Shuffle [YA Paranormal Romance]

by Avery Bell

  He looked as good as ever in a rumpled black t-shirt and jeans. Callie followed him in and gave me a Holy crap, this guy is attractive and I feel guilty for thinking that because I'm in my twenties now and I'm supposed to be the responsible adult look. I'm only paraphrasing, but I can read her pretty well. When he came closer, though, I could see that there were purple bags under his eyes, and his hair was mussed. He was tired. Unfortunately it made him look kind of like a starving, soulful artist... Confusingly, depressingly hot.

  “Late night?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Yes. I'm exhausted, to be honest.”

  “Still up for kicking this report's butt?”

  He smiled and shook his head ruefully. “You Americans and your violent expressions. Sure. Let's kick its arse.”

  Callie set out some chips and salsa for us. “Have fun. I'll be in the family room. Dinner's at six. It's vegetarian lasagna, Arbor, with eggplant.”

  “Lovely.”

  We got right to work. Less awkward that way. It took a shorter time than I thought it would to lay out the report and write an outline that we could turn into a PowerPoint. We did a little dress rehearsal run-through. Arbor was flawless. His accent really made everything he said sound insightful.

  I stumbled when it was my turn, mispronouncing a couple of names and mixing up the sequence of Cicero's famous court cases. I was still rattled by what had happened in the park. The details seemed so unreal to me now that I was back in a familiar setting, doing mundane things. Like a dream. And the only thing that seemed to remind me that yes, those stones were real, the blackout was real – the only element that seemed to echo the nightmare dreaminess of the park – was Arbor himself. His pale skin, almost luminescent in the waning light of the afternoon. His perfect cheekbones, the aquiline contours of his nose... And those odd, dark eyes that seemed to see so much.

  Each time I messed something up, struggling through my outline, Arbor gently corrected me. His voice was deep, rough from lack of sleep. When I finally finished, flustered and cross with myself for looking so stupid in front of him, he reached across the table and put his hand on my arm. Electricity shot up my spine; the place where he touched me was suddenly warm and tingly, full of life. It was though I'd been slightly out of focus since the park. Now everything shifted back into place, and I could see clearly.

  “Are you well?” he asked. So old-fashioned. I wondered whether the concern in his voice was real. And I found I could not lie.

  “No,” I said.

  “Something happened to you.”

  His face was the dispassionate cipher it nearly always was, whenever he wasn't playacting emotion. That's what it was, I realized. Those odd smiles, the disingenuous way he'd told me that my name was “sexy” the first time we'd met, and the teenage slang that seemed to drop away whenever he was one-on-one with me. Playacting. Pantomime. In fact, the only time I'd ever seen a true emotion in his face was when he'd mentioned Cicero's daughter, Tullia, back in the library.

  “Yes,” I breathed. “Something did.”

  He stared at me expectantly, without judgment. I felt myself falling into his hypnotic eyes. Like a mouse before a snake, steeling itself for the strike but unable to move. I was terrified of what I was about to do. But the black depths were comforting. Dangerously so.

  “I was at the park,” I said, “and it happened again. I lost my vision.”

  “Could you perceive anything with your other senses?”

  I told him about the screaming, wretched voice. The babbled torrent of nonsense full of pain and anger. The ground falling away.

  As I was about to tell him about the message written in stones from the stream, I finally realized what it was about his eyes that both frightened and fascinated me.

  They were the pit.

  Opaque nothingness. The anti-thing I'd anti-seen both times, on the street and in the park. The void where the world isn't.

  Creeping horror stilled my tongue.

  “Then?” he asked.

  “Everything just came back. It rushed in around me, all of a sudden. The trees and the sky, the grass and the ground.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. Anyone else would have told me I was crazy, or tried to convince me that I'd fallen asleep on the swing and had a confusing dream. But he simply sat there across the table, his face a perfectly composed blank.

  I glanced over to the family room. The door was open so that Callie could casually spy on us. She was sitting in the big green armchair in the corner, reading a book. She looked up at the same time I did, a question in her eyes. I shook my head.

  I didn't want her interrogating Arbor. He wouldn't crack. It was Callie who would break down, and her ego was so bound up in being a great cop and providing for our family... I turned back to him and faced the endless night of his gaze.

  “Arbor, why did you take the shoes back?”

  He didn't pretend not to know what I was talking about. He just stared at me steadily, and didn't answer. I felt sick to my stomach. This was too soon; this wasn't part of the plan!

  Finally, he said, “I wish I could tell you.”

  “Were you involved in that man's death?” I leaned across the table, my voice barely above a whisper. My palms were sweaty. I fingered the small cracks in the table's varnish, trying to stay calm as I waited for the answer.

  “Yes.”

  He didn't provide any additional information.

  “How?”

  “I can't tell you that either.”

  Arbor stood up and gathered his things. I stood with him, and dashed around the table to block his path to the door. “So you murdered him. You really are a murderer.”

  He didn't so much as blink. He simply said, “It's getting late. I regret having to leave before dinner, but I just remembered I have a prior engagement.”

  “You're lying.”

  I took another step. There was practically no space between us, now. We were standing almost as close as when we'd danced at his party. I could feel the warmth and spice of his body, could feel myself wanting to open to him.

  “Yes,” he replied. “I am lying.”

  Then he stepped around me and strode calmly into the living room. I could hear him making his apologies to Callie, who walked him to the door with a bewildered expression on her face. I shook my head at her again, letting her know that the plan was off.

  As soon as he was gone, she came into the kitchen, unstrapping Buster and unbuttoning the blue collar of her uniform. “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “We just kind of... had a disagreement. I didn't think the time was right.”

  She threw up her hands. “The time would have been perfect! He was already a little off balance!”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Callie, when were you supposed to take the lasagna out?”

  “Oh. Shit.” She ran to the oven and pulled out the rack as a cloud of foul-smelling smoke poured into the kitchen. The fire alarm went off. I stuffed my fingers in my ears.

  “I guess he left just in time after all.”

  “What?” called Callie over the din.

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  So we sat down to a dinner of burned eggplant lasagna. Callie left it in the pan. We put it on a trivet in the center of the table, leaning over to pick it apart with our forks, delving for unburned layers. It was a glum, hazy meal.

  I don't know why I didn't tell Callie about Arbor's confession. I should have. I was in danger every second I didn't.

  And that felt...

  God, it felt good.

  I could only imagine I was more screwed up over Mom's suicide than my Freud-happy counselors had thought. Isn't seeking out trouble and flirting with the bad boys something that troubled teens from unstable homes do? Was that me, now? I suppose another part of it was that I just didn't want to believe Arbor. It was too nuts. He was playing with me, riling me up with vague insinuations. He wouldn't murder someone.

  Why, Evi? Because he's too
hot?

  There have been plenty of hot serial killers. And not only in the movies. I mean, admit it. Ted Bundy was pretty handsome.

  The sick feeling came back, washing over me in a wave of sudden nausea. Arbor. The boy I danced with. The most desired, popular boy in school. A serial killer. The kind all the neighbors say was so nice and polite.

  He'd been in my room last night. And I wasn't going to tell anyone about it. Not until I'd seen my private plan through.

  I ran up the stairs right away after dinner to set it up. First, my digital camera. I dug equipment out of my closet, some cables and a couple of plastic milk crates. All I needed to do was download free software from the internet and I was good to go. I hooked up my camera and set it to take a flash picture whenever the lens detected movement over a threshold. I placed it carefully on the milk crates, facing my window. The contraption sat there expectantly when I was through. I wondered if it would work.

  Later on, when Callie was in bed and I'd brushed my teeth and changed into my pajamas, I decided to check my email one last time. The website was slow to load. While I waited, I stared at the window, swiveling back and forth in my desk chair. The overhead light cast a glare on the pane of glass so that I couldn't see out. Instead it became mirrorlike, and I watched myself from across the room as if I were outside, looking in. It was a creepy feeling.

  The page finally loaded. I had one new message, from treeoflife@banter.net.

  I'm always lying.

  Chapter Seven

  I dreaded seeing Arbor at school on Monday. I couldn't eat my breakfast; the inside of my lip was chewed raw. I'd popped my knuckles one too many times, so my left hand was aching. Ellen was in a bad mood too.

  “Hey, Ellen-face.”

  We met at the bottom of the hill, after Callie dropped me off. Ellen stared up at Peaks High's big front doors.

  “Do we have to go in?”

  “Nope,” I said. “I have two tickets for Rio in my backpack. We're taking the bus to DIA and as soon as we charm our way through Brazilian customs, we'll begin our new lives as fugitives.”

  “Really?”

  I stared at her. She sighed and rolled her eyes. “I don't want to face anybody. They'll all be looking at me and judging.”

  “I can already hear Britta,” I muttered. “'You were practically dry humping him, Evi!'”

  “'What was Jim thinking, sneaking around with you behind everyone's back?'”

  “'I know Arbor had you with him in his room. Alone. Are you still a virgin?'”

  “'Amanda told me Jim has herpes. Do you have herpes now?'”

  We were practically at our lockers by the time we'd exhausted these imaginary conversations. Miraculously, it seemed that most of the other members of the student body had their own problems to worry about. Almost no one looked our way.

  “Good luck,” sighed Ellen. “See you at lunch.”

  “Fortitude, my friend.”

  He wasn't in Latin. I felt a momentary relief followed by a growing dread. If he wasn't here, then where was he? What was he doing? I could barely keep my mind on the pronouns we were learning. Quentin made us repeat all the forms, chanting together like Byzantine monks, through all the oblique cases and each of the three genders. It sounded kind of like a nursery rhyme.

  “Hic, haec, hoc.”

  The mouse ran up the clock.

  “Huius, huius, huius.”

  Arbor's face wavered before mine, his blank stare grinding into my brain. Last night, he'd said I wish I could tell you. Well, what did he want to tell me? Maybe he wasn't a serial killer after all. A tiny hope dawned in my chest. Maybe he was being used. Controlled by someone. But why couldn't he just...

  “Huic, huic, huic.”

  The dative case always sounds like hiccups. Okay, if he were being controlled by someone, how could they keep such close tabs on him inside my house, with my cop sister a room away? I mean, doesn't that seem like a safe place to tell me the truth, if that's what he wanted to do? Maybe ask for help? But no, why would he...? Farfetched theories spun themselves out, each crazier than the last. They revolved, shouting and straining to hold together until they were nothing but a soggy mess. My brain hurt. It felt like a washing machine set on high.

  “Hunc, hanc, hoc.”

  Hunk is right. Evi, you're making stuff up to absolve him, and you're afraid that it's because you like him. Well, admit it. You kind of do. And that isn't even the worst fear.

  You're afraid you'd forgive him.

  I steeled myself. No way would I be that person. No way would I be the delusional girl who falls for the bad guy! They always go down hard. I'd rather be Jamie Lee with a dull nail file than that girl.

  “Hoc, hac, hoc.”

  I choked out the last few singular forms. Ugh, we had to have these memorized for tomorrow, and it was going to take me literally ages to do. The bell rang. As I gathered up my books, I noticed George Farmer. He was slouched low in his seat, glumly staring at the top of his desk. Jim “I have no balls” Holness, his partner for the presentation, had decided to take study hall first period instead of Latin. Dropped out of the class on him.

  “Hey,” I said, on my way down the aisle. “Rough night, Saturday.”

  He tensed. “What do you know about it?”

  I was taken aback by his sudden defensiveness. “I... nothing, just what happened. Ellen's still upset too. I'm just saying, it sucks having a best friend who's in love with someone who refuses to acknowledge them.”

  George smiled wanly. “Yeah,” he said, soft voice bitter and somehow full of regret. “It really does.”

  I left him still sitting there, wondering if he'd make it to his next class on time.

  Math was the usual parade of awful. Mr. Perkins kept calling on me over and over, as if this time trigonometry would magically make sense to me. I hate that math is my worst subject. Whenever I give a wrong answer or get a less than stellar grade on a quiz, I feel like Mr. Perkins is looking at me and thinking, “Girls can't do math.” You know, instead of “Evi can't do math.” I suddenly felt like I understood a little more about what Ellen had told me in the car on the way home from the party on Saturday. When you feel like you're representing a whole group of people, instead of just yourself, suddenly your day gets a whole lot more stressful.

  We should at least get paid for it, or something.

  Lit and Social Studies passed quickly and relatively painlessly. Thank God for lunch. When I walked into the cafeteria, I saw ads for Homecoming weekend up on the closed-circuit TVs and groaned inwardly. Ellen met me at our table. I think we were both dreading what Britta had to say, but she and Vi and Shelby were more interested in discussing their dates for the Homecoming dance on Saturday night.

  “I think Luke Ofori might ask me,” said Vi.

  “Did you talk at the party?” Britta glanced toward Ellen as she said this, but her face didn't reveal any particular agenda.

  “Um, yeah. We were totally dancing...” Vi smiled dreamily. Shelby popped her head up to scan the rest of the tables in the cafeteria, but Britta pulled her back down by her shirtsleeve, hissing, “Don't look, you weirdo!”

  “Just checking. I think he has lunch this period.”

  “Well, ladies, I already have a date.” Britta had sat back and was admiring her new, professional-looking manicure. “Thanks for asking.”

  “Who is it?” we chorused. I think Ellen just moved her lips without actually saying anything, which made my shoulders start to shake silently with laughter.

  “Casey. Hall.”

  She spread her arms out for full effect, looking as if she'd just conducted the last note of Beethoven's Fifth. In other words, she looked ridiculous. Ellen gave her a golf clap.

  “That's great, Britta,” said Shelby.

  “I know.”

  “What is he, on the basketball team?”

  “Point guard,” said Britta, with a huge goofy grin on her face. “I don't even know what that means.”

 
“Point guard runs the offense,” said Shelby. “Controls who gets the ball. Kind of like the quarterback.”

  “Yeah,” said Britta, bunching up her face and settling back down to complete her mid-lunch nail inspection, “I didn't actually want to know.”

  I sat back, relieved that Britta had decided to move on from Arbor. Didn't seem like she was going to interrogate me about what went on in his room at the party, either.

  Shelby shrugged. “Well, I think I'm going to stag it.”

  “Me too,” Ellen and I said simultaneously.

  “Good,” said Shelby, zipping up her lunch bag. “We can hang out in a group, and we won't look pathetic at all. Html-tag-forward-slash-sarcasm.”

  “Awesome plan.”

  “Sometimes,” muttered Britta, “I have absolutely no idea what you girls are talking about.”

  Just then, the crashing sound of a pair of cymbals resounded through the cafeteria. Snare drums started up a beat, and the pep band came marching in through the tunnel doors to the fieldhouse. They wore matching polyester blue uniforms and white hats with silly-looking little tufts. Super ugly. The cheerleaders followed, Amanda among them, tumbling into formation. They, of course, got to wear cute skirts and sweaters. I wondered if the cheerleaders were in charge of picking the pep band's outfits. Just, you know, to remind them who's who and what's what at this school.

  Ew, Amanda. I hate her face.

  “Ready? Okay!”

  They clapped together in rhythm (What were the poor drummers there for, then? Decoration?) and in their tinny sing-song voices, “led” the student body in a cheer:

  Hey hey!

  It's time to fight!

  Everybody yell Blue and White!

  Everybody most certainly did not yell “Blue and White,” although I noticed Quentin standing in the corner, Aeneid in his hands and a delighted twinkle in his eye, shouting along gleefully.

  Hey hey!

  Let's strut the strut!

  Everybody yell Go Hike Hut!

  “What was that they wanted us to yell?” mumbled Ellen. “'Blow my butt?'”