"Because if you like him, then you might feel bad about using a date as a cover just to get information."
I roll my eyes and she takes my impatient gesture the wrong way, clearly assuming that I'm just stalling so I won't have to respond one way or the other.
Wendi steps back from her door and leans her palms on the brick ledge of her porch to stare at me with raised eyebrows. "Unless, of course," she says slowly, "you're worried that you'll end up liking him if you get to know him."
"That is highly unlikely." I respond with a weary sigh.
See, while I do really, truly, and seriously doubt that possibility, I don't want to say no outright because anything is possible.
If the snowball's chance in hell scenario of me liking Grey Addison did somehow come to be, I'd just end up looking like a liar.
She shrugs at me and turns back to her door. "Then there shouldn't be anything stopping you, right? You want to know about him, get him into a situation where you can ask him whatever you want—problem solved. See ya in the morning."
I'm forced to wonder, against my will as she disappears into her house, why she's suddenly so adamant about this. Or, I consider as I push open my own door and step into the tiny, square foyer, she isn't and she's just trying to get me to drop my insistence that there's something wrong with the guy so I don't end up turning myself into a social pariah and, by extension, her, too. She may be a pain in the ass, but she's also loyal to a fault. If my mid-level popularity—a handful of friends, lots of friendly acquaintances, and no real enemies to speak of—slips out from under me, than it's a trip she'll take right along with me; not because she's any less popular, but by her own choice to stick by my side, because that's just the sort of person she is.
Good friggin' luck on me letting this go, though; not that I exactly like the pariah idea, but there are some feelings ya just can't shake.
CHAPTER TWO
Early Morning Spookiness
"Something witchy this way comes." I call out as I drop my keys into the bowl on the coffee table and proceed through the house.
My mother works—refusing to let my dad's alimony and child support checks pay even one cent toward anything they're not supposed to; she feels that would put a crinkle in their strangely amicable divorce—but she always tries to take a late lunch at home so she can be here when I get in from school. I round the French doors that separate the dining area from the kitchen to see my brother, Jeremy, but no Mom. I raise a brow, slinging my messenger bag up onto the counter and heading straight to the fridge to get a can of Diet Pepsi. Dad's diabetic, so we've been raised to do without real sugar
"Something witchy, huh?" Jeremy says, barely looking up from some college paper or another he's working on. "Mom had to work through lunch, but I'll listen if you wanna talk about it."
I nod before I take a long swig of soda, trying not to choke on the carbon bubbles for a sec. See, it's always been Mom's contention that Gran's sixth sense was a hereditary trait and so should have been passed down. Jeremy and I get vibes and inklings about things from time to time; however, our mother . . . . God love her, she tries, but it seems to have skipped her. Regardless of her numerous failed predictions, the awareness of it being in our family makes her open-minded, understanding, and perfect to talk to about the weird moments.
When we were little, if Jer or I ever announced something before it happened, Dad would laugh and just say careful, your witchy is showing. So the Shakespearean misquote turned into a McKenna family declaration we use upon entering the house when we want to have one of those weird-moment talks.
"Only if that can wait a few minutes," I say, nudging my chin in the direction of his laptop and textbooks.
He scratches at his close-cropped brown hair and closes the computer. "Yeah, sure. In fact, I welcome the distraction."
Setting the can of soda on the kitchen table, I pull out a chair to sit down and then start explaining about the pharmacy window. It isn't the incident itself that bothers me—that crap happens all the time—but the little thrill of warning I felt just before it happened is what worries me.
"And what did Wendi think about that?"
I just stare at him. Here I am, wanting him to tell me that warning sensation wasn't strange at all, just like our usual inklings, and therefore, the forewarning is something that I can just let go of without examination. Maybe I should know better than to talk to him—he takes any opportunity lately to bring up Wendi and yet, somehow thinks I won't realize he's got a crush on her. Honestly, I think he's just embarrassed because usually it's the little sister's best friend who develops the crush on the older brother, not the other way around.
I don't see what the big deal is. She told me—in an unforgettably awkward conversation that has likely left me scarred and traumatized for life—that she thinks he's totally hot. They're both just being stupid, and if one of them would only say something to the other one, then maybe I could be left out of it altogether.
But rather than blurt all this out, since he'll likely only respond in typical-guy reflex and tell me I'm crazy, I just shrug. "She was looking straight ahead, so she couldn't tell that I didn't see it coming at us before it actually was, you know, coming at us."
"Why didn't you tell her? She already knows about your feelings."
Yeah, sure, she knows about them, but still questions my distrust of Grey—the one thing I'm adamant about. I can't help frowning, not even about the Grey thing, either, but because Jeremy's not even asking for my benefit, but for his. Like he wants to know for certain that she's used to the psychic stuff from me so that if she ever sees it from him, she won't get freaked out.
It's still a wonder to me why I don't just get them in a room together, spill the beans, and then walk out, leaving them to deal with each other.
"Forget it." I mutter as I fight off a yawn, ignoring the rest of my soda and pushing away from the table to stand.
"Hey," he says, and reaches out to catch my wrist as I pass him to retrieve my bag. "Are you mad at me or something?"
Pursing my lips, I take a moment and sort of internally vent—it's not his fault; he doesn't get how annoying he can be when it comes to Wendi.
"No, Jer, I'm tired and irritated and just want to do my homework and relax." I shrug, and realize I actually am really tired, but have no clue why. "Maybe I’ll go to bed early."
"Okay," he says, with a perplexed half-frown as he lets go and reopens his laptop. "You want me to tell Mom just to put something in the fridge for you?"
Usually my brother and I have no trouble cooking dinner for ourselves, but on days when Mom has to work through lunch, she tries to make it up to us by bringing home takeout. No matter how many times we tell her that we understand and there's nothing for her to make up, the woman insists.
"Sure, thanks." I smile tiredly at him as I head out of the kitchen and amble upstairs to my room.
It occurs to me only after I'm already closing my bedroom door that maybe I could have gotten his take on the Grey issue—Jer being someone who understands what it's like to get these feelings. I turn around to head back downstairs, but then I'm stopped short by the notion that he might just gloss over what I want to talk about and hijack the conversation so he can get me to talk about Wendi some more.
"Screw it." I dump my books out onto my bed, and then sigh miserably as I pull my math text from the small pile. "I'll just wait and talk to Mom instead."
When I wake up, I open my eyes to be greeted by a vague, person-shaped blob leaning over my face in my darkened room and I let out a startled shriek. In a second, though, I see a very familiar eyebrow lift, and suddenly my mom's features make sense.
Sitting up, I press a hand to the center of my chest and feel my heart pounding like a very small jackhammer as I push away my quilt and swing my legs over the side of the bed. "What's the big idea, lady?"
"You slept through dinner, and then some, so I thought you might like to go get us breakfast."
I frown, gl
ancing down at myself. I'm still in my clothes from yesterday . . . . I don't even remember having gotten under the covers; I must've been half-asleep when I decided to ignore the warmish early-autumn weather outside and cocoon myself in a blanket. But it's still dark out, and Mom is talking about breakfast.
How long was I out?
"What time is it?" I ask, as I wipe my eyes.
Mom shrugs, one corner of her mouth twitching as she looks away from me. This is when I realize that she's deliberately standing between me and my alarm clock. "Almost . . . five a.m."
My eyes drift closed as I groan.
"Fantastic." She knows I hate mornings.
"Oh, c'mon." She bounces away from me—damned morning people—and flicks on the light switch. I'm about to grumble some more, as the sudden brightness forces me to squint, but she waves a twenty-dollar bill at me. "Go get bagels and some of those turbo-espresso-super-caffeinated coffees you like so much."
I'm not incredibly happy to be up before the sun, but the thought of yummy bagel shop coffee does perk me up a bit. I stand and reach to snag the money from her hand, but she pulls it out of my reach.
"Wha-?"
"Get changed, first," she says, tucking the bill into the pocket of her navy blue dress slacks. "No daughter of mine is going to step out of this house looking all sleep-rumpled."
With that, she goes into the hall and shuts the door, leaving me to throw on some fresh clothes.
When my feet hit the sidewalk finally, I'm clad in black skinny jeans, a ribbed, sable-colored turtleneck, and a pair of slightly scuffed up black motorcycle boots. The twenty is in my pocket, and I realize I'm still kind of functioning in my sleep after swallowing several yawns as I make my way to the bagel shop. I feel like I shouldn't be so tired, not after having slept so long, and I still have no idea why I was exhausted in the first place. It's strange to consider the source, since it really didn't seem like that big of a deal at the time, but I can only think that my tiredness has to do with the pebble incident.
I remember Gran used to talk about how some of her episodes left her feeling drained or winded or in need of a nap. I know a simple vibe can't compare to a full-on premonition, or remote viewing, or any of the other phenomena my grandmother experienced, but making this connection helps me to rationalize it. The feeling had just been another inkling, but it had been stronger than usual—even if only by a little—and sharper. Usually they're vague . . . just a feeling that something is going to happen, but not knowing what. A solid instinct like stop, that certainty that told me to pull Wendi back, is kind of new. Maybe it just sapped my energy . . . maybe even the smaller inklings did, too, and I just hadn't notice sooner because I was used to those.
That's all I can think of, and it doesn't feel like a satisfactory conclusion, but it does make sense.
By the time I leave the store carrying a bag of bagels with cream cheese and a tray of über-caffeine, the sun is cresting and the street lamps have timed out. It's that odd moment of the morning when the sky is a hint darker than just before dawn. Rather than making a right and continuing straight up the next few blocks to get back to my house, I cross the street so that I can walk along the worn stone and wrought iron fence around the cemetery.
Despite my gripes about weirdness, I actually like a little spooky chill in the morning.
I sigh, rolling my shoulders and stretching to work some kinks out of my spine. I gaze through the fence, over the crumbling grave markers and mausoleums covered in vines that dominate this side of the cemetery. Being closer to the initial settlement that Drake's Cove had grown out of, the section I'm walking past is simply referred to as Old Part. Some of the tombstones are so worn that you can barely make out the names or dates on them.
I see something that stops me in my tracks. There's someone in the cemetery. And it's sure not the groundskeeper. Frowning, I set the bag and cups on the sidewalk and step closer to the fence, pressing my face against the diamond pattern of the rusty, iron scrollwork, to get a better look.
My jaw drops at the sight of the one and only Grey Addison leaving the cemetery. Well, sneaking out, really . . . at roughly ten to six in the morning. Yeah, nothing weird about that, I can't help thinking snidely, as I watch him scramble over the fence not very far from where I'm standing—like if he turns around for even a second, he might see me watching him. Which means he's been poking his nose around in Old Part, but why couldn't he do that while the place was open?
Just peachy—now I don't simply want answers, I need them.
I let out a grumpy sigh, shaking my head as I turn away and pick up the breakfast stuff, then resume my walk home.
"All right, Wendi," I mutter, "looks like I've got to play it your way."
CHAPTER THREE
Connectivity
It's after lunch when I finally manage to get Wendi pried off my hip as we part ways to head to our different math classes. I know she’s only being clingy because, after dropping the ask him out bomb on my head yesterday, she just wants to see if I’ll act on it. I'm not sure that I've been consciously waiting for her to be gone, but now that she is, I realize that I hadn't felt like dealing with the embarrassment if Grey turns me down with an audience. An option which, since I'm probably going to appear like a complete and utter psycho after pretending to switch gears so fast, seems highly likely to me. I'm not incredibly confident that this is going to work, and I haven't considered my alternatives should he tell me no. Then again—I frown as I continue down the corridor—he's only a few feet ahead of me, and there's no time like the present; skipping through life with my shoelaces untied isn't completely unlike me.
I open my mouth to call his name, but my voice dies on me. Instantly, I freeze in my tracks and drop my gaze to the floor. What the hell, am I nervous? I shake my head and let out a harsh breath. Seem to be, but I don't even like the guy, so what sort of sense does that make?
Being dumb, that's it; I'm being dumb and acting like a total girl.
I shake my head again and resume walking. I don't want to jog to catch up to him, but I do want to get to him before he heads into the classroom—because, again, the audience issue—so I pick up my pace a little, stepping hurriedly until I'm about an arm's length behind him.
If I try to call his name, my voice just might choose to wuss out on me again, so instead I reach up to tug at the sleeve of his black 30 Seconds to Mars T-shirt. Just as I'm about to make contact though, his arm twitches and he stops short. I manage to halt my own steps just in time to keep from colliding with him.
He turns his head to look over his shoulder at my hand, still lingering in the air, and then meets my eyes.
"Uh . . . ." I drop my arm to my side and fidget awkwardly in place for a second. "Hi . . . Grey. Can we talk for a sec?"
Frowning, he turns toward me completely. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his Adam's apple bob, a small gulp going down his throat as he folds his arms across his chest. "We can, but wouldn't that compromise our whole you-glaring-menacingly-at-me thing?"
I cringe at that, figuring that I'd been right, he's so going to think I'm a lunatic. But before I can go any further, I'm sidelined by his choice of words. That's probably a good thing, since it's helping to distract me from the curious looks I know our classmates are tossing our way as they move past us and into the room.
"It's not menacing!" I say, gaping up at him.
Holding my gaze, he tips his head down towards me just a bit and it makes his hair fall into his eyes. "It sure as hell isn't friendly."
"Well . . . ." It's not like he's wrong. "I suppose you could be right about that." I bring up my hands to steeple my fingers in front of my mouth. "Look, I'm sorry about all that. Would . . . would you be opposed to the idea of, like, going out, or something, some time?"
Great, so now I've gone from menacing him to stumbling over my words like some nervous, lovesick moron.
He blinks a few times and lifts a hand to scratch his head. I'm not sure if it's a sincere gesture
or if he's doing it intentionally to emphasize that I've clearly just confused him. "Are you asking me out on a date?"
I feel my lip curl as I hear these words—an expression that, I can tell by the sudden smirk lifting one corner of his mouth, has not gone unnoticed by him—but wanting to know what he's doing here is a curiosity that has well and truly dug itself under my skin.
"Or," I say with a light shrug, "we could just, like, hang out. It doesn't have to be a date date."
His frown is back again as he leans down so that we're eye level, his gaze shifting from my left eye to my right a few times as he mutters, "You're a pod-person, aren't you?"
I've never actually seen Invasion of the Body Snatchers, but the reference isn't lost on me. "Funny."
Grey stands straight again and lets his arms drop, stuffing his fists into the pockets of his jeans. He glances over the top of my head for a split-second toward the hallway clock and then he nudges his chin in the direction of the classroom.
Nodding, I turn, falling into step beside him and continuing to the door. I'm not any more eager to finish this talk in the classroom than I'd been to ask him the question a second ago, but any longer holding the conversation in the hall and we'll get in after the late bell, which would probably be quite a feat since we're only right outside the room.
I know everyone's eyes are on us. By some weird, unspoken mutual agreement, we skirt the wall, make our way to the back, and take seats neither of us normally sit in to. More than likely to continue our discussion in hushed tones. Great, this doesn't look at all suspiciously like something's going on between us. It's only after we sit that it occurs to me that we were on the same wavelength for a moment there.
He takes the time to open his books on the desk before turning to me. "No, seriously, what's with the sudden change in attitude?"
I shake my head, following his lead—if he didn't notice our seemingly unanimous thinking a second ago, then I am not about to be the one to bring it up.
Witch-Child Page 2
