I figured I could give Crystal the information about Influence and let her draw her own conclusions. I realize now the folly of that plan. What if she takes too long? What if Brody doesn’t wait as long as I think he will? I need to press her to move forward before Brody makes good on his threats. Elliot’s right: Family is precious, and I can’t let the Amaranthine take it away from me.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Krissa
I know I should be spending all my free time figuring out how to get Crystal the abilities she needs to contact Bess, but I can’t make myself focus. I have to talk to Owen. I know he wanted time, but maybe he won’t need it if he knows exactly what’s been keeping me from him. If he knows why I pulled away, he might understand. And if he understands, maybe we can move forward and put the past behind us.
I’m a ball of nerves at school. Owen and I are in second hour together. It’s not ideal, but the idea of waiting until later in the day puts me on edge. I want him to know as soon as possible.
My plan is simple, if inelegant. Obviously, the middle of science class isn’t the most ideal place to have the kind of conversation I want to have. The benefit here is that Owen is a psychic. The bracelet I wear keeps me from linking with the minds of others, but I’ve successfully taken it off and been able to use those abilities in the spells I’ve cast to try to find Bess. Of course, when I worked those spells, there weren’t many people around. My hope is to compensate by taking the bracelet off but keeping it near so I can grab it if I start to be overwhelmed. But hopefully that won’t be necessary. I’ll sit at an open desk by Owen and simply touch him. It’s how we used to share thoughts when we were first learning. For some reason, physical touch assists in the mental link. Since I’m out of practice, the contact can’t hurt. In addition to keeping the information strictly between us, I’ll be able to explain myself much more quickly and thoroughly this way than I would ever be able to out loud.
I don’t even bother feigning attention during first hour. Mrs. Buchanan and I have a tacit agreement: She won’t bother me as long as I turn in my assignments. Since I can do spells to assist with the work part, that leaves my class time pretty open. I need that today. I couldn’t concentrate even if I tried.
I have to fight to keep myself from running straight to science class. Part of me wants to. If I get there too late, there’s a chance the seats near Owen will be filled. That’s a simple enough problem to solve, but I’d rather not resort to using magic against unsuspecting classmates. An alternative is to show up right away and take a seat near Owen’s before they fill. But there’s a danger there, too. What if Owen sees me and chooses another seat? If I move my seat to be by him, he may refuse to listen to me at all. I’m already not respecting his wishes, so I don’t want to push him any more than I have to.
Instead, I’m left with option three: Waiting for Owen to arrive in class and hoping I get there before the spots by him are taken.
I take an unnecessarily long time at my locker, keeping my eyes trained down the hall. When I catch Owen approaching, I start slowly toward the classroom door. When one of his guy friends stops him, I cut toward the nearest room to buy time.
I’m not sure whose class this is—it’s not a teacher of mine. I’m blocking the doorway for anyone who may want to enter, but I don’t care. I’ll take dirty looks if it gets me what I want. I watch as Owen talks to the sandy-haired guy. If I take off my bracelet now, it’s possible I could peek in on the conversation. I resist the urge. It doesn’t matter what they’re talking about. My only concern is this guy will keep him too long, and by the time the two of us make it to science, there won’t be two desks together.
I’m not paying much attention to what’s going on inside the room until I catch a snippet of chatter. Two girls sitting along the wall beside the door are deep in conversation about prom. I can’t see them from my position, but when Owen’s name comes up, I know who one of the girls is: Laurie.
“It’s still, like, a month away,” one girl says, her voice soothing. “Nothing to be worried about.”
“I keep trying to drop hints, but Owen just changes the subject every time I bring it up,” says Laurie, sounding put out.
“I bet he’s planning some big promposal and it’s just not ready yet. He doesn’t want to talk about it because he doesn’t want to spoil the surprise.” The friend is talking as if she’s the font of all wisdom. I would roll my eyes, except my stomach is clenched and heat begins building in my limbs. They’re talking about Owen—my Owen—asking this girl to prom. If I’m honest, I haven’t given much thought to the dance. I certainly haven’t considered that Owen might be thinking of going.
“Maybe you’re right,” says Laurie, sounding a bit more hopeful.
“Of course I am,” her friend says. “There’s no way he’s not asking you. Just don’t worry about it.”
“Easier said than done.”
A rushing sound fills my ears, drowning out the rest of their conversation. I’ve seen this girl with Owen, I’ve even considered the idea that they might be together, but to hear this conversation—this confirmation—is more than I can handle. Is it possible Owen really has moved on? Is it possible he didn’t tell me when we spoke before simply to spare my feelings?
I’ve been so foolish. Of course he wouldn’t wait around for me. I’ve given him nothing to wait for. He’s right: I ran away from him, straight to two guys who, put together, aren’t half the man he is. My plan now seems so foolish and flawed as to be completely laughable. I really thought this was going to work. How could I be so blind?
The answer is obvious: I’m completely self-centered. If I weren’t, I would have realized what my choices were doing to Owen. He was right—his life is in turmoil because he remembers a reality unknown to almost everyone else he encounters. I could have been there for him, but I pushed him away. I thought it was for the best, that I never really considered what was best for him.
I can’t stay here anymore—and there’s no way I can sit through science now. Maybe I should just leave. It’s not like I’m in any state to be here today anyway.
I dart into the hall, careful to keep my head down in case Owen is still around. Before I’ve made it three steps, I collide with someone.
Hands grip my shoulders gently. “Um. Sorry.”
The voice is so stilted and awkward it takes me a minute to place it. When I do, heat rises to my cheeks as I remember Tucker’s information about how I cross his mind. “Fox.”
I don’t know if it’s because of the tone of my voice—higher than usual—or the look on my face—embarrassed—but instead of continuing on his way down the hall, Fox locks his eyes on mine. “I, um… How are you?”
It’s the first time he’s spoken directly to me in months. I could easily blame this on my self-imposed isolation, but I know it’s more than that. He’s been avoiding me as much as I’ve been avoiding him. “I’m good,” I say automatically.
His lips twitch. “Liar.” He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “I might not know this version of you, but I can still read your face.”
“It’s nothing,” I insist. “I thought… It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing.” I wish it wasn’t so hard to talk to him. Despite what he may think, I do care about him. Maybe it’s not in the way he wants, but my feelings are real nonetheless. My alternate self was such a big part of his life for so long—I hate that he feels he needs to treat me as a stranger. “You and Dana seem happy.”
I regret the words as soon as they pass my lips. Like I’m the person he wants to discuss his love life with.
His eyebrows draw together and his lips purse, but the tightness passes quickly. “We are,” he says, nodding, but I get the sense there’s more he’s not saying. Before I can ask, he takes a step back. “I should get going to class.”
I nod. “Yeah,” I agree, but before the words are past my lips, he’s striding down the hall, away from me. I sigh. Maybe I should ask Tucker exactly what kinds of though
ts have been crossing Fox’s mind. Perhaps knowing that could help me understand what he needs from this version of me. But even without asking, I already know. He needs me to be her, the girl he loved, but I’m not. I’m supposed to be me, the girl Owen loved—but I might be too late for that, too.
I start down the hall again, my eyes glued to the floor. Someone nudges me gently in the shoulder.
“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this,” Felix says.
Despite my state, or perhaps because of it, the sound of his voice is enough to calm me by a few degrees. “Sorry.” I do my best to keep my eyes down. But this is Felix I’m dealing with, and whether I like it or not, he knows me better than almost anyone.
“Hey, what’s the matter? You look like you want to punch something.” He dips down just far enough to catch my eye, and when he straightens, my gaze follows his face. “You okay?”
I don’t know what to tell him. It’s obvious I’m not okay, and I don’t have the strength to lie. “I was going to talk to Owen. But… I changed my mind. I don’t think it’s a good idea.” I decide to leave out my awkward interaction with Fox.
Felix’s shoulders sag. “I’m sorry Lexie brought that up.”
“So you don’t think I should talk to him?” I’m so mixed up right now, I need to know I’m doing the right thing. Five minutes ago I was so convinced that talking to Owen was for the best, but now it seems like the worst of all possible options. I need an opinion from someone outside of my own head.
Felix doesn’t answer right away. “I think you’ve done a lot of work to put distance between the two of you the last few months. Jumping in to have a serious conversation with him might not be the best idea—not if he’s not prepared for it. Tell you what—how about I talk to him? I can kind of set the stage…”
I shake my head. “No. Don’t do that. I think… I think I waited too long. Owen might finally be getting his life back together, and I don’t want to destroy it again.”
Felix’s jaw tightens. “Destroy is a pretty strong word.”
“But not incorrect.” I press my lips together. “Thanks for wanting to help. Look, I gotta get out of here.”
“Want me to skip with you?”
My chest constricts at his offer. Felix is so good—almost too good. How can he have forgiven me so easily for having treated him so poorly? I don’t deserve a friend like him. And as much as I don’t want to push him away again, I also don’t want to pull him down into my darkness. “I think I’d rather be alone. Thanks, though.”
It’s obvious from his expression he doesn’t like that idea, but as the warning bell sounds overhead, he sways on his spot. “You’ve still got my number.”
I nod. “I’ll use it if I need it.”
His lips twitch like he wants to say something else, but he just gives his head a small shake before starting toward his next class. I dart down the hallway in the other direction as quickly as I can without arousing suspicion. I could just hide out in the bathroom all hour, but I suddenly feel claustrophobic. I don’t want to be in this building. I’ll leave. I have to. I need to put some distance between me and the conversation I overheard. Owen has moved on. I need to find a way to be happy for him. He’s figuring out how to make a life here in a reality he doesn’t remember. My reality has changed, too. No longer am I an innocent girl, a target because of the abilities I didn’t know how to control. Now I’m something more, something darker. I’m a young woman capable of murder without remorse. I can’t believe I let myself forget that. I can’t believe I let myself think it might be okay to put that behind me, to interact with normal people as if I’m the same person I was before Seth died. When I plunged the knife into his heart, I killed two people: Seth and the girl I used to be. Of course Owen doesn’t want to be with me anymore—I’m someone different now. I won’t forget that again.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Crystal
Krissa wasn’t in school today, and she ignored my texts until after lunch.
To say I was experiencing heart palpitations until she finally responded would be an understatement.
Worst-case scenarios kept popping through my brain: What if she doesn’t want to help now that she knows the only way to do so is by first giving me my abilities back? What if she never intended to help me do that in the first place? What if she can’t do it now—or flat out refuses? What will happen to my family?
But when she finally got back to me, she didn’t express anything that made me think she would go back on her promise. On the contrary, she assured me the reason she was absent was to spend the day doing research.
I found it harder than usual to concentrate during school. I wanted desperately to be wherever she was, helping her. This is my life, after all. No one is more invested than I am. Still, I can’t afford to be skipping classes. Gone are the days when I could simply cast a spell to make a teacher believe I was in class, and there’s no way I can get around having to do whatever assignments are set. I’m constantly finding new ways that a life without magic completely sucks.
It’s not even like I can throw myself into research once the school day ends, either. Today is Mom’s short day and she’s home from work just as I arrive from school. Since my grades haven’t rebounded as quickly or as well as she and my dad had hoped—indeed, as I had promised—she insists I sit at the kitchen table and work on my assignments. At first I claim I have no homework, but that quickly backfires when she pulls up the online grade book and starts rattling off a list of things I’m still missing.
I’m stuck at the table until just before dinner, allowed to rise only to help set out plates and flatware and to hug my dad when he gets home. When the meal starts and I finally am permitted to put my books away, Dad quizzes me on what I’ve been working on. My answers are basic at best, my mind elsewhere.
“Is this about a boy?” My dad’s abrupt question startles me out of my preoccupation with twirling spaghetti onto my fork.
“Is… What?” I get the feeling I’ve missed a crucial part of the conversation. After Dad stopped asking me specific questions about what I’ve been working on, I began to tune him out. He and my mom started down the path of lamenting how my poor grades will look on a college transcript and wheeling out the tired argument of what will I do with my life without a good education. That’s the point at which I always zone out, but now I wish I’d been paying at least a little attention. “What boy?”
Mom and Dad exchange glances. “You tell us,” Mom says. From the tone of her voice, I can tell she thinks she’s caught wind of the truth.
I’m not sure exactly what to say. Tucker isn’t the kind of guy a girl brings home to her parents. I never talked about him in the brief time we were together, and since they never asked specifically about him, I assume my alternate self never mentioned him either. I curse myself for not paying better attention to the flow of our conversation—if I had, I’d have a better idea how to proceed now. They think I’m having guy troubles. What I say next is crucial. I’ll either be able to help explain away my poor grades lately, or I’ll bring down an inquisition about whatever guy is distracting me from my studies. I’m not sure which course is my best option at this point.
Dad takes my silence as his cue to impart some parental wisdom. “You know, sweetie, you’re young and there will be plenty of time to date when you get older. I know it may seem like the most important thing in the world to have a boyfriend, but, trust me, sometimes they’re more trouble than they’re worth. Now, I know you and your friend Kristyl have always had a kind of friendship-slash-rivalry going on, but just because she’s had a steady boyfriend for years doesn’t mean you should, too.” As he talks, he twists his fork around, gathering a spool of spaghetti. As he brings it to his mouth, it strikes me how little they actually know about my social life. First of all, I haven’t referred to Krissa by her given name in months—when I mention her at all. And then there’s the glaring untruth that she’s still in a relationship. She and Fox have been fini
shed for months. How is it possible my parents don’t know that?
I’m about to point these facts out when Dad begins sputtering. He clutches at his throat and his eyes bulge. It takes a moment for me to figure out what’s wrong—he’s choking on a mouthful of spaghetti.
Mom is on her feet in a second, immediately at my dad’s side, urging him to stand. I watch, frozen, as she stands behind him and wraps her arms around his middle. Dad’s face is turning progressively redder, and I can see the panic in his eyes. What if Mom can’t dislodge the food? Am I going to watch my father die? Should I call 911?
Mom performs the Heimlich maneuver on Dad, but nothing changes. How long can he go like this before he passes out? And what happens if he does? I’ve never felt more powerless. If only I had magic, I could solve this problem in the blink of an eye. I’ve raged at my lack of abilities before, but never quite like this. I’m completely helpless. My father could die, and there would be nothing I could do about it.
Tears prickle my eyes. My dad could die.
There’s a horrible gagging sound and a mashed glob of noodles and sauce shoots out of my dad’s mouth. It’s completely repulsive, but I ignore it. I ignore the spittle-flecked bits of food surrounding Dad’s lips when I run to embrace him. His chest heaves as he takes in frantic gulps of breath, like someone stuck underwater too long.
He strokes my hair, murmuring, “It’s okay, it’s okay.” It strikes me that I should be the one doing the comforting, but I don’t stop him. It seems his words are as much for him as they are for me.
When he finally releases me, no one seems particularly interested in finishing the meal. Without being asked, I start clearing the table. Our conversation about my grades and boys is long forgotten as my parents replay the event, trying to figure out how Dad managed to choke on something that is not traditionally considered hazardous food. I don’t much care to hear the replay, so I excuse myself to my room. Ten minutes ago, I couldn’t wait to be free of the dinner table and my parents’ watchful eyes so I could go through the last round of notes I printed out at the library, and maybe text Krissa to see if she found anything that looks promising. Now I’m not sure I’ll be able to focus at all.
Moon Magic Page 20
