Ed frowned, crossing his arms. "I think I would be the one to know."
Gaia stared at him. Her hands slipped from her waist, flopping at her sides. "Seriously? You're color-blind?"
"Hey -- don't worry. You can't catch it." Ed slapped his wheels, gliding toward her once more.
"It's just that you never told me."
"Hmmm, that's funny. It's usually one of the first things I say to people: 'Hi, I'm Ed. I'm color-blind.' I think it's good to get one's physical shortcomings out of the way, y'know, up front." He rolled to a stop in front of her feet, then peered furtively around the park. "Now, uh, Gaia, don't let this next bit of info freak you out, but . . ." He leaned in toward her, shielding his mouth with one hand conspiratorially. " . . . I'm also in a wheelchair."
Gaia was too busy looking at Ed's feet to think of a good comeback. One green sock, one red. Could he really not tell them apart? Not at all? She raised her gaze to his eyes, studying them, not sure what she was looking for. They were a dark brown with gold lights. Eyes the color of a double espresso, she found herself thinking. Inwardly she groaned. Guess you don't need those refrigerator magnets to write crappy poetry. The point was, Ed's eyes didn't look color-blind. They looked ... well ... like regular, everyday eyes.
Regular, everyday, annoyed eyes. "Please, by all means, Gaia. Keep staring at me like that. It does wonders for my self-esteem."
"Sorry --" Gaia barely had time to scoot out of the way as Ed blew past her. "It's just that you're the first . . . I mean, I never knew a person who was color-blind. What's it like for you?"
God, I must sound ridiculous, Gaia thought, stepping after him. Why don't I just say, Hey, Ed, you can't see colors, and I can't feel fear. Let's start a club!
Once she was beside him again, Ed looked up at her, amused. "Are you feeling okay, Gai?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Because you asked me a question."
"And?"
"And . . . didn't you sort of stipulate way back when that we wouldn't ask each other questions because if you ask me something, that would mean I get to ask you something in return?"
This time it was Gaia who stopped in her tracks. "Right. You're right, Ed. Forget that I asked."
"No, no, no, no, no," Ed said, swiveling around to face her with a mischievous grin. "Not so fast. You can't back out now. A deal's a deal." He rubbed his hands together gleefully. "So -- I believe the category is color blindness. What's the question gonna be?"
"Does it make you jealous?" She was startled to hear her own voice saying those words. She hadn't meant to say them out loud.
Ed blinked a couple of times. "Jealous?" he repeated, sounding confused. "What do you mean?"
Gaia chose her next words carefully. "Do you ever feel . . . upset . . . that other people can . . . experience something that you . . . can't?"
"Upset? Not really." He shrugged. "After all, it's not like being color-blind means everything looks black and white to me. I mean, I still see things in color. For example, I can tell that jacket of yours is the color of mucus. It's just that certain colors look alike to me. Mostly I have difficulty telling reds from greens." He pointed down at his feet. "Obviously."
Gaia self-consciously eyed her jacket. "Do you ever wish you could tell the difference?"
Ed nodded. "Well, sure. There was a pretty ugly incident involving hot sauce a few years back." He grimaced at the memory. "But most of those taste buds grew back. Eventually." He scratched the back of his neck. "Traffic lights pose a theoretical problem, but I figured out at a young age that red is on top, and green is on the bottom. Aside from that, I don't really think about it too much . . . except when I commit the very occasional fashion faux pas and some heartless person goes and points it out to me." He shot her a fake-hostile glance but quickly leavened it with another shrug. "But -- honestly? -- I can't say I'm jealous of people who aren't color-blind."
"Why's that?" Gaia prompted. Ed bit his lip, thinking. "Hmmm . . . I can't explain it all that well, but it's sorta like this: I can't imagine a world with more colors than I see it in already. I just can't. And . . . well . . . I don't think you can truly be jealous of something if you can't imagine having it in the first place. Besides" -- he ran a finger across the arm of his wheelchair, adding casually, almost to himself -- "there are better things to be jealous of."
Gaia gave him a rare smile. What had she done to deserve him?
After a moment he looked away self-consciously. "Uh . . . did any ofthat make sense?"
She nodded. "Yeah. It did."
"Good." Ed sat up a little taller in his seat. "So, I believe now it's my turn to ask yousomething."
Gaia took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Shoot away." Part ofher almost wished he would ask her one of her secrets. Considering all he'd witnessed over the past three months, she supposed it was a wonder he hadn't guessed them all already.
Ed stroked his chin thoughtfully, gazing skyward. "Let's see now. . . . I get to ask the mysterious Gaia Moore a question." He was clearly savoring the moment. "Anything I want. . . . Anything at -- "
"You got five seconds, Ed."
"Okay, okay!" Ed scowled at her. Then he snapped his fingers. "Here's one: Where'd you learn how to -- no, no, scratch that." He waved his hand in the air as if erasing an imaginary chalk mark. "I got a better one: Why don't you ever talk about your --" He stopped himself short again, reconsidering. "No, not that one, either. How about --"
Gaia let out a low grumble.
Ed looked up at her, as if he were just struck by an idea. "Say. Can I ask you to do something instead?"
Gaia cocked a wary eyebrow. This actually represented an easy way out, but she didn't want him to know it."I suppose. . . ."
Ed grinned evilly. "Do the line from the movie."
"Except that."
Ed pointed at her with both hands. "Oh, no! You can't back out of it now. A deal's a deal."
Gaia glanced at her watch. "Wow, what do you know? It's already the end of lunch period."
"Gaia!"
She sighed, resigned. "Fine. But you better not laugh this time."
Ed pantomimed zippering his lip.
Gaia held up a warning finger. "I'm not kidding, Ed."
Now he crossed his heart, holding up three fingers in the Scout salute.
"All right." She moved a couple of steps to a nearby bench, plopping down on the hard, cold slats. Clearing her throat, she cast a wary eye around the immediate area. Aside from a cluster of sooty-looking pigeons pecking at the ground nearby, this particular section of the park was empty. Thank God.
Ed repositioned his wheelchair in front of her for a better view.
Gaia sucked in a few shallow gasps of air, gripped the neckline of her coat with two white-knuckled fists, raised a pair of wide, haunted eyes to his, and whispered, over a trembling lower lip: "I see dead people. . . . "
Ed the Expressionless Eagle Scout managed to maintain his deadpan for an entire second and a half. Then he let out a guffaw so loud, it echoed clear across the park, sending the pigeons exploding skyward in a frenzied, flapping cloud. It was a wonder he didn't flip himself over backward.
Gaia slapped her hands down on the bench, standing up in annoyance. "What's so funny? I thought I was pretty good that time."
"Good?" Ed was doubled over now, his face bright pink. "Good?" He could barely choke out the word through his laughter.
"Okay, that's it." Gaia kicked the side of his wheel with her boot and huffed off. "I'm outta here."
A few seconds later she could hear him behind her, struggling to catch her. "Gaia -- wait -- please --" All the laughing had left him panting for air. Good. She purposely picked up her pace. "Please -- Gaia -- wait up -- I'm sorry -- I'm sorry, but -- it's just that -- if you could see what you -- "
She turned around. "Spit it out, Ed." Ed placed a hand on his chest, taking a moment to catch his breath. "You have got to do the most terrible impression of being scared I have ever seen in my life."
> He cracked up again.
Gaia hoped the sudden flush in her cheeks appeared to be a reaction to the cold.
Ed, my color-blind friend, you have no idea. . . .
SAM
I used to think you could pretty much divide people into two categories: those who believe in love at first sight and those who don't.
I was a proud member of the second category. I used to think you fell in love with your brain. . . . Um, that came out wrong. Let me rephrase. I used to think your brain was in use when you fell in love. You sort of decided it over time, like I did with Heather. I saw her, I thought, man, that girl is beautiful. I talked to her, I thought, yeah, and she's smart and funny, too. I spent some time with her and thought, hey, we actually like a lot of the same stuff. I kissed her and thought, yo, this is fun. After that, as far as my brain and I were concerned, we were in love.
Then I met Gaia Moore. Every time I've ever had anything to do with Gaia, my brain has said, shit, this girl is nothing but pain, misery, and trouble. And in this case my brain was totally right. But in spite of my brain's lack of cooperation, I've fallen in love with her. It happened the first time I ever saw her. It was like a clap of thunder, a bolt of lightning, a monsoon, all those cheesy metaphors I never believed before (although there actually was a monsoon going on at the time). There is no good reason for me to love Gaia. There are only good reasons against it. Every day I struggle to release myself from it. Every day I try to convince myself that it will go away.
So anyway, I guess you could say my brain is sticking with the second category, claiming that no, there is no such thing as love at first sight. My heart has betrayed it in favor of the first category, arguing, yes, absolutely, it's the only kind of love there is. And now my brain and my heart aren't even on speaking terms anymore. When I said "divide people," that wasn't exactly what I had in mind.
I told my friend Danny about this theory, and he told me he also had a theory for how to divide people: those who divide people into two and those who don't.
hell hath no fury . . .
Her arms were around him, her heartbreaking scar pressed against his chest, her lips against his ear . . .
A Good Idea
" . . . AND MEDEA, SO CONSUMED was she by her bitter jealousy, so desperate was she to take vengeance on her unfaithful husband, Jason, that she murdered her rival with a gift of a poisoned cloak and then went on to kill her own children. . . ."
Heather Gannis glanced up at the animated face of her literature teacher, Mr. MacGregor, who was talking much louder than necessary and brandishing a paperback edition of Euripides. Jesus, why were parents so up in arms about violence on television? The seriously grisly stuff was happening in these Greek plays.
She heard a snort of laughter from the back of the room. She turned quickly, recognizing the laugh before seeing its owner. Ed Fargo, her former true love, was laughing at something Gaia Moore had written on the corner of his notebook. The sound of it was corrosive in her ears.
Gaia could make Ed laugh. It was a rare ability and another affront to add to the long list.
Heather wasn't superstitious. Unlike the ancient Greeks, she didn't believe in fate. She wasn't religious and had little tolerance for the wu-wu astrology and Ouija board crap many of her friends were into.
But for Gaia, she made an exception. Gaia, with her fairy-tale yellow hair and her long, graceful limbs, was too terrible to accept at face value. How could one girl captivate Heather's boyfriend, enslave her ex-boyfriend, humiliate her, nearly get her killed, and completely destroy her self-confidence in less than three months? Gaia was a clear message from Somebody Up There that Heather deserved punishment.
Since Gaia had arrived in September, her evil had radiated. First there were the slashings, culminating in Heather's own near death. Then there was the stuff that happened to Sam. Then Cassie Greenman. Heather, like the rest of the school, was haunted by her murder.
All these tragedies weren't a coincidence. They just weren't.
" . . . So for Monday, I'd like you all to read Oedipus Rex." Mr. MacGregor wrapped up his lecture just as the bell rang, signaling the end of a very long day at Central Village High. "Have a great Thanksgiving holiday, folks."
The classroom burst into cusp-of-vacation activity. Heather sighed as she jotted the assignment in her notebook. She had a feeling that play was going to be another doozy.
"Hey, chick."
Heather glanced up as two of her friends, Carrie Longman and Melanie Young, materialized at her desk. "Hey," she said, digging around to find a smile. "Whatsup?"
"You feel like Ozzie's?" Melanie asked.
Heather carefully piled her books and zipped them into her backpack. Her eyes landed momentarily on her empty wallet. A large mochaccino at Ozzie's cost over three bucks. Her friends thought nothing of buying two of them a day. Heather couldn't keep up, and she refused to let anybody else buy one for her. The old Gannis pride kicked in triple strength when it came to shallow displays of fortune. Or lack thereof.
Besides, she had something important to do this afternoon. Something she'd put off for too long.
Heather stood and smoothed her long, slim, blood-colored skirt. She strode out of the classroom, and her friends followed close behind. "Can't make it. Sorry," she said breezily.
"Oh." Carrie hovered at Heather's locker, taking a moment to regroup. "How about Dean & Deluca? They have those excellent caramel brownies. We can go to Tower Records after and get started on Christmas shopping."
"You all go. Maybe I'll catch up later," Heather said noncommittally. "I've got something I need to take care of this afternoon."
Melanie and Carrie stared at her in silence, obviously hoping she would elaborate. She didn't feel like it. She slammed her locker shut. She pulled on her black nylon jacket and slung her backpack over her shoulder. "See ya. Leave your cell on, Carrie."
Once Heather was rid of them, she slipped into the bathroom. She got weirdly obsessive about her appearance every time she was about to see Sam, although she knew her boyfriend was even more oblivious to her subtle efforts than most guys.
She studied her face and her hair. She applied a coat of lip gloss and ran a brush through her long, smooth hair. No perceivable difference. Staring at the high neck of her white T-shirt under her soft, black V-necked sweater, she suddenly had an idea. Ever since "the incident" -- the slashing that had put her in the hospital late in September -- she'd worn a scarf or a shirt or sweater with a high neck every time she left her apartment. Now she discarded her jacket, dropped her backpack on the floor, and pulled both the sweater and the T-shirt over her head at the same time. She pulled the two garments apart, folded the T-shirt neatly into her backpack, and put the sweater back on.
She spent another minute gazing at her reflection. Yes, that was a good idea.
Choose
SAM TIPPED BACK HIS HEAD AND rested it on the top of the park bench. He closed his eyes and soaked up the low, late autumn sun. For the end of November, the air was sweet and warm. Probably almost sixty degrees.
Wednesdays were his favorite days. His classes ended early, so he allowed himself to hang out at the chess tables. That was one of the great things about college -- those one or two class days that left you lots of time to waste. He'd already hustled twenty bucks off an unwitting stranger, then given it right back to Zolov in a rout. It was a weird form of charity, but whatever. Hustle from the stupid and lose to the smart. 'Twas the season.
"Hey, handsome."
He lifted his head and blinked open his eyes. Heather was bearing down at twenty feet, beautiful as ever in her red skirt and whispery black jacket. He heard the dry acorns cracking under the heels of her boots.
"Hi," he said, rubbing his eyes. "How's your day?"
"Okay," she said. "The usual high school plundering of spirits. How 'bout you?"
He laughed. Heather was so cool, so together. Never awkward or at a loss for words. "Oh, you know. Wasting some more of my youth at th
e chess tables." He paused. "Looking forward to tomorrow."
Instantly he felt annoyed at himself for having gilded the truth like that. He was looking forward to the gauntlet of the Gannis family Thanksgiving in the very plain sense of the phrase -- observing that it would take place in the near future. He wasn't looking forward as in eagerly anticipating it.
"Oh, yeah?" She angled her head coyly, causing a curtain of shiny chestnut hair to fall forward over her shoulder. It reminded him of sex, which started that tingly feeling spreading through his body, which in turn made him feel guilty about what had happened the last time they had sex. And the first time they had sex.
"Looking forward to my dad's dry, stringy turkey? My mom's sickly turnip-brown sugar thing?" she challenged. "Looking forward to Phoebe eating nothing and complaining about Binghamton? Lauren talking on her cell phone straight through dinner? Hmmm." She appraised him with one lifted eyebrow. "Are you telling me the truth?"
Sam laughed again, wishing his heart would listen to reason once in a while. "Well. You'll be there."
Heather awarded him a little smile. She pointed to the spot on the bench next to him. "Is this seat taken? Do you mind if I sit?" Her tone was light, but he registered that her eyes were serious.
He scooted over fast, feeling ungentlemanly. "Of course. Definitely. Sit."
She sat and dropped her backpack on the other side of her. She wasn't so close that any part of her was touching him, but neither was she so far that he couldn't feel her warmth. "Listen. There's something I need to talk to you about." She turned to face him, nailing him with her odd-colored eyes.They weren't blue, but they weren't not blue, either.
"Sure, of course." He was getting nervous now. He was saying "of course" too much. "Talk away."
"It's kind of serious. Just to give you fair warning. It's something we've been needing to talk about for a while now."
"Of c --" He clamped his mouth shut. He felt like strangling himself. "Okay. I'm warned."
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