The Watcher

by Lisa Voisin

  “That makes you think Hallmark card?”

  I stifled a grin. “Not exactly.”

  He chuckled, a low throaty sound. “I can’t help it if he acts like he’s in a spaghetti western.”

  “A what?” I gave him a puzzled look.

  “You know. Clint Eastwood. The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. You’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”

  “Sure.” A memory of Bill watching old Clint Eastwood movies with Dad when we were kids clutched at my throat. I swallowed. “Which one are you?”

  He leaned in to me and said in a low, sexy voice, “Definitely not the ugly.”

  I had to agree with him, but his ego didn’t need the boost. I focused on the computer screen, logged myself out, then asked, “So you two know each other?”

  “We met last year in the hospital.”

  He lifted his booted foot up to his chair and pulled up the leg of his jeans. My attention was drawn immediately to a large serpent tattooed on the back of his calf.

  “Did that hurt?” I said, taking a closer look. The serpent was highly detailed, its scales shades of black and gray against his olive skin.

  “Wasn’t bad at all compared to this.” He pointed to the six-inch scar that ran from his shin all the way past his knee.

  “Oh.” I blushed again when I realized the scar was what he’d meant to show me. His tattoos were none of my business. “How’d you get that?”

  “Had an accident this past spring. Michael and I shared a room, became friends even.”

  “What happened?”

  He shrugged and covered his leg. “He doesn’t want to remember it, so he avoids me.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “It is what it is.” Leaning in toward me again, he whispered in my ear, “Want to come out tonight?”

  I took a deep breath, bracing myself against the onslaught of his charm. “I really can’t.”

  He wore an astonished expression, as though surprised I could resist. Considering how many other girls were all over him, I guess he had reason. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a haze around him, as though he were bathed in a faint smoke, but when I blinked and refocused it was gone.

  Leaning forward, Damiel touched my hand, then my hair, all the while smiling at me like he was sharing a secret. It would have been so easy to lean into that smile, let it take me places. How could I be so crazy about one guy and so affected by another?

  “You’re sure?” he asked.

  “I’m sure,” I said, getting up. I couldn’t get Michael’s expression out of my head.

  When I returned to my locker, Michael was waiting for me. His jeans fit him perfectly, and the red sweater he wore showed off his broad shoulders and the line of his chest—muscular but lean. Standing there, he did more for me than Damiel’s touch. He cast his gaze down as I approached, as though he couldn’t even bear to look at me.

  “How was your little chat with Damiel?”

  “How is it your business?” I asked, wishing this wasn’t the first thing he’d said to me in weeks.

  His scrutinizing glare was as cold as the morning sky. “This isn’t a game.”

  “What isn’t?” I flicked my hair over my shoulder, trying to act casual. “Talking?”

  He leaned in until his face was inches from mine, and my heartbeat went off the scale like a Geiger counter measuring a solar flare. It was all I could do to breathe. I didn’t want him to be angry. I wanted that moment we’d had at Fiona’s car after he helped me out of the woods. Staring into his eyes, I held onto the memory of that side of him. The gentle, caring side that I knew was in there. Even if he hadn’t shown it to me since, I still remembered.

  All the color left his face and he backed away. When he spoke, there was no anger left. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

  Before I could respond, he turned on his heel and left.

  My frustration burned. I wanted to yell after him down the crowded hall but didn’t want to cause a scene. Instead, I threw my books into my locker. The force of them collapsed one of the shelves, making a mess of the inside.

  What was this—this thing between us? Just when I thought he was going to let his guard down, he bailed. I didn’t even know what he was talking about. What was I dealing with? How was I supposed to know if he wouldn’t tell me? Letting out a heavy sigh, I searched among the rubble for the notebook I needed for my next class. I didn’t notice Elaine approach.

  “Trouble in paradise?” she said, her expression far too smug.

  Making no attempt to mask the anger on my face, I returned my attention to my locker. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Michael Fontaine and Damiel Lucas in one day.” She made a disapproving clicking sound with her tongue. “Do you need to make a play for every hot guy in school?”

  The smart thing to do would be to ignore her, but then she’d have the last word. Refusing to back down, I stared into her sparkly brown eyes; they were filled with spite. “Jealous much?”

  Immediately, I regretted what I’d said. She was baiting the hook, fishing for something to write about, and the last thing I needed was my name smeared in the paper again. We could fight, but it would be picking a fight with someone carrying a loaded weapon, and she was the one with the gun.

  “Me? Jealous of the likes of you?” She let out a dry little laugh. “Hardly.”

  Grabbing my bag, I proceeded to ignore her.

  “You think you’re all that, don’t you? Believe me, they only notice one thing about you—or is that two?” She sneered and motioned to her chest disapprovingly.

  She was practically calling me a whore, and on some level it really hurt. On another, I was so angry I wanted to hit her. A few scenarios played out in my mind, the most satisfying of which was smacking the door of my locker into her pointy turned-up nose. But I couldn’t afford the repercussions, and I didn’t want to hurt anyone, not even her. All I could do was walk away.

  “Thanks,” I said, smiling at my fantasy of her with a bloody nose. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You’ll never get him,” she called to me when my back was turned.

  As I wandered to my last class, I wondered whom she meant: Damiel or Michael. Perhaps she meant both.

  Chapter Eight

  I awoke before my alarm Monday morning to the sound of dogs barking and got up to see what it was about. Drawing the curtains aside, I noticed a couple of terriers had chased the neighbor’s cat up a tree. They barked at each other and then ganged up on the cat. I rooted for the cat. On the horizon, the sun tried to pierce the dark clouds that loomed threateningly above, exposing a cold blue sky, so I dressed for more rain.

  In English class, Mr. Bidwell had me read Ophelia to Michael’s Hamlet. We were reading Act III Scene I, and the class started with Hamlet’s famous “to be or not to be” speech which Michael read perfectly, his clear and exquisite voice mesmerizing the room. In the scene, Ophelia returns Hamlet’s tokens of love to him. It was the perfect scene to let out some of my frustration. I’d read the play enough times now that I was even getting comfortable with the wording.

  Hamlet’s soliloquy ended with Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remember’d. When Michael said it, his eyes were hooded and soft. Even though I couldn’t understand exactly what Hamlet meant by that line, I knew it had something to do with regret. I found myself wondering what Michael could possibly regret. Or was he that good an actor?

  In my mind’s eye, a scrambled image of blood and shadow flashed before me. Trying to focus on the image made me dizzy. It took a moment for the words on the page to stop moving so I could read my next line.

  “My lord, I have remembrances of yours that I have longed long to re-deliver,” I read. “I pray you, now receive them.”

  “No, not I!” Michael said, “I never gave you aught.” Again, such remorse emanated from him, as though what he was saying was in fact real and not a play.

  My anger returned as I continued to read, losing myself in the scri
pt. Like Hamlet, he had been sweet to me and then turned into a jerk. But it was more than that, as though we had a connection that went really deep, and that’s what made it hurt. I used to think Ophelia was weak, but now I could relate to her. Her brother was away, her father was a total ass, and she was in love with a guy who was nice to her one minute, cold the next. Everyone had abandoned her.

  We continued bantering as Hamlet and Ophelia. As we argued our lines about the role of beauty to deceive, Michael read pointedly and seemed to be enjoying himself. I don’t know what he thought was so funny about beauty being deceptive. He was the beautiful one.

  “I did love you once,” he read. Hearing those words from him caught me off guard, most of all because they sounded so true. My mind blanked. He eyed me expectantly.

  I flushed, suddenly remembering my line. “Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.” This isn’t real; it’s a play.

  “You should not have believ’d me; for virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it. I loved you not.” He read the words sharply, coldly.

  Ophelia never had a chance! “I was the more deceived,” I read, more bitterly than Ophelia might have ever been.

  Michael read Hamlet’s famous “get thee to a nunnery” speech angrily, as though he really meant it. And when he said the line “Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners?” his voice did that strange thing I’d heard before, where it sounded like a chorus rather than a single voice. As he spoke, I saw a flash of two red lights amidst blackness. Eyes! I stopped breathing as I remembered that shadowy dog.

  Completely assuming the role of Hamlet, he continued mercilessly through the speech, each word slicing into me. When he had finished, I had to bite my lip to keep it from quivering so I could continue with my lines. How could this play seem so real?

  We ended the reading with Ophelia’s “O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!” speech, and I couldn’t stop my voice from trembling as I read. I wasn’t acting, but it seemed the class thought I was.

  “Well done. Both of you.” Mr. Bidwell praised us when we were done, encouraging everyone to clap. He went on about our acting abilities and how much passion we brought to reading our parts. If he only knew.

  The class discussed what had happened in the scene, but I barely listened. It was strangely personal, as though they were talking about my feelings and not Ophelia’s. While Michael focused on the discussion, seemingly unperturbed, I stared down at my open textbook, smoothing its worn edges with my fingertip. This used to be one of my favorite scenes in the play. Now Ophelia’s words taunted me from the page, “Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.”

  Mr. Bidwell asked the class, “What does Hamlet mean when he says ‘for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is’?”

  Everyone gave him blank looks. It was Michael who raised his hand.

  “It means beauty makes men lie,” he said.

  Readjusting his glasses, Mr. Bidwell repeated what Michael said thoughtfully.

  “Isn’t that sort of misogynistic?” Elaine asked, leaning forward in her seat as though she were preparing for a debate. “Blaming the woman for being beautiful and using it as an excuse for men’s lies?” Mr. Bidwell smiled and leaned on his desk. “Good question, Elaine, but we have to take Shakespeare’s time into consideration, and the fact that Hamlet is angry and possibly playing crazy at this point. How about if we rephrase it to ‘men choose to lie when presented with beauty’? How’s that?”

  “Better,” she said smugly.

  “I don’t think we should whitewash it,” I interjected, refusing to let Elaine win. “Maybe Hamlet really thinks that way. Maybe he is a misogynist. I mean, look at the way he treats Ophelia, kind to her one minute, cold the next.” Michael shifted in his seat and glared at me, obviously catching my insinuation. “Then there’s the way he feels about his mother.”

  Mr. Bidwell took the opportunity to guide us into a discussion about Hamlet’s alleged oedipal complex. I only half-listened and was glad when class was over. It wasn’t until then that I noticed Damiel hadn’t been there at all.

  I didn’t see him until lunch, and even then it was only briefly. I was eating with Heather as usual, and Fiona, Dean, Jesse, and Farouk all joined us. We were a full table, and everyone was discussing a new action movie that was coming out on the weekend.

  “The previews look amazing!” Fiona exclaimed. “Even the critics gave it four stars.”

  “I think we should go this Friday,” Heather said, turning to Jesse. “You in?”

  “All in,” he said, grinning at her.

  None of us thought he meant for the movie. Heather blushed and leaned back in her chair so she could prod him under the table with her foot. Jesse made a face. They were being too cute. Seeing them that way made me wish I had someone to banter with, someone I could be close to. It made me feel even more alone.

  “How about you, Mia?” Fiona asked, biting into a carrot stick.

  “Sure,” I said, and turned to Dean and Farouk. “Are we all going?”

  Outside, it started to rain, hard enough that I could hear the raindrops slapping the pavement. Damiel and Michael stood in the wet field, facing off. They exchanged loud words I couldn’t hear, clouds of breath escaping their mouths. Usually this kind of argument would draw a crowd, but around the cafeteria people were focused on their own conversations—some laughing, some playing. Nobody noticed the scene outside.

  Even angry, Michael was stunning to look at: intimidating, but stunning. Cultures dating back as far as Ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia used lions to represent warrior-hood. Male lions fight to the death to protect their pride from intruders. When these guys faced off, it was that intense; the air itself crackled between them. The wind picked up, blowing wet, dying leaves off the bending branches. After a few moments, Michael stormed across the field to the trails behind the school grounds. Damiel followed and I wondered what would happen next, what they were fighting about. Was it about me?

  Don’t be ridiculous, Mia!

  “Mia?” Heather’s voice called me back to reality.

  “Mm-hmm,” I replied absently.

  “Farouk was offering you a ride,” she whispered. “He lives the closest.”

  “Oh.” Composing myself, I turned to Farouk. “Do you mean Friday?”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “Uh, sure. What time?”

  “We’re going to meet at the coffee shop by the theater at six-fifteen.” Heather filled me in on what I’d missed. I was too embarrassed to admit I had been staring at the two most attractive guys I’d ever seen and wishing they were fighting over me.

  “How’s six?” he asked.

  “Good.”

  Curious about the argument between Damiel and Michael, I kept an eye out for them all afternoon but I didn’t see them again. By the end of the day, I began to worry. What if Michael had been hurt? The fact that I was concerned only for Michael was telling. I didn’t expect things to happen with Damiel, and when he wasn’t around I found myself completely un-attracted to him. It seemed whatever I felt resulted from being in his presence, like he had some kind of vortex of charm everyone got sucked into—including me.

  Not being around Michael filled me with a kind of longing I’d never felt before. He made me angry, he made me happy, and I would endure anything to spend a few moments with him.

  The rest of my classes dragged and the teachers piled on the assignments, trying to prepare us for mid-terms. By the end of the day, I carried the burden of a full workload to my locker. I was packing for the bus ride home when a warm hand touched the base of my spine, sending a tingle right up to my neck.

  I whirled around and saw Damiel smiling wickedly beside me. “Got enough books?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I stammered, shouldering my bag.

  “What do they say about all work and no play?” His dark eyes twinkled, but I noticed for the first time they weren’t warm. He stroked his hand up my spine to my s
houlder, and another tingle ran through me. “Maybe it’s time you played a little. How about it? You game?”

  I wondered what kind of game he meant. He stood so close it was almost dizzying.

  “You should see the homework they’ve given me this week.” I wasn’t sure how to say no to him, or even if I wanted to, now that he was near me again.

  He lifted his hand from my shoulder to brush my cheek, and I noticed small cuts on his knuckles that appeared to be mostly healed. When I looked into his eyes, my reserve buckled, like I was forgetting where I was—who I was—and the pull of his presence drew over my skin. He was bewitching, and I was being reeled in.

  Then something broke the fixation, a sound perhaps, or a rush of cool air. Suddenly remembering where I was, I looked away. A few students milled around, talking at their lockers, filling their backpacks, and readying themselves for the trip home.

  At the end of the hall, Michael focused on the two of us, singling me out. My spine stiffened. I’d done nothing wrong. Was I supposed to be some kind of nun? A vestal virgin? I swallowed the lump forming in my throat and wished he’d stop looking at me like that, as though I’d disappointed him.

  Damiel glared at Michael and the air snapped between them, sending a ripple right through me. Touching my chin, Damiel turned me to face him. His smile spoke of pleasures promised. Pleasures I wasn’t sure I was ready for yet, but I found myself yearning for them nevertheless. Bringing his lips to my ear, he whispered, “Think about it,” before he turned and walked away.

  I blinked in the direction where Michael stood and shook the feeling off. He was gone, too. Sadness settled into the base of my stomach. Why couldn’t we talk? Wasn’t that what normal people did?

  I grabbed my bag and rushed down the hall to where I’d seen him. He wasn’t there, so I ran outside and found him striding toward his car.

  It was pouring out but I didn’t care. My umbrella was at the bottom of my bag and fishing it out would take too long. I didn’t want to stop for fear I’d miss him.

  “Hey!” I shouted after him.

  When he stopped and turned back to me, my breath caught. He could be such an impressive figure. Tall and strong, he wasn’t afraid of his anger; it seemed to be a force that welled up inside him, one he could completely control. While he didn’t throw it around, I sure didn’t want to cross him.