We hung up and, after bookmarking the page, I powered off the computer and ran to join Dad for dinner.
Chapter 18
My favorite Chinese restaurant was in a strip mall on the outskirts of Alexandria. House of Dynasty occupied the far right corner of a long brick center, flanked by a modest shoe-repair shop.
Dad gave our name to the hostess and we stood in the tiny entryway of the restaurant, pressed like sardines against other patrons as we waited to be seated. Waiters bustled about, carrying steaming pots of tea and trays piled high. My mouth watered as one hurried by on his way to the narrow banquet room behind us, plates laden with orange chicken, my favorite. My stomach growled a reminder that lunch had been several hours ago.
Finally, our name was called and the hostess escorted us to a table in the middle of the restaurant, a waiter already poised to take our order.
As soon as the waiter left, Dad pulled out his Blackberry.
“Quick—what’s your guess?”
I scanned the restaurant, taking note of the size of the parties seated at the tables. I knew from past visits that the number of tables stood at thirty and tonight each one was full. After a few seconds of mental math I blurted out my answer. “Nine minutes.”
“Julie?”
Mom frowned but played along. “I’ll say fifteen.”
“Eleven.” Dad said, grinning.
Our drinks were delivered, a root beer for me and red wine for Mom and Dad, along with a plate of fried won tons, our standard appetizer. Mom asked Dad about a new client and I tuned them out.
Before I knew it, our waiter returned, a tray full of food balanced on one hand.
Dad checked his phone and whispered, “Eight.”
I smiled. There were very few restaurants where we could play this game. We’d tried—a couple of times at the country club and once at a seafood place in Old Town—but it was never as fun, guessing the food would take forty-five minutes to arrive.
I dug into my chicken. The sauce was sweet and tangy with just a hint of spiciness, the breading crisp, not gluey, the chicken moist and tender. We took turns sampling each others dishes, Mom’s moo shoo pork and Dad’s Kung Pao shrimp. With the easy flow of conversation between Mom and Dad—even me, sometimes—I relaxed. The stone continued its temperature dance in my pocket but I was able to ignore it.
Our waiter returned, bearing boxes for leftovers and a small plate of fortune cookies.
“I’m stuffed.” I waved Dad’s hand away as he offered me a cookie.
“Come on, Valerie, take it,” he said.
“If she’s full, she’s full,” Mom said. “Don’t push food on her, Michael. She doesn’t need the extra calories.” Her comment pinched me right out of the ideal family I’d created during dinner.
I took it. Not because I wanted it, of course. I ripped open the plastic and tore the cookie in half. I pulled the fortune out before popping one half of the crisp cookie into my mouth. I chewed slowly, ignoring the tiny strip of paper on the table.
“What’s yours say, Julie?” Dad tore his open.
Mom read hers. “’Listen to life. There is always a voice crying, ’Be!’”
Dad laughed as he read his. “Wow, this is fitting: ’The one who snores will always fall asleep first.’”
“Read yours, Valerie,” Mom said.
But I was nervous. Their fortunes had been insightful, eerily so, as if chosen just for them. Sure, Dad’s had been light-hearted and funny. But true. Why had he picked that cookie and not a different one? What invisible force—if it existed—compelled him to choose that particular one? Mom’s fortune had, in my opinion, summarized all of her faults in one, succinct sentence: stop the eternal quest for what you don’t have, what you’ll never have, and just be.
“Here, I’ll read it.” Dad reached out to grab the paper in front of me but I stopped him.
I unfolded the fortune. Two strips of paper were stuck together and I pulled them apart before reading them. I read the first one. “A gift of yours belongs to another.”
“That’s a strange fortune,” Dad said. “What does the second one say?”
“The important thing is to never stop questioning.” The butterflies in my stomach fluttered to life. I swallowed them down.
“Two fortunes.” He chuckled. “I wonder what that means. Maybe you’ll have double the regular luck this week.” He pulled out his wallet and selected a credit card.
I didn’t think luck had anything to do with it. I recognized those fortunes for what they were: urgent messages specifically for me. The question I asked myself as goosebumps prickled my skin was simple: who were the messengers?
I texted Geoff when I got home. I changed out of my clothes, brushed my teeth. He didn’t text back. Five minutes, then ten. I stared at my phone for a minute before making a decision.
He answered on the third ring, his voice loud to compete with the music blaring in the background.
“Turn it down,” I told him. “I can barely hear you.”
Geoff laughed. “I can’t. I’m at a coffeehouse. Some friends of mine are playing a gig tonight.”
I wondered how he had managed to hook up with musicians. Maybe homeschooling wasn’t as bad as I’d chalked it up to be.
“Oh,” I said. “I texted you.”
“I know. I was just getting ready to answer. I didn’t find anything new.”
“Oh. Ok.”
“I’ll let you know when I do, OK?”
We hung up and I pulled out my math homework. The pencil stabbed through the paper as I worked through the problems. I had no right to feel upset. Geoff had a life—apparently a pretty fun one—and I couldn’t expect him to drop everything to hang out at his computer, researching for me and waiting for emails. We had barely been on speaking terms a week ago, I reminded myself. I turned off the computer and finished my homework, trying to forget about the mysterious fortunes and how completely alone I felt.
Chapter 19
It was Friday and they were back. I didn’t see them right away but I knew. Not by spine-tingling shivers or that nagging sixth-sense that sometimes made its presence known. Rather, it was by the way Emily hovered in the hallways between classes, on the lookout for someone. By the way Ashley waltzed into English Lit, her hair groomed and her make-up retouched. But mostly, it was by the hushed conversation taking place behind me as we watched the first half of Romeo and Juliet in the darkened classroom.
“--so glad they’re back.”
“Which one are you hot for?”
“Both.”
Muffled giggles ensued.
I slumped in my seat and tried to figure out what to do. I didn’t want to see them, not after the fortunes I’d read earlier in the week. I’d told Geoff about the double fortune but he’d dismissed them, telling me I was trying to find a connection that didn’t exist. Noel and Leo’s absence from school over the last few days had lulled me into a false sense of security and I’d started to think that perhaps they’d left. Gone away for good. I’d tried to forget that afternoon in the hallway, the touch of Noel’s cool lips on my face and the promises he’d made to me. I didn’t know if I necessarily wanted him to leave but I certainly didn’t want to need his protection from something—or someone—either.
I just had to get through the rest of the day, I told myself. Lunch and two more classes…and a mad dash to Mom’s waiting car. I formulated my plan. I’d skip lunch and hide out in Mr. Connor’s class. We’d had an interesting conversation about the beginnings of World War I in history today. Without much effort, I knew I could draw him into a discussion, talk to him about potential topics for my final term paper. I could purposely run late and hope for a late pass. What was left? I’d still have to sit through art with Noel, and probably walk with him to our respective science classes, but I could handle that. Especially if Leo didn’t put in an appearance. I could do it, I thought.
The bell rang and I hurried to Mr. Connor’s class. He was sitting behind a large met
al desk, his brown-bag lunch spread out before him.
“Valerie.” He smiled, revealing slightly crooked, coffee-stained teeth. He was grading papers.
Mr. Connor was the oldest person I knew. His hair was white and thin and he wore it long on top, those wispy strands a feeble attempt to cover his age-spotted, balding head.
He set his pen down on the stack of papers in front of him. “What can I do for you?”
“Well,” I said. “I was hoping you could give me some ideas for my paper. I was thinking about writing something about World War I.”
His watery-blue eyes lit up. That was all the invitation he needed. I pulled up a chair next to his desk and jotted down notes while he casually lectured. He’d talk for a bit, take a bite of his ham sandwich and continue. I tried to ignore the growls of protest from my stomach.
“You should grab something to eat before it’s too late,” Mr. Connor commented after a loud, rather embarrassing gurgle sounded.
“I’m not hungry.” I tried to sound convincing.
He studied me for a moment before thrusting a bag of potato chips at me. “Here. I don’t know why you’re avoiding the cafeteria but the last thing you need is to skip lunch.”
I started to protest but he pressed the package into my hand. I opened it and finished the bag, crumbs and all, while Mr. Connor continued his monologue.
The first bell sounded and Mr. Connor stood. There was a noticeable mustard stain on his beige sweater.
“I hope that helps some, Valerie,” he said. He took his glasses off and polished them on his sweater, right next to the stain. If he saw it, he made no comment. “World War I is an excellent term paper topic. As a history teacher, I often think it gets short-changed. Most people tend to focus on WWII, probably because the U.S. was so clearly affected by that war. But the first war was significant, too, and as we’ve learned in class, it laid much of the groundwork for why World War II started.”
I gathered my notebook and placed it in my backpack with painful slowness, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
“You’re going to be late for class.”
I stayed in my chair. “I know. It’s just…I’m really not feeling very well.” The thought of heading to art class was actually making me sick to my stomach.
“Do you need to go to the nurse’s office?” Mr. Connor’s voice was raised, slightly alarmed.
I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so. Would it be OK if I just sat here for a minute or two?”
“Certainly.” He returned to grading papers.
I kept a hand on my stomach and my head down, casting a sideways glance at the clock every now and then. Mr. Connor had a planning period and his class remained empty of students. One more minute…thirty seconds…the bell rang.
I waited a few minutes before speaking. “I feel a littler better now.”
Mr. Connor looked up. His eyes were full of concern. “Good.”
“Um, the second bell rang. Do you think I could have a late pass?”
He opened the middle desk drawer and pulled out a small pad of paper. He scribbled a note. “Here you go.” He handed it to me.
I said a quick thanks and moved toward the door.
“Valerie?”
I turned.
Mr. Connor leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “If you have questions or need to talk, I’m here. Even if it’s not about history.”
I nodded, surprised by the sudden welling of tears in my eyes, but said nothing. “OK,” I mumbled. I left.
Chapter 20
The walkways through campus were deserted, just as I’d hoped. Mrs. Jordan, the Head of School, stood outside the Administration Building with a couple of teachers. They formed a semi-circle and were deep in conversation. Shouts echoed in the distance, the sound of 5th period P.E. starting a softball game. The smell of pizza hung in the air, an aromatic reminder of my missed lunch. My stomach reacted with a tiny protest of hunger. I’d have to wait.
I was only ten minutes late to art class. Mr. Pinkney accepted my pass without comment and shoved it in his jeans pocket. He didn’t look like a teacher St. John’s would hire. His typical attire mirrored my own—jeans and a t-shirt—and his face was often covered with days worth of blond stubble. I was never sure if this was deliberate or because he’d simply forgotten to shave.
Noel was sitting in the chair next to mine. He smiled when he saw me and I looked away.
“Hi Valerie.” The happiness in his voice was genuine.
“Hi.” I kept my eyes averted. Best to keep contact to a minimum, I reminded myself.
I pulled my candlestick sketch from my folder, grabbed a pencil and tried to tune in to Mr. Pinkney’s lecture. He stood at his demonstration easel and sketched quickly, shading and erasing as he spoke. I tried to focus on my sketch.
I wanted to be good at art. My love affair began at an early age. When offered a trip into D.C., I would beg my parents to take me to the National Gallery of Art. Not the Air & Space Museum with its massive planes suspended from the rafters; not the Natural History Museum with its halls of mammals and ocean life and life-size dioramas of prehistoric man. I wanted to spend my days at the art gallery and navigate the maze of rooms there, those silent, still rooms that magically connected to each other through a series of doors and hallways, all filled with exquisite, priceless works of art.
I could spend an hour alone in the Monet gallery, marveling over the tiny brush strokes of color that transformed into stunning, impressionistic landscapes. When I was in second grade, I would sit in front of Renoir’s painting of the girl holding a watering can and hope for her to come to life, to leap off the canvas and step into the room to play with me.
Some of the paintings and sculptures on display left a burning ache in my throat, their beauty almost too painful, my voice incapable of describing what I saw and how each piece made me feel. But I still went, more times than I could remember, and those visits ignited a burning love and desire for art. Unfortunately, love and desire do not always equal talent. Signing up for visual art had confirmed this painful revelation.
“Are you angry?” Noel’s voice broke through my stream-of-consciousness thinking.
I didn’t answer.
“Maybe you missed me. You’re mad that I didn’t tell you where I was.”
I glared at him. He was completely off the mark.
He chuckled. “I knew that would get your attention.”
“I did not miss you,” I hissed under my breath.
“I missed you,” he said simply.
I tried to look away, to remind myself of my plan of avoidance. But then he reached out his hand and lifted my chin to look at me and I was lost.
I drank in his cool perfection, the dark blue jeans frayed at the knees and hem, the sky-blue t-shirt that hugged the contours of his sculpted chest. His ink-black hair hung across his forehead, silky strands that I longed to push away so that I could lose myself in the depths of his icy blue eyes, as brutally lovely as a cold and cloudless winter sky. Why did he have to be so beautiful?
I told myself to stop, to look away, but I didn’t. Even when his hand dropped back to the table, no longer guiding my gaze, I still stared.
“You’ve been OK.” He stated this, as if he knew. “But you have questions. And you’re still scared.”
How did he know? Was I that easy to read?
Mr. Pinkney approached our table. “Is your next project portraiture, Valerie?”
With a concerted effort, I tore my gaze away from Noel and looked back at my drawing. “No. He asked me a question.”
It was different with Noel, I thought. The other day, when Leo had captured me with those eyes of his, I couldn’t look away. With the boy sitting next to me, I didn’t want to.
Mr. Pinkney examined each of our sketches. “Noel, yours is excellent. Have you studied art before?”
“A little,” he admitted.
“Fine work.” He stroked his chin. “We should move you to the
Advanced class. I think you’d find it more at your level.”
“I’m happy with this class.”
“But it’s clear you’re not being challenged in this class...”
“I have other challenges, sir,” Noel responded politely. “I’m not interested in any more at the moment.”
The frown on Mr. Pinkney’s face deepened but he said nothing.
“Valerie.” He studied my lopsided, drunken candlestick. The shading was all wrong. I’d tried again and again to correct it, the eraser smudges on my paper attesting to this fact. “You definitely get an A for effort.”
He moved to the next table.
“You try too hard,” Noel commented. “You think too much when you draw. Draw with your heart, not your head.”
I didn’t look up from my sketch. “I’m not talking to you.” Or looking at you, either, I thought.
“Why?” he asked innocently.
“Because I don’t like what you do to me,” I snapped, then stopped. Ugh. Why was I talking to him? What was I doing?
Noel was amused. “What do I do to you?”
I clamped my mouth shut, pressing my lips together to prevent me from opening them again. Who knew what I would say?
He chuckled. “You send some pretty mixed signals,” he said softly, almost to himself. “I was beginning to wonder…”
The bell rang then and I resisted the urge to cheer. Instead, I grabbed my backpack and hurried toward the door, not bothering to wait for Noel. But he caught up with me, falling in step next to me as I walked to Chemistry.
“I want to talk to you, Valerie,” he said. “About what’s going on.”
I forced myself to keep walking. Noel stayed with me, his arm almost touching mine. He made me uneasy. Not the way Leo did; with his brother, I was afraid of what he might do to me, what magic might lurk behind those warm eyes and compelling smile, what else he could do if his simple touch rendered me nearly senseless. With Noel it was different. I was worried what I might do.
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