by Carey Corp
Suddenly, I get why he’s talking to the top of my head—rather than my face—and pull back to force him to look at me. “Then why don’t you?”
Sighing, he gives his head a small shake. “It doesn’t work that way. Part of the power of your gift lies in self-discovery, and if I tell you your destiny, it undermines your ability to choose your path. It would be like a princess accepting the monarchy because she’s always been told it’s her fate, not because she’s ready to rule and wants to do so.” I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off with another shake of his head. “Telling you about your destiny takes away your free choice.”
The curtains behind the living room window ruffle as someone—Kate or Steven—checks on us. Not wanting our conversation to be cut short, I talk fast. “But how can I make a choice without all the information?”
“When the time comes, you’ll have everything you need.”
Great! Gabriel sounds like a Magic 8 Ball! Frustrated by his cryptic response, I demand, “And what if I choose not to believe in the Gifts of the Saints? What if I don’t embrace my destiny? Ever?”
“Some don’t,” he replies, his face is deliberately neutral but I sense the disapproval underneath. “That’s always an option open to you. You should talk with Kate and Nana Kransky again.”
Sometimes, I catch Kate staring at me. It’s as if she’s waiting for me to suddenly be okay that I have supernatural abilities. Gabriel’s waiting too—holding all the answers and never saying a thing.
“How many times do I have to tell you I’m not ready to talk about this stuff? I just want to be a normal teenager. Can’t I have that please?”
“Alexia—” He reaches for me and I feel like a child being placated.
“Just stop. It’s fine—really.”
“No, it’s not. You’re upset.”
Despite my words, I can’t seem to let it go. “It’s just—”
“What?”
“How are you supposed to prepare me for my destiny by withholding all the pertinent information?”
“I’m not withholding everything.”
“Of course not, you’re my guardian angel and you’re assigned to protect me. That about cover it? Let me ask you, does my knowing who you are change anything? Will it change this terrible event that hangs over our future?”
“No.”
The doorknob rattles as whichever Foster is on the other side gets tired of waiting for me. I lean into Gabriel, urgently hissing, “Will it make it any easier to go on after you leave?”
The door begins to open, and I step back, barely catching his quiet answer. “Probably not.”
I get in one final question before Steven steps onto the porch, ushering me inside. It hangs over us, unanswered, as we say our goodnights under my foster father’s watchful eyes. Carrying it with me as I brush my teeth and slip into bed, the question reverberates on a loop until it becomes insurmountable in my mind. And I can’t help but wonder if it’s the same for Gabriel, or if he knows the answer to this too.
“Then what’s the point of it all?”
CHAPTER 14
There’s a loud banging in my head that won’t stop. After what seems like forever, the sound diminishes but is still persistently annoying enough that I follow it through the Fosters’ house. Staggering to the front door, I fumble with the lock before throwing it wide as a delicious blast of cool air washes over me. Gabriel stands on the other side, filling my vision. Something causes him to frown. I try to focus as he sways unsteadily in front of me—or maybe I’m the one off-kilter.
“What’re you doing here?” I ask.
“Picking you up for school.”
“On Saturday?” The thought’s so funny I would laugh out loud… if I wasn’t so tired.
“It’s Monday.” Despite the gentleness in his voice, his eyes are severe. They roam over my face in obvious alarm.
“Oh. I must’ve been dreaming it was the weekend.” Still trying to wrap my mind around the fact it’s a school day, I step back so Gabriel can come inside. “What time is it?”
“Late.”
“How late?”
“Late enough that I stopped waiting and knocked.”
“Okay. Let me just get dressed.”
I turn to go, but Gabriel stops me by gently holding me in place by my shoulders. “No.”
“You don’t want me to get dressed?’ There’s a playful innuendo in the idea, but I can’t keep hold of it.
Shaking his head, he lays a cool hand against my cheek. I watch his lips thin as he exclaims, “You’re burning up! The only place you’re going is back to bed.”
“Fine by me,” I reply managing a lame chuckle, “since it’s Saturday.” I turn to stare at him, my face pinching as I throw my hand up to shield myself from the light of his halo. “Hey, could you dial it down a bit?”
Instead of complying, he seems to grow brighter as he fixes his hands on his hips. “Bed,” he orders. “Now!”
“Okay.” Suddenly my bedroom seems very far away and the hallway impossibly long. “I think I’m just gonna rest first.” Leaning against the wall, I let gravity work for me as I start a slow slide to the floor. But before I can hit bottom, Gabriel’s strong arms catch me and lift me up. Then I’m off the ground altogether, cradled against his chest.
Letting my head come to rest against his shoulder, I ask, “Are you a dream?”
His left brow quirks as he bites back a smile. “Why do you ask?”
“Because this is just like I dreamed, only you were shirtless.” The image is a familiar one—reoccurring numerous times in my dreams over the last several months—Gabriel, bare-chested, carrying me into my bedroom. On this occasion, however, imagining his lack of attire makes him seem cold—like he could use a warm, fuzzy blanket. Shivering, I squint up at Gabriel. “You’re not a dream are you?”
“Nope.” Clearly, my shirtless comment has gone to his head. Eyes twinkling, he tips his smiling face to my forehead and gives me a gentle kiss.
“Oh crap!” Embarrassment causes the blood to rush to my already hot face. As I close my eyes, I hope this is—in fact—a dream. The alternative is too horrible to contemplate.
“Shhh. I think it’s nice you dream about me sometimes. I dream about you, too.” As he deposits me in the center of my bed, burying me beneath a pile of thick blankets, I try to file away his dream confession so I can interrogate him later. The effort of willing myself to remember causes my forehead to scrunch.
Kissing the puckers in my brow, Gabriel says, “You rest, now.”
Already, I can feel myself forgetting what I willed myself to remember. I can’t seem to concentrate and am unable to filter my thoughts—uttering whatever pops into my mind. Flip-flopping between boiling hot and freezing, I realize I feel awful.
“Gabriel?”
“Yes, Alexia?”
“I think I’m sick.”
“Sleep.”
“Wait!” It comes out as a mumble despite my sense of urgency, and I fight the pull of sleep to speak. “Don’t leave me.”
Gabriel sits on the side of my bed and runs a cool hand down my cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Ever!”
Agony flickers in his eyes, but all he says is, “Shhh… sleep.”
Later, when I’m more coherent but feeling worse—like walking death—I pull my hair into a sloppy ponytail and go looking for my guardian angel. I find him fussing in the kitchen over piles of vegetables and a simmering pot of yellow liquid that looks fragrant despite my lack of smell. In addition to wearing his shirt—which proves unequivocally I’m awake and not dreaming—he has donned Kate’s flirty, red Kiss the Cook apron. Grateful I took the time to brush my teeth while in the bathroom, I shuffle over to him and lightly brush his cheek with my lips.
“What’re you doing there?” I inquire watching him expertly add vegetables to the pot. The expression on his face clearly says, “See I told you I wouldn’t leave.”
He says, “Making you c
hicken soup.”
Such a simple, silly little gesture, yet—I’ve never had anyone give me chicken soup when I was sick, homemade or otherwise. “You’re the best boyfriend ever,” I tell him as I lean in for another kiss. “I didn’t even know you could cook.” And even though I’ve got no appetite, I vow to gobble up every spoonful he serves me.
Idly, I wonder where Kate and Steven are before remembering today’s not Saturday but Monday. A day of work and school for much of the world. And Gabriel’s in their kitchen, cooking, rather than sitting in our classes at Midlands High. “You skipped school?”
Chagrined, he raises and drops his shoulders in a quick, elegant shrug. “Personal day.”
“Because of me?”
Nodding his head up and down, he expertly adds salt and pepper to the boiling pot before explaining, “The only reason I’m at Midlands is because you’re there. If I went to school and you stayed home sick, I’d just worry all day. I mean, I’d know if you were in serious danger or anything, but I wouldn’t be able to take a deep breath until I was with you.”
“That’s sweet.”
Feebly, I collapse in a nearby chair, watching as Gabriel pours me a glass of orange juice, ordering, “Drink this. Then, I want you to rest until the soup’s ready.”
One of the benefits of being sick, besides being doted on my boyfriend, is being able to avoid any discussion of gifts from Saints and destinies. I guess being sick has an upside.
When Kate gets home, she finds me snuggled on the couch wrapped in several blankets, including an angelic, human one. Typically, at the sound of the doorknob, Gabriel would scoot a prudent distance away—but not today. Today, he holds me tighter.
Seeing us huddled together, Kate arches a thin eyebrow in surprise. Before she’s able to vocalize her questions, Gabriel softly says, “She’s sick.”
Trying to be helpful, I murmur, “Gabriel made soup.”
With an appreciative huff, Kate produces a thermometer and takes my temperature. Satisfied I’m not in mortal peril, she goes about her business, occasionally peeking in on us with a grin. After sampling Gabriel’s soup, I suspect he could do almost anything and she would smile approvingly.
Kate’s husband, however, is another matter entirely. When Steven sees us intertwined, his face transforms into a scowl that’s kind of fatherly and completely scary. And I want to react to his expression, to disentangle myself from my boyfriend, but even thinking about moving is exhausting.
Quietly Kate slips up to Steven’s side and grasps his hand. “Alex is sick,” she explains.
Without taking his eyes off Gabriel, he replies, “Then Alex needs to rest.”
By way of explanation Kate adds, “Gabriel made her soup.”
That stops Steven in his tracks. He does a double take at Kate, who reprimands him with her eyes, before turning back to us. “It’s time for Gabriel to go home. Alex can see him at school tomorrow. If she’s feeling well enough to return.”
Although I don’t want my human blanket to go, Steven leaves no room for arguments—not that I have strength to argue anyway. With a chaste peck on the cheek, Gabriel whispers, “I’ll see you in the morning. Feel better.” Then he’s gone.
But he returns later, beautiful and shirtless, in my dreams.
*
The next morning Gabriel, completely clothed and as gorgeous as ever, is already waiting on the front porch, despite the fact I’m early. He gives me a light but electric kiss before checking me over from head to toe. Once he’s satisfied I’m actually improved, he takes my bag and my hand, walking at a slower pace than usual.
Not that I mind. I’m still feeling a bit fatigued, but staying in the house all day would make me crazy. Plus, I haven’t seen Derry since before spring break. When I missed school the previous day, Gabriel texted Becke to tell Derry I was ill, so he wouldn’t worry. But I know he’ll feel better when he sees me for himself. Just like I’ll feel better when I see him.
When we get to school, however, Derry isn’t there. I wait for him in the courtyard until the final bell. When he doesn’t appear, a small part of me wants to doubt he was ever at Midlands at all. Even though the thought is ridiculous—an exaggerated byproduct of worry—it still bothers me. A lot.
According to Jonah and Becke, Derry wasn’t feeling well yesterday either. By English class when he’s still a no show, I decide to bring him some of Gabriel’s healing soup. It doesn’t matter what the Eccles think—or whether they’ll be angry—Derry has no one to take care of him, except for me. And today he’s not here to talk me out of going to see him. Which is precisely the problem.
About ninety minutes after school—with soup in a disposable container, the latest Dark Wolverine comic in a brown paper bag, Mapquest directions in hand, and Gabriel at my side—I walk up the short drive to the Eccles home. Their tiny square yard is bordered by a three foot chain-link fence and overrun with what Kate would call “lawn-tackies.” Birdbaths, lawn balls, statues of Snow White and the seven dwarves, fairies, garden gnomes, wind chimes, ceramic woodland creatures, and the Virgin Mary in a vertical half-bathtub are crammed haphazardly into the Eccles’ yard.
The cracked, weed-infested cement walk leads us past the overstuffed yard to a peeling, dirty-white structure that could doubtfully house four—let alone twelve—comfortably. With growing dread, I pause to check the address on my directions. Frowning at Gabriel, whose grim countenance mirrors my own, I say, “This is it.”
As I start to move forward, he places a gentle hand on my arm and asks, “Would you like me to go first?”
Derry’s my responsibility, my family, so I wave him off with a small shake of my head and close the gap to the sagging front screen that covers the door. Keeping my courage up, I press the broken doorbell and then cringe at the garbled result. Gabriel’s hand rests warmly at the small of my back, in a tiny but needed show of support as we wait.
The door opens to reveal a dingy hallway and a pudgy faced boy of seven or eight. His small eyes narrow suspiciously, as he stares at us through the dilapidated screen, taking in our appearance and the presents clutched in our hands. His halo is the color of chrome, darker than I would typically expect for a child.
“Whatcha want?” He mumbles.
Finding my voice, I swallow down my discomfort and adopt a pleasant tone. “We’re here to see Derry. We’re friends of his.”
The boy scowls in response. “He don’t got no friends.”
Rather than fight with a child, I smile by best, brightest smile. “Can we see him, please?”
“Can’t.”
The boy starts to shut the door on us, causing my already fast-beating heart to leap into hyper-adrenaline mode. “Is your mom or dad home?”
Pausing, the sullen boy tilts his head to scrutinize us at a weird angle. “Yah.”
When he shows no signs of any further action, I ask, “Can we please speak to one of your parents?”
Considering my request, something flickers behind his churlish eyes. Surprised, I realize it’s the perverse anticipation of what will come next. As if confirming his maliciousness, the boy’s halo darkens, rising in a shiftless swirl as he yells, “Ma!”
The woman who responds to the boy’s summons is of indeterminate age. She might have been pretty once, but excessive bleaching, perming and tanning make it impossible to tell for sure. When she sees us, her heavily made up face—two full shades lighter than her orange-colored skin—furrows into a glare. Her pockmarked halo is flimsy with the variances of old, stained gravel. “Who’re you?” she demands.
“Friends of Derry’s,” I explain, doing my best to keep the pleasantness in my voice despite my instant dislike of the woman before me. “We brought him some soup.”
Her flat eyes give us a once over. “He can’t have no friends over.”
Sensing my growing tension, Gabriel lightly brushes my back with his hand. Diplomatically he explains, “We just came to bring him some food and a comic book. We don’t intend to stay.”
Turning her attention to Gabriel, the woman’s eyes widen with alarm. He’s too perfect—too well dressed, too gorgeous and too good—for her to see him as anything but trouble. He’s a symbol of everything lacking in her own miserable life. She stiffens, shifting her gaze back to me. “Well, he’s too sick to come out and ya’ll can’t come in. If you want, you can leave the stuff and Earl Junior’ll see Derrick gets it.” Her son—presumably Earl Junior—who has been hovering in the hall, regards the comic with shiny, covetous eyes.
Raising myself up to my full height and matching her stiffness, I enunciate through my clenched jaw, “I’d rather give these things to him personally.”
She purses her thin coral lips into a petulant twist of color as she shrinks away from my challenge. “Look. Y’all best get out of here before Earl Senior gets home. You don’t want to get your friend into more trouble do you?”
My heart hitches painfully at her words, my anger propelling me a step forward. “What do you mean ‘more trouble’?”
“Nothing.” Mrs. Eccles snaps her lips shut refusing to say more, and fearing she’s already said too much.
“He jus’ don’t listen is all,” adds the moon-faced boy at her back. “Daddy says he’s stupid and he’s gonna get it one of these days.”
“Shut up, E.J.!” She hisses a warning at him, but the boy stares at her, contempt in his piggish eyes. He scowls at his mother like she’s some worthless piece of garbage, to be used and discarded at will.
I see it then—the purple-black bruise under her left eye her makeup tries desperately to conceal. Like a puzzle, the pieces shift into place—the petty indolent child, the woman’s surliness, hidden bruises, lives spent in fear of violence—classic victims. The only respite from their miserable lives is taking out their impotence on those weaker and more helpless than them—those like Derry.
Pressing my advantage, I take another step forward and nod toward the left side of her face. “What’s wrong with your cheek?”
“Nothing.” Her eyes contract into hard, little slits like a snake. Slowly she reaches for the knob, tensing to close the door. “You’d best be going now.”