Already Gone

by Bridget E. Baker

  My phone buzzes and I check it. It's a text message from Mason. JUST LEAVING. SEE YOU IN FIVE.

  Crap, that barely leaves me time to walk Moby before I need to leave. I rush into the kitchen and reach for a granola bar.

  “In a rush?” Drew asks.

  I sigh. “I guess I was in the shower too long.”

  She holds out her hand. “I’ll take the mutt for a walk for you.”

  I grin at her. “Thanks.” She pretends to hate him, just like she still pretends to hate Mason, but she actually loves them both.

  Drew and I walk out the door at the same time, me in a suit, and her in jogging pants and a long sleeved shirt. New Haven is stupidly cold.

  Mason is just pulling up in his blue Audi. Graduation present from his parents. He whistles at me, and I grin.

  "No one looks as great in a pinstripe suit as you do," he says.

  Drew rolls her eyes at us and walks away.

  I climb into the car and look at Mason’s suit. "Except maybe you." I sigh. "I thought we discussed this. We look silly when we match. Like tweedle dee and tweedle DUMB."

  "If you telling me not to do it is ‘discussing it,’ then yes, we did, but, I like it," Mason says. "I'm not changing. Besides, my suit is black and white, while yours is charcoal and pink. That's not too matchy."

  Mason is every bit as infuriating now that we've been together for months and months. And he's still swimming, so I have to sit on my hands and wait for his free weekends. I don’t mind too badly. Actually, Mr. Zane is the one who complains about it the most.

  Even though Yale isn't number one in the country, their program is number twenty-five, and I guess that's good enough. We work our debate schedule around his swimming one, and as far as I can tell, he’s on track for the Olympics. Even his mom is satisfied with his progress. I'm not sure how he finds time to study, but somehow he's hanging in there. He likes to say, “Bottom of the class at Yale still graduates.”

  When I think about time these days, it's usually to count good things. It just so happens that on the very day I learned my mom had died, I also found out that Mason liked me, and we kissed for the first time. I know that my mom would be delighted to see how happy I am now. I try to focus on the things that bring me light and joy, and not the things that cause me pain.

  For instance, it's been eight hours since Mason last said he loves me. Coincidentally, it's also been eight hours since I last kissed him. It's been two days since our last date, and a week since we went on a triple date with Hope and her boyfriend Chad, and Drew and her girlfriend Anica. That was less awkward than you might have guessed. It's been almost two months since Hope turned eighteen and I was officially not her guardian anymore.

  "Are you worried that I forgot?” Mason asks.

  “Forgot what?” I smile.

  “Well, I didn’t. I know it's your birthday today. I didn't want you to think I forgot it, just because we have a big meet against Harvard today."

  “Tournament.” I grin. "It's so sweet you remembered."

  "Hope texted me every single day for the last week like I’m mentally deficient." He rolls his eyes. "I've given this a lot of thought, and I wanted to give you something special. Something that will tell everyone we know how much I care about you."

  It will tell everyone how much he cares? Um… I scrunch up my nose. Oh, no. Please tell me my sweet boyfriend is not about to propose. Please, oh please, no. Maybe if I turn it into a joke, he’ll realize it’s a bad idea. His parents got married in college, but we are nothing like his parents. And we’re freshman. And that’s insane. Think of a joke, Lacy!

  I spit out the first thing that comes to mind. "I am SO not getting a couples tattoo."

  He rolls his eyes. "Too white trash, I know. I'm lucky you put up with my monstrosity as it is."

  "I like your Moby Dick tattoo." I reach a hand over and trace it across his back.

  He kisses my hand, and then places a small box into it. My heart stalls. I swear if he's proposing to me our freshman year in college, in a car no less, I'm going to turn him down flat. He will just have to be man enough to deal with that.

  I feel sort of ill, but I open the box anyway with a forced smile on my face. I look at the ring contained inside and my feeling intensifies. I don't even merit a diamond? Then I glance at Mason, at the hopeful smile on his eager face and I can't stand it.

  "Are you proposing?"

  He gapes at me. "Excuse me?"

  "What is this?" I shake the box at him.

  "No, I'm not proposing.” His eyes widen. “Did you want me to?" He looks as horrified as I feel. “I designed a ring for you that symbolizes our relationship.”

  I start to laugh, and I can't stop. There are tears streaming down my face. "This is so how we do everything. No, I didn't want you to propose, but Mason, you told me you loved me, and you had something that would tell the world how we felt, and then you gave me a ring. And not even a big old diamond."

  Finally he sees it. He starts to laugh, too. "Wow, you thought I was proposing, and that I sucked at it. No," he chokes out. "I was thinking how you're Lacy, and I'm Mason. I wanted something to reflect both of us. I talked to this jeweler, and we came up with three interlocking rings, one for each of us, and one for how we're more together than apart, you know like synergy. They fit together like a mason would put stones together, but when they’re together, they look like lace, see?"

  He turns the rings, which are now soldered together, but I can see the separate rings: one white, one rose, and one yellow gold. Now that I'm not panicked about a proposal, I can see how delicate and beautiful they are.

  I lean over, and this time, I'm the one pressed against the gear shifter. Mason shifts to move around the steering wheel and his beautiful face gets nearer to mine, one inch at a time. Even now, after eight months, it still feels like the world shifts around me when his lips meet mine. I don't know how long he kisses me, but I know it always feels like Disneyland, not the dentist. I'm never ready for it to end.

  The good news is that even when it does end, I know it's not The End.

  * * *

  If you enjoyed Already Gone, please leave me a review on Amazon! It helps tremendously!

  Also, feel free to join my newsletter by filling out your email address on my website: www.BridgetEBakerWrites.com.

  Also, I’ve included the first chapter of my YA Post Apocalyptic novel, Marked. If you like it, the entire series is available on Amazon! All three books are free in KU, or only $4.99 (per book).

  Chapter Nineteen

  I’m a big, fat coward.

  I’ve known this about myself definitively since one month before my sixth birthday. The night I lost my dad.

  Case in point: I’m just shy of seventeen. I’ve been in love with the same guy for almost three years. Even though I see Wesley a few times a week, I haven’t said a word. But tonight I have the perfect opportunity to do what I’ve always feared to try. Tonight, to celebrate our upcoming Path selections, all the teens in Port Gibson play a stupid, risky game.

  Spin the Bottle.

  I glance around as I walk toward the campfire in front of me. Only thirty-five kids turned seventeen in the past year, so of course I know them all. My best girl friend, Gemette, waves me over. I try to squash my disappointment at not seeing Wesley. When I played this scene in my brain earlier, I was sitting by him.

  “You gonna scowl at the fire all night, Ruby?” Gemette pats a gloved hand on the slab of granite underneath her.

  “You couldn’t have saved us one of those seats?” I point at the smooth, flat stumps on the other side of the fire. I sit down and shift around, trying to find a flat spot.

  “I think what you meant to say was, ‘Thanks, Gemette. You’re the best.’”

  Her straight black hair reflects the campfire flames when she tosses it back over her shoulder. It’s against the Council’s rules for hair to cover your forehead. Gotta make it easy to see anyone who might be Marked. Except tonight, no one’
s following the rules. Everyone's wearing their hair down, and Gemette’s silky locks frame her face beautifully. I envy her sleek hair almost as much as I covet her curves.

  “My bum’s already hurting on this,” I mutter.

  “If you weighed more than eighty-five pounds soaking wet, it wouldn’t bother you so much.”

  Instead of curves, I’ve got twig arms and a non-existent backside. I shift on the huge slab, trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt. I arch one eyebrow, not that she can see it in the dark. “I weigh ninety-two pounds, thank you very much.”

  Gemette snorts. “That proves my point, you bony butt.”

  She leans toward the fire and picks up the glass bottle lying on its side. She tosses it a few inches up into the air before catching it again.

  “Be careful with that.” That bottle’s the only reason I’m sitting here, sour-faced, stomach churning.

  Slowly the remaining seats around the fire fill up. Wesley shows up last. There aren’t any seats left, but before I can convince Gemette to squish over, he grabs a bucket. He turns it upside down and takes a seat a few feet away from everyone else. I guess that’s fitting. His dad’s the Mayor of Port Gibson and a Counsellor on the CentiCouncil, so Wesley’s in charge by default tonight. He’ll probably take over for his dad one day, which isn’t as glamorous as it sounds since less than two thousand people live here.

  He looks around the fire, and his gaze stops on me. He bobs his head in my direction, and I shoot him a smile. I’m glad he can’t hear the thundering of my heart.

  Although we’re all huddled around a campfire, and I’ve known most of the kids here for years, we maintain carefully measured space between us. Tercera dictates our habits even when we’re rebelling. Which we’re only doing because it’s a tradition.

  Maybe Tercera’s made cowards of us all.

  “Are we starting?” Tom’s sitting to my left. His parents are both in Agriculture and he’s Pathing there, too. He has broad shoulders and tan skin from working outside most of the day. Gemette likes him, and it’s easy to see why. Of course, he’s nothing to Wesley.

  I glance across the fire in time to see Wesley stand up. He straightens the collar of his coat slowly and methodically, like his dad always does before a town hall meeting. Wesley loves doing impressions, and he’s usually convincingly good at them.

  “I’d like to take this opportunity to welcome you all to the Last Supper.” His voice mimics his father’s, and he touches his chin with his right hand in the same way his dad always rubs his beard. Wesley himself is tall and lean with long black hair that he’s wearing down, for once. It falls in his eyes in a way I’ve never seen before, and I feel a little rush. I want to touch it.

  Wesley smirks. “I know you may be less than impressed with the culinary offerings for our gathering, but as I always say, Tradition has Value.” He cracks a grin then, and everyone laughs. “Seriously though.” He drops the impression and returns to his normal voice, which I like way better anyway. “I know the food sucks, but this whole thing started with a bunch of teenagers who were sick of rules and ready to throw caution to the wind for a night.”

  I look down at the three or four-dozen nondescript metal cans with the tops peeled back, resting on coals. Another few dozen are open but sitting away from the fire. Presumably they contain fruit or something else we won’t want to eat hot.

  Wesley leans over and snags the first can, his gloves keeping him safe from the heat. “I hope you’ll all forgive me, but this was what we could find.”

  “This is a pretty crummy tradition.” Lina reaches down and grabs a can with mittened hands. Her dark brown hair falls in a long, thick braid down her back, like it has every single time I’ve seen her.

  “Traditions matter, even the silly ones. They help pull us together as a community, which is valuable when fear of Tercera yanks communities apart. We’re stronger when we aren’t alone. Thinking every man should look out for himself hurts all of us.” Wesley takes his first bite right before Lina. I grab a can of baked beans.

  The food really is as bad as it looks, but at least it’s not spoiled.

  Wesley talks while we eat.

  “As you already know, we come from a variety of backgrounds. Before the Marking, Port Gibson housed approximately the same number of people, but not a single person who lived here before the Marking survived. We cleaned out the homes, burned some to the ground and rebuilt, circled the city with a wall, and made it our own. The Unmarked who live here are Christian, Muslim, atheist, black, white, Hispanic, Russian, German and Japanese. I could keep going, but I don’t need to. Before the Marking, these differences divided humanity. Now, we know that what truly matters is what we all share. We embrace the traditions that bring us all together, because we’re more alike than we are unalike.”

  I swallow the last spoonful of baked beans from my can and set it down on the ground by my feet. I’m almost the last one to finish eating, but several half-full cans are scattered around the campfire. A few people grab a can of fruit. I prefer the stuff my Aunt and I process and can ourselves, so I don’t bother.

  I rub my hands together briskly. Even in mittens, my fingers feel stiff. It’s usually not too cold in Mississippi, even in January, but a late freeze has everyone bundled up. The Last Supper’s supposed to be a chance to rebel, but I’m grateful that everyone’s as covered as possible. It means I won’t look as cowardly for keeping my mittens on. My aunt is Port Gibson’s head of the Science Path, so I know all about how Tercera congregates first in the skin cells, even before the Mark has shown up on the forehead in some cases.

  The wind moans as it blows through the trees, and we all huddle around the meager fire. Even though the flames have died down to coals in most places, it burns hot. My face roasts while my back freezes. The bottle lies stationary on the weathered flagstones by the fire where Gemette set it, light glinting off of the dingy glass at strange angles.

  The quiet conversations die off and the nervous laughter ends. Eyes dart to and fro among the thirty something teenagers gathered.

  “So.” Evan’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “Who goes first?”

  “Thanks for volunteering,” Wesley says.

  I suspect no one else asked for just this reason. All eyes turn toward poor, gangly, redheaded Evan.

  Evan gawks momentarily. Even though he and I work in Sanitation together, I don’t know him well. I haven’t been there long enough to guess whether he feels lucky or put upon. He sighs, and then leans forward and tweaks the bottle. It twists sharp and fast and skitters to the right, spinning furiously.

  I really hope the bottle doesn’t stop on me, and I doubt I’m alone in that thought. Evan’s funny in a self-deprecating way, but he isn’t smart, and he definitely isn’t hot. I bite my lip, worried about what I’ll do if it does stop on me.

  It slows quickly and finally stops pointing to my left. I sigh in relief, which I belatedly hope no one heard.

  Tom gasps, and then in a raspy voice says, “No way. I mean, you’re nice and all Evan, but I’m not . . . I don’t . . .”

  “Yeah, me either. Chill, man.” Evan laughs. “So, does it pass to the next person over?” Evan raises his eyebrows and glances at me.

  I want to protest, but my throat closes off and I look down at my feet instead.

  Evan stands up. “So Ruby . . .”

  He may not have saved me a seat, but Wesley jumps in to save me now, thank goodness. “That’s not how it works. If you get someone of the same gender, and neither of you . . . well, then your turn passes to him or her. Which means you sit down Evan, and you spin next, Tom.”

  “Who made these rules?” Evan grumbles as he sits.

  Gemette smiles. “They make sense, Evan. I mean, it’s not spin the bottle and pick best out of three. Your way, you’d basically pick someone in the circle who’s close and kiss whoever you want.”

  Evan shrugs and glances at me again with a smile. “Sounds pretty okay, actually.”r />
  Tom snorts. “I don’t hear Ruby complaining about Wesley’s rules. I’d say that’s your answer, man.”

  I look back down at my shoes, but not before I see Tom’s wink. Jerk. Evan must feel idiotic, and I definitely want to sink into the ground.

  I bite my lip again, this time a little harder. Tom’s an obviously good-looking guy, but I have no interest in kissing him. I hope his wink was a joke about Evan and not some kind of message.

  Cold air blows past me as Tom leans forward to spin the bottle, his body no longer blocking the wind. One thing jumps out at me as he reaches for the glass bottle. In spite of the cold, Tom isn’t wearing gloves. He must’ve taken them off at some point. He’s either a daredevil or an idiot. I’m not sure which.

  Tom spins the bottle less forcefully than Evan and rocks back and forth as the bottle circles round and round. His eyes focus intently on the spinning glass as if he can somehow control where it stops. I wonder who he’s hoping for and look around the circle for clues. Andrea seems particularly bright-eyed. My eyes continue to wander. One gorgeous, deep blue pair of eyes in the circle stares right back at me. Wesley. I’ve looked at him a lot over the past few years, but this feels different somehow. A spark zooms through me, and I quickly stare at my feet.

  No luck for Andrea tonight, or Gemette. The bottle comes to rest on Andrea’s best friend, Annelise, instead. She and I were in Science together a long time ago. Her dark brown hair hangs loose, framing high cheekbones and expressive chocolate eyes. She frowns. Tonight doesn’t seem to be going right for anyone so far.

  “Now what?” Annelise’s voice shakes. “We just kiss, right here in front of everyone?”

  “No, of course not,” Gemette snaps.

  “Who made you the boss?” Evan frowns. Judging by his sulky tone, he’s still mad about losing his turn earlier.

  “Unfortunately, I’m the boss,” Wesley says, “and she’s right.” He points to a dilapidated shed at the top of the hill. “You two go up there.”