by Lee Davidson
“A wise something,” I say, pushing my feet into my boots.
Willow snorts and then eyes my chest before I get my shirt on. “I bet Clara would get a kick out of that look.”
I shoot her a deadly look before putting my arms through my shirtsleeves. “Why can’t she be into Rigby?” I complain.
Willow shrugs and slings her bag strap over her head. “Because she’s obviously into you. Next time don’t make bets you’re guaranteed to lose.”
“It’s your fault! If you had told me about your past, this wouldn’t even be happening.”
“Oh no, don’t pin this on me! Besides, she would have found some other way to pull you in. Clara’s a persistent little thing,” she snickers.
“Looks like she didn’t forget,” Willow says when we walk into Benson, crushing my last bit of hope.
I follow Willow’s stare to Clara, who is sitting in the corner at a table for two. Alone.
“Try to be a gentleman, kid.”
Willow bounces off to the table I wish I was joining, leaving me standing by myself. Rigby glares at me, which sucks. I’d be glad to trade him places right now.
On my way over to her, Clara stands and waves. Holy hell, she’s wearing a tight red dress and high heels. I sigh, knowing I should feel underdressed in my jeans and work boots, but instead, I’m thankful for my wardrobe choice. Maybe she’ll realize this isn’t a date. At least, it’s not to me.
I force a smile. “Hey, Clara.”
“I was starting to think you weren’t going to show. Looks like you lost, huh?”
“You knew I’d lose,” I joke.
She throws her arms up. “Guilty.”
“Do you wanna get something to eat?” I ask.
“Nah, I’m not hungry.”
“Is anybody ever hungry here?”
Clara laughs. “No, I guess not. You all right? You look tired.”
She sits rigidly, like she’s nervous, and crosses her legs. I pull out the chair across from her and sit. “I’m good,” I lie. “What are you drawing?” I ask to change the subject.
She blushes and conceals her sketchbook even further under her arm. “Nothing.”
“It looks like more than nothing.”
“Just doodling.”
“Can I see?”
She reluctantly pushes the book across the table, and I flip through the pages, growing more impressed with each sketch. “This is great stuff. Seriously, Clara, this is really good!”
“Thanks,” she replies, blushing. “Most of them still need a lot of work.” Despite her opposite-in-every-way appearance, she’s artistically more like Tate than I would have guessed—and humble like her, too.
“They look finished to me,” I argue, fanning through the pages of landscapes. “Are these places you’ve been?”
She stares at the page I’ve paused on. “Previous assignments. That one is of a bay in California.”
“It’s amazing.”
“If I had known before I died how beautiful California was, I would have insisted on going there while I was still alive,” she says in a softer voice.
“How’d you die?”
“Heart failure. I was on a transplant list by the time I was three. Having an uncommon blood type made finding a donor difficult. In my case, impossible.” She looks up at me and blinks her long, dark-painted lashes.
“How old were you?”
“Nine.”
“How are you so much older now?” I ask, surprised.
“We take our best physical form when we die.” She pauses. “I never made it to mine, which turns out to be seventeen.” She looks down at the table and shakes her head. “I can’t believe I’m about to tell you this, it’s so embarrassing, but I was happy about my new body when I got here. Stupid, right?”
“No, I totally get it. I was, too.” Getting rid of my diseased body is one of the only good things about this place. “I can see why you wouldn’t be disappointed.” Crap! Why did I say that?
Clara blushes again. That’s what I get for trying to be nice. I bite my tongue to avoid paying any more compliments.
She talks while I flip through more of the sketchbook. “My mom prayed for a new heart, but the ugly truth is, she was praying for someone else to die. I heard her tell my dad that she felt like a monster for that. That’s the word she used. But I was the real monster. It was all my fault.” She looks away. “That’s one of the few memories I got to keep.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
She looks back at me. “Wasn’t it? It was my genetic makeup, after all, that made me this.”
“Were you angry when you got here, when you realized you were never meant to get another heart?”
“I felt regret more than anything. My parents were too afraid to let me do much, like my heart might spontaneously combust or something.”
“What would you have done?”
“Danced. Taken gymnastics. Gone to California.” She turns her head to the side and her blonde hair falls from her shoulder. “Lived. Really lived, you know?”
I nod.
“Would you have done anything differently?” she asks.
My deepest regret would totally kill the mood, so I keep it to myself. “I’ll get back to you on that.”
“Fair enough. I’m holding you to it, though. So, cancer, huh?”
“Lymphoma. Who knew something as small as a mole would eventually kill me?” I say dryly.
She slides her index finger along her glossy lower lip. The action is not sensual, yet my eyes lock on her mouth. “The Schedulers.”
“Sorry?” I question, mentally punching myself in the face for fixating on her lips.
“The Schedulers knew that mole would kill you.”
“Oh. Right.” Hoping I’m not getting red, I dart my eyes back to the sketchbook and flip through a few more pages. “How many assignments have you had?”
“I’m on my eighth.”
“How long do they last?”
“Depends. My first assignment lasted a little over a year. My second was over three years. It varies by Tragedy.”
“Do you miss your Tragedies when your assignments are done?”
She looks confused. “Miss them? No. Didn’t Willow tell you about Maintenance?”
I shake my head. “I guess we haven’t gotten to that yet.”
“We still check in a couple of times a month. I’m surprised Willow hasn’t told you. What have you guys been doing, anyway?”
“Coding has been giving me some trouble.” That’s not completely a lie.
“Huh. From what I hear about your blocking skills, I would have thought coding would be a breeze.”
From what she hears? What’s with this place?
“You’ve heard what the others are saying, right?” She gauges my expression. “You haven’t? I feel another bet coming on.”
“No way! I’m not betting with you anymore,” I say, hoping my voice sounds like I’m joking.
“Word is, you’re the most promising blocker we’ve had. No other Satellite has ever performed three blocks on their first day. Sounds like Willow really put you through the wringer.”
“You could say that.”
“That’s so unlike her.”
“What—being insane?” I ask.
Clara laughs. “Seriously, I don’t know how you lasted three times.”
“I didn’t have a choice. Willow was trying to kill me.”
“Now you’re being dramatic.”
No, she definitely wanted me dead. “Maybe a little.” I close the sketchbook and slide it back to her.
“I’d better get going,” she says unexpectedly. “I need to code before heading back to my assignment.”
“Oh, OK.” I’m surprised to feel a little disappointed.
“Thanks for hanging out with me.”
“I enjoyed this,” I say, my words astonishing even me.
“Don’t sound so shocked,” she teases.
“I’m sorry. I just…I
don’t want to give you the wrong impression about us. I mean, me…or me and you,” I stammer.
“Are you seriously giving me the it’s-not-you-it’s-me speech?”
“No. Well—yeah, I guess so. But I do mean it. Any guy would be a fool not to want you.”
She remains way cooler than me. “So I guess you’re a fool, then?”
If I had a dollar for every time I heard that. “I’m just not looking for a relationship right now.” Or ever again.
“I can appreciate that. You’re a nice guy. And hot, for what it’s worth,” she adds. Sincere amusement overcomes her, and her eyes crinkle at the corners. “It’s nice to see you blush for once.”
She presses her lips against my cheek before I’ve even realized she’s gotten up from the table. The faint scent of peppermint makes my stomach tighten and for just an instant, it was like Tate was the one kissing me.
“Thanks for the nice conversation,” she says.
My index and middle finger slide across my skin where her lips were pressed. When Clara disappears through the archway, whistles and catcalls come from the middle of the room.
“Grow up!” I yell to Willow’s table when I find my voice, turning quickly away when I see the scowl on Rigby’s face.
9. You’re not going to hurl, are you?
“How was your date?” Willow asks on our way to the field, because I successfully avoided her table after Clara left. Getting food and hiding at a deserted table in the back of Benson was a smart decision, considering Rigby’s foul mood.
“It wasn’t a date, and it was surprising decent,” I reply.
“I told you Clara was cool.”
“Have you seen her drawings?”
“Yeah. Incredible, right?”
I agree and hold the courtyard door open for Willow.
“Looks like they haven’t forgotten our spectacle,” Willow says when everyone parts like the Red Sea for us.
“I was trying not to notice,” I mumble under my breath. I keep my eyes down and follow Willow’s stomping feet to the highest row of bleachers, making sure not to look at Rigby.
“Nice try,” I say. “I would have picked the first row.” At least then we wouldn’t be subjected to watching everyone stare.
Willows barks at the rubberneckers, “Your faces are going to get stuck like that if you’re not careful.”
The spectators couldn’t care less and continue to gawk and whisper.
An unfamiliar woman, who by her attire just dismounted a horse, shuts them up. “Good afternoon. For those of you who don’t know me, which is most of the new Satellites, I’m Wynn. I’ll be standing in for Jonathan today. He sends his regrets.” She paces the edge of the field while she talks and her long ponytail bounces with each step. Her tall, curvy build is similar to Tate’s. “Legacies, continue working with your Satellites on blocking. I will be available if you need assistance.” She looks down at her clipboard. “Willow and Grant, please join me.”
After rudely stealing a few more glances, the crowd disperses, and Willow and I hop down the cedar planks to Wynn. Crossing the field with Shane, Rigby looks over his shoulder at me and his glare is so nasty, I can feel the burn of it even when I look away.
“Grant, it’s a pleasure. Jonathan tells me that you did exceptionally well with blocking,” Wynn says. Her handshake is stronger than most men’s. “Willow, fantastic work thus far. You’ve been cleared to begin displacement training.”
“Sweet! Let’s go, kid.”
“Fantastic work thus far?” I repeat to Willow when we cross the field, grateful to be heading in the opposite direction of where Rigby and Shane are working.
“Not bad, being cleared after one day. I’m sure that’s a record,” she says, a compliment I’d swear she was giving herself.
“Does this mean I don’t have to block you today?”
She nods, and my shoulders relax. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
“Today we’re displacing,” she says.
“Which is what, exactly?”
“It’s how we travel. We’re going to visit one of my Tragedies.”
“That reminds me,” I interrupt. “Clara told me about Maintenance. What happens with you, since you’ll no longer be a Satellite?”
Defensively, she answers, “I’ll always be a Satellite,” then lightens her tone. “I won’t be getting any new assignments, but I’ll still continue Maintenance.”
“For how long?”
“Until the end.”
“The end of what?”
“My Tragedies’ lives, ignoramus,” she says.
I don’t have the energy to acknowledge the insult. “Then what?”
“Then I enjoy eternity with my husband, I suppose. Even then, I’ll still come around to check in on the other Satellites. Being a Satellite is forever, kid.” She pushes her shoulder against mine while we walk. “Even you may realize how cool it is one day. Now, back to displacing. You’ll need a personal belonging from your Tragedy—a ‘tocket,’ as we call it. One will be supplied to you when you’re cleared from training.” Willow stops, reaches into her bag, and pulls out a plastic beaded bracelet. “This belongs to Hope. You’re able to travel with me because her assignment is closed.”
Willow grips one side of the bracelet and extends her arm. “Go ahead,” she urges me.
Reluctantly, I wrap two fingers through the small loop.
Willow winks. “I think you’re going to like this. Displace.”
The grass drops out from under us, and we plummet like skydivers without parachutes, connected by the cheap bracelet. Wind howls in my ears. I’d scream like a girl, but thankfully, my voice has been stolen. The last thing the lunatic beside me needs is more ammunition to razz me.
When I’m half a second away from tossing the contents of my stomach, my feet hit the ground hard enough to throw my balance. Willow leaps in front of me, grabbing my shoulders. After a minute, she asks cautiously, “How are you feeling?”
“A little sick,” I groan, swallowing down the lingering nausea and breathing in the smell of worms.
She jumps back. “You’re not going to hurl, are you?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Good, because I so hate that!”
When I step forward and lose my balance, Willow grabs my shoulders and pushes me back. “Easy, kid—let your body adjust. Displacing takes a little getting used to. Kinda wild, huh?”
“You could say that.”
A minute and a lot of deep breaths later, I successfully step from the shiny pavement onto a leaf-covered lawn. My head jerks to the large house to my left when the front door opens. A trail of people come out, saying good-byes and carrying small coolers and foil-wrapped dishes. Not one of them acknowledges our presence.
“I gotta say, you’re proving to be a natural,” Willow says, gaining my attention back.
When Willow starts walking, I follow. Oddly, the wet leaves don’t move under our feet. She stops and looks up at one of the skyscraper trees close to the two-story house.
“This is my favorite place to watch Hope.” She bends her knees and then disappears.
“Willow?” I ask into the still air.
“Come on up, kid.” She’s perched on a high branch with her legs swinging under her.
“How?”
“Jump.”
It seems too simple. “That’s it?”
“Would you prefer a ladder?” she sneers.
Hesitating for a second, I push off the wet ground, rocketing skyward.
Willow’s hand closes like a vise around my ankle. “Easy. You’re stronger than you realize.” She yanks me down to her branch.
“So, no one can see us?” I ask, jumping when a squirrel runs overhead.
“Nope, we’re invisible. Phenomenal, huh?”
“Not sure about phenomenal. Weird, for sure.”
“There you go again with your extensive vocabulary.”
Sheesh. “Unconventional, then.”
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Willow smirks. “Follow me.” She steadies herself on the branch like a gymnast on a balance beam before leaping through a glass window.
I’m barely familiar with displacement and she’s throwing this at me? Repeating her movement with much less grace, my mind calculates the improbability and stops me before going through the window. My feet land on the narrow sill, and I lose my footing.
Willow’s hand appears through the glass and catches my arm. “Careful, kid.” Her voice sounds muffled through the window. She tugs my arm hard enough to drag me through, and I like the constricting pressure about as much as being dropped from the sky.
I right myself in the lime-green bedroom. The smell of what I guess to be pizza lingers in the air. “Couldn’t we just use the door?”
Willow, too busy beaming at the teen couple sprawled across the oversize bed, doesn’t answer.
The emptiness in the pit of my stomach spreads out like a thick puddle of dirty oil. Tate and I would do this same thing, especially after my treatments increased. In our case, there was less flirting and more vomiting.
“She’s doing so great!” Willow says proudly.
“It must be hard, huh?” I ask, hoping to take my mind off missing Tate.
Willow stares at the giggling girl. “Hmm?”
“Leaving all this.”
“I’m not leaving,” she argues. “I get to check in.”
“I know, but it’s going to be different, right?” To spare my own feelings, I’ve plainly hurt Willow’s. Ugh, me and my big frigging mouth.
Her gaze shifts to the fuzzy pink rug at the foot of the bed and she chews on her lip. “Yeah, it’s going to be tough.”
“You’re going to see your husband again, though. That’s gonna be pretty excellent.” I go overboard with my enthusiasm.
She looks up at me like a scared kid. “What if I suck?”
“What?”
“I mean, what if I’m a terrible wife? It’s been so many years…” She trails off.
“Come on, you’re an overachiever by nature. You’ll be great,” I assure her. “Although you’re probably going to annoy the snot out of him. Poor guy.”
Willow’s expression brightens about half a notch. “I’m a little jealous of you.”
“Me? Why?”