by Alex Hayes
“I’m telekinetic.”
Shri’s head bobs up and down. “Well, if I hadn’t seen that with my own eyes… How big an object can you move? I mean, what about an ocean-liner or the Empire State Building?”
I drop my head into my hands, still feeling groggy. The room feels cold because no one lit the fire. “No idea. I didn’t know for sure I could move the tractor, but I had to try.”
“What you did was so cool. Just like watching a scene from a movie, only it was real! But I guess I can see why you wouldn’t want anyone to know what you can do.” She bumps a shoulder into mine. “Your secret’s safe with me. I won’t tell a soul.”
“Thanks.” I offer her a weak smile and shiver. “Is Dean still around?”
“He borrowed the Suburban and went home to get changed. His clothes were soaked after kneeling in the snow. Said he’ll be back soon to make sure you’re okay. I’ve got to be back for the five a.m. shift tomorrow, so I’ll take off once he arrives.”
I head upstairs for a sweater. The climb is hard work; I can’t remember ever feeling this exhausted.
Dean’s back by the time I return to the living room. And Shri — my buffer against Dean’s weird guyness — is gone.
I focus on the fact that he might have information I want. “Any word from Mama?”
He stands near the hearth, body tense. “She called and said Mr. Jacobsen’s stable. He’s scheduled for x-rays. Until then, they won’t know much for sure, but no internal bleeding as far as the doctors can tell.”
Relief washes over me, cleansing my soul better than a shower could clean my body. “Is he conscious?”
Dean slips his hands into his jeans pockets, seeming to relax. “Yeah. Mrs. Jacobsen said he’s mad he put us in danger like that.”
“He didn’t put us in danger.” I ease onto the couch with a tired sigh. “He shouldn’t be mad at himself.”
“Yeah, I know.” Dean wanders to the front-facing window and leans against the frame as he looks out. It’s dark already, so there’s nothing much to see, but he stands there for a long while.
Tension crawls up my spine like a scorpion, while I wait in the shadows beyond the light cast by a floor-standing art deco lamp that doesn’t quite fit the style of the room.
He turns with a suddenness that makes my insides joggle. “We should talk.”
I groan inwardly, but my mouth says, “Okay,” while I wring my hands in my lap. Ugh. Two people should never be this tense in each other’s company.
Dean focuses on his fingernails, then looks up. “I’m sorry about what happened in the barn. It was stupid. I was stupid.”
My back straightens. How do I respond to an apology? I don’t think I’ve ever received one so serious. This isn’t something I can brush off. I breathe back the fluttering in my chest. “I forgive you.”
“But…” he begins.
Oh god. Here it comes.
“I wish you’d trusted me.”
I pull my arms around me. “Sorry, I can’t grant that wish.”
His lips flatten to a line. “Are you telling me you’re a genie now?”
My chin lifts. “Do you remember rubbing any lamps?” When he doesn’t respond, I say, “I’ll take that as a no.”
His eyes narrow. “So what are you?”
A knot of anger rises into my throat. “A girl. A foster kid who’s been bounced from home to home for too long to feel like she can trust anyone. A girl who’s been caught enough times using her abilities to know some secrets are better kept. That is what I am.”
His eyes reflect a mix of emotions I can’t quite decipher, then he shakes off whatever’s buzzing around his head. “Okay. I guess I understand. And I’m sorry, again, for…expecting more.”
“So. You. Won’t. Tell.” I enunciate each word.
His lips part, and I think he’s about to say something, but he hesitates. Then, “Yeah, sure. I promise.” But there’s an awkwardness to him, a tilt to his head that seems slightly off, and the way he shifts from one foot to the other.
What are you holding back, Dean Whittier?
I rise and step behind the couch, using it as a barrier. “What do you want?”
His tight features collapse into a lost expression. “What do you mean, what do I want?”
“What do you want from me? You’ve been hot and cold ever since we met. You’re friendly here, but most of the time, you act like I’m the deadliest plague ever at school.”
He paces the room, back and forth, in front of the empty hearth.
Why didn’t I light the fire? Not that its cheery glow would help the atmosphere any.
He stops with his back to me and speaks to the window. “You mentioned someone else.”
Okay, where are we? Back in the barn?
“Dre,” he adds, turning back to face me.
Ah. “Um, yeah. Dre. Someone I knew when I was, like, three. The only person I can remember from…before.”
His eyebrow tilts up. “Before?”
“Whatever happened that led to me being fostered all the way across the country and back. If I knew, I can’t remember, and if anyone else does, they’re not telling.”
With a slow nod, he says, “And this Dre… He’s not your boyfriend?”
I so want to roll my eyes. “Not for the last fourteen years, anyway. Why do you ask?”
He goes back to examining his fingernails. “Because I like you, Cadi.”
I pause, brow pinched, trying to translate his words. When I like someone, the time and place doesn’t matter. Liking a person isn’t something you turn on and off for the sake of convenience.
“Then I guess your definition of ‘like’ has little in common with mine. I like Shri, even when I’m standing around with a bunch of blonde chicks who think they’re so hot their see-through blouses might spontaneously combust. The fact that Shri’s dark-haired, dark-skinned and dresses like she’s just stepped off a bus from Transylvania doesn’t matter. She’s still my friend. Not a friend of convenience, but a real friend.”
Dean takes a step closer but doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “I want to be a real friend to you, too.”
I trace his features with my eyes, trying to figure out what’s going on in his head, but his expression isn’t giving anything away. “So what’s the problem?”
He sighs and the tension in his shoulders loosens. “Jake.”
Guess I’m not surprised that Dean’s egotistical best friend sits at the center of this. — Whatever this is. — A guy who aims for the top and spies out the best people to crawl over to get there. By my definition, a loser.
But I don’t think Dean’s like that, because if he was, he wouldn’t be struggling with this dilemma in the first place.
I shake my head and resist the temptation to roll my eyes again. “So he’ll only be your friend if you conform to his definition of one? What does that mean? That he gets to tell you who you can be friends with?”
Dean’s eyes finally turn up. “He’s dating Tess Gilbert and thinks I should go out with her sister.”
Yet here Dean stands, in front of a cold hearth, saying that he likes me.
Should I be flattered? I’m not even sure. He’s popular and good-looking, compared to the rest of the guys at our school, who don’t make it past a seven on the International Cuteness Scale.
Head cocked and arms crossed, I say, “I’m pretty sure she’d be interested if you asked her.” More than interested, based on Angie’s attempt to pound my face in the locker room.
Dean shrugs, eyes cool. “I don’t really care because I’m not interested in her.”
There’s a disconnect here I’m missing. “So why haven’t you told Jake?”
Dean’s eyes fly to the ceiling. “Because he’s Jake.”
I shake my head, brow lifting. Like that explains everything?
He lets out a soft growl. “Cadi, I’ve been friends with him since fourth grade. We’re heading into our last semester, and I don’t want to get blacklisted. He�
��s got the choice girlfriend in school and a following to rival Justin Bieber.”
God knows why. Jake doesn’t come close to JB, who scored a nine point three on the ICS. Until he flipped his hair and snaked his body with tattoos.
Dean shakes out his forearms, like he’s loosening up to take a free throw, then folds them across his chest. “What if he dumps me?”
I bite back a chuckle. “Best friends do not dump each other. They get pissed and stop talking, and then they get over it.”
Not to say I have personal experience with this, but I’ve observed it. That’s one advantage to being an outsider.
Dean paces for a few seconds, then stops again. “So, what if he doesn’t get over it?”
I tiptoe to the end of the couch, perch on its arm and shrug. “His loss?”
His shoulders droop. “More like mine.”
I press my palms into the overstuffed chair arm. “That’s your call, not his.” I smirk. “You have a choice, maybe even a responsibility, to be honest with yourself, with what you really want. If he’s a true friend, he won’t let something as stupid as your taste in girls affect your friendship.”
His blue eyes settle on me. “My taste in girls isn’t stupid.”
My lips part, but I’m not going there. “Whatever. You get my point.”
“Yeah, I get it.” His head dips down. “Thank you for being so…”
I twist my lips. “Honest?”
He smiles. “Yeah.”
While we’re on that track, now seems like a good time to address the elephant humming to himself in the corner of the room. “So why do you like me, anyway?”
His cheeks pick up a tinge of pink and he glances away. “Because you’re quiet, interesting, mysterious…” Then his chin comes up and his eyes steel with determination. “And pretty.”
A sparky tension fills the air like it did on Christmas Eve. Dean and me alone in the living room, only this time we aren’t standing under the mistletoe.
He scoops up my hand as I straighten, ready to react, but I’m not sure how. “Gorgeous, actually.”
My stomach twists with awkwardness. I should know exactly where we’re heading right now and whether it’s a direction I want to go. But I don’t.
His eyes pin mine as he moves closer, close enough to grip my arms, lean in and plant a kiss on my lips. Short. Tentative.
I don’t pull away. I meet his gaze, instead, because I want something too. To be held. To be touched. To be wanted. I’m just not sure whether Dean’s the one I want to experience these things with or not.
His hands slide around my waist and his mouth presses into mine. My chest tingles with desire as his arms tighten, pulling me closer.
That tingling sensation grows, then changes from pleasant to irritating, a buzzy vibration that plays up against my breastbone. The crystal.
I ignore its nagging and slide my arms around Dean’s neck as his hands play across my back, creating a matrix of jumping nerve endings throughout my body.
I stir as the vintage Swiss cuckoo clock on the living room mantle hu-hoos four times. A warm hand lays over my ear, and my head rests on a lap.
As I suck in a breath, the memories of last night flood back. A tenuous conversation with Dean, leading to a kiss-a-thon that ended on the couch with us both falling asleep. Dean didn’t push for more and I’m a thousand miles, if not a continent, away from being ready for anything intimate.
A text from Mama woke us at eleven, saying she planned to stay overnight at the hospital. So we went back to sleep.
Four in the morning and I’m wide awake. So, I lie in the silence of the living room.
Dean sighs softly. His hand brushes across my hair a few times, then comes to rest on my shoulder as his breathing resumes the cadence of sleep.
Hope lifts my heart into a smile as I relish the warmth of another body close to mine. All this time I hadn’t realized what I was missing.
When the cuckoo sounds five times, I disentangle myself from Dean’s hold and lay a blanket over him in my place. By the time my coat and boots are on, Shri’s tapping at the back door.
She yawns and shivers at the same time. “Any news?”
I tug on my coat and try to keep my teeth from chattering. “Last we heard, Papa’s stable and Mama decided to stay the night. I’ll pack her some overnight things, so Dean can run them over after breakfast.”
Shri gives me a searching look. “He’s still here?”
I nod. Should I tell her what happened between us last night? I chicken out. “He’s asleep on the couch. I figured I’d leave him and help you with the milking.”
Matt Thompson shows up at seven, still sick, but he’s heard the news on Papa and plans to do what he can. Once he heads to work, I start breakfast.
Dean appears, apparently drawn by the smell of homemade bread and breakfast quiche, two of Mama’s specialities she taught me how to make. “God, that food smells good.” He heads my way, then notices Shri at the kitchen table and stops in his tracks.
I span the space between us and plant a kiss on his mouth, then go back to slicing bread.
While Dean disappears behind the fridge door, either to cool down his cheeks or retrieve the orange juice, Shri gives me a knowing wink. I smile back.
After we’ve eaten, Dean takes off for the hospital with a duffel bag of clothes and a packed lunch for Mama.
Shri and I are sitting at the kitchen table discussing what chores need to be covered while Papa’s gone, when the doorbell chimes.
I haven’t had a shower yet and look crumpled after sleeping in my clothes.
As if she read my mind, Shri says, “I’ll get it.”
I thank her and clear away our empty mugs.
After a minute or two, I head toward the front of the house to find out what’s taking Shri so long.
“Look, I told you,” she’s saying to whomever’s at the door. “There was an accident with a tractor. A man was hurt and taken to the hospital. We’re still waiting to hear his status. Please respect the family’s privacy and go do your reporting some place else.”
Reporting?
The door closes and the chain latch rattles. Shri marches into the sitting room. She stops at the sight of me, anger shining in her eyes.
“What was that all about?”
Shri’s fists clench and unclench. “Someone called one of the tabloids and reported the accident.” Before I can ask her why that’s such a big deal, she adds, “Whoever it was told this asshole reporter that a girl used special powers to lift a tractor and saved the man trapped underneath.”
A frosty chill shivers through my chest. “The paramedics? Did either of you tell them what I did?” Hope scrabbles at my insides, desperate to find someone else to blame.
Shri shakes her head. “Mrs. Jacobsen and I were the only ones who spoke to the paramedics, we agreed to tell them we managed to push the tractor off Mr. Jacobsen. We didn’t mention you at all.”
My blood drains into the pit of my stomach and freezes into an icy puddle. Shri and Dean were the only witnesses to what I did, and Shri is clearly pissed that the information got out.
Mama wouldn’t breathe a word, which only leaves Dean.
11
Idris
Eight a.m. A sharp knock at my bedroom door and Dad sticks his head in.
I turn over and realize I feel a helluva lot better.
“How y’doing, son?” Dad’s eyes are glued to my face, narrowing under an intense stare. “Not so good…” he trails off.
“Actually, I feel a lot better.” I fill my lungs and sit up.
Dad’s face pinches. “Well, you don’t look it.” He’s never been one to mince words.
I touch my face. If anything it feels healthier, smooth. I fling back the bedcovers, stride into the bathroom and blink into the mirror.
The patches on my face look greener and more symmetrical. Not unattractive, if you’re a katydid or tree frog. I look closer and see markings that look like…scales.
Holy shhhh…
Dad’s standing at the bathroom door, texting. “Doctor Baker, the guy I know in the city, wants to see your blood test results, and he’s sent in a lab order for a buccal smear.”
“A what?” I’ve heard of pap smears. Something women get, so I’m thinking…
“A swab of the inside of your cheek,” he volunteers.
A gigantic sigh of relief escapes me.
Dad’s eyes roll up to the ceiling. “For cell samples. It’s a genetic test.” And he’s gone, off to do whatever.
Ever so self-conscious about my green scales, I hide in a deep-hooded sweatshirt for the trip to the lab. Dad’s cleared his schedule, so he can take me. We park outside the three-story medical building, a shiny cube of tinted glass. As I follow Dad down the sidewalk, I can’t help glancing at each pane, seeing reflection after reflection of my hunched figure, face tucked as far as possible under my hoodie.
Not far enough. I spot the glint of green as the sun catches a cheek. So much for my unblemished golden skin. At least these scales aren’t crusty and peeling. I skim my fingers across the infected area. Silky. Not even a hint of stubble.
My head dips lower as we walk down the marble-floored entry hall. Dad opts for the stairs instead of an elevator. Good choice. The lab’s on the second floor.
I trot up the steps behind him, dodging into his shadow as a woman with a four-year-old passes us. The kid looks up at me, all blond curls and curious eyes. I offer my brightest smile.
He giggles. “Mommy, I want to watch the magic dragon movie when we get home.”
So Mommy doesn’t get an eyeful, I swing my face away and hope to god this Doctor Baker guy in NYC has some magic cream that’ll fix me.
Dad strides into the lab with a confidence I’d be sporting, normally. But not today. I just want to get this done and out of the public eye.
“We’re here for a buccal swab test,” Dad says to the lab tech, cheerfully.
I sneak a peek from under my hood at the woman. Damn, she’s beautiful. High cheekbones, thick coils of hair, giant brown eyes. What’s she doing in a place like this when she could be in Paris being a super model or something?