by Dan Rix
“I asked you a question,” said Aaron.
Clive’s eyebrows shot up. Then he ran his hand over his scalp and behind his head, nudging off his hood, and Aaron saw that both sides of his thin, shaved head were etched with deep scars. As though his face had been peeled off and reattached. “The thing is, number eleven . . . ” he said, rounding the log to Aaron’s side, “you know this beach belongs to Corona Blanca, and you know that Amber is off limits, so why are you still here?”
Aaron noticed a red glow in the pocket of Clive’s shorts. Clive saw where he was looking and quickly covered it.
“What’cha got there?” said Aaron, certain he could now feel a gentle tugging behind his head. Maybe provoking this guy was a bad idea.
“It’s nothing,” said Clive.
“No, it looks like you have something in your pocket.”
“It’s just a glow stick. It’s nothing.”
“If it’s just a glow stick, then show it to me,” said Aaron.
Clive’s eyes became slits, and without another word to Aaron, he spun, grabbed Amber’s sweatshirt, and forced it back over her head. “Get up. We’re leaving.”
“Clive, stop it!” she yelled, shoving him off. “People are watching.”
He pinned her against the driftwood. “Think I give a damn?”
“Clive, you’re hurting me—” She scratched his arms, but Clive was stronger, and he dragged the fabric down over her face, suffocating her screams.
It was crossing the line.
Aaron lunged forward, closed his fist around Clive’s collar, and yanked him back. “Not while I’m here, jerk—”
He ended up in the sand, Clive on top of him.
“Cut the crap!” Aaron yelled, flinging Clive’s hands off his neck. Then he heard a sound like the rumble of crashing surf—the sound of running feet.
Clive jumped away from him, and Aaron stood, as Corona Blanca’s entire student body jammed into a ring with them at its center. The excited mutters quieted when a dripping wet senior stepped into the circle.
From his braided rat tail and the green letterman jacket the senior wore over nothing but a wet pair of boxers, Aaron recognized him as Corona Blanca’s rugby star, Dominic Brees. He grinned, flashing a broad mouth packed with shining white teeth. Then, to Aaron’s horror, he chanted, “Fight—fight—fight—” and within seconds, the whole school joined in.
Clive grabbed Dominic’s jacket. “You better be able to get me out of this,” he said. “I’m dead if my father finds out I got in another fight.” Evidently, Clive didn’t want the attention any more than Aaron did.
Dominic laughed and raised his hands, silencing the crowd. “We’ve had a change of plans,” he yelled. “Corona Blanca’s Clive Selavio will now race number eleven from Pueblo High School all the way out to the buoy!”
Aaron scowled. Clearly this was Dominic’s ploy to get more people in the water. Unfortunately, it worked. The spectators roared and changed their chant to, “Buoy—buoy—buoy—” Dominic slapped Clive on the back and receded into the circle, deserting him before he could protest.
Aaron scanned the shouting faces, trying to calm his breathing. How the hell had he gotten himself in this situation?
Of course it was that girl, Amber, who he noticed was conveniently nowhere in sight. For a night out, it was fairly typical, he supposed, as the crowd started booing him; he never quite managed to keep his damn mouth shut. At least not when it counted.
Aaron glanced back at Clive, and their eyes met across the ring. He had a hunch Clive would back down, and he prayed he was right because he wasn’t about to humiliate himself and disgrace his school. He whipped off his shirt and flung it to the sand.
The crowd cheered. Point for Pueblo.
Slowly, the corner of Clive’s pale, chapped lips tightened into a smirk. He tugged his hoodie over his head and laid it carefully on the driftwood, then he started on the buttons of his collared shirt, and the crowd went berserk.
Aaron stared at him. So they were actually going to do this.
***
Clive cheated, bolting for the water a full second before Dominic shouted, “GO!”
Aaron kicked off the sand and tore after him. He felt a deep rumble followed by a spray of mist, and from out of the darkness, a film of foamy surf slashed across his ankles.
There was no sign of a buoy, not even a line marking the horizon, just blackness. Thankfully Clive had kept his undershirt on because all Aaron could do was follow his bobbing white silhouette as they hurled themselves into the pounding surf.
Aaron dived under a wave and icy brine flooded his nostrils. He broke out into the open water, neck and neck with Clive. After a few minutes, he lost track of time. Gradually every square inch of his skin went numb with cold.
Then Clive’s splashes stopped.
But there was nothing up ahead. Aaron panicked. Had he followed a rogue wave? Was he in fact miles past the buoy, lost?
He tried to find the shore, but the water stung his eyes and blurred everything. He couldn’t even see the bonfire.
Something moved in the darkness ahead of him, and all at once, the pungent smell of salt and rotting fish rushed over him, filled his lungs, choked him. Right before a wave sucked him under, he saw huge masses shifting and blotting out the stars. He surfaced, terrified, to the sound of barking—violent, piercing barks that echoed off the water. Aaron clutched his ears.
There were splashes all around him, and he was aware that something else was swimming in the water with him—something big. He felt a thrust of cold water against his knees as a huge creature swam past him.
From somewhere behind him, he heard Clive shout, “Sea lions!”
More barking, more splashes, and more things swimming past him. Aaron twisted to get away from them, but the turbulence from their flippers pulled him back.
A moment later a white shape loomed in front of him, and he reached his arms out just in time to stop his face from colliding with hard metal. The buoy.
With Clive’s help, he tipped it over so they could rest the upper halves of their bodies. Underwater, Clive’s pocket emitted an eerie red glow, tinting the water around them purple.
“I won’t drown you for talking to Amber,” said Clive, after they caught their breath, “but do me a favor, okay? Don’t go near her again.”
“How about you quit treating her like dirt,” said Aaron.
Clive snickered. “Number eleven, you know better than to tell a man how to treat his own half.”
“Too bad she’s not your half,” said Aaron. “She’s only seventeen.”
“Yeah, but we were both born on March thirtieth.”
Aaron spat into the water, cleansing the salty taste from his mouth. “Then it sounds like we got a problem, Clive, because I also was born on March thirtieth.”
Clive faced him abruptly, sinking his face into shadow so only the glint of his pale, unblinking eyes shone in the darkness. As a passing swell tugged at Aaron’s feet and weakened his grip on the buoy, he wondered if he could defend himself if Clive tried to kill him right now.
“I’m only going to tell you this one more time,” said Clive finally. “Don’t go near her again.”
“Or else what?” said Aaron.
“Tell me you have a smarter question.”
“Yeah, one. What’s in your pocket?”
To Aaron’s surprise, Clive actually reached into the water and pulled it out. Aaron thought the bright object was, in fact, a glow stick, until he leaned closer.
It was a glass vial, rounded at both ends so it was completely sealed. Inside, a glowing red liquid crawled along the glass.
“Do you know what this is?” said Clive, smirking, his face now fully illuminated.
“Plasma?”
“This is what drips out when you cut a hole in your clairvoyant channel.”
Aaron felt a wave of cold, separate from the ocean. “Is it yours?”
Clive shook his head. “Whosever it is,
they’re sorely missing it right now. Want to hold it?”
Aaron took the vial from Clive, but when the glass touched his skin, the sudden stabbing at the back of his scalp nearly made him drop it, like something trying to exit his head through too small a hole. The red fluid scurried inside of the vial, forming tendrils, as if searching for cracks. And Aaron had the impression that the vial was somehow filling up, glowing brighter and brighter, too bright to look at—
“Hey, how’d you do that?” said Clive.
“Hold on,” said Aaron, now mesmerized by the luminous substance. The glass, he noticed, was stamped with some sort of ID code.
“Give it back—” Clive lunged for the vial.
Aaron held it out of reach, straining to make out the letters, but Clive caught his wrist. The impact splayed Aaron’s fingers wide open, and in slow motion, the vial flew from Aaron’s palm, bounced off the buoy, and plopped into the water.
***
“Shit!” Clive plunged his arm in, but the vial slipped through his fingers, briefly lighting their toes on its way to the bottom.
Clive dived. And Aaron had no choice but to dive in after him. About eight feet down, blind and out of breath, Aaron clamped his arm around Clive’s ankle and took a bare heel to the forehead. He held on, though, righted himself, and thrust down hard. With sheer will, he hauled Clive out of the ocean and forced him against the buoy.
“Let it go!” Aaron yelled. “It was my fault.”
“You idiot,” Clive gasped, “you stupid idiot! Now we’ll never find it.”
“Then it’s lost,” he said. “It could be thirty feet to the bottom. What was that thing, anyway?”
They both looked down as they caught their breath, and their last glimpse of the vial was a fuzzy dot, no brighter than the reflection of a star, before it was gone.
“My father’s going to kill me for this,” said Clive.
Aaron let go of him and lowered himself into the water. “Come on, let’s go back. It’s freezing out here.”
When Aaron made it back to the beach, he was relieved to find that most of Corona Blanca had gone home, and the few smoking weed by the bonfire’s dying embers had forgotten about his and Clive’s race to the buoy.
Aaron reached his shoes, still disconcerted by what he’d seen in the vial and determined that he would have nothing to do with Clive Selavio, his vial, or Amber Lilian ever again, Clive’s half or not. No point in trying to see her if the guy was that protective. Besides, Aaron and Amber’s birthday was only a month away. Then they would know.
There was something in his shoe, wedged down by the toe. Aaron pulled out a bright, powder blue smartphone.
Amber’s cell phone. Damn.
***
When Amber pulled in front of Dominic Brees’s gate to drop off Clive, she felt his body go tense—as it usually did when she was doing everything wrong.
“So you’re making me walk up the driveway?” said Clive, and Amber barely heard the vulnerability beneath his irritation. He was getting better at hiding it now when she pushed him away, which made her nervous.
“Can you just go?” she said. “I’m really tired.”
“You sure got cozy with number eleven, didn’t you?” he said.
She sighed. “Why do you always do this?”
“I’m keeping you safe,” he spat.
“Wow,” she said, “I must really be something if every guy I meet is trying to steal me away from you.”
“I saw the way he looked at you,” he said.
“Actually, Clive, he was asking about you,” she said, and all at once, her frustration came rushing back. Of course she would finally meet an interesting boy with the same birthday as her, only to have Clive obliterate her chances, as always, of the boy ever talking to her again. She sighed, wishing she knew more than just his name.
“Amber, he lost the vial.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have stolen it from your dad.” Amber relished the wounded flare in Clive’s eyes. To torment him even more, she smiled sweetly, twirling her hair around her finger, and decided he would be the one who looked away first.
But Clive leaned over her instead, and his breath prickled her eyelashes. “You’re going to be powerful because of who I am.”
Amber rolled her eyes and gazed out her window. “Do you think I care?” she said.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
She didn’t say anything, just stared straight ahead.
“Look at me!”
Finally, skin crawling, she faced him.
“You’re pure blood,” he whispered, “mixed with mine—imagine our inheritance, Amber.”
And then, while she was still glaring at him, he came the last few inches and kissed her. She let him, because it was easier to surrender the little things. Because she knew the part of her that resisted him was wearing out, and eventually there would be nothing left.
She used to think Clive was sexy in a scarred up, feral kind of way, but now it hardly mattered what he looked like. What frightened her was the part inside, the part she could taste.
When Clive had finished, Amber edged away from him and let her hair fall between them, though she could feel his gaze lingering. She knew it was miserable for him, knowing she never kissed back, knowing he would never feel her lose control and really kiss him.
“Amber, you get to have everything,” he said. “Start appreciating it.” He climbed out and slammed the door.
Amber sat in her car for a whole minute, her stomach squirming, before she pulled out and drove home.
She hardly paid attention to the road. The yellow paint strip slithered into the darkness, and as her VW Bug squealed around a corner, she half wished the tires would slip. She shot down a dark straightaway and the gas pedal bottomed out under her toes. As the car’s speed pressed her into the seat, gnarled branches of oak trees swung past her. The moon flickered, faster and faster.
She closed her eyes.
You get to have everything. Start appreciating it.
Amber kept her eyes closed, and she knew it would be too late to slow down once her headlights illuminated the next corner, too late to make the turn.
She knew what Clive would say, her father, her mother, Clive’s father, everyone who said they cared about her. Amber. You’re much too important. Don’t you dare be reckless.
But the rush made her dizzy, tingly all over, lightheaded. It was so easy not to look, like falling asleep—like being held.
Then her mind returned to Aaron Harper, the strange boy who’d shown up out of nowhere and made things interesting for a night.
She opened her eyes—and slammed on the brakes. The car shuddered and threw her forward. Her heart squashed against the inside of her chest as the vehicle sank toward the edge of the road.
Then silence.
Her headlights blazed two feet from the trunk of an oak tree. Two feet, that’s how close she had come. Slowly, Amber let out a breath, which she realized she’d been holding the entire time. Feeling numb, she reversed and got back on the road. She was full of helium, practically floating away already.
Who was he? Okay, so he was gorgeous. Amber shivered when she remembered his dangerous, jet black eyes. In her entire life, she had never been so devastated by a stare.
Nor had she met anyone else who dreaded turning eighteen like she did. And their shared birthdays . . . Her heart had been racing since he told her.
But years ago, Amber had resolved never to get her hopes up; it was easier that way, and a random guy she’d just met at a bonfire was not about to change that.
She already knew her fate.
TWO
26 Days, 3 hours, 59 minutes
A burst of rap music jolted Aaron awake. He glanced around, disoriented, until he located the music’s source—Amber’s cell phone.
He silenced the call, which he noticed was from Clive Selavio, and swiveled his feet to the ground. Since Amber’s phone was locked and he didn’t have the passcode, he c
ouldn’t access any of her contacts. He would have to return the phone to her in person. Great. More opportunities to royally piss off her psychotic boyfriend—or half, or whatever Clive was.
Aaron sighed, running his fingers through his hair. He tossed her phone in the trash. Cute as this girl was, she wasn’t worth the trouble.
As he stuffed his backpack for school, though, he realized that was a total lie. For some reason he couldn’t get Amber out of his head; she was just—different.
In the dim hallway outside his bedroom, Aaron felt the crunch of paper under his foot. He picked up an envelope, clearly marked with the silver seal of the Chamber of Halves, and slid out an official-looking letter.
Dear Aaron Harper,
In preparation for your upcoming eighteenth birthday, the Chamber of Halves would like to arrange a meeting with you on Saturday, March 30th at 11:00 A.M. We strive for a successful union between you and your half. Unfortunately, your case involves some complications, which your correspondent from the Chamber will discuss with you in confidence.
Regards,
Walter Wu
CHAMBER OF HALVES
TULAROSA BRANCH
Est. 1939
Aaron blinked and read it again. Complications? He had never heard of complications. On your eighteenth birthday, you went to the Chamber of Halves, you met your half. It wasn’t complicated.
Unless, of course, they knew about the scar tissue. Aaron stuffed the letter in his backpack and tried to ignore the flash of queasiness. On his way to the front door, he passed the breakfast table, where his mom was scanning the news headlines on her laptop.
“A student from Corona Blanca High School was reported missing on Friday,” she said, without looking up.
“Who?” said Aaron.
“Justin Gorski, he’s a rugby player.”
“Never heard of him,” said Aaron.
“Says here he was last seen right after school with a classmate, Amber Lilian,” she said.
Aaron halted, his hand on the doorknob. “Amber Lilian?” he repeated like an idiot.
“Why, do you know her?”
“No,” he said quickly, but when his mom wasn’t looking, he slipped back to his room and fished Amber’s phone out of his trash can. Aaron could already tell this girl was nothing but trouble.