by Avery Bell
“George?”
Students were standing aside, ushering someone to the front of the room. Someone tall, with dark hair.
Arbor.
George glanced up, puzzled frown on his face. Arbor climbed slowly and deliberately onto the table. “Hey George,” he said, voice casual but raised so that all could hear. “Would you consider going to the Homecoming dance with me?”
The crowd was stunned into silence. There was some nervous laughter, and another wave of whispering.
George's mouth fell open. Then he grinned. “Sure!” He held up his hand and Arbor high-fived it. “Definitely, man. That would be awesome.”
“I'll pick you up at eight,” said Arbor. Then he grabbed George's hand and they both hopped down from the table together.
My heart melted.
The fact that George was popular and on the football team meant that all the status-seeking little peons had jumped at the chance to mock him. But they had no idea how to react when Arbor, one of the trendiest kids in school, decided to stand by him. Like dumb sheep, waiting for the dogs to nip at their heels and tell them which direction to go. They talked amongst themselves and dispersed when Principal Davis finally got his hands on a microphone and told us all to go to class already, for the love of Pete, or we'd all get tardies, mark his words, all three hundred of us.
It was already five minutes into first period.
No one could concentrate in Latin, of course. Quentin briefly and sternly let us know that there would be no homophobic bullying in his classroom. It was definitely on the horizon. George was no dummy; he could see it. But at least, thanks to Arbor, he probably wouldn't get beaten up in the student parking lot after school.
Quentin wisely passed out a worksheet for us to complete, rather than expecting us to absorb any new material. I leaned over mine, words swimming before my eyes, acutely aware of the presence behind me. My pulse leapt as I thought about Arbor. I wondered if he was staring into the back of my head. Or looking a little bit up, and to the right.
I've never been more confused in my life.
And now that I was calming down – now that I'd seen him again, and seen him do something so noble – I slid the camera out of my pocket and took another look at that picture.
I held it under my desk, squinting.
There was something wrong.
Why didn't I notice it before? Busy panicking, I guess...
Not that I could explain why Arbor's face was floating in mid-air above my windowsill. The tree is at least five feet away from the window. He couldn't have used a ladder and packed it up that quickly. And besides, if he were trying to get into my room, the camera wouldn't have flashed when the window slammed shut. It would have captured Arbor with his leg over the sill, or something. While the window was still open.
I got chills.
What the hell is going on here? Because the rules of physics are being broken, and I don't know why.
But in my heart I did know. I knew that there was something unnatural about Arbor, something different. But... did I say unnatural? No. No, that's not quite right. He was a living, breathing thing. I knew that. I'd felt his heartbeat, heard him mutter and stumble over words. Felt his warmth. Seen him eat. Seen him go to the bathroom. (I mean. I'd seen him enter the boy's bathroom. I can't literally swear that urination ever occurred, but... oh dear. Evi, Evi. Stop it.) But that outdated speech of his that he sometimes lapsed into, the odd comments that trailed off, as if he'd said too much... Ellen and I had made fun of the vampire idea before, but my skin prickled at the realization that clearly, Arbor was not a normal teenager.
The word was not unnatural. It was supernatural.
“Shut up, Evi,” I grumbled to myself. God, my stupid flights of fancy really get me into trouble. This isn't a freaking teen movie. This is my life. I'm obviously just going to ask him about it, and he's going to give me some craptastic excuse about a trampoline or a improbably buoyant helium balloon or his ridiculous, Amazing Spider-Man-like wall climbing skills.
Right? People do that parkour stuff. That's totally what it was. So we're back to Arbor being a creepy pervert.
Somehow that familiar thought comforted me. Unfortunately it just wasn't very convincing anymore.
The bell rang for the end of class. Arbor stood up to walk past me, and I grabbed his shirt, leading him out the door and around the corner to a quiet section of the hallway. I gave George a pointed smile as I did so, and he smiled back at me. I also saw that freshman girl and her friend shaking their heads. Assholes. Anyway.
“What you did for George this morning was awesome and gave me a serious case of the warm fuzzies. It was possibly the best, most selfless thing I've ever seen one human do for another.”
I glared at him with a stern expression. He seemed taken aback, but allowed himself to be dominated by my physicality. We were up against a wall again. Oh, Lord.
“Possibly?” he asked.
I held up the camera, and zoomed the picture in so that his face was clearly visible where a face shouldn't – wouldn't, couldn't – be.
“I'm just not sure if you are human.”
I let his shirt go, shoving him back. “From now on, stay away from my window and stay out of my room.” Then I kissed him on the cheek.
“See you at the dance.”
I may be the world's biggest idiot.
Chapter Ten
Friday morning. I tramped downstairs to find my sister completely decked out in blue and white – mostly old clothes from when she'd run cross-country in high school. She'd just come in from an early-morning trip to the grocery store, and I saw her pull a package of face paint out of the bag, along with a large PHS foam finger.
“You've got to be kidding me,” I said.
I was wearing black. Well, black and a little neon green. And a little neon pink, who are we kidding. But not school colors. Nosiree.
“I placed a bet of twenty-five dollars on the Minutemen to win this Homecoming game,” she said. “And I can think of no more productive way to spend my day off than to spread school spirit around town, whipping up fan support to frenzy levels and thereby potentially earning a return on my investment.”
“So you're going to the game, then?”
“Yes,” she blinked. “And you're coming with me.”
I snorted. “I've never gone to a football game in my life. I'm not about to start now.”
Callie growled. “Why must I be the only sports fan in this family?” She shook her head. “Seriously, it's the worst. But, upside, since I'm now officially the head of the household I can order you to go with me.” She pulled a couple of tickets out of her purse. “And I got us fantastic seats.”
I demonstrated my objection to her plan with all the usual – rolling my eyes, sighing heavily, lurching over to the counter to get my cereal bowl as though I were an undead zombie.
“Nothing left to live for, huh?” she asked, wryly.
“I refuse to cheer.”
“Deal.”
I snorted again. Deal. Right. Some deal. Maybe I could rope Ellen into coming, though. I tilted my head, crunching my Kix and contemplating. We could make fun of Amanda's silly cheerleader routines. That's a good reason to attend a football game, right?
*
“Nope,” said Ellen when I asked her about it on the way to our lockers.
“Pleeeeease?” I whined. “I have to go. Callie's making me. It's going to be horrible; please come.”
“Ooh, and you make it sound so gosh darn tempting.” She shook her head. “Sorry, Evi. I actually have a project I'm working on.”
“You're doing homework on a Friday night?”
She glanced around, making sure nobody was listening in, and lowered her voice. “It's not exactly a school project. Not exactly... school sanctioned.”
She ducked away from me, burrowing into her messy locker for something. Apparently everyone in my life was keeping secrets. What did Ellen have up her sleeve? Just then the bell rang, and
I had to run to class. I raised my eyebrows at her as I trotted off. I'm going to weasel it out of you at lunch. She just shook her head firmly and mimed zipping her lips.
Arbor was standing by the door to our Latin classroom, leaning casually against the open frame. His dark eyes smoldered at me. As I walked through the hallway toward him, my heart did little flips in my chest.
“Ready for our presentation?” he asked.
I held up my flash drive with our PowerPoint file. “Ready as I'll ever be.”
We were the first ones to present. Quentin brought our PowerPoint up on the screen and told us to nod when we wanted him to change slides. I took a deep breath and started talking.
This time, the words flowed beautifully. Instead of being nervous because Arbor was listening to me, I drew strength from his seemingly endless reservoir of calm. Cicero's early years and lawyerly accomplishments went by in a flash. When I was done, I barely remembered anything I'd just said. I wasn't positive I hadn't been mumbling gibberish the whole time, but from the affirming look on Arbor's face, I guess I nailed it.
Then he started to talk, and of course he blew everyone away. There's just something about an English accent...
“Cicero was elected consul at the age of 43. The consuls were the highest civil magistrates, the head of the Roman government during the years of the Republic. A most unusual success for a man of such humble beginnings, whose very name refers to the chickpeas his less ambitious ancestors probably sold to make ends meet. In 63 BCE he successfully uncovered a conspiracy led by a man named Lucius Sergius Catilina, usually called Catiline by historians. Catiline's plans to overthrow the Republic included a plot to assassinate Cicero. Thankfully, Cicero managed to thwart the conspiracy and run Catiline out of the city before the assassination was to take place. He escaped death. Others are not so lucky.”
Arbor turned and gave me a steady look. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
Is he talking about me?
There was a long pause. The silence was getting uncomfortable. I glanced at Quentin as Arbor's unblinking eyes continued to challenge me. Quentin looked confused and a little nervous. He cleared his throat and Arbor turned away, nodding his head to advance the slide.
“Cicero delivered three famous speeches denouncing Catiline...”
He was off and running again. But I was no longer listening. Others are not so lucky. It certainly sounded like a threat. My “Arbor's a psycho killer and he's trying to warn me that I'm next” theory sprang back into full bloom in my head.
But I pushed it aside. He was definitely trying to tell me something – trying to warn me of something, even – but that was not it. My doubts about his character were all but gone now. I had no real reason to trust him. But what he did for George... I felt as though I'd finally seen his true colors.
I guess it comes down to faith. And a gut feeling.
Others are not so lucky.
“When Tullia died in childbirth it was a huge blow to Cicero. He mourned her in his letters to friends and erected a memorial for her. Her death was inevitable. Most are.”
He was staring at me again.
Most are. Most are.
“Most deaths are accidental. Like Tullia's.”
More staring. More awkward silence. Finally Quentin said, “Yes, Mr. da Rosa. Get to your point.”
Arbor flashed one of his fake smiles. “Sorry. Just lost my train of thought there.” He put his finger under his collar as if he were nervous. “Public speaking, you know. We can't all be legendary orators.”
There was a smattering of polite laughter and some unkind snickering.
“As I was saying, Tullia's death brought up the idea of mortality for Cicero in a very concrete way. It became a theme in his philosophical writing...”
Arbor managed to make it through the rest of our presentation without any other strange comments. We took our seats as Quentin clapped loudly and forcefully, ever-present copy of the Aeneid folded under one of his arms.
“Smashing!” he said. “Fabulous job, you two. Arbor, very good. A bit tangent-y in places. Evi...”
I cringed inwardly waiting for his assessment. Had I talked too fast? Left out important details?
He smiled benevolently. “Bravissima,” he proclaimed. “You've set a very high standard for everyone else. I suppose that's the reward for taking the plunge and being the first to present.”
The other students groaned accordingly. I sat back in my chair as the next group trudged up to the front of the classroom. Relief should have been coursing through me. I'd just gotten a solid grade, and I was officially done being Arbor's partner.
But I couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to go very wrong.
Interlude
The poet and the pale boy met again at dusk. The bright lights of the football stadium shone above them like diamonds nestled in the skirts of the Rocky Mountains, under a night sky washed with lavender and indigo. They circled each other at first, unsure.
“You called me here,” said Arbor. “Say what you want to say.”
The poet grinned. “I know what you're up to now. Searching for trinkets. Fishing for lost souls. And that you're even more clueless than I am.”
“Is that so?”
“At least I know who he is.”
Arbor frowned. “I don't suppose you're going to tell me.”
The shake of a head. The poet stalked around the shadows of the stadium, kicking an empty aluminum can. “Nope.”
“You don't have to do this,” Arbor pleaded. “Just give me his name, and you'll be saving so many lives.”
The poet ignored him. “Sad, sad Arbor. Can't say anything but lies, lies... What happens if you do tell what you are, and who you're here for? Do you disappear? Die? Fade away into non-existence? What's the penalty? Let me guess.” The poet was taunting now. “You don't know.”
Arbor stood still. Steady. “If you won't help me, then why did you ask me to meet you here?”
A tinny, tinkling laugh flew up to the sky, nearly drowned in a roar from the crowd. “And you're even trying to seduce that little Wild girl! Pathetic. You should have gone for the older sister. Would have made it more believable.”
Arbor crossed his arms and turned his back. “Is there a point to this?”
“I can't believe you didn't ask her to the Homecoming dance. Heard about the stunt you pulled with that faggy –”
“Shut up,” snapped Arbor. “Don't use that word.”
There was silence for a time. The booming voice of the football announcer echoed through the stadium and softly reverberated around them. “Why did you do it?” asked the poet, sounding almost curious.
“I've been the paragon,” Arbor shrugged. “And I've been the pariah. Doesn't make much difference to me, and I didn't want to have to...”
“Oh. Right. I forgot, you don't enjoy your job. Not like some people.”
The roars of the crowd were getting louder. The game clock was ticking down, and the score was close. The collective hope of the fans in the stadium rose, nearly capsizing Arbor in a deafening wave of sound. Even Evi was cheering. He could hear her voice.
“Enough small talk,” he growled. “Say something relevant or I'm leaving.”
The poet blinked, face straightening into grim lines. “He's been ignoring me. But now I'm going to make him listen.”
Arbor's eyes flashed. As though, absorbing the light, they reflected the dark. “Don't add to his body count.”
“I have to see him.”
“So do I, and we can work together –”
“I have to help him.”
“You're obsessed!”
Silence.
Arbor turned away. “This is a warning, then.”
“I won't say when I will strike. Just that I will. Soon.” The poet laughed again, gleeful. “And you can't even tell anybody... Poor, poor Arbor...”
*
I got out of the car with a groan. The sky was still bright, but the
stadium lights were blinding. I could smell popcorn and the sticky, rumbling odor of cotton candy as it was gathered out of thin air. Callie tumbled out of the driver's side, loaded down with her purse, cheap plastic pom poms, and her foam finger. Her face was a mess of smudgy blue and white. She was already starting to sweat it off.
And she was ecstatic.
“Onward!” she called, like a general leading her troops. I trudged obediently behind her, past the people standing in line for tickets. It was unseasonably warm. The cattle men wore tank tops, still red-shouldered from the summer and potbellied. An occasional faded tattoo. The women looked like backwards camels, with larger hair and gold jewelry. They'd come to cheer on their sons and nephews, or to reminisce about when they'd been on the team, or worn those short skirts. These people were coming home.
“Let's get this over with,” I grumbled, as Callie gave our tickets to a volunteer. We walked in under the bleachers, stopping to grab a bag of salted peanuts and a water bottle from a food stand. I saw a couple people I knew, waved to them.
“This is going to be a classic game,” she said. “I can feel it. They'll be talking about this one for years to come.”
I rolled my eyes. We climbed up into the middle of the grandstand, still close enough to see and hear the action on the field, but high enough to take in the beautiful vista that was the main attraction of Peaks Stadium. The mountains rose to the west, and to the east the high plains spread out beneath us in a network of distant electricity.
There was a sting and then growing thunder from a line of snares, standing stiff at the edge of the track. The bass drum boomed as the pep band marched out onto the field in formation. The cheerleaders rushed in, and the crowd cheered. I sat down with a sigh.
Bleacher seats are hard. This was going to be a long game.
The microphone winced and then echoed. “And here are the Boulder Bulldogs, hot off their win last week against Loveland. This season is really heating up, folks...”
The sun was beginning to dip. Stadium lights drowned the field; the crisp white lines and shiny purple helmets of the Boulder Bulldogs almost glowed. People dutifully booed as they did their warm ups. I, of course, was above such things. But Callie let out a deep, guttural “BOOOOO” that caused me to laugh at her.