’s about you, Zara. You’re jealous.”
I stared at her, speechless. She lifted her pointed little chin at me. “It’s true. I swear to God, I can’t tell if you’re jealous of me or jealous of him, but you’re jealous. And my advice to you is, get over it.” She yanked open the swinging door and looked back over her shoulder at me. “And while you’re at it? Butt out.”
And she was gone. I was left standing there like a fool, listening to the toilets flush in the next room. My best friend had just told me to butt out. I couldn’t believe it. I was only trying to help, and she told me to butt out. That’s gratitude for you.
That’s friendship.
I left the ladies’ room, miserable, and joined Meg and Lance. Lance was all charming and funny, teasing Meg about the movie and stuff. And she was all laughing and shoving at him, all flirtatious and all, but it seemed forced to me. And Lance picked up on that right away. He knew something had gone down in the ladies’ room. He didn’t know what, because I blocked him when he tried to read it in my mind.
And then it occurred to me. Why was Lance probing my mind for this tidbit?
The obvious answer? He couldn’t get the information from Meg.
Interesting.
I don’t know why I assumed this, but I have been assuming that the all-powerful, all-seeing Lance Donovan can read anybody’s mind. I guess it’s vanity on my part, in a way. When somebody starts helping himself to your innermost thoughts, you hate to think it’s because you’re the only casserole on the buffet table.
See, I had never even tried to read anybody’s mind. Except for Lance’s, of course, and that was mostly in self-defense. It seems, to me, like a perfectly horrid thing to do. Talk about invasion of privacy! And if the person doesn’t know you’re doing it? It’s worse than being a Peeping Tom—and that’s a felony.
Fortunately, it’s not a default mode. I mean, you have to go out of your way to read somebody’s mind. Otherwise you’d be walking around with everybody else’s thoughts clamoring in your head.
(I just had a very freaky idea. What if schizophrenics are just telepaths whose internal switches have gotten stuck in the “on” position? Because if that were to happen, I'm telling you, you’d lose your mind. And hear voices. And I don’t know which would happen first.)
Anyhow, the time had come to try reading somebody’s thoughts other than Lance’s. There was no other way to find out if I could. And I had to know.
I took a deep breath, shoved my scruples aside, and reached for Meg’s mind. Even though I was mad at her, I hated to do it. I sent my power out gingerly ... almost apologetically.
