Locked (The Heaven's Gate Trilogy)

by C. B. Day

  Was it a warning? My mind raced. If so, whoever had written it had expected me to recognize the verse and go to the Bible to discover the rest. But who at my school would even know I would be familiar enough with the Bible to pluck this verse out, to recognize it and find the words that came after it?

  Nobody, the little voice in my head reasoned. Whoever wrote your card probably saw the quote out of context and simply copied it out, no greater meaning intended.

  But that still left the question of who had sent the card. Could it have been Michael?

  I blushed, almost ashamed to admit to myself how much I had wanted it to be from him. But why would he send me a Valentine, especially one so weird? No, it couldn’t have been from Michael.

  Then, I felt all the blood drain from my face as a more likely culprit occurred to me: my dad. How had he managed to infiltrate the cheerleader’s Cupid sale and send me a card? Anger and embarrassment rushed through me at the thought of him, despite all my attempts, insinuating himself into my new life.

  How stupid I was, I thought, crumpling the delicate card in my fist. I threw it across the room, disgusted at my own gullibility. Of course it had been Dad. Who else had the bad habit of tossing Bible verses around to embarrass me? Swallowing my disappointment, I turned off my light and curled up in a little ball in my bed, savoring my misery.

  I did the math in my head. A little over two months until my birthday. Then I’d be sixteen. Sixteen and never been kissed, I thought bitterly. Kissed? I’d never so much as held hands with anybody. I punched my pillow. Well, at least Michael doesn’t seem to like those cheerleaders, I consoled myself. Having to hang out with them would be unbearable. With that last thought to cheer me, I drifted off to sleep.

  *****

  The next day, Michael kept sending me meaningful looks, which I deliberately ignored. How could I explain my dad, and the crazy note he’d sent? Better to just avoid the whole topic. I managed to avoid a direct conversation during passing time and classes, but once we were at lunch, I couldn’t hold him off.

  “So, Hope, who was your card from?” he demanded as he steered me toward our usual table, choosing seats well removed from the rest of the crowd.

  I did my best to look uninterested and shrugged. “I dunno. It wasn’t signed,” I said, pushing my mashed potatoes around on my tray.

  “Secret admirer, eh?” Michael grinned. “C’mon, what did it say?” He seemed way too interested in my love life. I looked at him again with suspicion. Could I have been wrong? Could it have been him after all?

  I rolled the idea around in my mind as I looked at him across the table. I couldn’t deny that he continued to intrigue me. He was dressed again, as always, in one of his odd, monochromatic outfits -- the only thing ever changing being the exact shade of white he chose. It was a sort of hippie aesthetic that made sense, I guess, if you grew up in a cult, and I had to admit, it looked good on him. The white set off his glowing skin perfectly, and the way the clothes moved about him hinted at his strong, toned body and made him seem even more mysterious.

  Don’t kid yourself, my common sense spoke up.

  “What are you eating?” I asked, trying to change the subject. I’d noticed he never ate the cafeteria food. Instead he packed an odd lunch of white, lumpy health food stuff that was possibly the most unappetizing thing I’d ever seen.

  “Would you like to try it?” he asked politely, after watching me stare at it with revulsion for what must have been the 10th lunch period in a row. “It’s just like tofu. It’s really good for you.”

  “No thanks,” I shuddered, pushing the equally disgusting lima beans the lunchroom had served around on my tray. Thank goodness he’d let the whole Valentine thing drop so easily. “Did you see Dan Frasier fall asleep today in Science? It was so gross. He actually started to drool.” I kept babbling on about Dan’s unfortunate lapse of consciousness until I realized I was talking to myself.

  “Michael?”

  He wasn’t paying attention. I followed his gaze. His eyes had drifted to one of the televisions mounted all around the cafeteria. Someone had changed the channel to one of the 24-hour news programs. A constant scroll about refugees and violence in the Middle East crept across the bottom of the screen. Michael set his jaw, crumpling his brown lunch sack in his big, golden hands.

  “Michael?” I asked again, waiting for his attention to return.

  His reverie broke and he turned to me with a sheepish grin, though his eyes still looked troubled.

  “Sorry, Hope, what was that?”

  “Are you interested in current events?” I asked, as politely as I could, trying to hide my annoyance.

  His eyes danced with amusement. “You could say that, I guess.”

  Before I could ask him more, he started wiggling his eyebrows at me, making one of his patented goofy faces. “I was really just looking for the basketball scores. How ‘bout an ice cream sandwich – my treat?”

  “I thought you didn’t eat ‘junk,’” I teased him.

  “Call it research. I was thinking of writing my biology paper on the eating habits of the American teenage girl. I am in awe of your calorie consumption. I just plan to watch. Maybe capture it on my iPhone.”

  I grabbed the crumpled bag out of his hands and threw it in his face, laughing.

  *****

  I couldn’t figure out why he had picked me out, but for the first time ever in my life, I had a friend. And he was a friend with whom everything seemed effortless, a friend with whom I didn’t have to pretend to be dumb, a friend with whom I could talk about important things instead of the latest program on TV. Between that and being practically faceless in my new school, I was in a state of bliss.

  But something was wrong. By the start of my third week in school, Michael seemed distant. He was preoccupied. In every class, he seemed to be sneaking peeks at papers he had tucked inside his books, rapidly shoving them inside his backpack as soon as class was over. Over the course of the week he became increasingly short tempered. By the time Friday rolled around, he was like a caged lion. His entire body was tense, his face looked drawn and tight around the eyes, and even the slightest question from me would cause him to snap.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked as final bell rang and we spilled out toward the locker bays, wondering what I’d done to upset him. I didn’t have much experience with friends, so I was sure it was my fault. “Can you tell me what I’ve done?”

  “It’s not about you, Hope. Just leave it alone,” he sighed, his frustration palpable as he twirled the combination to his locker.

  “Problems, Michael?” A dry voice interrupted our conversation.

  We both turned. It was the boy who had stared at me during the first week of school. He was surrounded by the same pack of friends who’d been fighting that day. Even the obnoxious boy from the bus was there. Only now, he wasn’t the only one paying me attention. Everyone’s eyes were fully focused on us, like a pack of wolves surrounding stray sheep.

  “Nothing I can’t handle, Lucas,” Michael said smoothly. I noticed he had placed a protective arm across me. I was suddenly aware of just how tiny I was next to him.

  “Hmmm. I must have been mistaken, then. You just seem like maybe you need a little getaway, you know, to take care of some business.” He dripped the words from his mouth, trying to insinuate something – who knows what. “What about you, Hope? Cat got your tongue?”

  I stared at the boy. Suddenly, my mouth felt like it was full of sawdust. I gulped nervously, my hand unconsciously drifting to my neck to cover my Mark, before I answered.

  “How do you know my name?”

  He laughed, but with a cold and detached sort of amusement. “It’s a public school, Hope. Everybody knows everything. We know all about you.”

  A feeling of dread washed over me. Did they? My body felt hot and sweaty, but I resisted the urge to reach up and wipe my brow, not wanting them to see how nervous they were making me.

  Michael scoffed, his blue eyes
flashing with anger. “Leave us alone, Lucas. There’s nothing to know and nothing to do.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Lucas purred. His dark eyes shimmered with barely contained excitement. “You know me; I always seem to find some sort of trouble to make.”

  “Make it somewhere else,” Michael retorted, grabbing my wrist roughly as he slammed his locker shut. “Come on, Hope, let’s go.”

  He charged through the crowd of boys, pulling me in his wake. They barely seemed to give way; I was painfully aware of the press of their bodies as we cut through.

  I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until we were already out on the sidewalk.

  “How do you know him?” I asked in a shaky voice, struggling to keep up with Michael.

  “I don’t,” he said curtly, staring straight ahead and continuing to drag me along relentlessly.

  “But he made it sound like…”

  “Hope, I told you before, just leave it alone!” His voice had an edge to it that was a clear warning. I swallowed my questions and followed meekly as he led me toward the buses.

  “Michael, we’re going the wrong way; your car…”

  He drew up short; I stumbled right into him, spilling my book bag out onto the sidewalk. He threw down my arm, bent over, and furiously began shoving things back into the bag.

  “You’re taking the bus today,” he said without looking at me.

  I rubbed the spot where he had gripped my wrist; it already ached. “But, Michael, why are you…”

  “Hope, I can’t babysit you every minute!” he practically yelled at me as he stood up. Out of the corner of my eye, groups of students came to a standstill to watch. “I have stuff to do. Here, take your bag.” He shoved it roughly at me. “Now get on your bus,” he said, pushing me toward the narrow door.

  And before I could say anything, he stalked off toward the student parking lot.

  I stood frozen, painfully aware of the whispers and stares. Slowly, I turned toward the bus and climbed the first few steps. As I did, I heard someone calling after me in a mocking tone.

  “Have a nice weekend, Hope!”

  I looked over my shoulder just in time to see the bus doors close on Lucas, a look of smug satisfaction on his face.

  *****

  Back in my room, I threw myself on my bed, alternating between burying my face in and then punching the heap of pillows piled at the headboard.

  I ran through my memories of the last few weeks and could find nothing, nothing that I had done that could have even remotely set off a reasonable human being.

  I sat bolt upright in my bed.

  How dare he treat me like that?

  Seriously, who did he think he was, all Mr. Nice and them wham! Dropping me like a bad smell just because he was in a pissy mood?

  I kicked my sneakers off and let them fly across the room, landing with a satisfying thump! against my closet door.

  And lying to me that he didn’t know Lucas? Clearly, the two had a history. But how could they when Michael was new to the school, too? Why couldn’t he just tell me the truth?

  “Aarrgh!” I yelled in frustration, falling back on my bed.

  I heard a soft knock at my door.

  “Hope, may I come in?”

  I groaned and rolled over. I had forgotten that my Mom was already home. Consultant hours were unpredictable. Sometimes, like today, she’d show up in the middle of the day. I’d managed to get by her without too much conversation when I got off the bus, but apparently, her Mom Radar was on alert.

  “Sure, Mom,” I answered, straightening out the bedcovers and fluffing the pillows.

  She slid in through the door, a look of mild alarm spreading across her face as she scanned for damage. “Is everything okay? It sounded like you fell.”

  “Just me throwing my shoes, Mom. Sorry about that.”

  She frowned slightly and tilted her head, her eyebrows forming a distinct question mark.

  I sighed. I’d already learned she was hard to hide things from. I chalked it up to her MBA and consultant training.

  “Michael was just being a jerk today, that’s all.”

  I watched her carefully choose her words as she sat down on the bed and plucked at some imaginary lint. “Michael, that new boy with whom you’ve become friends?”

  “Yes, though the way he’s been acting this week you’d think I’d set his pet bunnies on fire or something. He’s been so moody, Mom! And he won’t tell me what I did. It’s so unfair.”

  “What makes you think it’s something you did?” Mom asked me, looking me straight in the eye. “Did you do something wrong, Hope?”

  “No!” I protested, clutching one of the pillows tight to my chest. “I’ve wracked my brain, Mom. All I can think of…”

  I stopped, not even wanting to say it out loud.

  “Go on,” Mom urged.

  “…is that he’s tired of me. I mean, who am I, right? Just some hick girl from Alabama. He’s probably gotten bored of me.”

  My body sagged, my head drooping to my chest as I thought about this possibility. It seemed to be the only thing that made sense.

  Mom gently lifted my chin so she could look me in the eye. “Hope, did Michael try to avoid you? Did he move his seat in class, or try to eat with someone else at lunch?”

  “No,” I admitted grudgingly.

  “Have you gotten too clingy; maybe thinking of him as more than a friend?”

  “No!” I protested, my cheeks burning. “It’s not like that, Mom! We’re just friends.”

  I saw her lips twitch.

  “It’s not funny!” I shouted, burying my face in another pillow.

  “Oh, Hope, honey, I’m not laughing at you, I promise. It just seems to me that you are awfully unfamiliar with teenage boys. They go through their moods, and then some, just like the rest of us do. And if I understand the situation as you’ve described it, he might have an awful lot of pressure on him, having to fend for himself. From what you say, it doesn’t seem to me like he is trying to end your friendship. Whatever it is, he’ll get over it. Just give him his space. You’ll see; when Monday rolls around I bet everything will be back to normal.”

  I sat up again, looking at her skeptically.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “But why’d he have to be so mean, Mom? It makes me so angry!”

  “I don’t know, Hopie,” she said, using her old nickname for me while she smoothed out my hair. “But when I get angry I like to take it out on my rowing machine.” She glanced across my room to the treadmill she’d bought, sitting forlorn and forgotten in the corner, strewn with rejected clothing. “You haven’t even touched your treadmill. It’s been weeks,” she noted in a neutral tone.

  I felt my chin rise defensively. “I’ve been busy.”

  She skewered me with one of her looks again. “Hope, I know you love to run. Is there something about this treadmill you don’t like? It still has the tags dangling from it. I could return it if you aren’t going to use it.”

  I fought against myself but couldn’t keep from blurting my response. “It’s just…just…the only reason I ran on a treadmill is Dad wouldn’t let me run outside. Ever.”

  The air was still as she considered this new information, her face a carefully composed mask.

  “What do you mean?”

  I didn’t want to add to my father’s long list of apparent parenting failures, but there was no way I could get out of this one.

  “He thought it was too dangerous for me to be alone. So I couldn’t even walk myself to school, let alone go outside for a run.”

  For a split second I saw beneath her composed veneer, saw the shock and anger she felt toward my dad. But just as quickly, it was gone. I knew then that I could never tell her about the Cupid-Gram Dad had sent me – she would seriously lose it. So I stayed silent until she stood up, brushed off her slacks and moved quietly to the door. She made one parting shot as she left me to brood in my room.

&n
bsp; “Well, nothing’s stopping you now.”

  *****

  I stretched out on the front steps, eyeing the little cul de sac with a bit of trepidation. Of course, my mother was right. It was unfortunate that Dad had kept me under lock and key. But that was all over now, and I hadn’t even taken advantage of it.

  “No time like the present,” I muttered to myself, starting up my favorite running mix on my iPod as I left the steps.

  A thousand little things underscored how different it was to be outside instead of tied to a machine. The feel of pavement, unforgiving beneath my feet. The sharp air that felt prickled, icy, as I breathed it in. The drop in temperature when I came under the shade of a stand of tall pines. The wind slicing through my fleece.

  At first, with every step I imagined I was squashing Michael’s face with my foot. But eventually I gave myself to the music, my footfalls synching to the rhythm. Slowly, my stress melted away as I focused on my breathing. By the time I turned the corner off the main loop, I was singing along with my iPod at full voice, doing little hand jive moves when the spirit took me, as if the road was my own private stage.

  I had never felt so free.

  I suppose I looked funny to any neighbor who happened to look out their window. But I didn’t care. I was running, really running, without some stupid program on a machine to tell me how fast or how long to run.

  I kept running, past the familiar streets into others I’d never been on. They all looked comfortingly the same. What was that phrase Mom had used once? Safe as houses. Everybody here is safe as houses.

  But no sooner had I thought it when I began to get a funny feeling that I was not alone.

  I slowed down to a trot to look over my shoulder, but could see nothing.

  Unsettled, I started running again, darting a backwards glance every few yards. The safe little neighborhood suddenly felt threatening, the dark windows in the empty houses glaring at me like angry eyes. I picked up the pace.

  I had made it back to the main loop and now the sun was hanging low in the February sky. Only a little ways left to go, I thought to myself, trying to forget that the last bit went through an unfinished part of the neighborhood that had been left open as a preserve.