by Ryan Dalton
A fifth volley hurtled toward her face. She spun on her toes, palmed the ball from the air, and came to a crouch next to Malcolm. Laughing gleefully, she set both balls at their feet. Malcolm gathered in the three that had missed her, silent as old images played through his mind. Valentine peeked over the wall of mats and surveyed the battlefield.
“Four of us, seven of them. If we’re careful, I think we can do this.”
He didn’t move. She looked up and saw his face. “What?”
Malcolm tried to seem nonchalant. “Oh. It’s just been a while, you know, since I’ve seen you do something like that.”
Valentine looked at the floor. “I know. Did it bother you?”
“No!” he stammered. “No, it was, uh, nice to see it again.”
“Did you see that?” they heard from across the gym.
“She didn’t even slow down!”
The twins shared a laugh, and the awkwardness ebbed.
“They’re scared now,” Malcolm said.
A wicked grin crossed Valentine’s face. “Let’s send ‘em running.”
He nodded and held a hand to his temple. “Sergeant.”
She mirrored him. “Sergeant.”
They leapt up with a ball in each hand and let loose. Two enemies went down immediately. The battle reached full force as their allies joined in.
“By the way,” Valentine called over the din. “Winter invited us over tonight.”
Malcolm paused mid-throw. “Really.”
“Yeah, to study and have some pizza, maybe watch a movie.”
He flung another ball and smiled as it glanced off a larger opponent’s shoulder. He avoided looking at Valentine.
“You do want to go, right?”
“Uh, well, who’s going to be there?” He bounced a ball off the one in his hand, “deactivating” it, and grabbed it from the floor.
“Winter’s family, a few others from her group.” She dodged a ball, flung one of her own, and gave him a significant look. “Maybe Fred, too.”
Malcolm nodded but didn’t answer, a heavy weight pressing on his chest.
“Mal, you can’t leave me alone with that guy.”
They attacked simultaneously. An enemy went down with hits to the thigh and shin, and the teams were now three-on-three.
“It’s just, I’ve got this book on the Battle of Marathon that I really should start. So I think maybe I’ll . . . anyway, Fred’ll be busy taking abuse from Winter.”
Valentine hurled a ball with both hands, smacking a yellow-haired girl square in the chest. “That’s great, Mal. Pick a book over making friends. Again. Is that how you’re going to be from now on?”
“Hey, going to Fred’s party was my idea,” he defended, ducking away from a ball.
“Yeah, and it’d be nice to keep that going.” She held up a hand, halting his response. “I know. I didn’t want to go then, but that was a huge party. We need to make real friends, and that means doing things like tonight. I mean, do you want to hide behind your books for the rest of your life, or actually make some history of your own?”
Malcolm’s response was drowned out as a crack of thunder slammed against the gym roof. Through tall windows, they watched lightning burst from the clear sky.
“Did you see that?” Valentine said.
Malcolm nodded. The bolts grew to sheets of silvery light. Rolling thunder rattled the decades-old walls around them. He jumped as a popping sound echoed overhead. The lights went dark.
“Cease fire!” Coach Boomer called out into the dark.
“Come on.” Valentine stepped out from cover. “Let’s get a better look.”
The other students followed their lead, approaching the windows slowly for fear of shattering glass. A hush fell over the room. The deadly light continued its dance across the sky.
“There are no clouds,” a brunette girl said in awe. “Can you have lightning with no clouds?”
“Apparently, you can.”
“Shut up, Jimmy!”
“Hey, look,” Malcolm said. “In the parking lot.”
He pointed toward a gray-haired woman moving between the cars. Every few feet, she looked into the sky and shook her head in dismay.
“Isn’t that Miss Marcus?” Valentine said. “What’s she doing out there?”
“Probably hoping the mother ship came back,” Malcolm said.
“If it has, it’s about the tenth one this month,” Coach Boomer said. “This is crazy.”
“You don’t normally get these?” Valentine asked.
“Try never. Not until this past spring, anyway. They started slow, then just kept on coming.”
A memory slipped across Malcolm’s mind. Leaning forward, he exhaled and fog bloomed across the smooth glass.
“It’s getting colder, Val,” he whispered. “Just like that other storm. It’s barely even fall, and that night there was frost on my window.”
“Storms can affect temperatures.”
“Enough to do that?”
Valentine shrugged. “Last year, I read about a place that has to burn down every year before new seeds can germinate.”
“Uh, okay,” he returned. “And that means . . .”
“It means some things are strange just because they are.”
Malcolm grasped for a clever response but came up short. He wondered why he rarely won arguments with his sister. Did she know him too well? Did girls just play dirty? That was probably it. The one time he’d seen his parents argue, it had ended with his father dazed while his mother stormed away in a cloud of indignation.
Ice stabbed into Malcolm’s chest, and the breath caught in his throat. He shoved the memory away in a flash of panic.
“You know what I mean?”
He gave his sister a blank look before realizing she’d been talking this whole time.
“Uhhh.” He cleared his throat and swallowed, trying to catch his breath. Outside, the lightning dispersed, leaving behind a golden fall afternoon. He touched the window.
Warm.
“Hey.” She brushed his arm. “You okay?”
Malcolm forced a smile. “Yeah. I’m just, you know, dazzled by your argument.”
“Uh-huh,” Valentine turned back to the window. “So, did you see any?”
“Any what?”
“Any strange faces. You know, in the lightning.”
Malcolm glanced sidelong at his sister. She choked back laughter and turned to hide a devious grin. He knew then that he’d been right. Girls did play dirty.
Valentine pressed one hand against her stomach to quiet the butterflies. With the other, she picked up a brush. It’s just another night.
Flame-red hair shimmered in the mirror, reflecting the amber glow of an antique lamp. She focused on the brush strokes. One. Two. Three. Just a few people hanging out. Four. Five. Nothing to be nervous about. Six. Except . . . the brush slowed. Except that tonight could make all the difference. What good was starting a new life if you did it with no friends? Valentine stared into the mirror, willing strength into her jade green eyes. That’s not going to happen. Seven. Eight. The brush began again. Tonight would be perfect. She would talk and laugh. Nine. Ten. She would let people know her. Her butterflies danced, this time with excitement. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen . . . and in no time, she would belong here.
Valentine tossed down the brush. Slipping on her favorite black jacket, she stepped into the hallway and glanced into Malcolm’s room. Sprawled on his bed with a book under his nose, like usual these days. He hadn’t moved since they’d gotten home, except now he was staring out the front window.
“Sure you won’t come? They might have books, too.”
“Ever wonder why no one talks about it?” Malcolm mused, sounding far away.
“Talks about what?”
“
The house. Most towns have something weird, and there’s always legends or scary stories about it. But here, there’s nothing. Like no one even notices.”
Valentine bit her lip before a smart remark could slip out. “Mal, just come. You don’t have to talk. Just be there.”
He mumbled something like a refusal and put his nose back in the book. She studied him, hoping for some sign that he really saw her. That he understood.
He turned a page.
She sighed. “Good night, Mal.”
Valentine backed into the hall and closed his door. She turned for the stairs and stopped short with a gasp. Oma Grace stood there in the hallway, a finger on her lips.
“How is he?” she whispered.
“Same.” Valentine shook her head. “I thought he was getting better.”
Oma Grace laid a hand on her arm. “Give him time. You’ve both been through big changes.”
She clutched the hand, comforted by its warmth. “I just want the old Mal back. He never used to hide from anything.”
Oma Grace led her toward the stairs. “And how are you feeling?”
She managed a wry smile. “I want the old me back, too.”
Oma Grace chuckled. “You’ll get there. It’s only been a year, and what you’re facing, well, it’s one of the hardest things for a woman.”
“What do you mean?”
They stopped at the top of the stairs and faced each other.
“I mean letting go, dear.”
Oma looked at Valentine’s neck. She was clutching the silver pendant again. With effort, she uncurled her fingers and dropped the hand to her side, flushing hot with embarrassment.
“Oh, it’s okay.” Oma grasped Valentine’s shoulders. “There’s no forcing time in this house, my girl. Just keep trying and you’ll get there. I promise.”
Valentine nodded, unable to meet her gaze.
“Let me see that famous Gilbert smile,” Oma Grace’s knuckles brushed her downturned chin. “Come now, humor an old bat.”
Valentine felt a bright spot of laughter grow inside her. She met Oma’s twinkling eyes.
“There it is.” Oma Grace turned Valentine toward the stairs and whispered in her ear. “Go show them how beautiful you are.”
Valentine’s smile blossomed—her real smile—and she bounded down the stairs.
Valentine called a goodbye to Oma Grace as she piled out of the car, wrestling with bulky bags of snacks. She stumbled onto the front porch with the awkward load, eager to get inside before the black storm clouds overhead burst open.
The doorbell hovered just out of reach of her elbow. She leaned over and barely rang it, when the bag of sodas slipped from her grasp and plummeted toward the ground. She lurched forward and managed to snag the plastic handle. Lightning flashed, disorienting her for a split second.
With horror, Valentine staggered and then flailed face-first toward the front door. The white wood loomed in her vision, and time seemed to slow. So this is how I’ll spend my first night here—bruised and mortified.
The door swung open. Her face missed it by an inch as she careened across the threshold into a surprised pair of arms.
“Whoa!”
Arms wrapped around her shoulders, halting her momentum. She rested there for an instant to catch her breath.
“You know how to make an entrance.”
Recognition hit hard as Valentine looked up at the face of her savior. She pulled away.
“Hi, John,” she said, straightening her hair.
The slender, dark-eyed boy grinned at her. “Hello, Valentine. I see the rumors are true.”
“Rumors?”
“About how the new girl flew halfway across the gym and danced her way to victory.”
“Oh.” She gave a nervous laugh. “You heard about that?”
“It’s a very small town.”
Valentine nodded. She glanced at everything around her, anywhere except John’s eyes. Awkward fear gripped her insides, and the silence stretched on. What are you doing? Say something! She looked down at her feet. Stop it! Look up!
“You’ve come for the study session?” John asked.
She forced herself to look up. “Yeah. You?”
“I was just leaving. Bill and Nancy want a family evening, so I came to offer Winter my regrets.”
“Oh. Okay.” Through the fear, Valentine realized she was disappointed.
Moving through the doorway, John turned and held her eyes with his. “Will I see you here again?”
She nodded more enthusiastically than she’d planned. He gave her a little smile, then turned and stepped down the porch. “Perhaps we can talk more next time, then.”
“Yeah. Hey!”
John turned back to her, more lightning arcing across the sky behind him.
“Um, thanks. You know, for catching me.”
His eyes twinkled with amusement or irony or something like them. “It was my pleasure. Good night, Valentine.”
Valentine stood in the open doorway and watched John cross the street. Chiding herself, she closed the door and followed voices toward what seemed to be the kitchen.
“Oh, thank you for catching me!” she mocked herself. “I don’t have anything smart to say, so I’ll just giggle and stuff.”
She stopped as the voices poured through the kitchen door.
“I keep telling you, don’t drink out of the carton,” Winter’s voice boomed. “If you keep doing it, I’m going to buy soy milk again!”
“NOOO!” a tiny voice wailed.
“That’s right, just like when Daddy was a vegan. And we don’t want that, do we? Do we?”
“YOU SUCK!”
Valentine dodged to the side as a tiny, black-haired girl barreled through the door. Winter stuck her head through the doorway.
“And you better not touch anything in my room, Summer! I mean it! Oh, hey Val. Come on in. Where’s Malcolm?”
“Oh, he uh,” she stammered. Should’ve thought of an excuse on the way over.
“Don’t sweat it.” Winter rolled over her in that brisk, nonchalant manner she pulled off so easily. “Grab a drink. Say hi, Brynne.”
Brynne squeezed Valentine in a warm hug. “Hi, sweetie! Your hair is so cute! How do you get those curls?”
“Well, I brush it.” Remembering why she was there, Valentine tried to return the hug.
“It’s so pretty,” Brynne exclaimed. She unwrapped herself from Valentine and pulled her toward the table. “Here, set that stuff down. Are we ready, Winter?”
“Almost. John and Fred have stuff happening, so it’s a girls’ night, I guess. Just waiting on Carly.”
Brynne’s face fell. “Your brother’s not coming, Valentine? He’s cute.”
“Brynne!” Winter reprimanded. “Inappropriate. That’s the girl’s brother.”
“No, it’s okay.” Valentine smiled and unpacked the snacks. “He’s busy, but maybe I’ll tease him with a secret admirer.”
“That’s cold,” Winter said. “Gotta say, though, Brynne’s not the only one eying the new boy. I’ve heard a few . . .”
Valentine’s attention wandered to the window facing the street. She could see John sitting on his front porch, conversing with a mustached man and a graying, willowy woman. Each held a steaming mug in their hand.
“He’s single, you know,” a perky voice said in her ear.
Valentine realized she was staring out the window. Both Brynne and Winter watched her in amusement. How long was I staring?
“Sorry, what?”
“John. He homeschools, but everyone knows him and he’s never dated anyone.” She pointed through the window. “That’s Bill, his foster dad.”
“Adoptive dad,” Winter corrected.
“Oh, he’s adopted.” Valentine nodded. “Where’d he come from?”
/>
“Who knows?” Brynne shrugged.
“He hasn’t told you?”
“What? No. Remember, he—” Brynne’s eyes widened. “Oh, you don’t know! I forgot you’re new. Winter, she doesn’t know!”
Valentine glanced between them, puzzled. Winter shifted uncomfortably. Brynne shook with the excitement of sharing gossip.
“See,” Brynne began. “John’s got this thing where he doesn’t know or—well, I mean, I’m sure he knew at some point, but now he just—well, he can’t—”
“John doesn’t know who he is,” Winter cut in.
The power cut out.
“Seriously?” Winter said, staring up at the ceiling. “This happens, like, every week now.”
Just enough light remained for them to find flashlights and set them in a circle on the table. They also added their cell phones, each turning on the camera flash. With the bright beams pointed at the ceiling, they fashioned a crude sort of lamp that cast the room in an eerie glow. Just enough light to see their snacks—though their study notes would have to wait.
“So, where were we?” Winter asked.
“John, sweetie,” Brynne said.
“Oh, right.”
Valentine shook her head. She’d spent the past few minutes unsure how to respond to Winter’s revelation. “So, he has some sort of amnesia or something?”
Winter sank into a chair. “About a year ago, they found him wandering the streets downtown. Broken bones, clothes were all shredded. They figure he took some knocks on the head, too.” She grabbed a brownie and munched on it. “When he woke up in the hospital, he couldn’t remember anything but his name.”
Brynne sat at the table across from Winter, in rapt attention. Valentine pulled out a chair and followed suit.
“Didn’t anyone come looking for him?”
Winter shook her head. “They looked everywhere, but no one ever came forward. So they figured he didn’t have any family and asked for someone to take him in. That’s how the Irwins got him.”