Earth & Sky

by Megan Crewe

  How are my parents going to feel when they find out I never did? If I don’t get over this, if I just can’t deal on my own anymore, I’ll have to tell them. It hasn’t even been a full day, and I’m already exhausted from holding back the panic.

  I close my eyes, and visions of hospitals and lab coats swim through my mind. What if no one can fix me? I’ve paged through diagnostic manuals—I don’t fit any typical form of any normal disorder. Maybe I’ll just keep getting worse and worse. How am I going to travel across the world like this? How am I even going to manage college? My whole life—everything I want to do—

  No. I can’t think that way.

  I push myself upright and go grab my laptop. There’s one more thing that might distract me. I don’t turn to this very often, because it’s started to feel like an unhealthy indulgence. Noam ran away when I was five—I doubt I’d even recognize him if I saw him now. But if a little indulgence will keep me sane, I don’t care how pointless it is.

  I type a single word into the image search. “Crowd.” For several long minutes, I scan photo after photo for my brother’s face. Searching every corner, every shadow. As if maybe this time, after all this time, I’ll discover where he took off to.

  I don’t, of course. But after I’ve worked through a few pages of results, the crushing terror has retreated enough that I can close the browser and start one of my Cary Grant movies playing. A little banter, a little eye candy. Daniel looks a bit like him.

  While the images flicker across the screen, I sink back against my pillow. Sometime before the credits roll, exhaustion wins and I fall asleep.

  • • •

  The shrill beeping of my alarm yanks me back to consciousness the next morning. I groan and roll over, still tired. Then I remember yesterday.

  I lie still, waiting. My head’s stopped throbbing. The chant of wrongness has gone silent.

  I switch off the alarm and prop myself against the oak headboard. My bedroom looks the same as always. Bookcase stuffed with history and science books and classic novels. Framed print of one of da Vinci’s sketches beside it. Two photos tacked to the wall over my desk: Angela and me at our middle school graduation, taken by my mom; and Bree, Lisa, Evan, and me grinning and brandishing marshmallow sticks on our junior year camping trip, taken by Angela. I ease open the drawer of my bedside table. Ten glass beads on my bracelet. Three bottles of my favorite nail polish. One more photograph, the top right corner creased: me perched on my brother Noam’s lap in a sea of wrapping paper, the Christmas when I was four and he was fourteen.

  Everything is as it should be. Everything is right.

  A laugh stutters out of me. I don’t know why it took that feeling so long to fade, but I’m okay now. As okay as I’ve ever been, anyway.

  The spray of the shower has never felt quite so delicious. Down in the kitchen, I take a weird enjoyment out of the tinkling of the Bran Flakes falling into my bowl—so very marvelously normal. Mom walks in, her hair, the same cinnamon brown as mine, swishing in its tight ponytail. She’s wearing her work “uniform” of track pants, yellow T-shirt, and logo-ed hoodie that announces her position as a personal trainer at the Steel & Sweat Gym downtown.

  “No cross-country practice today?” she asks.

  “Practice is in the afternoon on Tuesdays,” I remind her. “Coach has morning hall duty.”

  “Oh, right. You remind me when finals are scheduled, okay? I’ll be there.”

  “I’ve got to place in sectionals first.”

  “You will.” She squeezes my shoulder as she brushes past. “Think positive.”

  I wonder, like I do every time she recites that slogan, whether Mom really thinks positive about everything or whether, like me, she’s just good at sounding positive no matter what’s going on in her head. It’s one of those things I wish I could ask, but don’t. I’ve committed myself to being the kid my parents don’t have to worry about, and I’d like to keep it that way as long as I can. Hopefully forever, if I don’t have another attack like yesterday’s.

  After she’s hopped into the car with Dad, whose office is just a few blocks away from the gym, I make my rounds, checking all the windows and the back door, flicking the latches open and closed three times so I’m satisfied that they’re locked. Safe. Secure. It’d sound silly if I told anyone, but it helps clear my head for the day. Then I heft my backpack over my shoulder and head out.

  The high school’s only five minutes away, one of the reasons my parents picked this neighborhood. My gaze roves both sides of the street as I walk. Number 208 has a “For Sale” sign up that wasn’t there before. A station wagon I don’t recognize sits in the driveway of 175—a new purchase, or someone visiting. When I come around the corner, the sight of the concrete school building starts me ticking through my schedule. Calculus. English. Lunch: help Angela with dance decorations. Physics. Spanish. Cross-country practice until five. Tutoring Benjamin from five thirty to six thirty. Home for—

  My thoughts and my feet jerk to a halt at the edge of the courtyard outside the main doors.

  As usual, clusters of students are hanging out there, chatting and waving to friends. And standing on the far side of the wrought-iron fence near the bicycle rack is a guy I recognize, but not from school. A guy with jagged black hair and a gray corduroy blazer.

  His face is tipped toward the sky, eyes closed, as if he’s drinking in the sunlight shining on his golden-brown skin. Wrong. I shudder, and clutch my bracelet.

  Why is he here? Yesterday was the first time I’d ever seen him. He looks young enough that I could believe he’s a senior like me, but he doesn’t go to this school. And he doesn’t look like he’s planning to join us, the way he’s set himself off to the side, away from the bustle around the doors.

  As I rotate the beads and the feeling fades, his lips curl into a slow, almost goofy smile. He lowers his head to study the passing students. Watching us, like he did in the courthouse. An echo of the imagined explosion washes over me, and my spine goes rigid.

  I should walk right by like I usually would, like he’s not even there. But the idea of going to my locker and then sitting down in class knowing he’s out here, watching and waiting—for what?—makes my skin crawl.

  This is pathetic. How could he possibly have anything to do with what went wrong at the courthouse yesterday, when I know that was a trick of my mind? He’s probably just moved here, and this is his first day. His being at the courthouse was a coincidence—or he was supposed to join our class but was too shy. Which would explain why he’s hanging back now too. I can prove it as easily as going over and talking to him.

  Taking a deep breath, I amble along the edge of the courtyard. The shirt the guy is wearing under his blazer today is moss green, with a silver symbol like a sunburst on the chest. Dark-wash jeans, tan sneakers. A brown leather satchel hangs from his left shoulder. His hand rests on it, a little possessively, as if he’s worried someone might try to steal it.

  He’s actually kind of cute, in a soulful hipster way that makes me picture him strumming a guitar on a coffeehouse stage. I reevaluate as I pass the bike rack: really freaking cute. Just standing there, he has a presence that makes the rest of the world around him seem somehow paler. My heart skips a beat.

  As I reach the fence, his gaze passes over me without pausing, then jerks back. His eyes are a striking deep blue.

  “Hey,” I say, smiling. “Just starting today?”

  He stares at me, tensed. For a second I think he’s going to bolt. Then his stance relaxes. “Starting?” he asks.

  “At the school,” I say. “I haven’t seen you around before. I’m Skylar.”

  “Oh,” he says. The corner of his mouth curves up as if I’ve told a joke. “No, I’m not a student. Just visiting.” His voice is smooth, with an inflection that sounds almost British, but also slightly muddied, as if English isn’t his first language.

  I raise my eyebrows. “So why are you visiting here?” Cannon Heights High is hardly a touris
t destination.

  “It’s not important,” he says, and then, casually, “You were at the courthouse the other day, weren’t you?”

  “I—Yeah.”

  “You were scared by a spider.”

  So he was watching us then. The back of my neck prickles.

  “What were you doing there?” I ask.

  This time, he outright ignores my question. “That was quite a reaction, for something as small as a spider.” He steps right up to the fence, into my personal space, his presence suddenly feeling more intimidating than attractive. I scoot back.

  “I really don’t like spiders,” I say, more sharply than I mean to.

  He considers me, as if evaluating my answer. I should walk away. And then what? Tell the office there’s a strange-but-not-necessarily-dangerous guy hanging out by the courtyard? Pretend he isn’t here, surveying our school for some reason he won’t explain?

  Before I can decide, he seems to finish his evaluation. “All right,” he says, as if it didn’t really matter anyway. His attention drifts away, and his face brightens. I glance over my shoulder.

  Jaeda’s just ambled into the courtyard. Her hair is loose in a kinky halo around her head, and her skin is glowing as if it’s been polished. The guy’s mouth has curled back into that goofy grin I saw before. If he weren’t making me nervous, I’d roll my eyes.

  “Okay,” I say, “so you’re a stalker.”

  His gaze slides back to me, his expression blank, as if he didn’t even hear me. All at once, anger rushes through me. So maybe my smile doesn’t gleam quite as gorgeously as Jaeda’s does, but I’m the one here in front of him; I’m the one talking to him. I’m the one who had to deal with the freaky panic attack he gave me yesterday and the even freakier hallucination afterward. All these stupid awful feelings I can’t do anything about.

  The vision of the hallway blasting apart tears through my mind, mingling with my current frustration, and before I’ve really thought about it, I’m adding, “Or what? You’re deciding where to plant your bomb?”

  I realize as I’m saying it how little sense it’s going to make to someone not reading my mind. But all I want is a reaction. Still, I hardly expect him to flinch the way he does, his eyes widening. The anger drains out of me. Does he know what I’m talking about? Could it—Is that really why he was at the courthouse?

  I still don’t know why he’s here. Or what he’s got in that satchel.

  I take another step back. “Never mind,” I say. “I’ve got to get to class.”

  “Hold on,” he says. “What do you mean, a bomb?”

  “Nothing. Just babbling.” I give him a smile I hope looks suitably sheepish and edge farther away, but he follows me along the fence to where it opens to the courtyard, and steps onto the cobblestones.

  “No,” he says, his voice eager. “Did you see something yesterday? The explosion—If you—Was there even really a spider?”

  “Skylar!” a voice calls from behind me, and it’s the most wonderful sound I’ve ever heard. Lisa and Evan are standing by the front doors. Lisa motions to me. “I need your help with the last question from the homework. Please?”

  “I’ve got to go,” I say to the could-be-bomber guy.

  “Hey, wait!” he says, reaching for me, and I run for it. The warning bell dings, and the clusters of people in the courtyard swarm around me, carrying me along to the doors.

  “Who was that you were talking to?” Lisa asks, nudging me as we head inside. “He was kind of cute.”

  Evan makes a pained face at his girlfriend, and I force out a laugh. That’s what I’d thought.

  “Just some guy,” I say, risking a peek behind me. I can’t even see him now.

  But he’s out there, he knows something about what I felt yesterday, and I have no idea what that means.

  3.

  Calculus is my favorite class, but the creeper outside has ruined it. I can’t focus—my thoughts keep slipping back to him. How could he know about the explosion I imagined yesterday? Why is he at our school now?

  The only thing I know for sure is, whatever he’s up to, he didn’t want to tell me. Which means it’s probably something he realizes nobody would approve of.

  There’s no point in trying to concentrate with that idea niggling at me. As soon as Mr. Stahler’s finished his opening spiel, I ask to go to the bathroom. Instead, I slip out one of the back doors and call the police on my cell phone. “There’s a guy hanging around outside Cannon Heights High,” I tell the officer who answers. “He looks suspicious, like he’s trying to sell drugs or something.”

  I don’t actually think this has anything to do with drugs, but I figure that detail will get them over here fast. The officer tells me someone will swing by, and when I hang up, a calm settles over me. If that guy really is trouble, I’m not equipped to deal with him, but the police should be. And even if he hasn’t done anything illegal yet, maybe a little questioning will scare him off before he does.

  My ploy seems to work; I don’t catch a glimpse of the guy the rest of the school day. He’s nowhere near the courtyard when Bree and I set out with the rest of the cross-country team after final bell. But as we run along the paths in the park, my gaze catches on people we pass. A shock of black hair here. A gray jacket there. Each time, my stomach flips before I register the rest. Pale face—too short—not him.

  “You okay, Sky?” Bree asks after a while, tugging her frizzy ponytail tighter.

  I hadn’t realized my twitchiness was obvious. “Oh, yeah,” I say. Automatic smile. “It’s just been a long day.”

  “Tell me about it. You won’t believe what Mack pulled in geography.”

  It’s hard to talk much when you’re running, so we fall back into the hush of regulated breaths. I wonder if Angela mentioned my little freak-out yesterday to Bree.

  I have to stop letting it—and that guy—get to me.

  I sink down into the steady rhythm of my strides. My arms swing, my lungs fill with that slow burn, my feet pound the asphalt. Left, right, left, right, one after the other, always the same. It carries me away.

  By the time I’ve changed and set off for Benjamin’s house, I’m not thinking about the guy or the courthouse or anything except the hour ahead. Ben grumbles a lot when we’re working through his fifth-grade math homework, but sometimes, when I find the right words to make a concept click, this spark of awed understanding flashes across his face, like the curtains have been pulled back on the mysteries of the universe. I slog through the rest for those moments. There’s nothing better than knowing I’m passing on the significance of numbers to someone else—the security in their certainty.

  Today’s tutoring session passes too quickly. I wave to Ben’s mom as I head down the front walk. She returns the gesture before closing the door. Then I turn around, and my legs lock.

  The guy in the corduroy jacket is standing on the sidewalk a couple houses down, satchel at his side, poised as if he’s waiting for someone. He takes a step toward me when our eyes meet, and I realize he is. He’s waiting for me.

  My first impulse is to dash back to Ben’s house, but if this guy is dangerous, I’d just be making them a target too. I back away along the sidewalk, tugging my cell phone out of my backpack.

  “Hi,” the guy says, in the sort of soothing tone people normally use on small children and the mentally infirm. “I just want to talk to you. I’m sorry if I scared you earlier.” He spreads his arms, I guess to show that his hands are empty. If the gesture was meant to reassure me, it’s wasted.

  “You’re scaring me now,” I say. How did he know I’d be here? He must have been lurking around the school after practice and followed me. What does he want?

  Is he trying to silence a witness? I don’t even know what I witnessed yesterday. But he knows I reacted to something at the courthouse. Maybe he even figured out I called the police on him this morning.

  My hand tightens around the phone. “If you don’t get out of here, I’m dialing 9-1-1. It�
��ll only take a second.”

  He pauses, about five feet away. “Whatever you saw yesterday,” he says, “I didn’t make that happen. All right? I was there to stop it. It’s my job to protect people. I made sure the bomb was found in time so it didn’t go off.”

  His job—to stop it? Doubt pricks me. That doesn’t sound entirely implausible. Maybe I’m embarrassing myself, freaking out when he’s just a young-looking undercover cop. He could have been hanging out by the school because he suspected someone from there was the real bomber.

  Except now I’m thinking about this bomb as if it wasn’t just a figment of my imagination.

  He brought it up. Does that mean there really was one? How is that even possible?

  “You did see something, didn’t you?” he continues as I stand there frozen. “Something that scared you. The way you acted, I don’t think it’s the first time. I might know why that happens to you. That’s the reason I came here. I think I can help.”

  “Help?” I repeat. His expression is earnest, but he could just be a good actor. I don’t understand why a criminal would be following me around, but I don’t see why a cop would be either.

  He knows why . . . why I saw something that wasn’t there? Why my brain panics at empty corners and streetlamps?

  “Yes, I’d like to help,” he says, emphasizing the word with a vigorous nod. “If you just tell me a little more, I can probably work out what’s going on in your mind, and what you can do about it.”

  A jolt of hope pierces through my apprehension. Does that mean he can fix it? If he really does understand what’s wrong with me, how to stop it from happening . . .

  I’d never have to feel like I did yesterday again. I’d be able to stop worrying that next time I’ll catch the feeling too late and completely break down.

  I could let down my guard and just live.

  “What’s in your bag?” I ask, still clutching my phone.

  His hand darts to the satchel with the same protectiveness I noticed this morning. The corner of his mouth turns up. “You think I’ve got a bomb in here?”