Entanglement (YA Dystopian Romance)

by Dan Rix

  “Amber, you still haven’t done what I told you to do, and since you’re going to be my half tomorrow . . . ”

  She was looking down now.

  “Amber—”

  Suddenly, she grabbed her bag, stood up, and squeezed past them. “I have to go,” she muttered.

  For a second, Aaron watched her hurrying down the stairs. Then he slapped Clive’s beer. The can flew from his hand, spiraling foam, and landed several rows down. He rose and stumbled after her.

  Aaron caught her at the gate and grabbed her hand. “Forget him,” he said. “Come back to my house.”

  “Didn’t you hear him?” she said.

  “He’s lying.”

  “I lied.”

  “I don’t care,” he said.

  “I lied,” she repeated, “because I wanted you instead. I wanted them to be wrong.” Silver wisps of her hair sparkled against the stadium lights. “But it’s just like Clive says.”

  It was the opposite of what she’d told him last night. Something had changed. Aaron felt the damp, chilly night clawing into him.

  “He’s not your half—” But the half time bell rang behind them, interrupting him and flooding him with shivers. Their time was up.

  Amber kissed him, letting her fingers linger on his neck before letting go of him. “Clive and I have known since childhood,” she said, her eyes cinders, extinguished of hope. “We weren’t proper juvengamy babies because he was too sick when he was born. The operation would have killed him—it would have killed us . . . But I’m still his half.”

  The words pierced Aaron’s heart.

  “I’m sorry,” Amber whispered. Then she walked away.

  ***

  He was still standing in the same spot when Clive squeezed his shoulder.

  “I do hope that meant something to you,” he said, his pale eyes gleaming with triumph. “Because that’s the last time you see her.”

  Aaron said nothing.

  “You know, Harper, she’s the one who’s going to get hurt tomorrow, after what you’ve done to her.”

  Aaron swiveled away from him and leaned against the bleachers, just as Dominic Brees jogged over, dripping sweat and grinning from behind his plastic nose guard.

  “Twenty-five to three!” he said. “Please tell me you guys saw that spin move.” A loud clang made him look back, and his grin vanished.

  “Enjoying yourself out there, Breezie?” came a voice from under the stands. Aaron followed Dominic’s gaze to a large figure emerging from the shadows. Buff Normandy.

  From his vantage point, Aaron saw Clive reach into his pocket and hand something to Dominic, which he concealed in his hand.

  “It was better when you weren’t too pussy to play,” said Dominic.

  “Bet you won’t say that after the second half,” said Buff. “Coach wants a fair game. He’s putting me in.”

  “He can’t do that,” said Dominic. You’re below the minimum GPA.”

  “Ever heard of extra credit?” Buff grinned and turned back to the field.

  Aaron heard the click.

  “Buff, behind you!” he shouted, but it was too late.

  Before Buff could turn, Dominic lunged, the switchblade glinting in his fist.

  No time to think. Aaron spun, off balance, and tackled Dominic, sank his shoulder into the rugby player’s chest. They collided into the bleachers, into the sharp edges of the steel struts. Rusted metal bit into Aaron’s ear and rattled his brain, but it was nothing like the clean slash of the switchblade down his forearm.

  At first, he hardly felt it, just an eerie itch deep in his blood veins, but then came the hideous sensation of his flesh peeling open to the cold air. He grabbed his arm and staggered backwards. His hand came back warm and wet. In the dark, he saw nothing. Then every thunderous beat of his heart was like a douse of gasoline on the inferno in his arm.

  Buff descended on Dominic and plowed his face into the cement. They rolled, grunting and kicking up dust. Dominic grasped for a crossbeam, caught one, and hauled himself to freedom. Corona’s superstar was fast, but Buff was faster. In three steps, he overtook him and downed him again. Buff’s fists were a blur.

  “Buff! You’re going to kill him!” said Aaron, now doing everything he could to restrain his best friend’s arm. A few other rugby players sprinted over from the field.

  “Normandy—” His teammates dragged him off. “Security’s just outside.”

  “Right—” Buff stood and straightened his jersey. “No more bullshit, Breezie.” He glanced at Aaron, his face cloaked in shadow.

  Aaron tried to decipher his friend’s expression, but his teammates were already ushering him back to the field, telling him they needed to bolt before the guards came. Reluctantly, Buff peeled his gaze away from Aaron. Feeling dizzy, Aaron fell to his knees in a patch of silver light.

  Next to him, Dominic groaned and rolled onto his back. Aaron’s eyes felt heavy as he watched his own blood drain into the dirt from the gaping slash above his wrist.

  ***

  “Number eleven—” Dominic climbed to his feet and staggered over to him. “What the hell was that?”

  Aaron ignored him, but a second later Dominic’s wheezing face leered in front of him.

  “You’re about to go down a very painful road.” He grabbed Aaron’s sleeve and wiped the blood off his switchblade.

  The outlines of Dominic’s face blurred and started spinning, and Aaron had to shut his eyes.

  “And you—” Dominic advanced on Clive next. “Couldn’t even lift your pinky finger, could you?”

  “I was unarmed,” said Clive. “You had a knife.”

  “Oh yeah? Did Normandy have a knife? Did number eleven have a knife?” Dominic gurgled phlegm in his throat and spat. “I’m beginning to doubt your loyalty, Selavio.”

  “It’s my wedding tomorrow,” said Clive.

  “Don’t kid yourself,” said Dominic. “A black eye would be an improvement.”

  “It’s going to be televised.”

  “So? You’re not the one we’ll be watching.”

  Clive’s eyes shrank to slits. “You better get a real good look then,” he said. “Because it’s the last time you’ll see her.”

  Dominic shook his head and slid the nose guard off his face. His curly hair bounced back into place. “Clive, I’m talking about your father. I don’t give a damn about your half.”

  Aaron was still on the ground. Through the fog in his brain, he could barely hear Clive’s tense voice.

  “And what exactly about my father?”

  “It’s that machine he has in my basement that bothers me. I can’t sleep with that God-awful racket.”

  “Then wear earplugs,” said Clive. “Your parents agreed to let him test it.”

  “Don’t even start,” said Dominic, spitting again. “With all the rap they’ve taken for you guys, lying to the police and everything—”

  “I’d stay out of it,” Clive warned.

  Dominic flipped the switchblade closed and leaned forward. “Selavio, I know that thing doesn’t cure half death. If it did, Justin Gorski would still be alive.” With that, he spun and hobbled back to the field. Before he was gone though, he yelled over his shoulder. “And if I was you, number eleven, I wouldn’t fall asleep tonight.”

  Aaron was only half-aware of him. Later, once Clive left too, he ripped off a section of his T-shirt. With one hand, he wrapped the material around his arm, pulled it tight, and tied it off in a knot. Then he hunched forward and cradled his forehead in his palms. As the pain ebbed from his sliced forearm, he became aware of the slow smolder in his lips, leftover from Amber’s last kiss. And he knew then.

  He was in love with her.

  EIGHT

  0 Days, 12 hours, 18 minutes

  Dominic didn’t play in the second half, and with Buff now on the field, Pueblo won the first league game of the season twenty-six to twenty-five.

  Back at home, Aaron scrubbed his arm over the bathroom sink. The wou
nd had scabbed over, but the tension in his flesh threatened to rip it back open. He wrapped his wrist tight with gauze.

  In twelve hours, he was due at the Chamber of Halves. In twelve hours, Amber and Clive would join as halves, and their souls would intertwine forever. Aaron forced himself to breathe, to exhale—and a nerve-racking moment followed when he wasn’t sure he could fill himself back up again.

  They had known since childhood.

  His mom appeared in the doorway. “Phone call,” she said, tossing him the cordless.

  Nobody called him on their home phone.

  “Hello?” said Aaron.

  “Walter Wu speaking.”

  “Who?”

  “Dreadfully sorry for the late call,” he said. “I’m your authorized correspondent from the Chamber of Halves.”

  Aaron’s stomach gave an odd shudder. “What’s this for?”

  The man cleared his throat. “Mr. Harper, how are you feeling?”

  “Just dandy.”

  “Sick?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stomachache?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Any pain at the back of your head?”

  Aaron’s mouth was already open to give an answer when he froze, and felt the hairs on his forearms slowly stand on end. “Mr. Wu, what’s this for?” he asked again.

  The man cleared his throat one more time then spoke in an high, oddly strained voice. “I think that just about does it. Tomorrow at eleven then, Aaron.” And he hung up.

  For several seconds, Aaron held the phone to his ear, listening to his heart’s echo over the dial tone, before he set it down.

  “You should get to bed soon,” said his mom from the doorway, his dad behind her. “You want to feel rested in the morning.”

  “Get sleep while you can,” said his dad, winking. “You’ll be up all night tomorrow.”

  They both smiled at him, doing their best to act like he was normal, exactly like any other seventeen-year-old on the eve of his birthday—about to experience the best day of his life. It wasn’t that easy, though.

  Other parents spent months and thousands of dollars on their kids’ eighteenth birthdays. But with all the MRIs and visits to the doctor, no one had time to prepare for Aaron’s birthday. Here he was twelve hours from his appointment without a suit to his name, and all they could do was smile at him.

  Though his intestines felt like they were being threaded through a needle, he managed to focus on Amber, on a final glimmer of hope. And as soon as his parents went to bed, he hurried out to his car.

  ***

  The muddy sky had begun drizzling, and warm, oily droplets sprayed his cheeks.

  His Mazda sputtered, caught, then lugged him up the street. Houses slunk by, dark as specters, and the liquid on his windshield glowed neon from their porch lights. The hulk of Mission Ridge loomed ahead of him, crowned with a strip of golden lights—Loma Sierra drive.

  Amber’s house.

  She was Clive’s half. Aaron counted raindrops, straining to numb the sting in his heart, but it was hopeless. He clutched the steering wheel and squeezed the color from his knuckles. At the game, Amber said they had known since childhood.

  Pain exploded in his right arm, making him wince, and he watched as fresh blood soaked the gauze. The salty stench of an open wound coiled up his nostrils. But the pain was nothing compared to the rage and envy gnawing in his gut.

  But Amber had lied before. In fact, she always lied. Aaron downshifted and sank his foot to the floor. No one knew their half before their birthday.

  The sleek blue body of Mr. Lilian’s corvette glistened in the rain. Aaron braked too late and plowed into its bumper. He cringed, jumped out of his car, and assessed the damage. Flakes of paint floated in the puddle between their cars. He leaned closer. Blue paint—thank God.

  Amber didn’t pick up her phone, so Aaron scooped up a handful of gravel, snuck around back, and trudged up a muddy hill until he was directly under her balcony—he hoped. Then he chucked pebbles against the sliding glass doors. It was absurd.

  He heard a gasp, followed by a splash. But not from the balcony. The noise came from the hillside, from close by, from within arm’s reach—

  “Aaron?” It was Amber’s voice. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness under the balcony, they focused on the wall right in front of him, where she stood inexplicably in polka dot pajama bottoms, rain boots, and an open hunting jacket. She was also holding a rake, sort of how you’d hold a baseball bat—

  “Were you about to hit me?” he said.

  “I should have,” she muttered, reluctantly lowering the rake.

  He looked her up and down. “And this is how you dress when I’m not around.”

  “You sound excited.”

  Then he noticed the plastic bin in a puddle at her feet, spilling cans and cardboard boxes into the mud.

  “Taking out the trash?” he said, unable to prevent himself from smirking.

  “Recycling,” she said.

  “No servants?”

  Amber stepped in close, and he could see her eyelashes fluttering in the rain. “You just think I’m too pretty to be doing this kind of stuff.”

  “Makes no difference,” he said.

  “So you’re admitting it?” she said.

  “It didn’t get you out of chores, did it?”

  “Aaron, why are you here?” she said with a hint of impatience. Droplets sparkled in her hair, dripped off, and ran down her nose. The humidity brought out her smell, intensified it.

  “Because you’re lying about Clive,” he said finally.

  “And you’re sneaking around in the middle of the night outside my bedroom,” she said. “Want me to tell my dad?”

  “Go. I’ll wait right here,” said Aaron. “It’s about time he and I had a word.”

  “Fine. Don’t move.” She turned to leave, but Aaron grabbed her arm and tugged her to face him.

  “Tell me you’re not his half,” he said.

  Amber’s eyes were luminous as they scanned his face. “Why do you care, Aaron? It’s not like you wanted to be my half.”

  “So this is about last night then?” he said.

  “When you broke my heart? Maybe,” she said.

  “I liked you better when you didn’t listen to me.”

  “And I liked you better before you started trying to protect me,” she said. “Because you can’t.”

  “Amber, you don’t want to be my half,” he said. “My channel’s about to break. I don’t get to have what everyone else has.” He reached up and wiped her dripping hair off her cheek. “You do.”

  “So all this meant nothing to you?” she said, watching him in disbelief. She sighed and pushed away his hand. “Can you go now? I have to get ready for tomorrow—” her gaze fell to the bloody gauze around his arm, and she stopped abruptly.

  “I’m fine—”

  “Clearly not, Aaron,” She yanked him through a back door into her house, despite his protests. As soon as they were inside, Aaron heard shouts from another room. But not at him. It was Mrs. Lilian, hysterical, screaming herself hoarse at Mr. Lilian.

  “Ignore them,” said Amber, blushing as she pulled him up the stairs.

  “Right.” Aaron raised his eyebrows at the muddy footprints they left on the carpet. “And when they see me?”

  “You run,” she said, seating him on her bed. A piercing crash from downstairs made them both jump. The parents were hurtling china now.

  Amber avoided his eyes and busied herself with the gauze around his arm, unwrapping it. Her hair tumbled loose and covered half her face.

  Aaron caught pieces of her parents’ argument before they lowered their voices, and they chilled him . . . illness is getting worse, it’s not my fault the potentate can’t make the wedding . . . Oh yeah? Well unless we want to disgrace our bloodline, now our daughter has to spend her honeymoon at the potentate’s palace . . .

  Amber’s hands trembled as she peeled the last of the gauze off his ar
m.

  She went to her bathroom and brought back a warm washcloth. “Take off your shirt,” she said.

  “Amber, I really don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “Fine.” She knelt in front of him and cleaned his arm. Her parents stopped fighting, and an unnerving silence followed. Amber rubbed the wound with Neosporin, and her fingers soothed the fire in his nerves.

  And lit all different ones.

  “You’re making it worse,” he said.

  “This hurts?”

  He stared at her. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  She smiled. “Do I ever?”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Sweetheart, what are you doing in there?” It was her dad.

  “Having sex,” she said.

  “I heard a man’s voice.”

  “Could you come back later?” she said, her voice biting.

  “Amber—”

  “I’m naked!”

  Aaron tensed, waiting for the door to open, but her dad’s footsteps moved on down the hall.

  “Now you really have to go,” she whispered.

  “I thought you wanted me to talk to your dad,” said Aaron.

  “I changed my mind,” she said, a ghost of a smile crossing her face, and she raised her head to kiss him. “I like you better alive.”

  There was a creak outside her bedroom door. And then it burst open. Aaron jumped up.

  “God dammit, I knew it,” said her father, stepping into the room. “Trespassing on my daughter and my property.” He carried a semi-automatic rifle in his hands. It was all black, polished metal.

  And Aaron was staring straight down the barrel’s throat. “Shit,” he said.

  “Dad—NO!” Amber leapt in front of him.

  “Baby, if you do not step aside, I will fire at him above your head.” His eye narrowed behind the gun sight. “Son, I will escort you now to your vehicle. I did notice you were parked rather close to my Vette—I hope that’s incidental.”

  ***

  It occurred to Aaron, as he scribbled out an uncashable twelve-hundred dollar check at gunpoint for the scratch on Mr. Lilian’s bumper, that without Amber, life wasn’t even remotely appealing. He wanted her to be his half.

  As soon as Aaron made it home, he collapsed fully clothed onto his bed and stared at the four digits on his alarm clock. Two minutes until midnight. Then it would be Saturday, March 30th.