Silver

by Talia Vance

  He runs his fingers through his hair. “You don’t know what you are?”

  A rush of adrenaline sends my pulse skittering. “And what, exactly, would that be?” For a second it’s like he sees right through me, like he knows that everything I do, from analyzing anti-matter to solving equations, is one giant lie. A distraction to keep the crazy at bay.

  “Only the hottest thing to grace this planet in several generations.”

  I release a breath. What did I expect him to say anyway? I might be inexperienced when it comes to these things, but even I can spot a line when it’s served up with that much cheese. “Wow,” I murmur. “You didn’t strike me as stupid, but I guess first impressions are deceiving.”

  He leans closer, his voice a warm whisper. “I might know what I’m talking about.”

  This time I don’t fight the instinct to run. I get out of the room as fast as I can. I sail blindly around a corner, stopping only when I reach a group of people sitting around a dark wood table. Safety in numbers and all that. I hold the back of an empty chair and try to remember how to breathe.

  Bandia. It’s a word I haven’t heard since my grandma died—her nickname for me. Blake couldn’t know that. There’s no way. Just like time did not stop. And there was no silver light. So Blake said hi to me. It’s an outlier, sure, but statistically, it was bound to happen sooner or later.

  A preppy girl at the end of the table rolls a quarter off her nose and bounces it toward a glass in front of her. The coin hits the glass and falls back on the table. “Off the rim has to drink,” the guy next to her says too loudly, even with the music. The girl flashes him a defiant stare as she picks up a large cup to her left and chugs the liquid inside. She never breaks eye contact even as she slams the empty cup back down. Modern mating rituals at their finest.

  “You gonna sit down or are you busy holding up that chair?” A thin guy lifts his head slightly. I’ve seen him with Blake before. They were seniors last year at McMillan Prep, but now I think they both go to U.R.D.

  I take the seat next to him, willing my pulse to slow down but not quite succeeding.

  The thin guy slides the glass and quarter to me. He has hair like a fifties greaser, combed back and teased high. An unlit Marlboro hangs from the corner of his mouth. He’s a dark-haired James Dean wannabe, except for the Greenpeace tattoo on his left forearm. He might actually have a cause.

  I take the quarter between my shaking fingers. I should be good at this game; it’s just basic physics. Force, energy, trajectory. But understanding how something works and being able to execute it are two different things. Entirely. I line up the coin, concentrating on staving off the adrenaline that still courses through my blood. When I let the quarter go, it makes a loud plink before it skews dead right, landing in front of a guy in a red T-shirt.

  “Oh, we’re in trouble now, aren’t we?” Red Shirt Guy says in a soft accent that sounds like a cross between my grandmother and a character from Harry Potter. His brown eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, a lopsided smile that doesn’t send me into a panic. To the contrary, I relax a little.

  “I’m just warming up.” I try another shot, closing my eyes as I let the quarter go. No one is more surprised than me to hear it settle at the bottom of the glass.

  “Well done.” The soft lilt in Red Shirt’s voice is soothing, like a lullaby.

  I pour a healthy shot from a pitcher of screwdrivers in the center of the table with little difficulty, the shaking in my hands gone. I push the cup in the direction of Red Shirt. “Drink.” Before I can stop myself, I add, in a bad imitation of his accent, “Unless you would prefer a spot of tea?”

  “I’ll have you know I take my tea very seriously.” He raises the cup in a toast. “But I prefer vodka.” He presses the cup to his lips and downs the drink in one swallow.

  I smile. At least for now, my psyche does not fall apart just because a cute guy is talking to me. I even feel a little normal.

  “Much better.” He laughs, almost to himself. “A shame that this will end badly.”

  “What? You don’t think I can make another one?” I take the quarter between my fingers and line it up with the glass again.

  “I have no idea. I was speaking of our relationship.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. The idea of me and him, me and any guy, is a joke in itself. “We don’t even know each other.”

  His dark brown bangs fall forward, covering one eye. “Yet.”

  I toss the quarter at the table. It bounces left and lands on the ground. Back in form.

  Red Shirt Guy fills the glass with a screwdriver. “Off the table has to drink.”

  I gulp it down before I can think about it. The liquid leaves a trail of fire from the back of my throat to my stomach. His eyes meet mine, and for a second it’s like he knows that the heat that fills me isn’t entirely caused by the alcohol.

  To my left, Greenpeace removes the unlit cigarette from his lips, sipping from a can of Pepsi before he picks up the quarter from the floor.

  “C’mon Joe!” The girl at the end of the table is ready for the game to get back underway.

  Joe takes aim and makes it easily. He points at my chest. The guy might be worse at the whole small-talk thing than me.

  Red Shirt refills the glass. “The fair Juliet drinks again.”

  “This is cheating, right?” I say. “Joe’s not even drinking.”

  “All’s fair in love and quarters.”

  “I’m pretty sure Romeo didn’t need to get Juliet drunk.”

  Red Shirt laughs. “That might be the best news I’ve heard all night.” He downs the screwdriver himself, then stands up, holding out his hand. Waiting.

  I hesitate for only a second, placing my hand in his and letting him pull me from my chair. There’s no burning heat where our hands touch. I shouldn’t be disappointed. It has to be a good sign. I’m not going to lose control with him.

  We weave through the partygoers until we reach a darkened room at the end of a hallway. I don’t stop to think about why we’re here or what it might mean. I already know. And the answer is yes. Please. His hand is a solid branch on a slippery hillside, and I cling to it for all I’m worth.

  The door shuts behind us, cloaking us in darkness. For a second it’s almost too much, reminding me of the scene in the kitchen. But there’s no silver light and the sounds of the party are still audible in the distance. When his free hand circles my waist, the only shiver I feel is one of anticipation. The good kind.

  Definitely the good kind.

  THREE

  He pulls me against his red shirt. “Is this okay?”

  “Yes,” I manage to say. The place where his hand touches my waist tingles, the nerves jumping despite the barrier of my sweater.

  He lowers his head until his lips brush mine, so softly I barely feel it. Then they’re gone. Just as I’m wondering if that was it, his lips are back, the pressure stronger. It’s weird at first, to taste someone’s breath, but it’s nice, too, like sharing a secret. His tongue licks at my lower lip and I pull back.

  He loosens his hold on my waist but doesn’t move away from me. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “I won’t hurt you. Not ever.”

  It’s an odd thing to say to someone you’ve just met. “You can’t know that.”

  He laughs. “You’d be surprised.” I feel his breath against my cheek and then his lips are on mine again. The weight of his chest pushes me back against the door as his tongue invades my mouth. His hand moves underneath my sweater, his fingers brushing bare skin.

  I don’t stop him. I wait to see if I feel anything strange. But there’s nothing. No electric shock, no flash of light. No risk that I’m going to go pyro on him. His touch is soft and warm and soothing. Not hot like Blake’s.

  Red Shirt’s hands travel further north, bringing
me back into the moment. Damn. I should not be thinking about Blake right now.

  I put my hands on his shoulders and kiss him back. I press closer until there’s nothing but the feel of his lips, his mouth, his hands.

  He breaks the kiss, his fingers still moving across my skin. His thumbs rub circles on my lower back. I can just make out his face in the dark. He looks different here in the shadows, better-looking than I thought at first, with impossibly high cheekbones and a strong jaw. There’s a question in his eyes as he watches me, an invitation.

  I’m exposed and defenseless, like a white blood cell pressed on a glass slide. I have to look away. I focus on the ceiling, where hundreds of glowing stars float in intricate patterns, a perfect starry night. An illusion. The stars are the kind you can buy in a fancy toy store, simple phosphors that can be energized with light.

  His hand moves along my waist to my belly button, flirting with the button of my jeans. “I’m Austin,” he says.

  A nervous laugh escapes before I can stop it. “Just when I was getting used to thinking of you as Red Shirt Guy.”

  His lips curve into a crooked smile, an imperfection that makes his face seem more human and less Greek god. “Not Romeo?”

  Not Romeo. And before I can stop myself from thinking it—not Blake.

  A pounding on the door startles us both.

  “Brianna?” The door pushes against my back as it opens and I have to jump out of its path, away from Austin. Blake’s shoulders fill the frame. “Is everything okay?”

  I try to process this. It was one thing for Blake to talk to me when I approached him in the kitchen, but there is no reason whatsoever for him to be here now. None. A tickle of nervous energy makes my stomach tighten. Is he jealous? I try not to let myself hope for things that can’t possibly be true.

  “We’re fine,” Austin says. He slides his arm around me and pulls me back to him.

  For the second time, Blake looks directly at me. “Your friends are looking for you.” The words are neutral, but everything about his posture is tense. The slightest pressure and he’ll snap. “They’re ready to go.”

  “She can stay here if she likes.” Austin doesn’t even try to make the sentence sound innocent.

  Blake emits a low guttural sound that’s almost a growl.

  I shrink back. “I should find out what they want.”

  Austin whispers in my ear. “Back here in five minutes.” It’s not a question.

  I step forward, but Blake still stands in the doorway, blocking my way. We’re too close, inches apart. I almost feel the current of electricity that hangs in the air between us. Only the fact that Austin is right behind me keeps me from running to the farthest corner of the room.

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  Blake blinks and takes a small step back. “They’re in the kitchen.”

  I slide past Blake, twisting my shoulders so my body doesn’t touch any part of his. Then I nearly run, snaking through the people milling in the hallway.

  Christy heads me off in the living room. “Omigod, Brie.” She rakes her hands through her black hair, creating body that will only last as long as she continues the motion. “What’s going on?”

  I almost launch into the whole story. About the weird hallucination with Blake and my kiss with Austin, but the worry in her tone stops me. “What do you mean?”

  “What are you doing with Austin?”

  “Nothing.” The answer is pure reflex. It’s far easier than trying to sort out the truth.

  Christy looks around to make sure no one’s listening. “Haley saw you go off with him. She’s freaking.”

  Join the club, I want to say. Instead, I just wait, knowing Christy won’t be able to resist filling me in on whatever Haley’s latest drama involves.

  “Hello? You hooked up with Austin! What were you thinking?”

  Not much beyond “yes,” if she wants the truth. It’s not like Christy can judge, given her own track record. She picks up guys the way an adrenaline junkie picks up hobbies. The more dangerous, the better.

  Christy pouts. “Austin’s the guy Haley came here to see in the first place. She really likes him, right?”

  I almost laugh. Austin is Otto? It figures that the one guy to show any interest in me since I moved here nearly three years ago is Haley’s latest boytoy. My life is a series of cruel ironies. The pretty girl no one sees. The horse I have to sell. The kiss I can’t keep.

  It’s not that I’m unattractive, exactly, but people always seem surprised when they see a picture of me—as if they never noticed I was pretty before. It’s not as obvious a thing with girls, but it still happens. It’s like I’m missing some key ingredient when I’m around people in person.

  Christy grabs my elbow and leads me out to a patio that’s serving as an impromptu smoking section. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to Haley,” she says, like I planned it or something.

  I’m grateful for the cloak the cloud of smoke provides. It’s a relief to disappear. “I swear, I didn’t know.”

  Christy bums a cigarette from a group of skaters in the corner even though she doesn’t really smoke. “I knew you wouldn’t do this on purpose.”

  “I didn’t know,” I say again, hoping if I repeat it enough I can absolve myself of my sins.

  She lights the cigarette and takes short puffs without inhaling. “Did you do something different with your makeup?”

  I shake my head. “Haley put something in my hair.”

  “That must be it.” Christy looks back toward the house. “We might be able to fix this. It’s not like you’re in love with Austin or anything, right?”

  In love? The fact that he even noticed me is an anomaly in itself. Even I’m not foolish enough to pretend that love is part of the equation. “I just met him.”

  “And nothing happened?”

  “I swear.”

  More than anything, I want to get out of here. To run back to my coach before it turns back into a pumpkin. Too soon, the clock will strike midnight and I’ll have to fade back into my reality. Once Prince Charming sobers up and realizes he can have Haley, he won’t be making the rounds with any glass slippers.

  “So? How do we fix this?” I ask.

  Christy’s plan is simple. The old bait and switch. Haley will go into Austin’s bedroom in my place. Once Austin sees her, he’ll forget all about me. It’s practically a fait accompli. Guys don’t say no to Haley Marvell.

  I wait outside while Christy goes in to save my friendship and kill any hope of a budding romance. I find an empty spot along the wall where I can be alone, more comfortable than I’ve been all night.

  I know the second Blake walks outside. The skin on the back of my neck burns under his fiery gaze. I turn to face him, every instinct telling me to meet him from a position of strength.

  He stops about fifteen feet away, his face indecisive.

  I want him closer. Much, much closer.

  Christy brushes past Blake as she rushes up to me. “It’s done.”

  Blake turns away and walks back into the house. I feel sick.

  “I think it worked. Haley’s in with Austin now.” Christy claps her hands together. “I’m sure we’ll hear all about it tomorrow.”

  So I have that to look forward to.

  Christy reaches into her pocket. “Oh, Haley said to give you this.” She sets the broken charm bracelet into my palm. It’s hardly a fair trade.

  It’s not until we reach the car that I realize I never asked Blake how he knew my grandma’s nickname for me. My stomach lurches.

  I’m definitely going to be sick.

  FOUR

  I pour myself a glass of orange juice before I can think better of it. The smell is at once sweet and repulsive. It sits on the kitchen table, untouched.

 
Dad looks like a bad quilt, in a plaid bathrobe wrapped around a set of flannel pajamas. He brings me a cup of coffee, the newspaper tucked under his arm. The mug says Paxton Insurance Services—Because your life is your most valuable asset. If Mom was up, I’d get the one with her picture on it and the tagline Cyndi Paxton sells dreams! The Paxtons are big on branding.

  He catches me frowning at the mug. “Someday you’ll have your own: Brianna Paxton saves the world.” Dad has been teasing me about being some kind of environmental extremist ever since I announced my plans to study biology in the eighth grade. He doesn’t realize that science is my escape, not my calling.

  When I don’t answer, Dad pulls the sports section out and skims the front page. “Heading out to see Piece of Meat?”

  “His name’s Dart.”

  “Well, don’t go getting attached.” This is shorthand for Dad’s Lecture Number 376, That Horse is Just an Investment. The full lecture includes reminders that the money we used to buy Dart off the racetrack came from my college fund, and that I’ll have to sell him before I can apply for college in the fall. It goes on from there, but thankfully today Dad is more interested in the Padres’ opening week than my progress with training and selling Dart.

  Or not. Dad pushes the corner of the paper down. “When do you think you’ll be ready to sell him?”

  “Another month or so. After the Del Mar National.”

  Dad goes back to his paper. With the wall of newsprint between us, I rub my temples.

  “You feeling okay?” Dad misses nothing, even at six a.m.

  “Just tired.” I take my still-full glass of orange juice to the sink and pour it down the drain.

  “Hot date last night?”

  “You know it.” My standard response to our running joke feels heavy on my tongue. I’m not ready to think about last night. But it’s unavoidable. “Hey Dad?” He sets down the newspaper and looks over to where I still stand, holding the empty glass. “Remember how Nana used to call me ‘bandia’?”

  He nods. “You could take your grandmother out of Ireland, but you could never take Ireland out of your grandmother.”