by Trisha Leigh
I barely know him. It occurs to me that this is strange, a guy I just met coming to check on me. He’s watching me close enough that I think he sees the reaction in my face, and his cheeks turn red.
“I know it’s weird, me showing up like this, but Maya was freaked out. She said you didn’t say much after it happened, you didn’t seem to want to talk to her about it, but she thought maybe we should check on you anyway, and…” He gives me a sheepish grin. “I’ll shut up. Maya’s worried and bossy. Bad combination.”
I hate that the gesture of friendship makes me suspicious. Maya had been quick to pick up on the fact that the attack hadn’t been random, and surely the thought had entered her mind that it has something to do with Darley. She probably sent Jude to dig deeper.
But he seems genuinely concerned, and I don’t want to be alone. My throat burns, and I stand aside, motioning Jude into the foyer. He follows me through the living room, past my dad’s office and a library, and into the kitchen. The stroll gives me time to get my emotions under control.
I grab a pitcher of grape juice and a block of cheese from the fridge, then snag a box of crackers out of a cabinet. Slicing the cheese into chunks turns out to be more trouble than it’s worth when I knick the side of my index finger and spend five minutes donating blood to a dish towel. Jude helps me rinse it clean and wrap it up with a Band-Aid, then we sit on the bar stools next to the island, and he reaches out to touch me.
It’s there the whole time, the instinct to pull away, to protect myself from the knowledge, but in this instance the damage has been done. And like a bolt of lightning so bright it wakes me from a lifetime of slumber, I realize I want him to touch me.
Maybe I just want someone to touch me.
His hand covers mine. It’s warm and soft, with a touch of roughness about his fingertips. The 18 flashes, but I focus on Jude’s warm eyes instead of the number, trying to breathe around my jumping stomach and racing heart. I’ve read about this, seen it on a screen, but once again it’s different when it’s happening to me.
“So, are you okay? And I don’t mean your finger, I mean what happened this afternoon.”
“I think so. It doesn’t hurt or anything but Maya’s dad won’t have the blood work back for a couple of days.” A chunk of Colby-Jack falls from its Triscuit perch, giving me an unwanted excuse to pull away from Jude’s touch as I retrieve it, then take a bite. He waits for me to chew, more patient than any of the Cavy boys when they want answers. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Just a crazy person.”
“A crazy person looking for you specifically?” Jude arches an eyebrow, studying me over the rim of his juice glass. There’s a perception, a willingness to problem solve, in his gaze that reminds me of Maya. It’s endearing and attractive, more so in him than in her, but it’s also an issue.
They’re not interested because they care. They want the juicy gossip.
I shrug, taking another bite and searching for a believable answer. “You know we’ve been on the news, and crazy conspiracy-theorist blogs have been saying all kinds of things. There are a lot of whacked people out there. Who knows what they think? Maybe it’s some off-the-wall church out to save us or something.”
“You think he injected you with Kool-Aid?” His lips twitch, but a sheer curtain falls over his gaze, obscuring something. “Was it red?”
I shove him playfully, unable to stop a giggle. “Very funny. But seriously, I guess the reactions to us and our old lives run the gamut.”
“What was your life like until now?” He bites his lip, guilt darkening his expression. “You don’t have to tell me if it’s horrible and you don’t want to remember or something.”
“There was nothing horrible at Darley. It was… idyllic. We lived on a gorgeous plantation with spades of gardens, trees, a river, and a giant house with a million nooks and crannies waiting to be explored. I had friends that never had to go home.” The constant medical and neurological testing hadn’t been my favorite thing in the world, but it hadn’t constituted abuse. It hadn’t ruined my life. And anyway, I couldn’t talk about that aspect. “I assume the staff thought they were doing a good thing, taking in orphans. We never knew they didn’t have legal custody of us. They were nice. It wasn’t like Annie or anything.”
That makes him smile wider, even though his eyes remain fixed on me, probing for additional information that might be hidden under my answer. “But you’re not orphans. That must have been quite the revelation.”
It takes a moment for me to process my feelings, and it occurs to me that no one has asked about that, not even Sandra. How I feel about believing my whole life that no one wanted me, that no one could handle the strange mutation to my humanity, and finding out that isn’t true. That the Philosopher and the Professor and all the rest kept me from a family, a real one.
But my mother did give me up, even if she didn’t want to, and the Cavies are family, too. As excited as getting to know my father makes me, as hopeful as I am that we will build a great relationship, he’ll never replace them.
“I don’t know what the people at Darley knew. They got us from a place that said we were unwanted.”
The thought of sharing the details about my poor mother makes me sad. I’m not ready to face the fact that she’d wanted to keep me, or that my life could have been different.
It’s clear now that she and my father had no idea about my unique genetics, so that couldn’t have been a factor in giving me away. They lied. All of them. It’s not my abilities that landed me at Darley, and if that’s true of all of the Cavies, I’d be super interested to learn how the Philanthropist found us in the first place.
More mysteries. We need a whiteboard in the Clubhouse so we don’t forget anything.
“Well, that’s good to know.” He chomps on the last cracker, then brushes the crumbs off his fingers. “I’d hate to think you’re all mentally unstable or something. Since we go to the same school now.”
The wink he sends my way flutters into my heart, beating its wings and stirring up glittery dust that clings to my ventricles, refusing to let them return to business as usual. It makes me consider that Maya might be right, that Jude could have personal motives for wanting me mentally stable that have nothing to do with his curiosity about Darley. It takes me a few minutes to remember why letting myself enjoy, or even return, those desires would be a bad idea.
18. Jude’s number. His death, a year away, give or take a few months.
“I think I’m as mentally stable as the rest of you weirdos.”
My comment lightens the mood, makes him forget about the reason he came here, or seems to at least. We morph easily into talking about beautiful, mundane things such as what I think of my teachers, the people I’ve met, and whether or not it would behoove me to bring my own lunch from here on out. He glances at his watch, and I remember Savannah’s invitation.
“Oh! Your game. You should go, right?” I have no idea what time these things begin, but it makes sense that the people playing in said games should be on time. Early, even.
“Yes, I need to get moving. I wish you could come, but I guess you’re going to have to talk to your dad about everything, huh?”
“I think it’s safe to say he’ll want a debrief, yes. Maybe next time, though.”
“I think you’d have fun. No one stays or really gives a crap, but most students go. It would be a good place to meet new people.” His mouth tugs down a little. “Plus, it’s probably going to be one of my last games.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “What? Why?”
Maybe the season’s about to be over or they’re about to fail out of… whatever keeps them playing in the league or tournament or something, but it sounds more personal than that.
His smile reappears so quickly it’s almost as though I imagined its loss, and he hops off his stool. “Nothing. Forget it.”
He waits as I rinse off our snack plates and glasses, leaving them in the sink, my mind working the entire time. We don’t know each oth
er well enough for me to push him on a topic he clearly wants to avoid, but it’s the first sign that there might be more to Jude than good looks and grins, and I’m surprised at the force with which I’d like to explore that.
The walk to the front door goes too quickly but lasts long enough for me to recall—again—that getting closer to Jude will only result in a broken heart. He must have problems. Everyone does, but they’re not my problems, and soon none of them will matter, anyway.
The warmth of his smile, with the setting sun glowing behind his head, douses me with a longing that makes me think it might already be too late. After less than a day, I feel the loss the world will feel when he’s gone, that it will be a colder, less happy place.
Less complicated, too, but that’s not necessarily a good thing.
“Good luck at your game,” I tell him, to have something to say while we loiter in awkwardness at the door.
“Thanks. I’m glad you’re okay.”
He leans in and snatches me into a hug, surprising me enough that I stumble against his chest, which is as hard as it looks through his shirt. His strong arms squeeze me tight, and I close my eyes, battered by the assault of the damn number 18.
Until that’s not all I see.
My body goes rigid, my heart pounding like mad as images flicker, one and then another, each staying long enough for me to catch a glimpse. It’s like a movie, but one that’s in pieces, still out of order on the cutting-room floor.
A summer’s day. A garden laden with an explosion of purple hydrangeas. Jude bleeding on the bright green grass.
A gun.
Me.
Chapter Ten
The vision of him dead and me standing witness turns my world upside down for the third time in less than twelve hours. My adrenaline races, sweat beading up on my palms and under my arms, but it has nothing to do with how utterly adorable Jude is. I wish it did.
I stagger loose from his arms, trying not to collapse as a herd of elephants rams into my chest.
Jude lets go, stammering and blushing and so sweet. “Sorry. I’m kind of a hugger, which is awkward since we hardly know each other, but I just thought… I’m going to go. See you.”
He makes a swift exit, allowing me to avoid explaining the horror that must be painted on my face.
I knew my life would change when those police cars raced up the dirt lane at Darley. It’s stupid, looking back, but it never crossed my mind that leaving the only home I ever knew would change me.
Or that it could alter my gift, which misfired with Dane, and expanded the second time Jude’s skin contacted mine. I’ve never touched anyone and seen them dead. How they would die. I’ve certainly never seen a suggestion that I could be at fault.
The thought Geoff and I shared in the Clubhouse returns: the injection.
It can’t have anything to do with Dane, but something’s changed with Geoff—making him better. Now, for the first time, my ability has grown. I want to go back to a week ago, but no matter how hard I squeeze my eyes and click my heels, nothing happens.
Maybe I’m just missing the ruby slippers, but it doesn’t seem likely.
My father walks in the door fifteen minutes later and drops his briefcase at the look on my face, which I’m sure hasn’t settled much since it made Jude run away. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head, trying to find an expression of reassurance. “It’s nothing. Well, it’s not nothing, but I’m fine.”
His face pales and his jaw gets tighter and tighter as I relay the tale of the man and his syringe. When I’m finished he pulls me into a hug.
And it happens again.
My father in a hospital bed, old and white haired and frail, hooked up to a few beeping monitors. His eyes are closed; he appears peaceful.
The beeps stop. His chest stills.
I’m not there. He’s alone.
I bite my tongue to keep from crying out, focusing on the pain. The uncertainty of change grabs me by the throat, rough and impossible to shake, and when Robert lets go of me there are tears streaming down my cheeks.
He swipes them away. “We’re going to find out who did this, and why, and I’m going to make sure they go to prison for a long time. Got it?”
My father punches numbers into his cell phone as though he wants to kill it, and a moment later, speaks to the police. I sit at the kitchen table, feeling disconnected from this world already as he hangs up and dials again, this time verifying my story with Dr. Ashley. It’s sweet that he cares. The sight of it in his watchful eyes and pacing feet tries to suggest everything can still work out, but without all of the information, it’s unlikely anyone’s going to be able to find my assailant.
For a couple of days, I really thought my life could be different. But it can’t.
The cops show up and I regale them with my well-worn story. They take notes, promise to check it out, and advise me to call them if I remember anything else or my health is affected.
They wouldn’t know how to handle the confession of what has changed. I can see how people die now, officer, but this morning all I saw was the age when it happens. What should I do?
Ha.
My father orders Chinese food after they leave, hovering over me and asking a million questions designed to force me to remember all the normal parts of my day. My stomach rebels at eating, leaving me to pick at noodles and chunks of chicken while worry engulfs Robert’s eyes.
I try to eat, and make feeble attempts to sound enthusiastic about teachers and potential friends such as Maya, all of which is difficult with naked, painful nerves dangling at the end of every muscle, every synapse, making me tremble.
There are crazy people running around with syringes, targeting Cavies. Something’s happening to Geoff and to me. Not only is Jude going to die, I’m going to be involved. Dane’s either immortal or my gift doesn’t work on him.
“May I please go to bed?” Tired is the last thing I am, and there are still hours before the Clubhouse conference, but I need to move around. I can’t pace down here or he’ll want to talk, or worse, keep staring at me as though I’m on the stand and withholding evidence.
“You don’t have to ask permission to leave the room, Norah.” He pauses, and in the silence the question he’s repeated a hundred times—are you sure you’re okay—rings loud and clear. To his credit, he manages not to ask it. “I’ll drive you to school tomorrow.”
A protest dies on my tongue. It’s a waste of breath, plus maybe it’s not such a bad idea to stay with other people until we can figure out what’s going on. I pull my sleeves over my hands to avoid another reminder of my shifting genes, then reach out and pat my father’s fingers.
“Okay. And I’m okay. I’m sure everything’s fine and the cops are going to figure out where the crazy homeless man came from.” Even though he’s given no such indication, has expressed nothing but concern for my safety, I worry if I’m too much trouble he’ll give me back. “I’m sorry.”
His fingers tighten around my improvised mitten hand, refusing to let go. “Do not be sorry, Norah Jane. You didn’t do anything wrong, and I’m not angry with you. I’m angry that someone is making this adjustment even harder. Got it?”
I meet his gaze, sweet relief washing away at least part of my pinging anxiety. It’s been there since the night he brought me home, and he’s so quiet most of the time that it’s hard to tell if he’s doing this because he cares or because he thinks he should. Tonight it looks like more than duty, and feelings of attachment have started to sneak up on me in the quiet moments when we’re alone.
I swallow, making my lips turn up. Barely. “Got it.”
“Good.” His smile works a little better than mine. “Good night, sweet girl.”
“Night.”
It’s only ten, two hours until I’m meeting with the Cavies. The fear of the unknown keeps my heart pounding, my armpits sweating, and my stomach a tangled mess while I wait.
My mind picks up the events of the past week and ex
amines them one at a time, but can’t understand how they fit together. Even though correlation doesn’t prove causation, this afternoon’s injections and the enhancements to both Geoff and me seem connected. What it means, I don’t know, but a tiny voice in the back of my mind, one I silenced long ago, wonders if knowing where and how someone will die means there’s a chance I could be able to change their number.
The fact that Jude has more than a little to do with that musing pulls my mouth into a frown.
Too anxious to flip through the Charleston Academy handbook or any of the sample syllabi my teachers gave me today, I flip to a fresh page in my notebook and jot down my thoughts.
First, the Philosopher and his staff lied about the circumstances that led me to Darley. The actual circumstances didn’t have anything to do with my abilities, and there’s no mention of my being in a foster home before leaving the “alternative school” my mother attended during her pregnancy.
Then there’s the fact that all of our mothers are dead. That can’t be a coincidence, and if there’s any way for us to find out what happened to them and compare notes, we should do it.
All of the potential scenarios full of the crazy people and religious nuts that I referenced to distract Maya and her father, then Jude, and then my father make my stomach hurt, and I’m glad I didn’t eat more at dinner. They’re plausible theories but, with our changing genes and the fact that the attacks were coordinated, are unlikely.
The next item on my list, scribbled in nervous, wobbly penmanship, is to find out who injected us and why. They could know more about us than we do about ourselves.
The last note I make is to tell them about my nonreaction to touching Dane Kim, even though it can’t be connected to all the rest of this since it happened before this afternoon. It might be an aberration—after all, it’s not as though I’ve touched enough people in my life to assume it always works.
Midnight creeps closer, and with ten minutes left to go, I can’t wait any longer. My glass walkway into the Clubhouse stretches forever, and when I finally push into our shared mental space, the sight of the Cavies makes me want to collapse with relief.
