by Linda Gerber
“Did you pick up that battery I asked for? This thing’s gone completely dead.”
“Yes.” I pointed. “It’s right over there on the counter, behind the rooster.”
He frowned and gave the counter half a glance. “I didn’t see it and I’ve got a conference call in four minutes.”
“Hold on.” I slipped my journal beneath a pile of magazines on the ottoman and hurried over to help him look. Of course it was there, right where I told him it was. “Hey,” I said as I handed it to him, “I was wondering where—”
“Huh.” He didn’t seem to hear me. “I thought the box would be larger.” He ripped open the package—shredded it, was more like it—and pulled out the battery. “They didn’t charge you for it, right? It’s supposed to be covered in the replacement warranty.”
“No, they didn’t charge me.” I gathered bits of cardboard and plastic he left on the counter and threw them in the trash.
He snapped his new battery into place. “So,” he said without looking up. “How’s school?”
I waited as he tested his BlackBerry, pressing a series of random buttons before he finally glanced up at me, waiting for an answer. “It’s fine,” I said.
He nodded and turned his attention back to the phone. “I better not have to reprogram this thing,” he muttered, scrolling through his contacts. “How’s practice? How’re you doing on your time?”
“Good. But listen, I need to find—”
“Oh.” He turned the phone so I could see the screen. “Did you put this date on the calendar? I’ll be in Houston on Monday. Flight out early Monday morning.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yeah, I got it.”
“Good.”
I watched him fidget with his phone for a few seconds more. Did he know I wanted to ask him about Kyra? Is that why he kept interrupting me? We never spoke about her leaving. We never spoke about anything unpleasant. Well, okay, we never spoke, but if there was even the slightest chance that he knew where she might have gone, I had to ask. “Dad, I need to know. Did Kyra ever tell you—”
His phone rang and he held up a finger to me. “Hold on,” he mouthed, and pressed the BlackBerry to his ear. “Don. Hello. Yes, now’s perfect. Everyone on the line? Great.” He walked back to his office as he was talking. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get started.”
Then he closed the door.
I searched through the rest of our bedroom that evening, but I never found anything that even hinted where Kyra could have gone. While Dad was in his office, I searched through the kitchen drawers. I poked around the great room. Nothing. It was like Kyra had simply walked out the door that day and disappeared.
I waited to ask Dad again, but he was on his conference call for hours and when he emerged from his office, he was already on the phone again. I tried to pass him a note, but he gave me a helpless shrug and mouthed, “We’ll talk later.”
I smiled at him and nodded, even though I knew we never would.
When I felt my way into the kitchen the next morning, Dad was standing by the sink, eating scrambled eggs straight from a frying pan.
I squinted against the sunlight slashing in through the windows. “You want me to get a plate for you?”
“Thanks, I’m almost done.” He scooped up another bite. “Do you want—” When he turned to talk to me, he stopped the fork halfway to his mouth. “Ooop. Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine,” I grabbed a couple of aspirin and poured myself a glass of orange juice. He’d left the carton on the counter—along with the eggshells and a drippy whisk he must have used for the eggs. Mom would have had a fit. I wondered sometimes if she had always cleaned up after him and we never noticed or if he had been more careful when she was around. I ripped a paper towel from the roll to wipe it up. “Didn’t sleep well last night,” I said.
“Ah.” He set the pan in the sink and filled it up with water. “Hate it when that happens.”
“So do I.” I tossed back the aspirin and washed it down with the orange juice. “Blegh. I just brushed my teeth.”
“Hate that even worse,” he said.
“So do I.” I wadded up the sticky paper towel and threw it in the trash as I started to shuffle back toward my room. In the hallway I turned back, but he had already moved on to the couch and the Sunday paper, leaving the pan in the sink. We both knew I would come in and clean it up later and I wouldn’t say anything to him about it. That was our dance—move throughout the day, don’t rock the boat, don’t look at anything too closely.
Only I couldn’t do the dance anymore. I needed answers more than I needed to hide from the confrontation. I walked back toward the great room, took a deep breath, and jumped out of the safety zone. “Actually, I didn’t sleep at all last night,” I blurted. “I was thinking about Kyra. Wondering how she’s doing.”
Dad glanced up slowly from his paper, and for an excruciating moment I thought he was going to follow my lead. “You know Kyra,” he said finally. “I’m sure she’s fine.” And then he turned the page and went back to reading.
“Dad,” I said evenly. “Do you know where she is?”
This time he didn’t even look up. “I think,” he said, “that she wants to take some time to herself. We need to respect that.”
And by “we” he meant me. “You didn’t answer my question,” I said.
“You didn’t expect me to.”
“Dad, please. I need to talk to her. It’s important.”
He folded his paper carefully. “This has been a very difficult time, Ashlyn.” For the first time, he looked me in the eye. “For everyone.”
And with that, he retreated to his office. Like always.
9
“Ashlyn, hellooo.” Michelle waved her hand in front of my face. “Where’s your head this morning? I know it’s Monday, but . . .”
“Huh?” I blinked out of my stupor.
“You almost stepped into that pothole during our run and now you’re trying to open the wrong locker.”
I looked up at the locker number. “Crud.”
“No kidding.” She laughed as she left down the hall for class. “Wake up!”
I moved to my own locker, shaking my head. It had been another long night. I couldn’t stop thinking of Kyra, trying to remember anything she might have said before she left that would tell me where she was. Dad had been preparing for that sales meeting in Houston. He left for the airport about the time I left to go running. All the while I was waiting, anticipating, dreading the next trance. If I was right about it repeating until it was completed, I could get sucked in at any moment.
AP lang dragged on for what felt like eons that morning. There are just so many essays on culture and anarchy that can be digested before lunch. From the whispers and sounds of fidgeting around me, I could tell I wasn’t the only one getting restless waiting for the class period to end.
I sighed and I slouched down in my chair, watching the second hand make a slow sweep of the clock on the wall when the room began to disappear. My head buzzed. Sudden. Intense. Like a live wire had been poked into my skull. And then everything around me faded to black. I squinted desperately at the time on the clock as the light disappeared—9:25—and felt the pinch of my fingers closing around my mechanical pencil.
Rain, black pavement, lights growing brighter, brighter, brighter. Someone is standing in the road. I realize with a start that it’s not me. He starts to turn his head. He.
The last detail took me by such complete surprise that it threw me right out of the trance. Ice washed over me as I realized that the trance was not a repeat of my own accident. This was something new. Slowly the sounds around me began to register again.
“. . . seen it happen before?”
“. . . epilepsy.”
“. . . who to call?”
My eyes fluttered and the black clouds in my vision began to dissolve. Pieces of the room fell into place like a crazy Tetris game. I lifted my head from my desk and t
ried to focus on the wall of jeans and T-shirts swirling around me.
“Ashlyn?” Ms. Crawley’s face came into focus right in front of mine. Her brows were scrunched into a kind of perplexed worry. “Do you know where you are?”
“I’m in class.”
“Good. Do you—”
I squinted at my watch. 9:28. Three minutes had passed. “Did I write?”
“What?”
“Write.” I grabbed her hand. “Did I write anything?” And then as the dizziness passed enough to focus, I saw the numbers scrawled across my notebook. I ripped out the page and folded it, folded it, folded it, concentrating hard to make each crease, trying not to let the tears surface. What was happening to me?
“Man, she’s lost it,” someone behind me said. Several other someones laughed.
Ms. Crawley glared at them. “Class, take your seats.” To me she said, “Do you think you can stand?”
I nodded, even though the room still felt like it was turning on an unsteady axle.
Riley, the guy who sat across the aisle from me, nudged my arm. “You dropped this.” He held out my mechanical pencil.
I recoiled, afraid that by touching it, I could be pulled into the trance again. “It’s not mine.”
“Yeah it is. It rolled off your desk.” He offered it again.
I couldn’t move.
“Um, are you going to take it?” Riley reached across the aisle and I leaned away from his outstretched hand.
Ms. Crawley patted my shoulder. “Let’s get you to the nurse’s office.”
“Oh. No.” That wouldn’t be good. I needed to go someplace where I could be alone while I thought this thing out, not to the nurse’s office to be observed. “No. Really, I’m okay. I just need to splash some water on my face or something.”
She cocked her head, frowning. “I’d feel better if you saw the nurse.”
“It was just . . .” I struggled for the word and lowered my voice. “It was a minor episode. You know, the epilepsy. But I’m fine now.”
I could tell by the pinch between her eyes that the lie wasn’t going to cut it this time. “This . . . episode was different than any I’ve seen from you before.” She bent down and whispered in my ear, “Sweetie, you were convulsing.”
Suddenly, my chest felt too tight. I couldn’t breathe. Convulsions? I didn’t have a quick answer for that.
Ms. Crawley stood. “May I have a volunteer to accompany Ashlyn to the health center?”
Nick Cumberland stood up. “I’ll take her.”
“No. It’s okay,” I said quickly. “I can go by myself.”
Ms. Crawley ignored me. “Thank you, Nick.”
A mixture of anger and humiliation burned in my face. “This isn’t necessary,” I said as I stuffed the note into my pocket and gathered my books. “I do not need an escort.” But Ms. Crawley was already opening her textbook at the front of the class and Nick was waiting by my desk.
“Your pencil,” Riley said.
“Keep it,” I told him, and allowed Nick to lead me out of the room.
In the hall, Nick seemed to forget how he had ignored me before class the other day and now was the very picture of concern. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” he asked, circling his arm around my shoulders. “That was really weird.”
I shrugged away from him. “Thanks a lot.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked so dejected that I almost felt bad. “I’m serious,” he said.
“I’m fine.” I wished it were true. As calm as I was trying to appear on the outside, my stomach felt like it had been turned inside out. I may not have been happy about it, but at least when I believed I was reliving my own accident, I could hold on to the idea that there was some logical explanation for the repeat trances. This one proved I was wrong.
“I’m really sorry,” Nick said. It took me a second to realize he wasn’t talking about what happened in class.
“Don’t,” I warned.
“I just wanted you to know.”
Suddenly, my throat felt achy and tight. “I’m sorry, too,” I managed.
Michelle and I huddle in a small alcove under the stairs near the library—about the only space that isn’t wall-to-wall people. It’s the first time we’ve been invited to a party with the A-list crowd and we’re a little out of our element. At least I am. Michelle’s watching them, her eyes as bright as Christmas morning. She points across the room and shouts something to me but I can’t hear her over the music, the laughter. I nod just to prove I’m really listening and the next thing I know, she’s pulling me into a hug.
“I knew you’d understand,” she says, and then she takes off.
From the alcove, I watch her push and weave through the crowd until she’s swallowed in the sea of people and I lose her altogether. I hesitate for a moment before stepping out of the shadows myself. I’ve never been as fearless as Michelle when it comes to navigating the social scene. In fact, I’m scared to death, but it’s my first real party and I don’t want to spend it on the outside looking in.
I shoulder my way through the crowd, looking for a familiar face. Ever yone I recognize from school seems to already be deep in conversation and I don’t know how to insert myself into their group.
A few of them glance at me, but not for long. I’m starting to feel really stupid. I’m not one of them. I have no business being here. But just when I’m about to back out of the room, a deep voice says, “Ashley?”
I jump and spin around. Nick Cumberland is standing there, a plastic cup in one hand, the thumb of the other hooked casually through the belt loop on his jeans. My mouth goes dry and I gesture to myself, questioning. He smiles. Yes, he’s talking to me.
“Ashlyn,” I say.
“What?”
“It’s Ashlyn, not Ashley.”
He nods slowly like he’s weighing the name against his memory. “Right,” he agrees. “From chem.”
“AP lang,” I say softly.
He leans closer and rests his hand on my arm. “What?”
My skin tingles at his touch. I can’t speak. I can barely breathe.
His gaze moves beyond me to the crowd around us. “Too loud,” he yells.
All I can do is nod, like one of those old bobble-head dolls. He’s still talking, but the words are lost to me. I’m too preoccupied watching the curve of his lips, the fringe of his near-black lashes surrounding soft brown eyes.
He pauses and then smiles. “I said, do you want to find someplace quieter to talk?” He’s looking straight at me now, those brown eyes laughing.
“Sure.” I try to sound casual even though I’m freaking out inside.
He leads the way through the crowd and into the kitchen, pausing long enough to toss his cup and snag a couple of fresh drinks from the counter.
“After you,” he says, and gestures at the back door with his head.
Outside, the moon paints soft bars of light through the porch railing and onto a rattan love seat where Nick settles onto the cushion. He looks up at me expectantly and holds out one of the drinks. His fingers touch mine as I take the cup from his hand, and sparks tingle up my arm.
When I sit next to him, he flashes his perfect smile at me. “Much better.”
He takes a sip of his drink and I automatically raise my cup to do the same. I try to ignore the sour yeast smell and the bitter taste as the beer fizzes over my tongue and down my throat, but I choke on it just a little. He pats me on the back a couple of times. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I take another long drink to prove it. I must look like such a baby to him. It’s so obvious I’ve never even tasted beer before.
Nick tilts his head back and drains his cup. I do the same and he laughs.
“That’s what I’m talking about!”
“Nothing to it.” But then before I know what’s happening, I let loose a huge, sour-smelling belch. That makes him laugh even harder. He forces out one of his own and even though I don’t know why, I start to
giggle.
“You’re all right,” he says, like he’s surprised or something.
I bump his arm with my shoulder. “You’re not so bad yourself.” I think I’m smiling, but my lips feel numb.
Suddenly, he stands up. “Hold on. I’ll go get us another.”
I watch his back disappear through the kitchen door and I pinch myself to be sure I’m not dreaming. How many years have I wished I could work up the nerve to talk to Nick Cumberland? And here he is. With me.
When he returns, Nick sits even closer to me than before. So close that I can smell the beer on his breath and the spicy soap smell of his skin. It makes my stomach flip and I take a long drink from the cup to calm my nerves. Then another. And another. By the time he tells me how beautiful I look, I’m starting to feel peculiarly warm.
My cup is empty. I stare at the foam clinging to the inside and wonder idly if I should offer to get the next round. But then his fingers close over mine and he takes the cup from me.
The next thing that I know, his other hand is on my thigh. My heart jumps as he leans toward me, eyes half-closed, lips half-open. I practically swoon into the kiss. And then he’s pressing me back onto the cushions and his hands seem to be everywhere at once. Stoking my face, weaving through my hair, brushing up under my shirt. His callused skin is at once soft and rough against my stomach. I close my eyes and enjoy the sensation.
“Ashlyn?” a voice says. It sounds far away. I twist my head and there’s Michelle standing on the steps of the porch, arms folded tight across her chest. Her friend Trey is standing behind her, his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. He’s staring at the ground, rocking on his heels like he’d rather be anywhere else but here.
“Are you ready to go?” Michelle asks.
Nick pushes himself up. “I can take her home.”
“I don’t think so.” Michelle’s words are all pointy and harsh with sharp edges. Nick must feel it, too, because the next thing I know, he’s gone.
Ms. Crawley must have already called down to the nurse’s office, because Mrs. Spinelli was waiting for me when we got there.