by L. L. Muir
Only a couple kids answered. The class was either a little slow or indifferent.
“So, if Miss Somerled is ready to fight, as implied by the raise of her chin, she must therefore have fear. Agreed?”
Skye was looking at the board, her mouth open, her brow pinched together in confusion.
Jamsion felt bad that his comments had led to this.
Evans slapped the chalk dust from his hands and walked back to his desk. “You make a good argument, Skye. I'll give you a pass for your participation, but I don't buy it, that you have no fear. Everyone fears something.” Evans looked at his cell.
Jamison didn’t want things left that way, with her squirming in the spotlight.
“What about you, Mr. Evans? Which side are you on?”
The man glared at Jamison, then the clock. Still two more minutes.
“I'm the fear and hide type, Mr. Shaw, like you. But I'm getting out of Shangri-La, just as soon as I dare.” He turned to the class. “Tomorrow's discussion will be Wisdom vs. Passion. How old do you think you will be when you do as Mr. Conrad did and exchange the latter for the former—exchange the passion of youth for the wisdom of maturity? I want an essay, not a debate, so be prepared. I recommend reading the classic, Lost Horizon, to get some perspective. If you haven't read it, Mr. Cloward, you should!”
Wisdom over passion? Jamison had settled for wisdom years ago—the wisdom to keep his mouth shut and his head down. Passion, though...passion, for basketball or anything else, only caused pain.
Holy crap, Jamison was as old a fart as the teacher. His wisdom seemed to fade with Skye Somerled around, though. Better to avoid her like the plague.
But that wouldn’t be easy—not with her popping up around every freaking corner.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jamison was fairly certain which direction to take for his next class was, but suddenly she was there. Skye. Odd name. It suited her though.
“Jamison.”
“’S up?”
“I don’t know any better way than to just tell you. It’s about your grandfather.”
He reached out and grabbed her shoulders to steady himself. “What? He’s not...”
“No. Sorry, he’s fine. It’s just that he had a test done a couple of days ago.”
“Yeah, I got there just as they were taking him away.”
“Sorry. I didn’t know if you and your mom were aware.” She bit her lip and looked down, and in that instant...
...the world stopped.
The feeling that he’d forgotten something vanished, like a tooth ache ebbing away as the pain medication kicks in. And Jamison felt unbelievable relief. What if he hadn’t remembered?
But that wasn’t right. He hadn’t forgotten her, really. He’d just forgotten what it felt like to be near her, talk to her, touch her. He suddenly remembered touching her in the parking lot the day before and feeling absolutely...complete. Then he’d run into her at the Recovery Center and been jealous of both her and Granddad, that they had a friendship he had no part in.
He remembered the feeling of an elastic stretching between them, and sensing how far away from him she was whenever he couldn’t see her. How had he let her slip his mind all morning? How had he woken up without her being his first thought? The first image?
He was probably grinning at her like an idiot, but he couldn’t seem to stop. She was fidgeting, noticing other kids noticing them, so he let go of her shoulders and grabbed her hands instead. She wasn’t wearing gloves.
The world lurched, started turning again, like a merry-go-round stopping and starting beneath him, then humming along smoothly. He could have stood there all day looking into her eyes. The hall was emptying and there was no one around to stop him from doing just that.
“Jamison!”
“What?”
“Listen to me.” She tried to pull her hands away, but he held tight.
“I’m listening.”
“Kenneth is going to find out about those test results tomorrow, and if it’s bad news, it would be best for him to have family with him.”
“I’ll be there.”
“I mean, your mom. It might be a really hard day for him, and if your mom could be with him, it might make a huge difference.”
Jamison came out of the Skye haze he’d wandered into. Odd, but he got the feeling she didn’t want him wandering there.
“I don’t know. My mom still hasn’t forgiven him for something. I think she’s trying to work herself up to being able to face him again.”
“Jamison, you have to push her. There may not be time for her to come around on her own.”
He’d been worrying the same thing.
“You have to get her to read the letter.” Skye squeezed his hands, but he doubted she realized it.
“What letter?”
The bell rang. An effeminate teacher walked toward them and cleared his throat like an old librarian subtly telling them to shut the hell up and get to class.
“I’ve got to go. You’ll know the letter when you see it. Just find the letter.” Skye ran off in the opposite direction of his next class.
He hurried to Ballroom Dance, wishing she were in his class so he could hold onto her and get credit for it. They dared to call it an Elective, but in order to call it that, they should let you elect who you had to dance with.
He’d spend as much time with Granddad as he could, then he’d tear the house apart for the letter. And he’d have to do it before it got buried under all that stuff the movers would be unloading that evening.
Crap. He had no room in his schedule for school that day, but he had no choice. If he went to the Recovery Center, Granddad would call him on the carpet for missing school. If he mooched a ride home in the middle of the day, the school would call his mom. It wasn’t like the city; there were so few students in Flat Springs they were easy to keep track of.
And what was it he’d lost track of again? Was it because Skye had gotten away that he once again felt as if he were forgetting something? Had to be. She was gone and the feeling was right back where it started, making him feel like an idiot, like he’d walked into a room looking for something but had forgotten what it was.
Maybe Skye wasn’t the thing he’d lost. Maybe she just made him forget everything when she was around. One thing was certain, though—it was going to drive him crazy until he remembered.
***
Skye’s visit to Kenneth was short. She tried to build his spirits by talking about his grandson, but his side of the conversation lacked his usual attention.
He was worried about the test.
She quit torturing him with her questions and chatter and helped him find something amusing on TV, but as soon as she walked out the door, she heard him turn it off.
Jamison pulled up in his mother’s car as she was walking out. Watching him unfold himself from the driver’s seat was riveting, he moved so smoothly for a tall boy.
“How is he?” Jamison rubbed his hands together then stuck them under his arms.
“Distracted. You know, you might want to give him a few minutes before you go in. He wanted a little peace, I think.”
Jamison looked at the doors, then back at her.
“Should I not go in?”
“Oh, no. I think you should go in, but just give him a minute.”
“Okay.”
“Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
“It’s cooling off. Come sit in my car.”
“’Kay.”
She turned on the engine and heater. Jamison always looked cold; his shoulders were often pulled up close to his ears, his hands buried under his arms or in his pockets, as if Colorado were more like Alaska when compared to Texas.
He also looked tired.
She knew he hadn’t had much sleep. His bedroom window had been lit up so late she thought he might have fallen asleep with the lights on, or else kept them on out of fear. Just as she’d begun to feel guilty over that, his light had gone off.
She’d stopped worrying about him, at least until English, when she was afraid Lucas had tampered with too much of his memory. He said he’d only taken the memories of the ceremony, and all contact Jamison had had with Ray and Burke since he’d returned to Flat Springs. What she’d feared to most was Jamison not remembering her. But so far, so good.
Skye was also aware that Jamison and his mom had likely awakened without a care in the world. Even though it was a nice little mental vacation, a gift even, she disliked the fact Jamison’s mind had been manipulated...along with memories of a half dozen other people last night. As far as she could remember, no clean-up had gone that far before, and it probably could have ended with Jamison had she told the others Jamison was still in the tree house. But whatever the ultimate fall-out over the incident, she couldn’t let it interfere with her assignment.
Skye checked her internal thermometer, then reached for the knob on the car heater. Jamison’s sudden growl made her snatch her hand back before she could turn it down.
His feet stomped, his knees bumped the glove box, and his hands pounded the dash a dozen times. He got some good force behind the fist that slid sideways against the door with a boom, and the violence ended.
“It’s so unfair! I just got him back!”
“It’s all right, Jamie. Really it is.”
His hands started pounding again, as if the car had decided to fight him back, but it ended after a couple of thumps.
Maybe calling him Jamie, as Kenneth did, wasn’t such a hot idea. But it had felt good, like she’d finally pronounced his name right.
When he could catch his breath he muttered, “I’ve had to do without him for five years. I feel so cheated.”
“I’m so sorry.” She squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry for you all. But Kenneth is going to need something from you.”
Jamison turned to face her. “What?”
“The time will come when you’ll have to let him stop fighting.”
“He fights because he’s a fighter.” He faced forward again and glared at the offensive dashboard.
“Maybe he was once. But now he fights for his family. He’ll keep on fighting, even after it’s useless, if you let him. You’re going to have to watch for the time when he should let go. And he’s going to need convincing that you’ll be okay without him.”
“What do I do? Pretend I don’t need him anymore, so he can let go and die? I couldn’t do that. I need him and he knows it.”
“Yes, he knows it. And for now, he needs you too.”
His hand smoothed over the abused leather of the door. “Sorry. I’m not the tantrum type. I promise.”
He’d changed the subject. She took the hint.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s a tough car.”
“Yeah. My Honda would have been totaled.” He faced her and smiled. Then he looked at her mouth and the smile dropped away. While she watched in fascination, Jamison’s arm snaked behind her. “I’m so glad you were here.” He gave her a little hug.
She hugged him back, wishing so much to have been able to feel the pressure of it. When he eventually loosened his hold, she looked in his eyes. Their faces were only inches apart. She could almost taste the warmth of his skin.
She’d imagined all kinds of cravings, for all kinds of flavors during her short existence, but never for the taste of someone.
He was looking at her lips so intently she didn’t dare move them. His lashes were incredibly long, golden brown. His nostrils flared suddenly and the entire world tilted with his face as he moved forward. His mouth met hers as smoothly as...breathing.
She focused her conscious thought to the rise and fall of his chest, to his nearness, and she could have wept for her lack of taste in her mouth or sensation in her lips. For the first time, she mourned for the depth of experience lost to her. This wasn’t the smell or feel of peaches, or the taste of corn coming apart in her mouth. This was mortality beneath her hands, against her fingers...and completely out of her reach.
He pulled his arms from around her, put his hands to either side of her face, and looked into her eyes. And suddenly Skye felt ‘seen’ for the very first time. She imagined her true self inside her head, jumping up and down, waving at him, yelling, “hello!”
She was struggling for the right words to say; something cool, something appropriate—anything that wouldn’t ruin the memory of her first, and possibly only, kiss. Very soon, they were going to go through Hell together and then she’d take her place in the circle. Nothing could stop either from happening, but she had this one mortal-esque memory she could take with her.
If she didn’t say the wrong thing now.
Her lips moved. No words came out, but the movement got his attention and he pulled her mouth close and kissed her again. For a moment, she imagined a tingling in her toes. She pulled back and wiggled them, testing. Nothing.
“Sorry.” Jamison dragged his hands slowly off her face, like a blind man, memorizing.
“Please don’t be sorry. I didn’t mind.”
Oh great. She may as well embroider “take me, take me now,” on her shirt. He was probably thinking “easy lips, easy hips.”
He was frowning. “Sorry if I’m not any good. I haven’t kissed much.”
She pulled herself back to her side of the car and looked out the window. No one was gawking through the glass, thank Heavens. A nurse made her way across the parking lot and got into her car.
Wow. Even if she had no sensation and no taste, she still realized what an incredible kisser he was. She’d seen women weep over such kisses, and not in the movies, either. His first serious girlfriend was in for a happy surprise. It shocked her, the sudden understanding she had for women eaten alive with jealousy.
He rubbed his hands on the knees of his jeans. Sweaty palms? Nervous maybe? She needed to acknowledge what he’d said.
“I’m sure you won’t be surprised when I tell you I’ve never kissed anyone before, and even I know that was...staggering.”
His hands stopped moving. He turned to her and grinned.
“Staggering’s good, right?”
“Oh, good. Definitely good.”
She gave in and grinned back.
Eventually, he looked away. “Well, I guess I’d better go see him now.” He flicked the door handle.
“Yeah. He’ll be wondering if you’re coming.”
He wasn’t moving. Did he want a kiss good-bye? Oh, wow. Did she want a repeat of ‘staggering’? Of course she did, but should she? Wouldn’t she just be more upset, being deprived again?
What the heck? She could always go pretend to cry in the field, not that it would give her any relief.
Jamison turned to her quickly, as if he’d just made up his mind. He reached out with one hand and laid it along her neck, his fingers pulling only slightly. She could easily resist.
But she didn’t.
Oh man. She was so going to be spending some time in that field tomorrow!
“Don’t forget the letter,” she whispered against his lips.
“Letter?”
“You need to find the letter and make your mom read it.”
“Oh, that letter.”
She hoped he’d remember. She didn’t even remember him getting out of the car.
CHAPTER NINE
Jamison begged his mom to let him miss school on Wednesday to unload boxes, even though he’d miss seeing Skye and wouldn’t be able to mess with Mr. Evans. He had to find that letter. He couldn’t sit through another day of classes while he could be helping his granddad. He would spend all day with the man if he were allowed to, but finding the letter would be better in the long run.
Because his mom stayed home too, he couldn’t tear the place apart and then put it back together again, so he searched in spurts, between unloading boxes. After only a couple of hours, Jamison was freaking. The house wasn’t large. He’d searched everywhere.
It was getting to be lunch time and his mom hadn’t been making any kitchen noises, so he went
looking for her. He found her in the small room off the living room, the one she’d put her desk in. The carpet was orange and yellow retro shag and the light fixture was a milk-glass ball surrounded by white wrought-iron swirls. The walls were covered with small yellow and white squares that had always seemed cheerful; now it all looked like a Hippie hate-crime. It almost took away his appetite.
Almost.
“Hey, are we going to eat?” He stopped and stared.
Mom was crying. She never cried; she knew what it did to him.
“What’s going on? Don’t cry, Mom. What is it?” He hurried to her side, feeling his body gear up for horrible news. “Is something wrong with Granddad?”
“Sorry, honey. Everything’s fine. I’m just getting old. Old people cry over stupid stuff.”
Jamison looked at the papers in front of her. A pile of bills, a pile of stamped mail ready for the post office, and some legal documents.
“That Granddad’s will?”
“Yeah. I’m not ready to read it, though.” She shoved it all back in the fancy folder and tossed it in the top middle drawer. She might not be ready, but ready wasn’t far away.
Then he saw it. The letter. It had to be.
“What’s this?” He snatched it up before his mom could stop him. “It’s addressed to you, in Texas.” He moved to the other side of the desk and sat down, ignoring his mom’s outstretched hand, holding it easily out of her reach. “You wrote ‘return to sender’ on it? Why?”
“I was very angry with him, and you know it. It’s why we left.” She put her elbows on the desk and bracketed her face with her hands, pushing back her hair, but still hiding her face.
“This is dated—uh, that would be—six months after we left. I thought he didn’t know where we were. You said that’s why I never got any letters, because he couldn’t find us, because you didn’t want him to.”
“Yes. I didn’t want him to.” She slammed her hands down on the desk and reached again for the letter.
“And did he? Did he send letters to me?” He ignored her hand.
