Gypsy (The Cavy Files Book 1)

by Trisha Leigh

“You’re too smart for your own good, Norah.”

  “You don’t have to tell me why you do it if you don’t want to, but don’t try to convince me it’s an accident.”

  “Do you know why I’ve been hanging out with you?” His voice flutters toward detached, the question near his lips but not belonging to him.

  As though he’s only considering laying claim to what he’s about to say.

  My heart drops into my stomach and my skin goes cold. It would be best, maybe, to walk away before he says something I’m sure I don’t want to hear. But I don’t. “Why?”

  His gaze burns into mine, lit with some kind of mysterious challenge. “Because my dad asked me to. So I could get information out of you about Darley.”

  The soft words lodge in my throat and throb. Maybe I should have known all along that popular, handsome, top athletes don’t go for the freakish new girl, but as hard as my face begs to burn with embarrassment, it’s anger that bubbles past my lips. “So you’ve been spying on me? The concern and friendliness, it was all an act?”

  Jude shrugs, and stuffs his papers back into his backpack as though he’s going to get up and leave me wondering what prompted this, and why he’d rather hurt my feelings than talk about Latin.

  I swallow the fire, grit my teeth. “Why does your dad care so much about Darley, anyway?”

  “He’s the reporter who exposed the place, and he claims to have seen things that haven’t been talked about on the television or in any of the public reports.” His gaze fuses with mine, still burning with smothered ire. “And he’s been to every local jail, trying to talk to the men arrested as your caretakers, but they’ve all disappeared.”

  I cross my arms, trying not to let my dismay show. The Philosopher and Professor are gone, and the information dulls my response to Jude’s betrayal. Maybe I should be the one pretending to be friends with him, if his dad can find out stuff like that.

  At the moment, spending time with him at all makes me feel gross.

  “So, what are you saying? Your dad has some crazy ideas about what went on at Darley? Tell him to join the club, Jude, but you’re not going to uncover anything juicy from me. I’m just trying to fit in here.”

  Tears sting my eyes. The sight of them turns his face pale, clenches his jaw as something close to shame floods his face, and the fight in his face slinks away.

  “I know.” Jude runs a hand through his sandy hair, leaving it mussed. “God, Norah, I know you are. Please don’t cry. I don’t know why I said that, I mean… I would have been friends with you anyway, and I couldn’t care less whether we ever talk about Darley Hall at all.”

  It’s hard to know what to say. He didn’t apologize for lying, and I don’t know that I would accept it, anyway. The last thing my life needs is one more person I can’t be sure of.

  The longer I stay quiet, the redder his cheeks get, and when his maple eyes find the courage to meet my accusing stare, they’re brimming with desperation.

  “I don’t want to be your friend because my father suggested it. I’ve been spending time with you because we get along, and I love making you smile because it’s not easy, and you’re interesting.” His eyes slide to my paper. “Because you actually care about my shitty Latin grade.”

  Confusion wrinkles my face, which is good because what he said first makes it hard to concentrate. “Why are you fake-failing Latin?”

  “That’s all you have to say, after I just tossed my heart on the table for you? Do you want to be friends with me, too, Norah Crespo?” He’s joking, but only on the surface.

  The fact that he’s handing me the ability to hurt his feelings in return takes my breath away, and the hope in his eyes tries to pick at the resistance around my heart. And though my uncertainty doesn’t diminish, there’s no way to avoid the question.

  Anything between us is doomed, given that he’s about to die and I might be involved. Given that he befriended me under false pretenses. The Cavies need answers, though, and there’s a chance his father could lead us to them.

  Then there’s the undeniable fact that, even though I’m angry and embarrassed and unnerved, I still like him. Dammit.

  “I don’t know if I like it very much, the idea of befriending someone who fails Latin.”

  He gives me a small smile, an acknowledgment of both my lame joke and my nonanswer, then puts his head in his hands. “My dad’s not a real reporter. He’s a conspiracy theorist, and most of his stories are published in places online, or in the checkout papers that report on alien encounters. He’s a joke.”

  The confession pelts me like a hundred tiny balls of lead, spat with force but not enough to do any damage. The way Maya described Savannah’s feeling of being better than Jude makes more sense now. I realize the ammunition he’s flung at me is only a ricochet; it’s already struck Jude a thousand times over.

  The desolate shame in the slump of his shoulders, the way he won’t meet my eyes, softens my desire to be angry with him over this whole fake friendship thing.

  “My mother made the money, but she split last year. Couldn’t take the crappy paychecks and the paranoia and the ridicule. She wanted me to leave, too, but my dad can’t live alone. He barely remembers to feed himself.” He rubs his head again, toying with my red pen. “When I refused to go, she quit paying the bills, including the one from Charleston Academy.”

  “Oh.” Money and finances are still a little fuzzy for me. I don’t have any frame of reference, but I can guess what happens when he can’t pay for school.

  “My dad doesn’t even realize, but if I get booted for not paying he will, and it’ll destroy him. He’s… hard to explain. He loves me, and he would even be different if he could. He just doesn’t know how to live in the real world.”

  “I can understand that.” I wonder if breaking the Darley Hall story would make Jude’s father famous and wealthy, or if reporting that we’re a bunch of genetically mutated freaks would be just another nut-job tale no one in their right mind would believe. “But if you told him what’s happening, don’t you think he would try? Get another job, or… ?”

  “He would try, but he’d fail. He’s not capable, but right now he’s blissfully ignorant of that fact. Knowing would kill him.” There’s no shame in Jude’s eyes now, only determination and love. “I don’t need a fancy school. I’ll flunk out, go to public school. And it will be my fault, not his.”

  It’s sweet, so sweet, his loyalty to his father, that he wants to protect him. But Jude’s my age and needs someone to take care of him, not the other way around. If it were only his number that I worried about seeing, I would reach out and press my hand over his, because he obviously needs a friend.

  Five minutes ago I didn’t want that person to be me, but there isn’t anyone else here. The way he’d lashed out when I’d pointed out his intentional failing suggests his family’s financial problems are a secret, which must be hard.

  “I’m sorry you’re going through this, Jude.”

  “See, that’s another thing I like about you. You’re too honest to sit there and tell me everything is going to be okay.”

  It’s another reminder that we don’t know each other at all. I am the furthest thing from honest, because the most important truth about me has to be protected at all costs.

  But maybe that’s not honesty. Maybe it’s survival.

  “I like you, too.” As much as I’d like to keep space between Jude and me, I don’t have the heart. He’s hurting, he’s confiding in me, and to sit here and say nothing… I can’t. “I’m sorry you’re going to change schools.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll just have to get to know each other before that happens. Maybe tonight, after the game?”

  Shitfire, he’s asking me out on a date. A real date with a real guy who really made my heart flip like a flapjack. A guy who was going to sell out my secrets.

  A guy who’s going to die, sooner rather than later. While I watch.

  “I can’t. My, um, father and I have plans to
watch a movie.”

  “Friday night date with your dad? If it wasn’t screwing up my plans, I’d say that’s adorable.”

  If he persists, I’ll have to make it clear I’m not interested, not just come up with convenient excuses. My chances of fitting into this world are evaporating like spit on a July sidewalk, because I’m pretty sure every normal girl in the world would jump at the chance to spend time with Jude.

  “How’s your finger?” he asks, changing the subject.

  I haven’t given the cut on my finger a second thought, but glance down, relieved at the switch in topic. My mouth falls open at the smooth, uninjured skin on my finger. It’s been three days. How could it be gone?

  “It’s fine,” I murmur, barely able to suppress my surprise.

  “Holy shit, it’s gone! That was a pretty nasty slice, how is that possible?”

  “Dude, what the fuck are you doing out here? We’re getting our asses kicked.” A boy, lanky and super tall, with a mop of sweaty tan hair that sticks up like stalks of corn in a field, strides up to our table. He’s a stranger to me, but I want to kiss him for the interruption. “Is this the new chick you won’t shut up about?”

  “Nice, Peter. Really nice.” Jude’s cheeks shade pink, but he rolls his eyes in my direction, apparently forgetting about my strange—and new—healing ability. “Norah, this is Peter. I’d claim him as a friend, but he’s more like a charity case, really. Rehabilitation is my goal, but it’s not going so well at this point.”

  I giggle, unable to stop at the bemused expression on Peter’s face. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise, I’m sure.” He performs an attempt at a curtsy, almost toppling over onto his face. “Now, if we’re done playing debutante escorts, we have gym, remember? Emergency practice?”

  Jude flies to his feet, then gives me a sheepish grin. “What can I say, they need my skills.”

  “Yeah, we pump him up about his on-court skills because, from what we hear, his skills in other, um, arenas are lacking.”

  Jude pushes Peter toward the gym as I peek at my phone, shocked to see we’ve been in such deep discussion that the period had ended and another started, meaning I’m late for Lit. Being asked on my very first date, not to mention the rest of Jude’s confessions and revelations, was pretty distracting.

  I hurry the opposite direction as the boys, toward the stairs to the third floor, and almost run into Dane.

  “Whoa, whoa. Slow down there, Flash.”

  “Sorry,” I huff, out of breath. “I’m late for Lit.”

  He gives me a wry smile. “Yes, I know.”

  We climb the steps side by side, in silence except for the swish of my backpack over my shoulders.

  “Wait, why aren’t you in class?”

  “Mrs. Sullivan asked me to look for you, since you didn’t show up for class and don’t know your way around that well yet.”

  It’s been a week, and campus isn’t that big. The feeling that there’s more to the story wars with my growing affinity for Dane’s quiet, steady countenance, but I just shrug. “If you say so.”

  “So, why don’t you want to go on a date with Mr. Basketball Stud? He might have bought your lame story about spending time with your dad, but I sure don’t.”

  Dane’s soft question, and the realization that he’d overheard at least part of my conversation with Jude, hits me like a bag full of oranges. “What? Were you spying on me?”

  “Spying?” He arches an eyebrow as though the word makes no sense whatsoever, and the pained expression in his eyes makes me feel bad for suggesting it. “No. Wrong place wrong time, I guess.”

  We make it to Lit class and slide into our seats. Everyone else is murmuring in quiet pairs, and Mrs. Sullivan hands Dane and me a sheet of paper with questions on it based on last night’s assigned reading of Gravity’s Rainbow, telling us to work on it together for the next ten minutes.

  Dane opens a notebook on his desk, clicks open a pen, and the muscles in his tanned forearm flex. His silky black hair gleams under the classroom lights, and his unbelievable cheekbones catch a glow, but in his face there’s a flicker of something new. Indecision? Disgust?

  “Did you refuse because you’re still adjusting, or is it because you’re just not interested?” His dark gaze lays bare, open, and leaves little doubt that he’s genuinely interested in the answer.

  Perhaps his hesitance is just that he’s wondering whether or not our friendship has progressed to a point where we can discuss these kinds of private things, but it feels as though maybe there’s more to it than that.

  I shrug again, just as unsure whether we are or aren’t at that point. My feelings for and about Jude have been on a seesaw and I want to keep them private until there’s time to unsnarl and examine them at my own pace. “I’m just… not ready.”

  Dane nods at my vague answer, looking as though he wants to push, but doesn’t say another word about what he overheard or why we were talking when we were supposed to be in class. “You will be, Norah. You’re so much stronger than you think.”

  Even his genuine compliment, tied up with a smile that makes me want to give him one in return, can’t settle my lingering nerves over what to do about Jude. Even though I have every intention of keeping the basketball star at arm’s length, he keeps finding ways to tiptoe closer. The image of Jude dead in the hydrangeas, of me standing over him, breaks a cold sweat out on my palms. If the numbers I’ve seen my whole life always come to pass—and they have—there’s no reason to doubt the truth of the image.

  It all seems a little bit as though the two of us are meant to be in each other’s lives. For however short a time that turns out to be. It makes me think of Maya and her ideas about fate, and the faintest of smiles touches my lips.

  Even though Dane and I finish the study sheet on the book in less than half our allotted time and start swapping favorite places to eat in Charleston—my father’s a takeout kind of man—while we wait for everyone else to catch up, I can’t help feeling the loss of Jude already.

  I curse God, or the gods, or whoever mutated my genes but didn’t give me the power to use my glimpses into the future to change things for the better.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The door buzzer rings around four thirty, two hours earlier than Maya’s supposed to get here and way earlier than my father has ever come home. Not that he would ring the buzzer.

  I haul myself off the bed and out of Gravity’s Rainbow, down the stairs, and peer out the peephole.

  “I can see your shadow, you creeper. Open the door.”

  A smile twists my lips and I yank on the knob. “You’re early.”

  “Obviously. What’s wrong with your hair? It looks like a bird made a nest in it.” Maya steps over the threshold, looking as put together as she had at school except she’s in jeans and a CA T-shirt instead of a uniform.

  “Not all of us are lucky enough to be as naturally adorable as you.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t knock your long legs and nice chest combo. Short and cute as a button aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”

  Even though it’s my house, I trail Maya into the kitchen and find her with her head stuck in the fridge. She emerges with two apples, a jar of Nutella, and two bottles of water. We perch at the island, in the same spot where Jude and I sat the other afternoon. She slices away while I stop myself from asking why she’s here early, a little afraid that she’ll take it the wrong way, as though it’s a problem or something, which it’s not.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here early?” Her keen eyes sparkle as though she can read my thoughts.

  I shrug. “I’m too busy counting my lucky stars.”

  “Smart-ass. Two reasons, actually. The first is that my father got your blood-test results back, and since there’s nothing wrong with you, he said I could spill.”

  “Nothing?” The relief gushing through my ears makes the words sound far away. Hot on its heels is disappointment—because we need a lead. Somet
hing that can tell us what those people know and how they changed our mutations with a single injection. “Nothing’s wrong with me?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” she laughs. “I mean, I hardly know you and there’s totally something wrong with you.”

  “Hilarious.”

  “But seriously, he says you have some kind of flu virus, but if you’re not showing any symptoms, it’s probably not active. Other than that, no worries. He’s going to call your dad, too.”

  Sweat breaks out under my arms, which is an odd reaction to good news, but normal for me. Nothing. Or at least, nothing that a regular doctor would flag as abnormal.

  We might have been raised in seclusion, but thanks to the Philosopher’s paranoia none of the Cavies can be described as naive, at least not when it comes to our health and our secrets. Those people didn’t jump us with hypodermics and not inject anything. Something different runs through my blood, changing what I’ve always been. But it isn’t AIDS or hepatitis, so might as well feel good about that, at least for today.

  “That’s good news, right?” Maya studies me, gnawing on a slice of apple that’s more Nutella than fruit, a touch of confusion darkening her gaze.

  “Yes, definitely good news.” I summon a smile, wishing I could discuss all of the implications of the results right now. As much as I enjoy her company, as quick as her brain works, Maya’s not the right person for that. “What’s the other reason?”

  “That other reason for what?”

  “You’re early. You said there were two reasons.”

  “Oh, right. The rumor mill suggests that you turned down a date with a very attractive, very in-demand CA boy today, and that perhaps the reason is interest in a different very attractive, not-so-in-demand CA boy. As the first person to befriend you in reality, I feel slighted hearing this through the grapevine. What gives?”

  “Geez, I guess the movies don’t lie about the speed of rumors in high school.” Chalk one up for Hollywood.

  “Stop trying to blame all of your weirdness on growing up a recluse and spill.”