Entanglement (YA Dystopian Romance)

by Dan Rix

  When she got back to her purse, Amber had a missed call from Tina Marcello, Dominic Brees’s girlfriend, and a message asking if she wanted to hang out, maybe watch Pueblo High School’s rugby tryouts.

  Definitely. She could use some time with someone normal.

  ***

  “Well?” said Buff furiously as he and Aaron hobbled to the stands after rugby tryouts, both of them drenched in mud. Behind them, the goal posts sank into the mist.

  “You saw. I scored three times,” said Aaron. “You tell me why your coach is an idiot.”

  “Buddy, what was that bullshit? You’re a ball hog; you didn’t pass once. Have you ever even played rugby?”

  “Just drop it,” said Aaron.

  “No bullshit,” Buff grabbed his shoulders and faced him, “the closer it gets to your birthday, the more you creep me out. Look, Buddy, I know you’re freaked about that stuff in your head, but it’s not the end of the world, okay?”

  Aaron shrugged off his best friend’s hands and continued walking.

  “Okay, be a prick. Fine.” Buff walked in stiff silence next to him.

  For a week, Aaron hadn’t stopped thinking about Amber. Clearly, she didn’t belong with Clive, yet she acted like they were unofficial halves or something . . . and he was beginning to hate it.

  But his birthday was way too close to risk getting hung up on her—only nineteen days now. Besides, whether Clive Selavio, Aaron, or someone else entirely was Amber’s half would be revealed on March thirtieth, and no one could do a damn thing about it.

  So why was it so hard to let her go?

  “Hey—” Buff nodded toward the stands, “look who came to watch.”

  Aaron glanced up. It was Tina Marcello, but when he saw whom she was with, his skin tingled.

  “And who might that be?” said Buff, suddenly very interested.

  The two girls were sitting right where they had left their backpacks.

  ***

  Amber wore a baby-blue sweater, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, damp with mist. Her hair glistened. Aaron stopped right in front of her.

  “You again?” she said, making no attempt to sound excited. Aaron wondered whether she’d consulted Tina about him or whether they’d concluded separately that he was a jerk. Maybe they could form a club with Emma Mist.

  Aaron wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and his sweat ran red down his fingers. A cleat must have nicked his forehead. He lifted the bottom of his shirt and wiped away the blood.

  Amber blinked. “Do you really have to do that right in front of me?” she said.

  “What are you doing here?” he said.

  “Oh, so it's okay for you to lurk by my car and ambush me after practice, and it's not okay for me to watch the tryouts?”

  “Fine. Next time I’ll leave your phone in the trash,” he said, “and just so you know—” he nodded over his shoulder at the rugby field, “I got distracted back there.”

  “It’s not like I came to watch you.”

  “Oh yeah?” he said. “Who’d you come to watch?”

  Buff pushed him out of the way and held his hand out to Amber. He put on his most dignified expression, which wasn’t much. “Buff Normandy.”

  Amber took his hand and smiled. “Amber.”

  “So you like rugby, Amber?”

  She shrugged, and her eyes darted to Aaron. “It’s okay,” she said.

  “I didn’t really need to try out—” said Buff. “I’m actually already on the team.” He chuckled, and his cheeks reddened. “Actually, I was last year’s MVP.”

  “Knock it off,” said Aaron. “She’s a friend.”

  Buff stepped in front of Aaron, blocking him. “You got any plans for later?”

  Aaron smirked and rolled his eyes, and Amber glanced at him again. She smiled too.

  “Could you please leave us alone now?” said Tina, wrinkling her nose. “You guys stink.”

  A lined notebook lay open on her lap, which Buff snatched and proceeded to dangle above her head.

  “Buff—” Tina lunged for the notebook and missed. “Give it back!”

  While they squabbled, Aaron scanned the bleachers for his backpack. He had left it right here. He inhaled, and his chest stung. More sweat drizzled into his mouth.

  Then he saw it stashed under the bench, shoved out of the way right behind Amber. He leaned over her, and her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “Excuse me—you’re in the way.” He reached past her.

  But she refused to budge, and his shoulder brushed her cool skin. He felt her tense up. Aaron flexed and dragged his backpack onto the bench next to her. She stared at the spot of mud he left on her arm, then at him.

  “What makes you think I’m your friend?” she said.

  “I didn’t say you were,” said Aaron.

  “You did two minutes ago.” She glanced at his forehead. “I think you need a Band-Aid.”

  Blood dripped from Aaron’s chin. He wiped his forehead with his shirt again—it came back bright red.

  “I’m fine.” He unzipped his backpack. Then he grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled it over his head. Caked mud and sweat stuck to his skin. He crumpled the shirt into a ball and wiped his face another time. That was when he noticed the bruises along his rib cage.

  While his shirt was off, Amber stole a glance at his torso, then quickly averted her gaze and fixed her eyes firmly on the horizon—until a grunt from Buff made them both look in his direction.

  “Buddy, she’s scouting for Breezie!” he shouted, staring wide-eyed at the players’ names written neatly in pink ink in Tina’s notebook. “And why isn’t my name here?”

  “Buff, forget about it,” said Aaron. “She doesn’t know jack—”

  “Huh Tina? Why isn’t it on here?” Buff repeated.

  There was a dark glint in Tina’s eyes. “Because your GPA is below the league minimum. You won’t be allowed to play.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Is too.”

  Buff tore out the page, ripped it into little pieces and dropped them on Tina’s lap. “No more of this bullshit,” he said, grabbing his backpack.

  “You freak!” said Tina, staring at the scraps.

  “When we play rugby, Breezie’s going to need more than just a cheat sheet,” said Buff, kicking the riser on the bench.

  “Well that was lame.” Tina brushed the scraps of paper into a puddle and grabbed her purse. “Amber, let’s get out of here.”

  “Hang on,” said Buff, “let me get Amber’s number.” He rummaged in his pockets for his cell phone, came out empty-handed, then unzipped his backpack and started digging out crumpled wads of schoolwork.

  Amber gave him a coy smile. “Buff, you hardly know me,” she said.

  Buff’s face reddened. He stood and scratched his head. “Maybe I should give you my number instead,” he said.

  “She doesn’t want your number,” Aaron scoffed.

  Amber shot him a glance. “Maybe I do.”

  Meanwhile, Tina made a point of sighing loudly.

  “I got it an idea!” said Buff. “Buddy, give me your phone. I’ll get her number that way.”

  “Too bad,” said Aaron, “didn’t bring it.”

  Amber glanced at the side of Aaron’s backpack, at the mesh pocket—where the bulge of his cell phone was clearly visible.

  “Didn’t bring it, huh?” She slid Aaron’s phone out and flipped it open, keyed in her number, and called her own phone with it. Then Amber and Tina squeezed between him and Buff on their way out.

  As Amber brushed past Aaron, she slipped the phone into the pocket of his shorts. “That’s for Buff,” she whispered, her breath right in his ear. Her green eyes lingered on him for another second before she turned away.

  ***

  “Buddy, who was that?” said Buff, gaping at him.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Aaron. “She’s out of her mind.”

  “Who cares?” said Buff. “Give me the phone num
ber, it’s obvious she likes me.”

  “She goes to Corona Blanca,” said Aaron.

  Buff lunged for the phone in Aaron’s pocket, and Aaron had to beat him off with his backpack.

  “Fine, I’ll just wait until she calls me,” said Buff, leaving Aaron to go talk to his coach, “which she will!”

  “Say hello for me when she does.” Aaron slung his clean shirt over his shoulder and headed to his car alone. So much for forgetting about her. After that last sizzling look she gave him, that was going to be impossible.

  Aaron sighed, imagining how much simpler his last month as a seventeen-year-old would have been if he’d never met her—and wondering if he’d ever have the courage to delete her number. Or call her.

  His Mazda waited, black and sleek. Aaron was almost at the door when he noticed the damage, and his heart jolted.

  He scanned the lot, hardly breathing. Nobody lingered. Nobody had left a note.

  Aaron stared at his car. A dent stretched across the door, broken glass and crumpled metal, bashed inward. Bare steel glinted underneath, deformed and scraped white. Black flecks of paint streamed in rivulets along the asphalt under his feet.

  “No—” he whispered, and he laid his palm on his car’s frame.

  It wasn’t a fender bender. The dent was too deep, as if someone had deliberately driven into it, their toe to the floor—or beaten it with a crow bar.

  Aaron pulled the handle, and the door collapsed an inch and screeched open. He stared at the ruined door, and pressure tingled in his sinuses, like two thumbs pressing under his eyes.

  The driver’s seat was soaked, and the door didn’t close. It just banged against the side and swung back open. Aaron squeezed his shirt into a ball and flung it across the parking lot.

  Then his cell phone rang.

  “Hello,” said Aaron.

  “Aaron Harper, how are you?” said an icy drawl.

  A chill slithered up Aaron’s spine—Clive Selavio.

  He scanned the deserted school, the houses across the street. “Who gave you my number?” he said, his heart pounding. All he heard was Clive’s heavy breathing infused with static.

  “I told you to stay away from her,” said Clive.

  “How’d you get my number?”

  “But you didn’t listen,” said Clive.

  The air stirred in Aaron’s ear, like someone breathing behind him. He spun.

  Nobody.

  “It was you—” Aaron’s eyes darted across the street. Down in the shadows between two bushes, hunched over. Nobody.

  “It was you—that was my car, asshole!”

  Clive chuckled. “Next Friday,” he said. “Expect me. I have a little surprise for you, Aaron Harper.” Then he hung up.

  THREE

  18 Days, 2 hours, 45 minutes

  Aaron didn’t know whether to feel terrified, pissed off as hell, or betrayed. He was sure Amber gave Clive his number, unless Clive hacked it off her phone somehow. Or threatened her. Still no excuse.

  By morning, pissed off as hell won out, and Aaron hunkered down at his desk before first period, kneading his fists. He’d spent everything he had on his Mazda, he loved that car. Sure, he wasn’t always on time with the oil changes and he had to hotwire the thing each time he started it, but to him, his car meant freedom—and Clive Selavio had defiled that.

  If Clive thought Aaron was just going to disappear like Justin Gorski, just another name off his hit list, he was dead wrong. Next Friday, Clive was going to lick asphalt.

  Emma Mist came in late and slogged to her seat, and Aaron noticed something off about her. Her face was pale, and her hair, usually full and glossy, looked wilted. He caught her eye as she slumped into her seat, and Aaron knew this was his chance to apologize. Before she could look away, he mouthed, “Can we please talk?”

  She stared at him, her brown eyes clouded by weariness, then gave a stiff nod. Aaron felt a weight off his chest already.

  But while his eyes were still on her, her back arched suddenly. She gasped, and her bony shoulders tensed before she fell forward, shivering. Students’ heads swiveled toward her, and Mr. Sanders, who had started his lecture, trailed off.

  “Emma!” Their teacher ran to her desk and knelt beside her. “Emma, talk to me—what’s wrong?”

  She clutched her stomach, and a tear slid down her cheek from her wide, terrified eyes.

  “Is it a stomach ache?” said Mr. Sanders.

  When Emma spoke, her voice was a whimper. Almost too low to hear across a classroom, but Aaron heard.

  “I . . . I can’t feel him,” she said, and another tear splattered on her desk. “I can’t feel my half.”

  “Let’s get you to the nurse,” said Mr. Sanders, helping her to her feet. “It’s going to be fine.”

  Emma touched the back of her own head, winced, and collapsed against his chest. She was breathing too fast, hyperventilating.

  Mr. Sanders looped his arm behind her knees, scooped her up, and carried her to the door. Only Buff ran forward to help. The rest of the class sat white-faced and frozen.

  Mr. Sanders addressed them before he left. “Explain how the discovery of halves pushed the world toward greater international cooperation in the late thirties, I want at least a page from each of you when I get back—and NO talking!”

  Then the door slammed.

  All eyes turned on Aaron. Nervous, shifty-eyed stares, wary of his reaction to what had just happened to his ex-girlfriend. They knew the symptoms.

  Her half was dead.

  ***

  Emma’s condition had gotten a lot worse when Aaron and Buff visited her on Sunday, five days later.

  Sunlight spotted the peach wallpaper in Emma’s bedroom, and Aaron felt a strange twinge in his stomach when he saw her. She was buried under comforters and fluffy pillows. Her pale skin gleamed with sweat, and her eyes made endless circles as she watched the blades of a ceiling fan.

  Her mother managed a weak smile from her rocking chair and leaned over her daughter. “Baby,” she said, her voice cracking, “look who came to see you!”

  Buff squeezed Emma’s hand. “It’s us, Emma. It’s me and Buddy from school.”

  She opened her mouth but only managed to drool.

  Emma’s father cupped her head in his palm and edged the pillow out from underneath her. Right where the back of her head had been, Aaron saw a red stain in the indentation on the pillow—blood. Her father laid her down again and glanced at his half.

  “It’s getting worse,” he said.

  There was no cure for what Emma had, for half death. The scientific explanation was quantum entanglement, the spooky phenomenon whereby two entangled subatomic particles could be separated by light-years yet react instantaneously to changes in each other’s states.

  In humans, it was termed clairvoyance.

  Up close, Emma’s eyes were vacant, unfocused, cloudy. There was only a glimmer of the girl Aaron once knew, and he felt a lump form in his throat.

  Emma was innocent. She was normal. There were only six weeks left before her birthday—six weeks until she met her half. And that was stolen from her.

  Aaron was the one whose clairvoyant channel was clogged. It should have been him in that bed, drooling and bleeding from the back of his skull. It should have been him with half death, not her.

  Aaron knelt by Emma’s bed and peered into her half open eyelids. “I’m sorry, Emma.”

  Too late.

  He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder: Emma’s father. “What happened to her at school wasn’t the first sign that something was wrong,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” said Aaron.

  “She had a similar attack a couple weeks ago,” said her father. “We thought it was a false alarm and that she was still okay, but now the doctors are telling us her half was already dead.” The man shook his head. “Something strange happened to her half that first time. Whatever it was, it managed to keep her going for a few weeks.”

  “When do th
ey think her half actually died?” said Aaron.

  “They haven’t quite pinpointed it yet, but they’re pretty sure it was March 1st.”

  Aaron nodded, not sure what else to say.

  “Wait a sec,” said Buff, “March 1st? That’s the day that kid from Corona went missing.”

  “Right, Justin Gorski.” Emma’s father managed a weak smile. “We thought about that too, but the Chamber of Halves won’t release the identity of Emma’s half until she’s gone—or until they find Justin’s body . . . ” His voice faltered and he trailed off, tears in his eyes.

  Aaron caught Buff’s eye, and they left Emma’s parents alone with their daughter. On their way out, Aaron’s cell phone beeped, interrupting their mournful silence. He opened his phone and stared at a text message from Amber Lilian.

  Can I come over? There’s something I need to tell you.

  ***

  By eight she still hadn’t shown. Aaron bounced his volleyball off his wall, straining to hear a knock on the front door, a scratch . . . anything over the evening news blaring in the living room. Jesus, were his parents deaf or something?

  Besides, it wasn’t good news playing. He could tell from the bits he overheard. A hundred-and-something year old woman who had refused to meet her half for eighty years, now famous as the sole survivor from the pre-halves era, had died earlier today. Apparently, she had been in her early thirties when halves were discovered, but chose to stay with her husband.

  The doorbell rang.

  Aaron’s heartbeat quickened. He beat his dad to the door, fumbled with the lock, and yanked it open.

  Her usual knockout self, Amber stood in the doorway, cheeks flushed, a green flower pinned to her hair. Aaron recalled vaguely that it was St. Patrick’s day—and that he had thirteen days left until his birthday. He grabbed her hand and pulled her inside, his heart still jittery. At the sight of her, his dad did a double take.

  But before Amber could say, “Hi mister—” Aaron hurried her down the hall, pushed her into his room, and shut the door.

  “That was rude,” she said.

  “My parents are easily disturbed,” he said.