daynight

by Megan Thomason

  “Sure,” I’d said, blushing at his compliment. He came close to brush my hair out of my eyes with his hand and my knees buckled at his touch. He hesitated as he stared into my eyes and then trailed his gaze to my lips. In that moment, I lost my senses and wanted him to kiss me. Or perhaps it’s now that I want that, given what I saw after, but instead he was a perfect gentleman; perfectly loyal to his girlfriend as he should be. My cheeks burned when he took a quick picture with his phone. After, I wished I’d taken a shot of him, but at the time I didn’t want to have to explain to Tristan why I had a picture of a hot college guy on my phone.

  “Kira, I hope to see you again soon. Good luck with your friends.” He waved goodbye and slowly walked away, turning back a couple times to look at me. I paused to watch him leave, taking note that he looked as good from the back as he did from the front. Should have gotten a last name to make it easier to stalk him online and scout out the lucky girl that scored big time. All that conversation and I realized I knew almost nothing about him.

  Oh well. Time to locate and detox my friends. I followed the directions Ethan had given me and opened the door to the game room. The sight sickened me.

  Tristan and Bri were making out smack dab center of a large circle of kids and they seemed to be enjoying it, because my mental clock clanged thirty notches of no-holds-barred tongue action, groping, and body grinding before they stopped. Lucas had rolled to his side he was laughing so hard over the spectacle.

  Tristan caught my eye and panicked. “It’s not what you think. It’s just a stupid game of truth or dare. Lucas dared us. Go ahead and kiss Lucas if you want to get even,” he said. He signed another “forgive me.” Reflexively, I shook my head to the side. Not cool, not cool at all, I thought. Tristan and I supposedly loved each other, despite the recent awkwardness. Bri was my best friend. I couldn’t handle it, so I bolted. I figured I’d deal with them when they were sober and I hurt less. Neither followed me. Were they too drunk to walk or understand what they’d done? Too ashamed? Or waiting for me to cool off? Who was I to talk anyway given I’d just spent a chunk of the last hour flirting with a guy who embodied everything I’d ever wanted in one single, gorgeous package? But I didn’t act. That’s the difference. Loyal me. And, apparently, stupid me.

  One thirty-three a.m. With the front door behind me, I ran down the long driveway into complete blackness. My cell phone had zero bars in the house, so I kept moving in an effort to get a signal to call and beg my brother or parents to rescue me. The only sober soul I’d encountered—and thus only candidate to drive me home—was College Boy and I couldn’t find him after he pointed me in Tristan and Bri’s location.

  No bars on my cell.. I started pleading with my phone to behave and make the call. Then I thought I heard someone call my name. I looked around to see the source, hoping my brain properly registered it as Ethan’s. He’d have made a perfect knight in shining armor come to rescue me.

  Suddenly lights blinded me. A pickup truck turned into the driveway, coming inches from hitting me, swerving just in time. I stood shaking from the near miss. A boy jumped out of the truck to make sure I was okay. I’d been shocked to see it was Blake Sundry. I hadn’t seen him at the dance, nor was he dressed for it. He wore the same flannel and jeans as earlier. Why was he there then? Right, his drunken sister was inside and she’d probably asked him to bring her home. At least she’d had the sense to call him. Maybe they could drop me off on their way back?

  “Trying to get yourself killed? You about gave me a heart attack!” he said without apology for almost running me over.

  “Not at all. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t get a signal on my cell phone to call my parents for a ride and wasn’t paying attention to where I was standing,” I said, although he made that turn at a pretty high speed.

  “Well, I didn’t see you until the last second. You were right in the middle of the...” He didn’t finish. His eyes went wide.

  A gush of hot air blasted me into Blake, followed by a sonic boom so loud my ears rang in pain. Subsequent explosions sent us flying alongside missiles of glass from his truck and a fiery rain of shrapnel. We both turned towards the house to see the source of the explosion, but where the house once stood looked like an apocalyptic graveyard, with walls of fire descending the hills in every direction. Panic paralyzed me.

  I could see their faces. Tristan. Bri. Lucas. Ethan. What happened? Were they still alive? I wanted to help but my muscles failed me. Moments passed before my brain registered physical pain radiating throughout my body. Glass fragments embedded in my arms and legs, burns from flying debris, my dress shredded, blood everywhere. How could we help our friends escape as the fires of hell bore down upon us with no visible path through?

  Blake scooped me up and shoved me into the truck, ratcheting it into reverse and accelerating to beat the fire. I choked on smoke that smelled of burning oranges, while trying to stop the worst of my bleeds without driving the glass further beneath my skin.

  One forty-three a.m. Fire fighters had surrounded the scene in attempt to battle the blaze. They evacuated Blake and me by force to a ‘safe’ zone—a neighborhood grocery store parking lot a couple miles from the Goodington estate. Paramedics patched our cuts and burns while police officers tried to take a statement. I nearly passed out when they removed a chunk of shrapnel from Blake’s wrist. I stared at the swirling lights of the police cars, and growing fire in the background with periodic bouts of fireworks-like displays. “How many kids were in that house?”, I heard the police officer ask. “A lot,” I’d eked out before my sobbing preventing me from further communication. In an attempt to calm me, the paramedic drew a needle, the second I’d seen in twenty-four hours. I became hysterical and it took three people to hold me down.

  The bottom line—Tristan never showed. Nor did Bri or Lucas or Blake’s sister. And the other fifty? Seventy-five? One hundred? More? I struggled to get a handle on the magnitude of the tragedy. The firefighters confirmed our worst fears. No one survived other than Blake and me. Every one of my friends died in an instant. And I couldn’t bear the thought of life without them.

  The only mystery that remains is the fate of Ethan. He wasn’t on the list of ‘confirmed deceased,’ but then again, there were dozens at the party who never showed up back home and whose remains were never found. In my fantasies, I imagine he’s still alive and we meet again. I remember him stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking on his feet, running his fingers across his thumbs, taking deep breaths before answering my questions, and nervously laughing. And his smile that spread from right to left. Sometimes I think I see him and my stomach flutters as it did the first time I met him, but then the image disappears. The glimmer of hope’s too minuscule to compete against the mass of loss and despair. And guilt. Tristan and Bri, my two best friends in the world died and I still can’t get Ethan out of my mind. No wonder the universe hates me.

  My eyes and limbs feel like concrete as I feel myself being gently set onto a soft surface. “Where am I?” I mumble. I vaguely remember trying to leave SCI’s Unit 27 and being knocked to the floor.

  “Shhh, Kira,” I hear. The voice sounds eerily familiar and I swear I smell a hint of cinnamon. “You were given a sedative to allow you to adjust to the schedule here. But you’re in your room.”

  I try to open my eyes. My vision is hazy and the room is dark, and the shadow leaning over me fits the voice. But I’ve been prone the last two months to attributing every shadow, every voice, and every face to him. “Ethan? Is that you?”

  “I’m sorry. So sorry. I wish things were different. Sleep well,” my benefactor says before leaning over and giving me a kiss on my forehead. I feel the drugs pull me under and I succumb to an imagined deep sleep in Ethan’s arms.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ethan

  I receive the call I never expected.

  “Ted found a pure-bred Light… not too far from you. Carmel Valley High,” the familiar voice purrs. “Her blood work was a work of a
rt. I suggest you high tail it over there and check her out.”

  “A female pure Light? Impossible. Even if that’s true, what’s the hurry? Why not wait until she’s there? I assume she’s headed your way at least,” I say, hardly jumping for joy. There’s nothing less romantic than a blood panel preceding every date. Thus, I’ve resisted my father’s archaic Cleaving process my entire life and don’t see any reason to succumb now, just because he’s finally dredged up a suitable candidate two years post-deadline.

  “Two reasons. One, she’s reluctant to go—has a boyfriend tying her down or something. She’s going to need some motivation, which I’ve already got in motion. And two, you have competition. Ted also found a pure-bred Dark male with a cleaner medical history than you have. A classmate of hers.” I hear worry in his voice. Despite my father’s immense power in my hometown’s political climate, the rules are pretty clear. It’s unlikely I have a shot with her, even if I want one.

  “I don’t see any reason to bother if there’s another heir apparent,” I say. “If I wasn’t suitable for anyone there, why would I be trusted with a pure-bred Light, the likes of which haven’t been seen in centuries?”

  “I have yet to be convinced that either is suitable for our needs. You are the only eyes and ears there I fully trust. Watch them,” he says, following with very specific instructions as to my assignment. His tone belies his mistruth. He doesn’t trust anyone, much less me.

  Disappointment looms. Either she’ll be dreadful and forced my way or spectacular and forced the other guy’s way. There’s yet to be a situation that clearly weighs in my favor.

  The moment I see her my faulty heart swells with misplaced hope. Why couldn’t the other Dark have been born with a defective heart? My childhood was nothing less than pathetic. I spent my first dozen years locked in a one hundred-fifty square foot, sterile room to ‘protect my health,’ or realistically to hide the extent of my abnormality from the rest of my parents’ colleagues. As a result, I’m horribly claustrophobic.

  Most of the human contact I had during my youth was with my parents and the medical staff. I spent a hundred times more time with Doctor Christo, my heart specialist, than my father. A wise, white-haired man, Dr. Christo augmented my standard-fare ‘home studies’ schooling with curriculum designed ‘for the very elite.’ My parents wanted me well versed in the family business and Dr. Christo wanted me well versed in ‘the great universal truths.’ This filled 8-10 hours a day.

  My early years conspicuously lacked affection, playtime, supervision, or fun. From the age of twelve to fifteen my interactions with other kids were sparse, leaving me shy and awkward. My one consistent ‘friend’ aka forced playmate and classmate has been Jax, Dr. Christo’s son, a know-it-all boy with a superiority complex. As I kid, he forced me to call him King Jax and bossed me around incessantly. Still does. He’s infuriating, but all I have.

  Eventually, after a dozen-odd surgeries, my health improved and my parents chose to foist me on my Uncle Henry, to ‘further’ my education and ‘prepare me for my destiny’. Forget free will. Forget personal choice. My parents assume their agenda trumps my agenda. Today’s the first and only day I’ve seen our agendas so much as overlapping, much less aligning. Every memory serves as a reminder of this important truth.

  I vividly recall waking up post surgery number 9 at the age of eight to the rare sight of my parents and an all too familiar heavily sanitized hospital smell. My dad flanked my left and appeared to be frazzled with worry. My mother sat on the edge to my right, looking weary, with dark smudges detracting from her typically bright green eyes.

  “Ethan, it’s about time,” my father said, tapping on his watch. “You took 37 minutes longer than anticipated to come out of the anesthesia.” I felt guilty for causing them such consternation. They’d surely been stressed that I wouldn’t wake up at all.

  “I…I…I’m sorry, Father,” I whisper. “It hurts,” I said, referring to the incision in my chest. Dozens of tubes protruded from my frail body and machines whirred in the background.

  “That’s what pain killers are for, Ethan,” he said, rising and rounding the end of my bed to grab my mother’s hand. “You’ve made us late for a Council meeting. We expect you to follow every order from the doctors and nurses and recover in a more timely fashion than your waking,” as if I’d had control over either.

  “Dr. Christo’s the very best,” my mother said, patting me on my arm before standing. “We are investing in you. You are important. If we can just get past these little medical hiccups, you’ll be a major player in the future of our civilization. The doctors will keep us posted on your progress and time permitting, we’ll check in on you later this week.”

  They never did check on me. Time rarely permitted where my parents were concerned. My doctors assured me that my parents were intimately involved in my medical decisions. I’m sure they considered it a medical necessity to keep me alive, lest their political aspirations suffer.

  My father gave me crystal clear instructions about the girl, none of which involved speaking to her, but I choose to selectively ignore the mandate to keep my distance. A pretty girl does not necessarily a suitable match make, and if she’s at all deficient on the personality front, I’ll happily let the medically sanctioned boy pursue her. I’m determined to undermine my father and manipulate the situation to my benefit, if only in some small way. Plus, the beauty has the whole damsel in distress thing going on and as a frequent victim myself, I can’t keep from offering her the compassion I was never afforded in my youth.

  “Hey, I’m Ethan. You look kind of bummed. Can I help?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Blake

  “She’s the one.” The words and her face ripple through my head. My life, and the life of my family, depends on some shallow cheerleader who isn’t even interested in the program. She refuses to ditch her senior year because she’s in love with a boneheaded jock whose future is sure to be closely tied to AA meeting schedules. Why am I worrying? They’ll never persuade her to go. Thank goodness for that, because the chick hates me just like everyone else. After all, I almost ran her over with my skateboard this morning in my hurry to get to the Test and I don’t think I even apologized, not out loud anyway.

  Why am I so nervous anyway? I’ve been preparing for this forever and with my dad’s connections I’m a shoo-in. It’s not the Test, but the pressure of what’s coming and that I have to go back. My dad’s words haunt me, “We’re counting on you, son. All of us are counting on you.” Getting in isn’t the hard part anyway. Getting what they need and back out alive, that’s another story.

  Kira Donovan. As much as I can’t stand Kira on paper, I have to admit that I loved watching Miss Goodie Two-Shoes go off on Ted Rosenberg. I mean wow—she told him she didn’t give a crap about his Test in front of everyone. Classic. Maybe she does have it in her. Man though, I wish I didn’t have to depend on her, wish I could do it alone.

  Kira’s probably right where I’m headed, partying it up with the rest of the losers from Carmel Valley High. Or worse, hooking up with her jerk boyfriend somewhere in the Bailey Goodington’s freakishly big house. I’d vowed to never enter Bailey’s hallowed grounds again. When I first started at Carmel Valley High Bailey lured me over to her house for a ‘study date’ and I temporarily (well, in secret, for weeks) fell prey to her ice blue eyes, stick straight platinum blonde hair, and modelesque figure. She particularly liked to ‘study’ by her pool in a very tiny bikini that probably cost enough to feed a small country, and to my benefit her suit often ‘accidentally’ dislodged when she entered the pool. She gave me my first kiss (or two or hundred, I lost count) and a real education in baseball. I was head over heels. In a young love bout of insanity, I even gave her a promise ring. There weren’t just sparks with Bailey, it was a full-blown atomic detonation when we were together.

  When my dear daddy caught wind that I had a girlfriend, however, he forced me to end things. I tried to fight him on it, but he u
sed his fists to persuade me. The relationship-ending ‘why’ I gave to Bailey was lame, so I came across as a real dick. No one breaks up with Bailey Goodington. To gain vengeance, she spread every possible rumor to turn me into a social pariah. Worked for me, allowing me to drop off the radar and avoid my dad’s ire. Through the Baileyvine, I found out I’m currently a meth addict who prostitutes myself to kinky old men to support my habit. Ironic, given she liberally partakes of mind-altering substances and has a reputation for being easier than a first grade math test. First love or not, I hear Karma’s real vindictive and coming for you, Bailey, and I just hope I’m there to witness your downfall.

  My thoughts revert to my current predicament. I’m pissed. I can’t believe my sister, Leila, agreed to go to the dance, much less this particular after-party. Now she’s tanked and I have to come pick up the pieces. If only she could better remember our previous circumstances and the sacrifice made to bring her into the world. Even though I was only three, I’ll never forget Leila’s birth.

  We moved seaside when Mom bellied to make it more comfortable for her as it was so freaking hot inland that she couldn’t function. We’d traded caves with an Interceptor who’d been injured trying to procure supplies from an Industrial City ship. I missed playing in the canyons and resented the confinement of the cliff residences, accessible one to another solely by rope ladders.

  My dad taught me how to climb the ladders for safety, but playing on them was strictly forbidden. Even my father panicked at the thought of maneuvering them at night and no one could get far during the day without getting fried. I’d have hardly had the energy anyway, given kids in third world countries likely ate more often, and I had the protruded belly and skeletal figure to prove it. Well, perhaps that’s a bit of an exaggeration. We either had plenty or none based on the pirating success-rate. Fresh food didn’t last long without refrigeration and even the non-perishables perished in the heat.