by Amy Garvey
“Yeah, I don’t know,” Jess is saying when I get close enough to hear her in the early morning noise of the hallway. Her hair is scooped up in what I think of as her all-business ponytail, and even her sweater is a no-nonsense gray. “There’s a slight Neanderthal vibe once in a while.”
“From Gabriel?” I snort, and Gabriel lifts one slim blond eyebrow. He’s a little pale, and he looks tired. “He is to cavemen what I am to Amazons.”
“How do you talk to boys you don’t like?” Gabriel says, and ruffles my hair.
“Not Gabriel, you goof.” Jess rolls her eyes, but she’s blushing, too, and studying the front cover of her history notebook a little too intently. “Cal Gilford.”
Cal Gilford? I twist the dial on my lock, trying to hide my surprise. Cal Gilford is the ultimate high school jock—big, broad, beefy. Definitely a blunt instrument on the football field and not exactly sharp anywhere else. At least not that I’ve ever noticed.
And while Jess may sometimes look like the ultimate blond cheerleader, she’s really, really not.
“Don’t say it,” she warns when I finally turn around with my French book and shut my locker. “He’s . . . cute, okay? And he’s not as dumb as he looks.”
“That’s a glowing recommendation,” Gabriel murmurs, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“I mean it,” Jess insists. Her cheeks are hot with color, but she’s trying not to laugh, too. “He asked me to help him with his World Lit paper, and he’s really kind of sweet.”
“So . . . you’re dating him?” I can hear how dubious I sound, but it’s hard not to be. Jess doesn’t date often, mostly because her standards are roughly Everest height, and when it comes to academics she’s the kind of dedicated that gets you into the Ivy League. It doesn’t leave a lot of time for boyfriends.
She bristles, and beside me Gabriel tries to disappear into my locker. Jess is intimidating when she’s mad. When she’s furious, she’s terrifying, but she’s not quite there yet. “Maybe. It’s winter break in a week. I could use a little fun.” Her mouth curls into a smirk, and she looks at me from beneath her lashes. “Especially yummy fun. I mean, even you have to admit he’s decent eye candy.”
I can feel Gabriel staring as they wait for me to answer. Like he has anything to worry about. Half the girls in school are homicidal that I got to him first, if only because he was someone new. “Sure,” I tell Jess, summoning what I hope is a convincing smile. “Probably, um, mouth candy, too.”
Jess’s eyes widen but she snickers. “Classy, Wren.” She gives me a mock salute before walking off to homeroom.
“Mouth candy?” Gabriel says as we head down the hall the other way. “Seriously?”
I elbow him in the ribs, not gently. “Shut up. I had to say something. And ‘eye candy in a brute knuckle-dragging way’ didn’t seem very nice.”
“Probably not,” he agrees, and drapes his arm over my shoulders.
“How do you feel?” I ask as we walk into homeroom.
“I’m fine,” he says as he slides into his seat. “Stop worrying.”
Before I can say anything else, even to change the subject, Audrey Diehl comes in with Cleo Darnell, and I catch the tail end of their conversation.
“. . . gone for three days. Scary, right?”
“I remember him,” Cleo says thoughtfully. “He was sort of cute.”
Audrey rolls her eyes and drops into the chair in front of Gabriel’s. “He’s missing, Cleo. I don’t think his looks are really the issue here.”
“I’m just saying,” Cleo protests, and sniffs, wounded, as she digs in her bag.
For her lip gloss, I’m sure. In Cleo’s life, there’s no tragedy that can’t be solved with the application of a little more Frozen Raspberry Glacée.
“Who’s missing?” I ask Audrey.
“Adam Palicki.” She shakes her head, and when she looks up at me, her eyes are troubled. “Remember him? His parents enrolled him in Saint Francis after eighth grade because they wanted him in smaller classes with more supervision or something. It’s not like I really hang out with him anymore, but I’ve known him since kindergarten. It’s weird.”
I nod unhappily, even though I barely remember him. “What do you mean by missing, exactly?”
“As in not around, Wren,” Audrey snaps before she takes a deep breath and gives me a tight, semi-apologetic smile. “Sorry. I mean, he walked out of the house Tuesday morning to go to school, and no one’s seen him since. Or that’s what they’re saying, anyway.”
“It’s messed up,” Cleo says, and if she thinks that brilliant observation is going to win her points with Audrey, she’s wrong. Audrey may be the prototype of the popular girl destined to win prom queen, but she’s not stupid, and Cleo, sadly, pretty much is. It’s a good thing she’s beautiful.
“Morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Rokozny says as he walks in, letting his briefcase drop on his desk with a bang. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”
And that’s the end of the conversation, at least for the time being. When I glance at Gabriel, he’s only half listening, looking at his French notebook idly. He doesn’t know Adam, after all—Gabriel and Olivia only moved here in October. Then Rokozny starts barking out the roll the way he does when he’s in one of his fouler moods. I slide my foot across the aisle and toe at Gabriel’s ankle until he looks at me, so I can smile at him.
He smiles back, and when Mr. Rokozny isn’t looking, I reach over to hold his hand. Gabriel’s smile turns into a grin, and it’s so sweet I can nearly taste it.
The news about Adam is all over school by lunchtime, but it levels out at a low hum. No one’s really hung out with him for more than two years, and aside from people in his neighborhood, like Audrey, no one’s even seen him. Saint Francis is way across town, and most of the kids who go there are enrolled practically at birth. They tend to stick together in a big, uniformed crowd, and I guess Adam fit in well enough.
Gabriel’s picking at a ham sandwich instead of eating it, and he doesn’t object when I lay my head on his shoulder while Jess chatters mostly to herself about the pros and cons of letting Cal take her to the movies.
“By the time midterms are over, I’m going to be so brain-dead, I’d probably go out with him,” Jess says, and jerks her head at the next table. Tiny little Duncan Miley, a freshman, is sitting by himself, scowling at his PSP. His faded Cthulu T-shirt is only a slight improvement over the World of Warcraft one he had on yesterday.
“He’d probably die of fright.” I get the pink end of her tongue pointed at me for that before we all separate to head to our next class. Gabriel kisses me before Brian Sung snags him to walk to chemistry, and I realize I can still taste him when I slide into my seat in World Lit.
Darcia looks up, eyes wild and hair wilder, corkscrewing all over. “I’m going to fail this exam. I am totally going to fail this exam.”
“Dar.” I reach across the aisle and lay my hand on her arm. “The exam isn’t until next week. We can study all weekend. You are not going to fail, I promise.”
She ignores me, indignant. “Who writes a book about turning into a giant bug, Wren? I mean, come on.”
She’s not a straight-A student, but she’s also not stupid. She just thinks she is, which sucks in ways that make me want to do horrible, vile things to whoever made her feel that way. And she’s in the same boat I am—she’s going to need both financial aid and scholarships, or it’s the county community college all the way.
It doesn’t help that her older sister scored a full ride to Rutgers. We don’t talk about Davina much.
Darcia either missed the news about Adam or she’s too stressed to care, which isn’t like her. Not for the first time, I wish I could do more than sit her down and quiz her on themes and symbols, and suddenly I blink, Mrs. Duvall’s voice a vague drone as she begins class. Who am I kidding? I could totally help Dar with this.
My power flares to life, and it’s startling. I close my eyes for a minu
te, concentrating on taming it. What the hell am I thinking? I can’t use magic on Darcia.
I mean, I could. I could do a lot of things, and most of them aren’t anywhere near as taboo as bringing someone back from the dead. Dosing my best friend with magic is either brilliant or one of the sketchiest ideas ever.
When I finally hear Mrs. Duvall’s voice, it’s half amused and halfway to assigning detention. “Ms. Darby? Wren Darby. Contrary to popular opinion, this classroom is not the place for a nap.”
I open my eyes and scramble upright, guilty and blushing. “Sorry. I was, um, thinking.”
Someone snickers across the room, and I can see Darcia out of the corner of my eye, looking at me like I’ve completely sprained my brain.
“I hope you didn’t hurt yourself. If you’re ready?” Mrs. Duvall says, dry as sand.
I know from experience that the floor never conveniently opens up to swallow you, which makes wishing for it pretty useless. “I am.”
But I miss most of the discussion on Gregor Samsa’s identity anyway. Sometimes it seems like everyone has an identity but me. And the one thing that sets me apart—the one thing I can do well—is a power I can’t even share with my best friends.
Chapter Four
“YOU’VE BEEN WEIRD TODAY.”
I glance up at Gabriel, startled. “Me? Are you kidding? You’re the one dragging yourself around like you’re in a coma.”
He makes a face. “Thanks.”
The diner is noisy and a little too warm, the windows streaked with fog. It’s become our Friday night ritual, as long as I’m not working. For some reason, Gabriel always orders the meat loaf special with mashed potatoes and a huge house salad with Thousand Island dressing, like he secretly dreams about eating dinner in the fifties.
I balance on the edge of my seat to stretch forward and bump my knee against his. “I’m sorry. I know you feel shitty.”
“I’m fine. But you’re . . . I don’t know.” He pushes lettuce around his plate, until it’s drenched in creamy orange dressing. “Forget it.”
I can’t, because I know he’s right. Even when he’s not purposely poking around in my head, he picks up on a lot more than he mentions. My boyfriend, the human radio tower.
When it comes to Gabriel, I might as well be made of glass. He can see right through me all the time, good and bad, and when I’m feeling the most breakable, I hate it. But I don’t feel like talking about my power now, or that I actually considered using it on Darcia for a minute. My power is just for me. For stupid things like writing Gabriel’s name on my wall.
“It’s messed up about that kid Adam,” I say finally. It’s not a lie, not really. Kids don’t usually go missing here. Every once in a while someone gets pregnant, and a couple kids have wound up in rehab, and a few years ago Mikey O’Connor made a career out of getting arrested, but that’s about it.
“Yeah.” He pushes his plate away, half of his meal still uneaten. “Did you know him?”
“Not really.” I break off a piece of my grilled cheese and dip it in the cup of marinara on my plate. My mom knows Sheryl, our waitress, and Sheryl can always convince the guys in the kitchen to make me grilled Swiss on sourdough with sauce on the side. “I mean, I know who he is, but we weren’t ever friends.”
Gabriel dips one finger in my marinara and licks it off, shrugging.
“You want to get the check?” I ask him, brushing greasy crumbs off my hands and pushing my plate away. “Or is there room for pie?”
“There’s always room for pie.” He grins, and I smile when I feel his foot beneath the table, the toe of his sneaker gentle against my ankle. “You want to share?”
“Only if it’s apple.”
“God, you’re so predictable,” he says, but I catch the glimmer in his eye that means he knows exactly what I think about his usual dinner.
I’m about to kick him under the table when I see her across the diner, the girl from the tunnel. I shiver, frozen in my seat.
She’s with another boy this time, as dark as she is light. He’s slouched against the counter up front while they wait for a table, almost black hair hiding his eyes, a huge overcoat the color of charcoal falling in wrinkles of old wool below his knees.
He’s chewing on a thumbnail like it’s his mission in life, but she sees me, and even from all the way across the room, the weight of her gaze is a tangible thing. A touch, but not a heavy one—instead, it’s sort of fond, fingers against the cheek of someone you love.
Gabriel is too busy flagging down Sheryl to notice. I grab my bag and start digging through it for my wallet, anything to look away from those pale blue eyes and the cloud of white hair around her face that looks like cotton candy.
She knows. She knows what I did, what I can do. I don’t have to be psychic to recognize it for the truth. We’re going to have to walk right by them to leave, too, and for a blinding moment I want to startle her, blow the two of them through the door with a thunderclap or a cloud of blue-gray smoke.
I want to show them what I can really do.
It’s so tempting, all that energy sharp on my tongue. I drag my gaze up from my wallet, clutching sweaty, crumpled bills in one hand, and blink. Gabriel is squeezing the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to get the whole thing to come off, and behind his hand I can see he’s wincing.
Sheryl walks up to the table then, check in hand, and I don’t bother to ask Gabriel before I say, “Can we get a slice of apple pie to go?”
By the time she’s gone, the girl and the boy have been seated in the back room, on the other side of the wall. Gabriel hasn’t looked at me yet, and worry uncoils in my stomach like a greasy rope.
I reach across the table to hold his hand until the pie comes, and this time he holds on tight.
“You totally don’t have to come, you know. Seriously.”
Gabriel sighs, and noses at my cheek until I turn my head far enough for him to kiss me again. “We’re coming,” he says against my lips. “But right now I think we could be doing something a lot more fun than talking about Christmas.”
We’re tangled on the couch at his apartment, and we didn’t even pretend to put on a movie tonight, since we never end up watching them. Olivia tends bar downtown on Friday nights, so we always have the place to ourselves. My mother wasn’t thrilled about it until I promised her I would keep my cell phone on and always answer it if she called.
I also reminded her that we’d already had the hugely embarrassing sex talk, when Danny and I were together.
“That was then,” she’d said, words tart and heavy in the air. “This is now.” I was just grateful she didn’t insist on going over the particulars again.
I wonder what she would say if she knew it’s one of the only things Gabriel and I haven’t talked about.
Kissing is so much easier than talking. And usually a whole lot more fun.
The sofa isn’t really big enough for the two of us, despite how short I am and how lanky Gabriel is, but neither one of us has ever suggested going into his room instead. I don’t want to, not yet, and maybe Gabriel knows that. Maybe he just doesn’t want to push. Either way, I’m content right here, tangled together warm and close, my hand on his chest and his arm around my back, his fingers in my hair.
“Are you sure Olivia won’t mind? About Christmas?” I wince when he groans. I waited to ask him until we’d finished the last sticky crumbs of the pie, and I only brought it up because his headache seemed to back off as we walked home.
“I swear,” he promises, and tugs lightly on a lock of my hair. “It’s not like we had anything planned. And I wanted to see you on Christmas anyway.”
“I know, it’s just the whole family thing is so . . .” I don’t even know how to finish that sentence. Not without saying things I don’t want to admit out loud.
“Cool,” Gabriel says distinctly, and the vibration of his voice tickles my cheek. “It’s not a big deal, Wren. I bet Olivia will melt all over it. We haven’t had a family Chri
stmas in a long time.”
I know his mom died when he was pretty young but not much else about her. And I still don’t know why Gabriel’s dad is gone or where he is. I want to ask if they had any traditions, even if they were just dinner out somewhere or an afternoon at the movies. Three’s not a big number, but it’s still a family. For a long time, it’s all I had with Mom and Robin.
But even without Gabriel’s psychic gift, I can feel shutters banging closed in his head, the locks to every door turning sharply. Even his body is tense now, and I rub my palm in circles over his chest until he relaxes.
“Well then, I’m glad,” I whisper, and stretch up to kiss him, licking the cinnamon of the apple pie on his lips.
“No singing, though,” he says. “I draw the line at singing.”
I laugh against his mouth, and he takes it in, smiling even as our mouths meet. I want to know so much more—the big stuff like where his dad is, how his mom died, and the stupid stuff, too. What his first-grade teacher was like, if he ever dreamed about being a fireman or a space cowboy when he was a little kid.
But he’s kissing me, which makes it hard to think about anything else, or anything at all. I’m dizzy with the scent of him, spicy boy and worn, soft denim, and the faint taste of sugar and coffee on his tongue. I close my eyes and let go, until there’s nothing left but all the places we’re pressed together and the sound of our breathing, rougher and ragged now. Just another minute, I tell myself. Maybe two. Enough to pick apart and remember later, when I’m alone and wishing I had more.
And then it starts to change. I feel it in my blood, liquid gold sliding slow and hot through me, shimmering. When Gabriel takes my hand, pressing our palms together and twining our fingers, our heartbeats are right there, suddenly one, a sure, steady pulse echoing through our skin. It’s hypnotic, perfect, seeping into every cell as if we’re fused, and all the ways I can think to describe it are too much and too little. It’s like a candy buzz, or the first dizzying swoop of beer in your stomach, the sensation of floating right before you fall asleep, the needling heat of a foot gone to sleep. All of it and none of it, but good. So good . . .
