Love Over Matter

by Maggie Bloom

  Mom feebly objects, but before she can finish making her case, Mr. Brooks, Aleks, and I are out the door. In the background, I hear Haley assuring her that everything is under control.

  I get the same time-warp feeling when we cross over to the Brookses’ yard that plagued me the day of George’s accident. Covertly, I poke Aleks in the shoulder, hoping to slip him a whispered message. But when he does a sideways turn, my bravado evaporates and I just give a concerned shrug.

  It’ll be okay, his eyes tell me, even though his lips don’t move.

  As we traipse up the Brookses’ front steps, I can’t escape the feeling that we are on a kamikaze mission. Once we’re inside, Mr. Brooks deadbolts the door behind us.

  Standing stiffly in the foyer, her arms crossed over her chest, a tight, icy stare in her eyes, is Mrs. Brooks. She’s clad in a one-piece black leotard like Catwoman. Oh, and somehow her IQ seems to have quadrupled.

  “Well, well, well,” she says, her voice suddenly acquiring an Eastern European accent, “what have we got here?”

  I feel like a fly that’s just wandered into a spider’s web. Beside me, Aleks stretches to his full height, his body abuzz with alertness.

  “Hello, Lillian,” he says snidely. “Or is it Gloria? Or maybe you’re going by Peggy nowadays?”

  Holy shit. He’s egging them on? I did not sign up for this.

  Mrs. Brooks—or whatever her name is—takes a clicky step toward us (she’s got stilettos on with that catsuit?). “What have you done with the papers?” she demands.

  If I turn around, I’m sure I will find Mr. Brooks with a gun of some sort—a pistol? a revolver?—cocked at the backs of our heads. “Listen,” I say, my voice shaking noticeably, “we didn’t mean to . . .”

  Aleks snorts. “You don’t owe them an explanation, Cassie. They’re scum. Worse than scum.”

  A smile curls Mrs. Brooks’s glossy red lips. “You’re nothing like him,” she coos, plunging a knife (metaphorically, for now) into Aleks’s heart.

  The words pop out of my mouth unbidden. “Yes, he is.”

  She lets loose a wild cackle. “Please,” she says, waving my words away. “My George was intelligent. Sophisticated. Respectful.” She wrinkles her nose as if she’s caught a whiff of something foul. “But this boy? Pff! He’s nothing but a weak copy. An empty reflection.”

  “He wasn’t yours,” Aleks says with venom. “And his name was Anatoly.”

  Mr. Brooks steps over to join his wife. I’m glad to see that his hands are empty. “The papers,” he says, holding a palm out as if we’ve brought the evidence along.

  Aleks gives the couple a dead-eyed stare. “They’re in the mail,” he tells them. “One copy to the CIA, one to the FBI. The originals to my post office box in Queens.”

  “You’re lying,” Mr. Brooks accuses, his face betraying a smidge of nervousness.

  “You wish,” Aleks says, holding steady.

  I can’t think of anything to say to defuse the situation, which seems poised to rocket out of control. Erasing all doubt, Mr. Brooks moves in and clamps his liver-spotted fingers around Aleks’s neck.

  “What the hell?” Aleks spouts, wriggling out of the ghoul’s grip. “Get off me.” He rubs at his throat and glares the duo down.

  “Maybe you guys should just . . . take off,” I suggest, figuring that, at least if the Brookses fled Willow Crest, they wouldn’t be darkening my doorstep anymore. And the law would catch up with them eventually.

  “Actually, I’d prefer they didn’t,” Aleks says, in a tone that reminds me of a cartoon villain’s. “They’re much too important to lose track of.”

  “You could turn yourself in,” I say, trying to put a smile in my voice. “They might go easy on you, if you . . .”

  “Shut up,” Mrs. Brooks snaps. “Idiot.”

  Aleks comes to my rescue, like George would have. “Leave her out of it. She’s the only reason I don’t kill you right now.”

  The Brookses bust out in amused grins, giving the impression they’re a pair of bored cats and Aleks and I are nothing more consequential—or delicious—than a couple of disoriented field mice. “You’re lying,” Mr. Brooks says, this time focusing on me. “Where are the documents? We don’t want to have to hurt you”—he shoots a glance in the direction of my house—“or your family.”

  Great, now he’s threatening Mom, Dad, and Haley?

  Aleks puffs out his chest, goes toe-to-toe with Mr. Brooks. “It’s over, old man,” he says with cool control. “You’re not going to be hurting anyone anymore.”

  But . . .

  Mrs. Brooks lunges at me, the hairs on my arm standing up before the Taser hits my skin. Click, click, click, click. Click, click, click, click. I give an anguished wail and crumple to the floor, my head conking a giant vase on the way down.

  I guess it’s an equal-opportunity attack, because soon Aleks is yowling like a wounded animal and joining me on the gleaming marble. I throw him a desperate glance as the psychos strike again. Click, click, click, click. Click, click, click, click. “Stop,” I plead, although the delight flashing through Mrs. Brooks’s eyes tells me begging is pointless. I’m pointless.

  “I never liked you,” she says matter-of-factly, stinging me a third time.

  The urge to wallop her takes hold of my arm, so I give a sloppy slug. Predictably, it’s a miss.

  Rawr, rawr, rawr go Aleks’s vocal cords.

  This could be going better, I think. Much better. I shove up on one elbow and roll out of Mrs. Brooks’s grasp. When I’m in the clear, I make a break for the back of the house, hoping to escape through one of those rainbow-colored doors. Mrs. Brooks takes a few skidding leaps after me before wrenching an ankle. Over my shoulder, I see Aleks on his knees, fending off Mr. Brooks with slow-motion karate chops.

  On instinct, I head for the mauve door, which I fling open with supernatural strength. The sun is blinding, the heat a solid wall. My legs feel alien, as if they belong to a drunken toddler.

  Still, I run.

  When I burst into our kitchen, I’m too weak and winded to speak. Instead, I point furiously at the Brookses’ yard, hoping that someone (in the last ten minutes, the occupancy of my home has grown to include not only Haley and Mom, but Rosie, Ian, and Dad too) will decode my frantic gesturing and save Aleks from whatever brand of demented torture the spies next door plan to unleash next.

  “What?” asks Mom, laying a soothing hand on my back. I hunch over to catch my breath. “What is it?” When I straighten up, she notices the scuff on my forehead. “Are you okay?”

  “Aleks!” I gasp. I flail my arm toward the Brookses’ place again. “Help him!” I drop into a chair. “Please!”

  Ian’s eyes lock with mine and suddenly he knows. Or maybe he just trusts me. Without another word, he takes off running. Haley, Rosie, and Dad follow, albeit at a slower pace.

  My breath finally evens out. “Call 911,” I tell Mom, trying to keep it together long enough to get the story—or at least the important parts of it—out. “George’s parents . . . They’re evil. They—”

  A chorus of urgent voices cuts through the summer air, followed by a raucous crashing sound. Mom and I bash into each other on our way outside. “No way,” I mutter as the Brookses’ car peels out of their driveway in reverse, taking an ample chunk of the garage door with it. A jagged hunk of metal trails behind them as they speed away, creating a dangerous shower of sparks that, if there were any justice in the world, would ignite their gas tank, ridding society of such soulless vermin.

  Finally, Mom hauls out her cell phone. “Yes, um . . .” she tells the dispatcher, her eyes blinking, blinking, blinking in disbelief. “I need someone—the police?—for a disturbance at 1015 Lancelot Way.”

  While Mom briefs the authorities, I rush over to the Brookses’ front lawn, where Rosie and Haley are crouching over a still-stunned Aleks. Ian and Dad, apparently, have tramped into the house in hopes of expunging any remaining threats, though I doubt they’ll find anyt
hing. (I’m sure I saw both of the Brookses’ heads bobbing around through the rear window of the Camry as it fled the scene.)

  I offer Aleks a hand, and he begrudgingly accepts. “I wasn’t expecting that,” he says with a jokey grin as he dusts off his shorts.

  “Everything copasetic?” I ask, repressing a laugh.

  He pats around his chest as if he’s checking for broken ribs. “Yeah,” he confirms. “You?” He gives me a quick once-over. “You look good.”

  Why, I do believe the boy just paid me a compliment. “Thanks,” I say.

  Haley catches me blushing and rolls her eyes. Rosie’s attention, however, is on the Brookses’ open front door. “I’m gonna go help them,” she says, already starting to wander off. Right then, I’m sure of one thing: no matter what the future holds for Ian, he will always have someone to love—and someone to love him. Because if a girl will follow you into a potentially booby-trapped hideout, well then . . .

  Aleks’s hand felt good on mine before—warm and welcoming and familiar—so I give it another try. “We should go,” I say, tugging him toward the safe zone, a.k.a. my house, “take care of some things.”

  The sparkle in his eyes says he gets my reference to the Brookses’ documents, which, despite his claims to the contrary, remain boldly arrayed across my couch. “Good thinking,” he agrees. And with an innocent wink, he breaks my heart all over again.

  chapter 19

  It’s too soon to know if the authorities—be they FBI, CIA or Vermont state troopers—will ever pick up the scent of George’s make-believe parents and bring them to justice. Something tells me not to hold my breath. But Aleks and I (and, to a lesser extent, our accomplices, Haley, Ian, Rosie, and Opal) can rest easy in the knowledge that we acted on George’s behalf, however unsatisfying the outcome may be.

  * * *

  I stick my head into the hallway to listen for running water, the signal that Aleks is enjoying his last shower as a guest of the McCoy household. Once I hear the shower curtain draw shut, I lock my bedroom door and wiggle the black box out from under my bed.

  Clive has been unusually chipper of late, treating me to his own brand of song and dance that, I swear, could rival an off-Broadway show. As I lift the lid off the box, he pipes up with another run of: “Hell-o! Hell-o! BWAAH, BWAAH, BWAAH!”

  “Wow, you’re on a roll,” I tell him in a light voice. The truth is, I’m feeling a spike of upbeat optimism too.

  What I want from the box is my old cell phone, the one containing George’s last words, the message I’ve lacked the strength or courage to confront until today.

  I dig the phone out and cup it in my palm for a long, quiet moment. After a tense exhale, I try powering it on.

  Epic fail.

  Of course, I should’ve expected this. I mean, batteries don’t last forever. I crawl to my nightstand and root around in the drawer until, shockingly, I locate a cord that fits. I connect everything up and—voila!—the screen glows to life.

  A surge of nausea punches me so hard in the gut that I cover my mouth. You can do this, I tell myself. It’s time you knew. And you owe it to George.

  It takes me a few tries to locate the saved texts (boy, this phone seems ancient now), and when I do, I freeze again.

  But I can’t.

  Because I’m not a coward.

  And even if I am, I won’t be.

  Not about this.

  “Okay,” I murmur, hoping George is listening. “Here goes.” I force my thumb into action, selecting the fateful text, and then . . .

  Ta-da! The message appears, as if hammered out only moments ago:

  You’re right. Sorry. None of my business.

  Wanna kiss and make up?

  It’s as bad as I thought. Worse even. Because he went down without a fight. If he’d called me every name in the book (pure fantasy and something George never would have done), maybe a tiny part of me could’ve stayed mad at him forever. And that microscopic sliver, at least, could have let go of the guilt.

  Be thankful it’s not a voicemail, I think. It’s just letters on a screen. If you had to hear him say it . . .

  I take a mental step back and marvel at the fact that I’m not crying. I don’t even want to cry. The sadness of losing George is still with me—in me—as strong and deep as ever. But somehow it’s stopped hurting me. It’s settled into a space all its own, carved out a spot that will forever be his. Mine. Ours.

  I find myself grinning irrationally, the joy and wonder of knowing George—of loving him—consuming me like white-hot fire. “Well, you did it,” I say, laughing. “You finally did it. Are you happy?” For more than two years, he has been nudging me—sometimes gently, sometimes with a bayonet at my back—to release the pain, let the goodness take root. Nurture it and put it in the sun, where it belongs.

  And now I have.

  I will.

  Always.

  * * *

  “You sure you want to do this?” I yell into Aleks’s ear, his motorcycle rumbling beneath us as we roll through the gates of Redeemer Cemetery on the hunt for George’s grave.

  His whole body nods in response. “Yeah,” he answers, turning his face so I can hear. “Don’t you?”

  I give his midriff an agreeable squeeze. “Sure. Yeah.”

  It’s another hot, sticky day, but Aleks is clad in jeans (perfect for motorcycle riding) and a soft cotton polo shirt. I’ve risked wearing a cute pair of plaid shorts, complemented by George’s teal hoodie (girls need protection from bugs and wind too) and, of course, Aleks’s chic skull-cap helmet.

  With a few twirls of my wrist, I direct him through a maze of narrow streets, over a delicate fairytale bridge, past monuments and crypts and, eventually, to the mouth of a small, tree-ringed pond.

  I give the stop signal and he pulls over. Once we’ve safely dismounted, I wave at a patch of perky green lawn that has filled in nicely since George’s burial. “This way,” I say with a gentle smile, leading the charge. In the years since George died, I haven’t been able to bring myself here. It made everything too real.

  We sneak up on George’s headstone, the sight of which makes Aleks wince. “So this is it, huh?” he says, trying—but failing—to sound nonchalant.

  “I’m sorry. This must be hard.”

  He shakes his head. “I wish I knew him.”

  “He was great,” I say. “The best.” I let my fingers brush his. “His sense of humor was wacky, but he made me laugh a ton.”

  A hush falls over us. Finally, Aleks asks, “Do you think he would’ve liked me?”

  “Oh, yeah. Of course,” I assure him. “He would have been psyched to have a twin—and to know your dad. He was very . . . curious about his parents.”

  “I never met her, you know,” he confides, presumably referring to Ruth Dawson.

  All I can think to say is, “That sucks.”

  “You’re lucky to have”—he sighs—“all your family still.”

  Something—or someone—tells me to open up to him. “My mom had a heart attack. She almost . . .” I get a shiver. “And Ian? His dad had a bad liver.”

  “So he . . . ?”

  “Yep.”

  “Wanna sit down?” he asks.

  I get a sudden jolt of guilt over George’s bare plot, which a responsible friend would have decorated with a wreath or flowers or a colorful potted plant.

  He eases onto the grass, sits cross-legged and offers me a helping hand. “Oh, I forgot,” I say once I’m nestled in beside him. “I brought you something.” I wriggle back up to my knees and probe around in my pocket, my fingers finding the map first. I unfold it nervously and say, “In case you want to come here again, without me.”

  The look on his face is a mix of surprise and gratitude. “You made this?” he asks, taking the paper into his hands—George’s hands. “For me?”

  I shake my head, fight back a grin. “Uh-uh. It was for me. But I don’t need it anymore, so . . .”

  “Thanks.” He gives a shy nod, t
hen gingerly folds the map and stuffs it in his jeans.

  I go back into my pocket for the rock. “Here,” I say, offering him the memento. “This was George’s. He loved it, for some reason.”

  He tosses the rock back and forth between his hands. “This is . . . cool,” he says, studying the dense quartz veins that dominate the speckled gray specimen. “Where’d he get it?”

  I shrug with embarrassment. “I don’t know. I think maybe he picked it up on a hiking trip with”—should I still refer to the Brookses as his parents?—“Lillian and her husband.”

  Hesitantly, he tells me, “I’ve got a stone just like this at home.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I’ve had it as long as I can remember.”

  Now I’m the curious one. “Where’d it come from?”

  He thinks for a while and then, in a far-off voice, says, “She must have sent them to us, before . . .”

  I get his meaning immediately. “Ruth Dawson?”

  Instead of answering, he gulps.

  I try not to stare at the tears pooling in his eyes. “We should stay in touch,” I suggest, waving a lazy hand between us. “It’ll help me remember George, and you can pick my brain about him whenever you want.”

  “You did say you were considering Columbia, right?”

  It’s time for some truth telling. “Uh . . . I’m not exactly sure my grades are good enough.”

  “I could tutor you,” he offers, his voice sparkling with enthusiasm.

  A gentle breeze stirs my hair. “That’s all right,” I say. “It probably wouldn’t help much. I think I’ve maxed out my intelligence.”

  He chuckles (thank God). “Ha-ha.”

  I say, “Seriously.” But the goofy smirk on my face announces that I’m anything but serious.

  “Well, if you change your mind . . .”

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “But thanks anyway.” I’ve lost track of George’s rock but found Aleks’s hand. As my fingers skip across his, he grabs them.

  Neither of us says anything; we just lock hands and stare at George’s grave. “I can see why he liked you,” he tells me eventually. My palm is sweaty against his, but I don’t care. “You’re different.”