Guardian (The Guardian Series Book 1)

by A. J. Messenger

  “Finn and I were telling him about how long we’ve all lived here and how we’re all friends and when I said your name he asked if you were—and I quote— ‘the girl with the sea-blue eyes that I sat next to in homeroom,’ unquote.”

  “Oh my God. Really? I was staring at him like a crazy person. That must be why he asked.”

  “I don’t know about that. He seemed interested.”

  “Yeah, right—interested in making sure I’m not a lunatic.”

  “No, interested as in ‘that girl is cute.’”

  “C’mon. He is waaaay out of my league. And he doesn’t know me.”

  Liz shakes her head and sighs. “You are seriously deluded about what league you’re in. And you’re right he doesn’t know you—no guys ever know you because you never let anyone in. But it looks like it doesn’t matter anyway.” She tilts her head to the right and my eyes follow to see Molly and her friends surrounding Alexander. “Molly’s got her claws in him now. He’ll be sucked into her orbit and we’ll probably never hear from the poor guy again.”

  I nod. I’m sure Liz is right, but inside I surprise myself by hoping otherwise. There’s something about him. Something different. He was in all three of my morning classes and the few times I dared to peek over he met my eyes from across the room and gave me a slow smile that made my heart pause mid-beat. I actually peered over my shoulder to see if he was looking at someone else. He must smile like that at everyone—he’s new and trying to make friends. Liz is nuts to think he’s interested.

  I make my way through the rest of the day and discover that Alexander’s afternoon schedule differs from mine. I decide it’s a good thing because I can finally concentrate. My last period is English Lit with my favorite teacher, Miss Dunhill. She hands out the list of books we’ll be reading and discusses expectations and assignments. Before the end of class, she walks over to my desk and leans down, speaking quietly, “I know you’ve probably read all of the books on the syllabus already. Here’s a second list I put together just for you.”

  I smile at her and eagerly pore over the list. There’s a handful I haven’t read yet and I mentally sort through my schedule to figure out when I can get to the San Mar library. Our school library rarely has what I’m looking for. With all the budget cuts, I’m surprised we still have a part-time librarian.

  When the final bell rings I rush out the door. I’m covering a shift at Jack’s for Liz and I have just enough time to get there on my bike. I didn’t bother to drive this morning because the weather was so beautiful. Most of the tourists don’t realize it, but San Mar’s best days are in September and October.

  I cut through the parking lot on my cruiser to save time and wave to Liz and Finn as they get into her car. Liz is driving Finn to Stanford to meet with a professor about working in one of his research labs. A funny thing about Finn: he’s a genius and I’m sure he’ll end up inventing something revolutionary to change the world one day, but he doesn’t drive because it involves “too much sensory processing all at once.” Luckily for him, San Mar has an extensive bus system and he’s an avid bicyclist. For longer trips, Liz usually drives him where he needs to go. Her parents gave her a cute little blue Fiat for her birthday and she enjoys the forty minute drive to Stanford. I offered to drive Finn around, too, but he refuses to ride in my 1972 VW Bug because apparently “it meets no current safety standards.” I attempted to sell him on the fact that its canary-yellow paint job makes it highly visible on the road but he just looked at me with a dubiously raised eyebrow. The day after I plunked down nearly all of my savings to buy it, I discovered it must have been painted bright red in an earlier incarnation. Someone in the parking lot at Trader Joe’s scraped the rear fender while I was getting groceries for my mom and the dented gash they left looks like a bloody scar. They didn’t even leave a note. Dirtbags.

  After the accident, I christened my car “Archie.” I don’t know why but I suddenly imagined him speaking with a cockney accent and feeling indignant about what happened: “Wot koynd of yooman bee-in wood 'it me loyk that and take off?” he said, mirroring my thoughts exactly. If only he could remind me when the gas tank gets low. The gauge is stuck on empty and I’ve run out more than once. The problem is, my budget is basically “no money” and it’s hard to estimate how many miles are left when I fill up a few bucks at a time. Liz won’t even ride with me anymore because of the last time we got stranded. She bought me a gas can and wrote on the bottom with a sharpie, “Keep Archie full, you wanker!” I stow it under the hood.

  When I get to Jack’s, the line of customers is out the door but after it slows the gang surprises me by singing Happy Birthday and presenting me with a “cake” constructed of Krispy Kreme donuts (the only donuts worth eating, in my opinion) piled into a pyramid on a platter. I wasn’t expecting anyone to remember, but Jack says he couldn’t let a milestone like turning eighteen pass by without some fanfare. I’m touched, and I have a giant smile plastered on my face as I thank everyone and blow out the candles. We all inhale donuts and talk until the next rush of customers beckons.

  When my mom picks me up at eight I catch a strong whiff of myself as a giant Hula Burger as I plop down onto the front seat of her car, exhausted. I can’t wait to get home and take a shower.

  “Happy Birthday, sweetie,” my mom says as she leans over and kisses my cheek. “I can hardly believe you’re eighteen today.” She reaches out and squeezes my hand as she starts driving. I know what’s coming next because she says pretty much the same thing every year but I enjoy hearing the story. I missed her this morning because she had a client meeting.

  “When I woke up this morning I was thinking about the morning you were born,” she says, starting in. “You came right on your due date and my contractions started the minute I woke up. Your dad used to say that even before you were born you were punctual but also kind enough to wait until we had a full night’s sleep.” She pauses with a slightly wistful smile before continuing. “By the time we made it to the hospital, the doctor barely had time to suit up. You popped out so fast it was as if you couldn’t wait to join the world. At first, you didn’t make a sound. You just looked around with those big blue eyes of yours as if you were thinking ‘So that’s what it looks like from out here.’” She glances over and smiles. “The moment I saw you it was as if a part of my heart that I didn’t even know existed unfurled … I swear it’s as if I blinked my eyes and all this time went by in an instant. Here you are, all grown up.”

  I smile and look over. Her eyes are watery. “Thanks mom,” I say as I squeeze her hand back. “I can’t believe I’m eighteen either.” I don’t mention the soul-crushing panic attack I had as a birthday present. “All I know is, it’s been a long day and I’m totally beat. Thanks for picking me up.”

  “Of course. I can’t believe you wanted to work today. How was your first day of senior year?”

  I shrug. “Okay. Pretty much the same as every other year I guess.”

  “Have you eaten dinner? You look like you could blow away. ”

  “Yep, chicken salad and a banana shake.” My mom is, inexplicably, always worried about me eating enough. Years ago, one of my therapists told me exercise might help with my panic attacks so I took up running with a feverish intensity. It didn’t end up helping my anxiety any, but I became hooked on losing myself in a long run. It clears my head. Even better than yoga, which I also tried. Now I run every morning and my mom is determined to make sure I get enough nutrients and whatnot. She shouldn’t worry, though. I’m slim, but healthy. I love food way too much to ever get crazy skinny.

  “I also had some Krispy Kremes,” I add. “Jack and the guys surprised me with a giant donut tower. I told him how you build one for me every year because I hate cake.”

  “They built you a tower? Like the one we had over the weekend? You must be on Krispy Kreme overload. If you had to work, though, I’m glad you got to celebrate a little.”

  “I wanted to work. More money for my college fund,�
�� I say as I smile and pat my purse, rattling the bulky pile of change inside. “The guys let me take the whole tip jar tonight.”

  “Oh honey, I wish I could help you out more so you didn’t have to work so much. Houses just aren’t selling the way they used to. Maybe once the economy picks up …”

  My mom is smart and conscientious and good at what she does. The problem is, she’s in a profession that doesn’t always reward the nice guy and she’s the nicest guy there is. She’s drawn to those who most need her, not necessarily those who can bring in the biggest transaction. Her clients love her, but she’ll never be the top salesperson in town. After my dad died she used the insurance money to pay off the house, but other than that we just get by. During lean months, I help out, but she’s scrupulous about always paying me back when her commission checks come in.

  “Don’t worry about me, mom,” I say to reassure her. “Dad always said it builds character to pay for things on your own anyway … and it sounds good on a college application to boot.” She smiles but a wave of sadness passes over her eyes at the mention of my dad. I decide to change the subject. “How was work today?”

  She perks up a little. “It was great, actually. Your birthday must have brought me luck. We got a walk-in. A couple came in looking to buy a vacation home and our good friend Fred Fillner couldn’t steal them from me like he usually does. He was in the back stuffing one of those giant subs he loves into his mouth and pestering the interns.”

  I laugh. “I hope it turns into a huge commission for you.”

  “You and me both, sweetie. You and me both.” She sounds weary but hopeful as we pull into our driveway.

  The next morning in homeroom Alexander is sitting in the same seat as before but now Molly has claimed the spot next to him. He’s so tied up in conversation with her I don’t think he even notices as I walk by to an empty desk.

  By the time third period Art History rolls around I’ve given up on ever actually speaking to him. He’s constantly surrounded by admirers and I’ve convinced myself he’s probably a lothario anyway. How can he not be when he looks like that and girls are practically throwing themselves at his feet?

  Our teacher, Mrs. King, arrives uncharacteristically late to class looking frazzled. “I want to apologize to all of you for being late because you know how I value punctuality. All I can say is I have had one heck of a morning. First the power went out to my building, then as I was leaving my dog escaped, and to top it all off, I got a flat tire. At any rate, I’m glad I finally made it here in one piece, so let’s get started.” She plops down her purse and Starbucks coffee on her desk and as she grabs a folder the coffee cup starts to topple. In a flash, Alexander is out of his seat with his hand over the desk, miraculously catching the cup mid-tip and righting it firmly into place. The whole class bursts into applause.

  I look around to see if I’m the only one who noticed. Everyone seems unaware, but I could swear Alexander put his hand out before her coffee cup tipped. My mind must be playing tricks on me.

  “Thank you, Alexander!” says Mrs. King. “That’s all I need now is to spill coffee everywhere. If I didn’t know better I’d say the gods are against me today.”

  “It’s never the gods, Mrs. King. It’s just one of those days,” replies Alexander.

  Mrs. King dives into a presentation on famous art forgeries and leads us into a discussion: Should only the quality be considered or is it truly less of a work of art if it’s deemed a fake? Most of the class weighs in and the majority feels that if a piece of art is virtually indistinguishable from the original, the fact that it’s a forgery shouldn’t matter a great deal because it’s just as good, technically. Finn points out that many art pieces are of indeterminate origin—even experts can’t agree on authenticity—but that doesn’t make them less beautiful or worthy of admiration. Molly joins the majority in the “who cares” camp. She declares that if it takes an art expert to tell the difference, she may as well own a fake rather than pay millions for an original.

  “What do you think, Declan?” asks Mrs. King. I’m peering off into the middle distance and I think she assumes I’m daydreaming but I’m just contemplating the question.

  “I disagree,” I answer.

  “With what?”

  “That it doesn’t matter.”

  “Go on.”

  “I understand what everyone is saying about technical quality. But when I see an original piece of art, I look at it differently. I think about the artist and the period it was made and the subject they chose and I take my time to truly contemplate it. I wouldn’t feel the same if I knew it was a forgery. Maybe the difference is in me, rather than the art itself.”

  Mrs. King nods and I detect a hint of a smile. I feel a small burst of pride that I may have said the right thing. She’s a fair teacher but hard to please.

  “Alexander? I don’t think we’ve heard from you yet. What do you think?” she asks.

  Alexander turns and looks at me as he answers. “I agree with Declan. I think the spirit of an artist is imbued in their work and if you’re paying attention it affects you differently when you view an original.”

  A ridiculous thrill runs up my spine when he says my name. His eyes stay on mine as he speaks, as if he’s taking my measure. God, he’s good looking. But there’s something more. He’s somehow brighter than everyone else in the room. Almost as if he’s incandescent and glowing from the inside. I feel certain that if I touched his skin it would be pleasantly warm …

  The bell rings loudly, startling me out of my reverie, and I file into the hall with the others as we all head to the quad for lunch. I walk slower than usual, hoping that Alexander might catch up and talk to me now that we made a connection of sorts over our art opinions. Finn urges me to hurry, though, and when I turn around I see Alexander has disappeared, leaving me embarrassed at my imaginings.

  “You want to go to the Boardwalk later? It’s the last local’s night of the year,” asks Liz as we sit eating our lunch.

  “Can’t,” I answer, “I’m babysitting Charlie Bing tonight.”

  “I’ll never understand that setup. How does Molly get away with not having to watch her own little brother?”

  I shrug. “Her mom doesn’t make her. It’s probably for the best. I wouldn’t want to leave Charlie—or any other five year old, for that matter—alone with Molly.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “Look at it this way. It’s fifteen bucks an hour. Cash. And I like Charlie. So I’m glad Mrs. Bing is an enabler.”

  Liz shrugs in agreement. “Can’t argue with that. How about you, Finn? You in? I’m buying.”

  “Maybe,” says Finn, “as long as you don’t make me ride the Cave Carts again.”

  “Awwww, really?” groans Liz. “But it’s so random. How can you not like riding in rickety old carts through the dark while being assaulted with flashing lights and weird noises?”

  “I’m with Finn on this,” I say. “That ride is seriously deranged.”

  “Ex-actly,” says Liz. “And whoever designed it must have been seriously high … that’s what makes it so good! How can you not love those weird little pop-up cavemen and that terrible music? Doesn’t the fact that it makes no sense make you like it? A little?”

  “No,” replies Finn. Case closed.

  I laugh. Finn can be very rigid. He’s never eaten a piece of fruit in his life, for example, and I doubt he ever will—I think it has something to do with the texture. But if he really cares about you, he can sometimes surprise you.

  When he was five he had to have his blood drawn for an important medical test and he steadfastly refused, to the point of kicking and screaming when his parents tried to pick him up to bring him to the nurse. It was very unlike him and no amount of bribing with Legos or ice cream or anything else he loved made him budge. Finally, in desperation, his mom sat him down and pleaded, with tears in her eyes, telling him she needed him to have his blood taken. For her.

  Finn looked
at her, wide-eyed, his voice shaking, and said, “You really want me to do it?”

  She nodded, and after a long pause, his eyes welling with tears, he stood up and walked haltingly over to the nurse. Without a word, he sat down, stuck out his arm, and slowly bowed his head.

  The next day, his family came over to our house and I overheard his mom and dad relay the story to my parents in the next room.

  “Did it hurt?” I asked Finn.

  “A little,” he said.

  “Why didn’t you want to do it? You could have gotten a new Lego set.”

  Finn stopped rolling his wooden car along the carpet and answered with his head down.

  “I thought if they took my blood I would die.”

  His answer shredded me, even then. He thought they were going to take all of his blood and he loved his mom so deeply that he did it anyway. I still have an urge to hug Finn whenever I think of that story. He’s so smart but so literal and his heart is so big. I won’t be surprised if he ends up going on the Cave Carts with Liz after all, if she begs him.

  When I arrive for babysitting, Mrs. Bing spouts instructions at me as she rushes out the door. As a beautiful divorcée she’s constantly going out and it amuses me on some level that my college fund is being fueled in large part by her active dating life since I have no love life of my own. Molly’s dad is a prominent CEO that left years ago—right before Charlie was born—and married his secretary. Total cliché. I feel sorry for Mrs. Bing because she’s so pretty but insecure. I wonder if that’s always been the case or if her husband leaving made her that way.

  “Do I look okay?” she asks. She runs her hands down her dress to smooth it as she turns to me.

  “You look beautiful,” I answer. She truly is stunning and the dress shows off her Pilates-carved figure.

  She smiles gratefully. “Molly’s locked away in her room as usual but if you need something, bang on her door and she’ll answer. Eventually. Charlie’s in the family room watching TV. He had an early dinner. You can leave after you put him to bed at eight. Money’s on the table. You have my cell number. Wish me luck!” She waves and is gone in a flurry.