Silver

by Talia Vance

  I go into my room and crawl into bed, pulling a pillow over my head and crying until I fall asleep. I don’t even wake up for dinner.

  The next day goes by in a haze. My gut aches again as soon as I wake up, hollow and empty. I want desperately to go back to being the science geek whose main role in life is to serve as witness to Haley’s string of true romances. I don’t want to be the nut case who disappears in mists or imagines guys speaking to me during frozen moments in time. I don’t want the pain of knowing that Blake hasn’t even tried to contact me since Saturday. I don’t want to wonder what it means that my seventeenth birthday is only ten days away.

  As I drive to Bridle Oaks after school, I try to focus on the preparations for the Del Mar National. At least Dart loves me no matter what kind of freak I am. But when I get to the stable, Dart’s stall door is wide open and empty. His halter’s gone too, so it’s unlikely he managed some great barn escape and ended up on the highway. Still, I don’t like not knowing where he is.

  Marcy’s school horse, Hershey, grazes alone in the pasture where we turn the horses out. There are no horses in our riding arena. I walk over to the larger arena where Sam’s students ride. A beautiful chestnut is going through a set of jumps. It takes a second before I realize it’s Dart. The jumps are at least half a foot higher than anything I’ve taken him over. He clears them with confidence, his form textbook.

  Parker Winslow guides Dart to each jump with the timing and skill of a professional. Marcy and Sam smile and talk in the center of the arena. I lean on the rail, awed that this amazing horse is really mine. I can’t take credit for his natural talent or excellent breeding. Even so, I had a little to do with spotting the potential in the skinny track reject with high withers.

  Jenna Bowman comes up next to me, her eyes wide as she watches Dart sail over a four-foot oxer. “He’s perfect.”

  “He is, isn’t he?”

  She nods, her eyes still following Dart around the arena. Jenna is horse crazy in the way only ten-year-old girls can be.

  “You want to ride him sometime?”

  Jenna’s eyes grow even wider. “Really? Can I?”

  “Sure.”

  Both her feet leave the ground as she squeals. I laugh and make a mental note to ensure it happens soon.

  Parker brings Dart down to a walk and lets the reins go slack. She smiles and pats him on the neck. Dart’s ears flick back toward her, his breath fluttering through his nose in contented snuffles.

  I’m grooming Hershey in the barn aisle when Marcy catches up with me a half hour lather. “You’re not going to believe this!” She grins. “Parker Winslow is thinking of buying Dart.”

  I flinch. It’s irrational, I know. I don’t like the idea of Dart becoming the equivalent of the latest Prada bag in Parker’s closet. Sure, he would have the best grooms, supplements, and trainers that money can buy. But who would love him?

  Marcy must see the expression on my face. “You know that Parker wouldn’t dream of owning a horse that cost less than two hundred thousand, right?”

  “Dollars?”

  Marcy laughs.

  A groom leads Dart into the barn and puts him away. He munches a chunk of apple from his feed bin. The light scent of lavender shampoo fills his stall. He doesn’t even look up to greet me when I slide under the chain.

  “Et tu, Dart?” It’s just as well that it’s a rhetorical question. Dart roots in his bin for another piece of apple. He has so moved on.

  By Wednesday night, the dull ache in my gut has grown to a sharp, relentless throbbing. Blake still hasn’t called, a fact I can no longer ignore. I check my phone for messages with increasing frequency just in case. Haley has already made plans to go out with Austin on Friday, and even Jonah the slimeball made the effort to text Christy again. So while Christy and Haley come up with endless plans and speculation about the upcoming weekend, I bury myself in my pillows and fight the urge to call Blake myself.

  At midnight, I sit straight up in bed. I know where Blake is. Rush set up a poker game for tonight.

  I throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and am in my car before I can think enough to talk myself out of it. Within ten minutes, I’m in Wolfgang Hunter’s parking lot, my headlights pointed at Blake’s black SUV.

  This is definitely crazy-stalker territory. I don’t care. We have to face what happened eventually, and I need to figure some things out—soon. My seventeenth birthday is a week from Friday, and Blake might be the only person who can understand what’s happening to me. He said he saw the silver light too. Besides, just knowing he’s here makes me feel better. At least I know he’s safe.

  Safe? R.D. doesn’t have much crime beyond the occasional car burglary or drunk driving arrest. It’s a shock to realize that a good part of the discomfort I’ve felt since leaving Blake is some primitive concern for his well-being, especially since I, psychotic stalker girl, probably pose the biggest threat to his safety.

  There are a surprising number of cars in the lot given the late hour. I debate whether to go in. One glance in the mirror is enough to keep me firmly rooted to the driver’s seat. My hair is even wilder than usual, curling out in all directions. I instantly regret my rush to get out of the house. I turn on the radio and wait.

  I’m not sure how long a poker game is supposed to last, exactly. It’s almost an hour before anyone walks out of the restaurant. A gray-haired man in a long coat glides through the parking lot and climbs into a large Mercedes. He drives off without ever looking toward the Blue Box.

  It’s another thirty minutes before a short round man in a baseball cap walks out and gets into a red Porsche. Definitely compensating for something there.

  Another hour goes by. The air temperature drops at least ten degrees while I sit in my car waiting for a glimpse of him in a dark parking lot.

  At three o’clock, I make up my mind to go home before I embarrass myself completely. When I turn the key in the ignition, the Blue Box sputters but doesn’t turn over. Perfect. How am I going to explain this one to my parents? I doubt they’ll believe that I woke up with a sudden craving for venison.

  I’m about to try the engine again when I hear laughter across the parking lot. Four people exit the restaurant. I know Blake is with them even before they cross into the light of one of the lampposts. His blond hair stands out in contrast to the darkness that surrounds him, creating a glowing halo. Endorphins ricochet around my brain. It’s all I can do to stay in my car.

  In contrast, Blake’s walk is relaxed and casual. Two girls flit around him. The taller one brushes her hand against his arm.

  I pull the key out of the ignition and curl a fist around it, imaging how I could use it as a weapon if she touches him again. My hand shakes with rage.

  What is wrong with me?

  The group crosses under the light just as Blake walks ahead. Portia rushes to catch up with him. The other girl is Fishnet. She drops back to where Joe walks a step behind, her shoulders slumped in defeat. Joe leads her to the right, away from Blake and Portia. Perfect wingman.

  I watch with morbid fascination as Portia leans into Blake, trying to get his attention. He pulls her into an embrace that has me reaching for the door handle. He says something in her ear and then abruptly lets her go, stepping back. She glares at him, crossing her arms over her chest. I can almost feel the frustration as Blake runs his hand through his hair. Hell, I do feel it. And then Blake turns and walks away. Portia starts to follow him, but seems to change her mind mid-step, spinning on her heel and marching off to a blue VW.

  Blake approaches his car, and I swear I feel his mood lift a little now that Portia is off his back, or maybe that’s just my mood lifting.

  Mine. I try to squash the thought. One stupid date does not make him mine. Still, it takes every ounce of self-control I can muster to keep myself in the car. I want to run to him,
to throw myself in his arms, wrap myself in him. Pathetic.

  As he reaches for the handle of the SUV, he stops and turns his head, zeroing in on the Blue Box. His eyes, burning silver, find me in the dark. I can feel his mood shift again, even from across the parking lot. He’s not happy to see me.

  I glare back. Did he think that after what happened I would just disappear? Fine. If Blake Williams wants a fight, I’m more than ready to take him on. I push the door open as hard as I can. The door swings out, but stops abruptly before it opens halfway.

  A dark figure looms over my car, blocking the door. I stop pushing and try to pull the door back. It holds firm.

  “Brianna,” Joe says in a calm voice. “We need to talk.” He smiles, an unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

  FIFTEEN

  I shrink lower in the seat of my car.

  “Mind if I join you for a minute?” Joe steps back, letting the car door come toward me so fast I have to push against it to stop it from slamming.

  Blake climbs into his SUV, wasting no time. He starts his car and drives out of the lot. As the car gets further away, the pain in my stomach returns.

  Joe walks around to the passenger side of the Blue Box and opens the door. He curls his long body into the seat next to me. His James Dean pompadour smashes up against the roof and his knees press up against the glove box. I laugh.

  “What?”

  “I don’t think you’ll be buying one of these beauties anytime soon,” I say.

  “You got that right. For starters, it’s Japanese. All these newfangled imports have been hell on our economy.”

  “This thing is older than both of us.”

  Joe pulls the cigarette from his lips. He rolls the filter between his thumb and forefinger. He concentrates on the movement for a few seconds before he looks at me again. “You and I haven’t talked much, have we?”

  Try at all. I don’t say anything. My eyes search the street where Blake’s car disappeared. Joe sits quietly, staring out at the darkness with me.

  “Let me be frank.” Joe’s voice pulls me back. “You seem like a nice girl. So why the hell are you chasing down a rat bastard like Blake?”

  I smile at the description. “I thought you were his friend.”

  “Can’t help liking the son of a bitch.” He squirms in the seat, trying to find a comfortable position. “Pardon me for saying so, but you don’t seem like his type.”

  What is that supposed to mean? So I’m not dumb, snobby, or slutty … Oh.

  Joe fills the silence. “See, guys like Blake will always have their minions, stray puppies that follow them around begging for the smallest scrap.”

  “It’s not like that.” The words sound hollow now. Even if I could justify my behavior as a science project to test my pheromone theory, it doesn’t explain why I’m sitting in a cold parking lot in the middle of the night. But it’s not like I’m about to beg Blake Williams for anything. Last time I checked, I was getting out of the car to kick his ass.

  “Blake and his kind are nothing but trouble for girls like you.”

  “Thanks for the advice, but if Blake sent you here to let me down easy, you can forget it. There’s nothing going on.” Unless you count the weird hallucinations or the fact that I’m sitting in this now-empty parking lot. Minor details.

  “This isn’t about Blake. It’s about you. See, where I’m from, there’s two kinds of girls, the kind you screw and the kind you marry. And Blake’s got no interest in the second group. Got me?”

  Joe has officially taken this retro thing too far. I’ve been on one ill-advised date. “You think I want to marry him?”

  “Nah,” Joe shakes his head. “I know you aren’t ready for that.”

  “So you’re saying I’m a slut?” Probably true, at this point, but no way am I going to stand for Joe insulting me in my own car. It’s bad enough that I’m never going to get the hair gel off the ceiling.

  “Nah, you’re not that kind of girl either. It’s just that if you take up with Blake, one of two things will happen.” Joe opens the door of the car and stretches out his right leg. “Either Blake Williams is gonna break your heart … ” He stares outside.

  “Or?”

  “Or you become the other kind of girl.” Joe pushes his head outside the car and unfolds his tall body one part at a time, our conversation apparently over.

  “Joe?”

  “Yeah?” He bends over and sticks his head back into the car.

  I nod to the cigarette still dangling from his lips. “You ever light that thing?”

  “Nah. Stuff’ll kill you.” He winks. “Don’t press the gas so hard when you start ’er up this time. Sounded like you flooded the engine there.” He closes the door with a soft thud and walks down the lot until he reaches a vintage white Buick.

  I turn the ignition, tapping lightly on the gas, and am relieved to hear the whining of the engine as it coughs to life. Joe’s car cruises behind me, following me all the way to my driveway. He idles outside until I’ve unlocked the front door and am safely inside.

  It’s not the least bit creepy. It’s kind of nice.

  I’m still half asleep when I grab a granola bar from the kitchen and head off to school in the morning. But the hair on my arms stands at attention almost as soon as I open the front door, jolting me awake better than a triple-shot latte ever could. The pain in my gut is replaced by a satisfied hum.

  His black SUV is across the street. Blake is out of the car, leaning against the door.

  I storm up to him, still furious that he’s ignored me for the last four days. With every step that brings me closer, my traitorous body celebrates, making the combination of pleasure and pain almost unbearable. I try to read his expression. There’s no trace of emotion in his face. He barely spares me a glance.

  I want to put my hands around his neck and kiss him, right here on the street. No. I don’t need that humiliation. When he finally lets his eyes slide to mine, there’s anger, yes, but something else too. A fear that claws at my neck. A sadness that floats up from nowhere and pulls me along. Desire, so strong that I want to fall into him.

  My anger flees, taking any trace of courage and self-respect with it. I bite my trembling lip, fighting back the tears that threaten to escape at any second.

  Blake starts to run a hand through his blond waves, stopping halfway through. There’s no point trying pull off relaxed or casual, not with me. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Is he breaking up with me? Panic courses through me. We aren’t exactly together, so he can’t really break up with me, right? I bite down harder on my lip. I start to wipe away a tear. Before I can, his hand is there, his thumb lightly rubbing my cheek. The soft touch sends flickers of heat to my stomach.

  “Can we go somewhere?” Blake’s voice is softer now.

  I nod, my eyes closed, not wanting to see how he doesn’t look at me, not wanting the touch to end. It does anyway. When I open my eyes, he’s already sitting in the car, his eyes facing straight ahead.

  Once I’m in the car, Blake drives in silence. The current of emotion that mixes with my own becomes increasingly hostile. It’s like I can feel his anger from the inside.

  “You’re pissed?” I shout, even though I’m only inches away. “I’m the one who was manipulated and used, then thrown away like I never mattered.” The tears flow freely now. There’s no stopping them. “You are such a jerk.”

  Blake’s cheek twitches. A vein on the right side of his throat pops out, creating a ridge that travels into the collar of his yellow T-shirt.

  I feel the violence that simmers just beneath the surface—my own. I lean against the window of the car, putting as much distance as I can between us. I can’t afford to lose control.

  We drive into the Heights, a neighborhood of mini-mans
ions that was hit hard by last fall’s wildfire. After about a mile, he turns up a meandering driveway that leads to a tree-filled lot, although half the Eucalyptus trees are dead. As we get closer to the top, it’s clear that there is no longer any house, just a bare slab of blackened concrete and an empty swimming pool. It’s desolate and depressing. The perfect setting for our little breakup. Especially since he thinks I’m the one who started the fire.

  “Is this your house?” I ask.

  He rolls down the windows before turning off the ignition, letting the smell of charred and rotten wood fill the car. “Was.”

  I choke a little as the stale air fills my lungs. My eyes travel out across the lot to a ridge with an expansive view. I can see almost all of R.D. from this angle, a sea of tract homes with tile roofs. The view is a stark contrast to the rotting waste of the American dream that surrounds us.

  Blake finally looks at me. And I wish he wouldn’t. His eyes hold nothing but anger. I press back further against the window, my right hand clutching the door handle.

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” Blake says, his voice a growl. “If anyone has been manipulated, it’s me. I didn’t ask for this, and I don’t want it. So just do whatever hocus-pocus you need to do to undo it, and do it now.”

  I stare back. He’s still putting this on me? “If I remember correctly, you’re the one who kissed me. I’m not the one who tried to pretend like nothing even happened.”

  Blake barks out a laugh. “Nice try. So I kissed you. You unleashed the power of the bandia.” The last word rolls off his tongue with undisguised venom. “You did this to me, and you will undo it. Now.” The vein on his neck pulses and flexes. His hands ball into fists.

  I jump from the car, walking fast, putting distance between us with every step. I stop only when I reach the ridge at the end of the barren lot. I cross my arms across my waist, hugging them to me. I remind myself to breathe.

  The cars move along on the roads below. People go about their morning routines, heading to the gym, work, playdates, school. Just another Thursday in R.D. Lucky bastards. Even listening to my lit teacher dissect every line from Paradise Lost would be better than standing in this dead yard waiting to be dumped. And that’s only half of it.