by Ryan Dalton
“Wow,” Valentine said. “Has he ever searched for a family?”
“Where would he start?” Winter said. “Carter isn’t exactly rare. And what would he find that no one else could? He only knows the last year.”
Valentine pondered this. “I can’t imagine what that would be like.”
“Questions,” Winter replied. The tone made Valentine think the words weren’t hers. “You’d have questions, and you’d be afraid of the answers.”
“What sort of questions?”
“Did you ever have family? What were they like? Did something happen to them? Have they forgotten you, too? Are they dead?” She looked up at Valentine. “Or did they just abandon you?”
Malcolm sat at the kitchen counter with his book while Oma Grace chopped potatoes for dinner. An old-style lantern sat between them, its warm glow just bright enough to let him read. The rest of the house sat in darkness—except for the continuous flashes of lightning.
The rhythmic sound of Oma Grace chopping might have lulled him to sleep, if not for the bacon and onions crackling in the pot behind her. The stove’s blue flame kept dinner preparations on track despite the power hiccup. He breathed deeply, inhaling the smoky scent.
“Hey, Oma, what’s with that house across the street?”
The sound of chopping slowed.
“Which house, dear?”
“The old one with no doors.” He gestured through the window. “I thought you might know why it’s there.”
“Oh, so Granny must know about something old.”
“No, I didn’t mean it like—”
Oma Grace waved away his objections. “I’m teasing you, dear.”
Malcolm smiled. “No one talks about it. Something that weird, shouldn’t there at least be creepy rumors?”
“Who says there aren’t?”
“I guess—wait, are there?”
“Oh yes.” Oma Grace tossed the cubed potatoes into the pot. “The worst kind of rumors.”
“Like what?”
“Well.” She lowered her voice and glanced behind her. “They say that on a full moon . . .”
“Yeah?”
“. . . The house comes alive and . . . eats nosy teenagers!” She stared at Malcolm, her face full of mock terror.
Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Okay, you got me.”
Oma Grace chuckled. “Believe me, boy, the less you think about that place, the better.”
“Is something wrong with it?”
“Any old place is dangerous,” she said. “You start poking around, things are waiting to break, and before you know it the roof has come down to say hello. Then it’s goodbye nosy teenagers.”
Malcolm eyed the fading monolith through the window. “You don’t think it’s strange?”
Oma Grace paused and set her knife down. “Which do you think is stranger—a silly old house, or a healthy boy who won’t make friends?”
Malcolm examined his hands, embarrassed. “I just—” he began, then cut off. He cast around inside, struggling to find the right words. “I . . .”
“Malcolm.” Oma Grace rested her hands on his. He kept his face down. “Malcolm, look at me.”
With effort, he raised his eyes to meet hers. It felt like lifting a boulder.
“I know you’ve been through so much, and everyone deals with things at their own pace.” She leaned closer. “But you cannot get over the past by ignoring the future. You have to keep living. Don’t you think that’s what Emily would want?”
Malcolm broke his gaze and stared at the wall, fighting the heat building behind his eyes. He took a deep breath and blinked hard. “She danced today.”
“Who?”
“Valentine. During gym—” His voice broke. Tears tore free and streamed down his face. “It came out of nowhere, and I wasn’t ready for it.”
“She danced?”
He looked back at Oma Grace. She was smiling, her own tears welling up.
“How was she?”
“Amazing, like always. Just like—she’s better at all this, Oma, and I can’t even . . .” He gave a frustrated huff.
“Valentine has her own struggles,” Oma Grace said. “Same as you. She’s just better at pretending things are okay.”
Malcolm breathed deeply and pushed away the ache. It wouldn’t budge. “I feel like glass inside.”
She leaned down to catch his eye. “You will find your courage again, I promise. Both of you. You just need time, and each other, and friends. With those by your side, anything is possible. Okay?”
He nodded weakly. “Okay.”
“That’s better. Now, say it like a Gilbert.”
Malcolm felt a smile tug at his lips. He raised his eyes and wiped his cheeks on a sleeve. “Okay.”
The power turned on.
Overhead lights flickered to life, and a familiar background hum filled the house as appliances and electronics woke up again. Oma Grace glanced at the ceiling, then winked and squeezed his hands before letting go.
“Now,” she said, returning to the cutting board. “I know a few other things a growing boy needs. Is there one around who can help me with dinner?”
Malcolm smiled for real and stood to join her.
Chapter 7
Halfway through the school day, the twins made their routine locker visit to change out books and supplies. Valentine finished loading up and zipped her bag. As usual, Malcolm moved more slowly, so she took a moment to glance in the mirror and pluck at a tangle in her hair.
“That a new book?” she said.
“How do you do that? You’re not even looking at me.”
“I told you already, Mal. Girls have special powers.”
“It’s on the Renaissance. Never read much about it, which I’ve decided makes me a bad history geek.”
“That’s an excellent book,” a new voice added.
Valentine froze at the mirror, and her insides twirled. Turning, she searched for something to say, but all her words disappeared.
“Oh, hi,” Malcolm said. “It’s John, right?”
“And you’re Malcolm.” John held out his hand.
Malcolm accepted it and hefted the history tome. “You know this book?”
“Yes, I enjoyed the chapters on . . .”
With John distracted, Valentine rummaged frantically through a small leather pouch in her locker. Where is it?
Her fingers closed around a plastic cylinder. A quick glance to see if they were still occupied, and . . . GO! She ripped off the cap and twisted the bottom. The color of her favorite lipstick slid into view. She leaned close to the mirror.
What are you doing? Why do you care?
I don’t know, okay?
Color applied, she tossed the stick back into the bag and smacked her lips together. You know he’ll never get close. You won’t let him. She swiped hands through her fiery locks. Just shut up!
She closed the locker. “Hi, John.”
John broke off mid-sentence and turned to her. “Hello, Valentine. Are you well?”
She nodded and his smile spread, touching his eyes. He had nice eyes. Stop it.
“Well,” Malcolm interposed. “I suppose I’ll be onto the next class. Val, see you there?”
Valentine met her brother’s gaze. He was trying not to smile.
“Uh, yeah sure,” she replied.
Malcolm nodded. “See you around, John.” He gave the long-haired boy a last appraising look and melted into the crowd.
“Until next time, Malcolm,” John said.
She struggled for something—anything—to say. “Um, I thought Brynne said you homeschool.”
“I do. However, Winter forgot some notes for her newspaper. She’s doing another story on Patrick Morgan’s disappearance.” He hefted a folder.
“Oh,” V
alentine said.
The fear clenched inside her as they stared at each other in silence. She shoved it away.
Then everything came pouring out. “Look, about when we met—you talked about not knowing where you’re from, and I remember that I laughed at it but I didn’t know anything about you until Winter told me last week and I’m just . . . I’m sorry.”
John’s head tilted to the side as he watched her, looking amused. Her cheeks heated. She knew they must be red, and that made her flush more.
“Have you been concerned about that all this time?”
She nodded.
He chuckled. “Apology not necessary, but accepted anyway. How could you know? I didn’t tell you. Most times it’s just easier to make a joke.”
“Yeah. Mal and I seem to do that a lot.”
John nodded his understanding. “Anyway, I did come to find you for a purpose. After class, I’ll be hiking to Misty Point with Winter and Fred, and we would love for you and Malcolm to come.”
Valentine’s interest piqued. “I’ve never heard of that.”
“The sunset should be beautiful tonight, and it’s the best view. We’ll take blankets and spend the evening there.” He grinned. “You know, basic small-town fun.”
She laughed. “I could use some of that, I think. We need to check with our dad, but it should be fine. Meet you after last period?”
“I look forward to it.”
The stream of French words flowed past Valentine. Her mind wandered through the conversation with John. What did I say again? How did I sound? She remembered speaking, but not the words. Mostly, she remembered his deep brown eyes.
Madame LaChance’s lecture picked up speed, interrupting her thoughts. Valentine had only learned enough basic French to catch pieces of it, though, and the teacher didn’t allow English to be spoken in her classroom. At the moment, she was reading passages from an old history book—the woman loved reading to them about the French Revolution, so much that Valentine wondered why she wasn’t teaching history.
Today’s lesson centered around Charlotte Corday, also known as the Assassin of Marat. Apparently she’d murdered a radical political figure in his bathtub, claiming that her purpose had been to prevent all-out civil war and save her country from more violence. Though young, she’d gone to the guillotine for her crime.
Pausing between paragraphs, Madame LaChance copied key phrases onto the board that she wanted them to learn. As she wrote, her hips swayed in a skin-tight pencil skirt, and long chestnut hair brushed against the middle of her back. Valentine noted most of the male students were giving rapt attention. She tried not to roll her eyes.
Beside her, Malcolm tapped away at his phone. Her lap buzzed.
Mal: john seems nice
Val: Course you’d say that. He liked your giant book.
Mal: I doubt that’s why he stopped, lol
Val: What do you mean?
Mal: why you pretending not to notice?
Val: He invited us BOTH out. We’re going on a hike with John :) Winter :) Fred >:(
Valentine waited for a snarky reply, but her brother was focused forward. Following his eyes, she saw where he and every other boy was looking.
Madame LaChance faced the class, swaying side to side in her black stiletto heels. Her tight pink top showed a tease of smooth, tanned cleavage, and locks of silky hair fell across her eyes as she leaned over to read.
Val: How are you enjoying the “lesson”?
Malcolm jumped at the buzzing and looked down. A goofy smile played across his face. He glanced toward Valentine and gave a half-shrug, not quite managing to look embarrassed.
He bent over his phone to tap out a reply. Valentine focused on her own screen, waiting for whatever silly excuse he was planning to offer. If he even bothered to offer one.
She caught a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye, then jumped at a loud crack.
Madame LaChance had suddenly appeared next to Malcolm. The sound had come from a ruler, which she’d used to slap the surface of his desk. He gazed up at her, half in alarm and half in love, it seemed.
“Vilain garçon. Tu connais les règles, mon cher. Donne-moi ça,” she said, expectantly holding out an open palm. Malcolm handed over his cell phone.
She held his gaze. “Tu peux l’avoir après la classe.”
Cheeks reddening, he barely managed to nod.
This time, Valentine did roll her eyes. Boys.
Valentine pulled her jacket tighter. Following dinner they’d climbed into Fred’s limo, and his driver—he actually had his own driver and butler—had taken them to Misty Point Park.
Emmett’s Bluff was built on a plain, with flat grasslands stretching in three directions. The northern edge, however, sat at the base of tall and rocky, tree-lined foothills. For decades they’d been popular with hikers, artists, and gear-headed thrill-seekers alike. Trails crisscrossed their way into the hills, snaking through peaks and valleys as the terrain grew wilder.
Valentine slung her backpack over her shoulder, noting with disappointment that the path upward was paved and wide enough for cars. They followed along the chest-high stone wall that lined the right side, passing under tall street lamps. In the distance, the path swerved sharply west and ended at a lookout far below the more impressive peaks.
“Gotta admit, I pictured this differently,” Malcolm commented from behind her. “I thought it’d be—”
“Woodsier?” Valentine offered.
“Yes! But it’s so civilized.”
“Aww,” Fred said with mock sympathy. “Winter, they thought we were takin’ ‘em into the back country.”
“Oh, they’re not ready for that,” Winter said. “We didn’t even bring our guns.”
They burst into laughter.
The lights flickered overhead. Their basketball-sized bulbs sputtered with an electrical hiss, leaping between dark and uncomfortably bright.
“See, now we’re roughing it,” Winter said. “Unreliable lighting? This is hard!”
“Alright, alright, we give,” Valentine said. “But still.”
“I said the same when they first brought me here,” John said. He walked a few feet to her left, hefting his guitar case. Their eyes met and her stomach fluttered. “Why put all this here? I thought. But then I saw.”
“True that,” Fred said. “The road’s just to sucker all the tourists.”
“Real view’s, locals-only,” Winter said.
“Our spot’s good for chillin’, maybe takin’ a date,” Fred said too casually. He glanced back to catch Valentine’s eye.
She fought to keep her expression neutral. They’re trying to be nice, and the night would probably end if I puked on him.
The street lights sputtered again, pulsed bright, then all of them died at once. Evening darkness pooled around them.
“Hmm,” Winter said. “That actually is kinda weird.”
“There’s still enough light,” John said.
The electrical hum rose to a high-pitched whine. The lights surged to life, shining painfully bright and growing brighter and brighter. In an instant they were blinding, and Valentine heard a cracking noise.
The lights shattered, hurling shards of glass and metal through the air. Valentine dropped to her knees, covering her head with her arms. Someone screamed as fragments crashed down around them—it might have been her. The lights hissed and popped with arcing electricity.
The last pieces clinked to the ground, and all was silent.
Valentine took a deep breath, willing her body to stop trembling. She peered ahead to see Winter and Fred help each other up, carefully brushing fragments from their clothes and hair.
Thunder boomed overhead.
She slid fingers through her hair. Nothing. Puzzled, she clutched at the folds of her clothes. Nothing. Had she escaped completely glass-free? Th
en she looked up.
John crouched over her, holding the guitar case above them. His eyes were still closed and his arms were shaking. Valentine realized then why no glass had hit her. A warm glow touched her inside.
A bolt of lightning lanced between the clouds.
Tentatively, she reached out and touched his shoulder. “I think it’s over now.”
John’s eyes popped open. “Oh. Okay.”
Reddening, he stood straight. A layer of the crystalline shards slid from his back and clattered to the pavement. Valentine stood and plucked her bag from the ground.
“Mal, you okay?” she said.
“The glass ripped my shirt!”
“Fred,” Winter said, “your hand.”
“Aw man,” Fred said as he wiped a small stream of blood from the back of his right hand. “That’s the second time this week. Stupid glass, always cuttin’ me!”
A web of light arced across the sky.
John fidgeted, his eyes darting everywhere but Valentine. His face was beet-red, flushed with . . . was it embarrassment? And something else was different. Searching the pavement, she found his dark-rimmed glasses among the debris.
“Here.” She held them out.
“Oh. Th-thanks,” John stammered, barely meeting her gaze.
“And, um, thank you. For what you did.”
He nodded, but still wouldn’t look at her.
Don’t do what you’re about to—
Valentine placed her hand on his arm and a thrill shot through her. Finally he made eye contact, managing a bashful smile. This was the first time she’d seen him less than confident, and the warmth inside her grew.
“Well,” John said, clearing his throat. “Now that we’re all sufficiently terrified, are we ready to continue?”
No one responded.
“Guys?” Valentine looked at her brother. He was staring at the sky.
Torrents of lightning raced from cloud to cloud. Valentine felt the urge to step back as thunder rumbled and cracked and built to a deafening crescendo. The ground trembled under its fury, and the oppressive air pressed down on them.
Then the lightning disappeared.
The thunder stopped.