by Xavier Neal
“What…what happened?” I ask as I slowly caress the spot.
“We’re having ice cream,” he answers, sticking the spoon in the treat and the treat on the dashboard. Grabbing his fedora from the backseat, he slides it on and adjusts it immediately, looking in the mirror. “Remember. You helped me out earlier, so I took you to get ice cream.”
“Right,” I state carefully. “But then, we were in a car chase…”
“Chase?”
“Yeah, with two people on bikes.”
“Bicycles?”
“No, motorcycles! And one just disappeared into dust when he hit that building, and the other chased us down before he pulled out a large gun with what looked like a silencer and shot me right here!” I point to the spot where my uniform should have a hole, but didn’t.
He leans over, loosens his black tie, and runs his finger gently across my shoulder, causing goose bumps on my red and black, plaid-skirt-covered legs. He shrugs. “Yeah, I don’t see anything.”
“But…” I cut myself off and try to start again. “But I… and then you…and then we…but I swear…”
“Must be the heat.” With a mischievous smile, he dangles the dessert at me. “Ice cream?”
I shake my head and relax against the seat, more distraught and confused than ever.
“Seriously, nothing happened?”
“I drove here.”
“But I…and then you…and then we…but I swear… I saw people vanish into smoke!”
Justin sighs. “Peyton people don’t just vanish into smoke. Are you sure you’re okay? Do I need to put the top up?”
I stare at him blankly for a second, receiving the same look I got at school, but this time without the request of a harmless good deed. Cautiously, I reach for the ice cream and continue to analyze my surroundings for signs of the chase.
“So, the D.R.E.A.M. gallery is owned by your parents. That must be why you have such a fine taste for art.” He swallows this compliment along with a large amount of ice cream.
“They say it runs in my blood,” I continue, checking out my body for signs of bullet holes or blood spots. Baffled to still come up with nothing from my examination, I dust some yellow dirt off my shoulder and sigh. “Why’s being a con second nature to you?”
“You could say it runs in my blood.” He chuckles, which warms my heart a little. “I’ve got a pretty good philosophy about life. It’s all like a game of cards. You’re either the dealer or the mark.”
“Don’t you mean player?”
“Player implies you’re participating, that you are involved in something willingly. Mark means you’re the target, and the game is you.” His words are almost like a snack for the mind—not quite profound enough to be in a philosophy book yet not meaningless enough to shrug off.
Chapter Two
I drag my charcoal pencil around the outline of Justin’s face once more, hoping to catch its solid stone cut. For some reason, I just can’t stop thinking about him. While I didn’t spend nearly as much time with him as I would have liked, it was still long enough to get my mind wondering. Why me? Why on earth would he fall right into my world?
Determined to at least get his eyes right, I gently shade them in with a pastel color, doing my best not to grin from ear to ear. Once they’re shaded in completely, I take my index finger and gently create a soft, smeared look with the deep blue. Resting my face on my bent arm and hand, I admire his mystery. It’s strange to be infatuated with a guy I just met, but at the same time, I can’t remember the last time anyone actually talked to me, let alone listened.
Classmates stroll out of the room for the lunch period, while my eyes stay focused on his in the sketch. It’s like he’s got me pinned right in my desk. Picking up the pencil again, I begin editing the details of his playful lips while smiling to myself as the clever things he said yesterday ring in my ear.
“You’ll lock up, right?” Ms. Kennedy asks from the back of the room beside the door, her purse and work bag draped over her shoulder.
“Always.” I glance over and nod. “Anything in the kiln I need to worry about?”
“Not today.” She shakes her bright blond hair that’s got huge twists and braids all through it. With one more pull of her pastel tie dyed dress, she pushes up her falling glasses and waves me goodbye.
As I shade in the last few lines of the curve of his grin, I hear footsteps and voices whispering as they enter the room. Assuming it’s just students who forgot their art history books from the last class, I merely tuck my bottom lip into my mouth and continue shading.
“I don’t remember you looking that good in real life,” a voice bellows out as his large hands land on my desk. Startled, I pop my head up to see Justin with a warm smile and what I can only assume is his best friend from the response to the drawing and his cocky demeanor. Uncomfortable, I quickly attempt to shut my sketchbook and begin to trip over my own words. “I was just…well, I mean…and well, you…but I’m…and then…”
“It’s okay.” Justin smirks, plopping down backwards in the desk in front of me and placing a hand on the drawing to keep the book open. “It’s really good.”
I feel flattered, and my entire body temperature reaches the level of the kiln before I can chirp out, “Thanks.”
After a lingering look, he gives his lips a lick and points to his eyes. “I like that they’re the only things colored in the sketch.”
Instantly, I shrug. “It’s kind of one of my trademarks, especially when I journal. I like to sketch with black and pop with a pastel color. I feel it gives attention to the appropriate detail.”
My hand quickly flips the pages to some early sketches, and Justin responds, “Oh, I see in this one the emphasis is on the crack in the glass window.”
“Yeah, Mr. Mox, the shop teacher, had no idea that it was one of his own shop students who put it there. I was in the courtyard sketching that very window when I saw Bret Milguard check out a girl bending over in her cheerleading uniform a few feet in front of me.”
With a slight grin, he turns the page once more, while I glance up at the attractive blond guy who hovers almost directly over me. “And here, it’s the Jell-O on that kid’s lunch plate.”
“He got two servings because Mrs. Pickleton,” I point to the cafeteria lady in the back of the sketch, “wasn’t paying attention. They ran out of mashed potatoes, and when she turned around to grab more, he slipped back in line and received another scoop. Who knew people liked Jell-O that much?”
Justin accidentally knocks my pencil off my desk, quickly leans over to pick it up, and once he’s up, he turns the page to the sketch I was working on yesterday. “And the pale pink flowers on this piano.”
“Those are lilies,” his friend speaks up.
“No, those are belladonnas.” Justin corrects him, tilting his fedora up. “In fact, belladonnas contain ingredients that are used in several lifesaving drugs. Why would you put those on top of a piano?”
I sigh and nervously scratch the back of my neck. “Because some people believe that music is the medicine of the soul.”
The look on Justin’s face becomes rather pale, as if what I said yanked on his calm chord. His dark blue eyes begin to fade to a lighter shade, and he looks up at his friend for help.
“So, it’s safe to assume you must be the lovely Peyton my main man here couldn’t stop talking about.” His friend sits on the edge of the desk behind me. With a soft run of his fingers through his straight, bright- blond, mop top hair, he finally introduces himself. “I’m Peter.”
“Nice to meet you.” I slowly close my sketchbook and slide it underneath my arms on the desk.
“Pleasure’s all mine. Justin was bragging all about this pretty little thing he met when he ran into the art building. If I do say so myself, you, Ms. Peyton Darling, are unmistakably perfect. Love the necklace, by the way.” His cheerful tone is only matched by his extraordinarily bright, emerald eyes.
“Thanks.” I touch the pendant
and adjust my red uniform shirt. “How long have you guys been friends?”
“Seems like forever.” Justin’s answer is followed by a stroke of his chin.
“You could almost say it’s more like we’re family than friends,” Peter says, adjusting his rolled up black sleeves, which is when the star tattoo with a broken heart inside of it on his inner wrist catches my eye.
“A sympathetic friend can be quite as dear as a brother.” The quote rolls off Justin’s tongue as he gives his loose black tie an adjustment. “Homer.”
With a small head tilt, I sigh. “You know an awful lot of wise words right off the top of your head.”
Quickly, Peter interjects, “And I heard you know an awful lot about art history off the top of yours.”
“You could say that,” I answer cautiously. “Did you two need help with something? Is that why you came to see me?”
Justin stands up, planting his hand firmly on my desk, before asking, “Can you excuse us for a second?”
“Sure.” I nod quickly, catching Justin in what seems to be a significant glance at his own hand.
He slips an arm around Peter, who gives me one more shot of his perfectly sculpted face. I wonder if, maybe by that quote, he means they are brothers and he just doesn’t want to tell me.
My eyes fall to where Justin’s palm was, revealing a folded, flower shaped piece of white paper I don’t recall being there. Carefully, I open the piece of paper, while the two of them remain engaged in a quiet conversation by the window.
It’s beauty that captures your attention, personality which captures your heart.
Smiling, I slide the note under my book as the two of them stroll back over to me. Justin casually sits on the desk in front of me, while Peter adjusts his red tie nervously before sitting on the desk behind me.
“So, Peyton,” Peter begins, diverting my attention to him, while Justin leans over to retie his white tennis shoe. “I was wondering if you could help me out. I really need some information on this piece called Sous Clef.”
“The Italian painting titled Under Lock and Key.” I nod, pulling down my skirt before crossing my legs. “I’m sorry, that’s a French painting.” Peter’s attempt to correct me brings out my condescending side.
“The name is French because, when Nicola Vince was visiting France, he was struck with inspiration. He’d actually just come from having wine with a gorgeous, redheaded woman who’s said to be mirrored in the painting. He was there with a cousin, Joseph, who had just met a French woman whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. In fact, Nicola and Joseph were more like brothers than cousins.” My ramble begins, which causes both of them to grin widely. Embarrassed, I slide down in my seat, pull my hair to the side of my face, and mutter, “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” The words slide out of Justin’s mouth, and his hand finds mine. With a bit of an attitude, he snaps back at Peter. “Does that answer your question?” Peter taps his thumbs on the edge of the desk. “It informs me that you are the best person for Justin to talk to about this artwork.”
“I thought you wanted to know about it.” I point at him confused.
“We both do,” Justin speaks up and clears his throat. “Isn’t the painting at For the Love of Art Museum?”
“It is. In fact…”
“Why don’t you two head over there and check it out?” Peter slides a cell phone out of his pocket. “I have to take this. Peyton, it was nice meeting you. Justin, text me later.”
“Will do.” He salutes his friend as Peter strolls out while already talking on the phone.
Without thinking, I mumble, “Is he always so self-centered?”
“Yes,” Justin chuckles, handing me my backpack, “usually more. I’m actually surprised he even took the time to compliment you on your necklace.”
Strolling over to the door, I roll my eyes. “Wow. Nice guy.”
“Hey, everyone has at least one friend they aren’t the most proud of,” he states, sliding his hands in his pockets as I shut the door.
Under my breath, I mumble, “I guess that’s true if you have friends.”
At the door, I fiddle around in my bag for the keys. Confused as to why they aren’t in my pocket where I usually put them, I open my bag and find them there instead. Why would I have put them there? After locking the door, I follow Justin toward his car for the second day in a row.
About two steps away from the art building, I see Peter surrounded by girls who are hanging on to his every word. Casually, he wraps his arms across the shoulders of the two closest to him before tossing his head forward in laughter. I watch as he casually kisses one on the cheek before whispering something in the other’s ear and score another chance to glance at his tattoo.
Justin draws my attention back to him when he asks, “Hey, do you mind if we stop by my locker first?”
“Sure.” I shrug, following him to the academic building where the lockers are located.
The two of us arrive in an empty hallway and stroll to his locker, where he puts in his combination. While I was expecting the inside of his locker to resemble him, which it does, with the extra fedoras and his dress jacket (which most guys on campus don’t wear), I wasn’t expecting to see all those art books stacked at the top. “Hey, Justin, why,” is all my mouth gets out before I’m yanked to the ground, barely ducking a bullet, which dents the inside of his locker door.
There are two figures, once again dressed in black from head to toe, this time both aiming guns at us. Justin pulls my hand, and I follow him rapidly down the hall to avoid the bullets intended to hit us. Unfortunately for us, around the corner is the emergency stairwell, which is always locked unless the alarm is sounded. Terrified by the ricocheting sound, I grip his hand tighter.
He reassures me in a soft whisper. “It’s going to be okay.”
I open my mouth to retort, to insist that it’s never going to be okay when someone shoots at you, when he places a finger to his lips.
Justin patiently waits until one of the figures rounds the corner, gun out in front, which is when he gives the emerging hand a clean chop, knocking out the weapon. The figure swiftly grabs Justin’s arm, slamming his whole body into the wall with such force that it creates a small crack. In an effortless motion, Justin knees the figure between its legs before using his elbow to drop it to the ground. Once there, the figure reaches out in an attempt to grab the gun next to my feet, which is when I grab it and toss it to Justin, who places it to the figure’s forehead. Without the slightest hesitation, he pulls the trigger, and the character disappears into the same thick gray smoke as the one from yesterday.
“Hah, I knew it!” I shriek loudly as I point to the area where the man once stood.
Panting, Justin rises to his feet and places a finger to his lips again. So I press my lips tightly together to try and hide my remaining screams. He carefully peers around the corner, surprised that the other figure has managed to escape. Justin grabs the fire alarm handle and sounds the sirens, allowing us to slip into the stairwell.
I quickly follow him through the door and halfway down the stairwell, where the other figure is waiting for us. Immediately, he grabs me by the hand and spins me around down over his knee to let a bullet soar past me into the wall. Justin fires back as the figure dodges and continues to shoot at us. Acting as a barrier between me and the bullets, Justin advances us directly toward the figure who finally runs out of ammunition. I watch as Justin takes a swing and connects with the character’s jaw, tossing the figure down the flight of stairs. With one shot left, Justin pulls the trigger as easily as a child would a Nerf gun. The bullet lands between its eyes before the figure puffs into the same smoke its partner left.
With his gun holding hand, Justin pops the door open, leading us out to the crowd of people who are heading to the parking lot as if there is a real emergency, which I guess they think is a fire.
Suddenly, the most amazing thing happens, almost as if it had been rehearsed time and t
ime again. Justin lowers the weapon to his side, which is when Peter, who is passing in the opposite direction, slides it into his own possession. Knowing what I learned yesterday about keeping my eye on the object, I watch as Peter slides it into his backpack moments before he bumps into someone else, and the backpack slides from his shoulder to the other person’s. At that moment, I try to keep my eyes on the backpack, but I get confused as the person weaves around the masses of panicking individuals.
“Come on.” Justin urges as we arrive in the parking lot with his car in sight.
“But,”
“I’ll explain later,” he hustles to his car, his keys already out, “but for now, we have to go.”
Climbing into the car, I quickly buckle my seat belt as Justin whips out of his parking space and out of the back entrance, which leads to a back alley road most people don’t use.
I open my mouth to ask a question when a white van pops out behind us and behaves as viciously as the motorcycles did. My head spins around as the white van’s doors open and another black figure slides out on its hood. Justin glances in his rearview mirror to see what’s happening, which is when I notice him pulling his tie off but leaving the knot there. The figure hops to the car’s hood moments before the van turns.
A sharp scream escapes me before Justin commands, “Take the wheel.”
I stretch my hands over to keep us straight on the back road, while Justin boxes with the figure. Eventually, he wraps his tie around the creature’s neck, holds on with two hands, and slams the breaks, yanking the tie.
Once the figure disappears, he retakes the wheel, makes a couple of unexpected turns, and lands us back on the main road in traffic.
Justin tosses his tie on the backseat floor, undoes a couple of buttons, and pulls up to a red light, where he buckles his seat belt. He casually turns to see me staring at him in disbelief. He asks innocently, “What?”