by Ira Bloom
Esme got a better look at the new boy in fifth period, AP world. There was no assigned seating, though Esme was always front and center. But today, Charlie Sexton was in her seat. Esme did a quick scan of the room, to figure out why. Charlie was in her seat because Lisa Vaughn was in Charlie’s seat, which was next to the seat that the new boy had taken. Nobody was in their regular seats. The new boy had taken a seat in the middle of the room, and all the girls had taken seats around him, like carpels around the peduncle of a daisy, which had forced the boys to the periphery of the room like petals. Esme made her way to the rear of the room, where the last few unoccupied desks remained. She walked past the new boy, curious. Her sisters were already fighting over him. Okay, he was handsome, obviously, but what was all the fuss?
As she passed by him, he looked up at her and smiled, then did a double take, as if he’d just seen a ghost. Esme felt a jolt of inexplicable attraction. What in the name of the Goddess was that? She’d felt something, unmistakably. Pheromones, no doubt. That explained everything. Everyone emitted pheromones, but this boy, for whatever reason, was emitting a concentrated dose. The other poor dumb girls around him didn’t have a clue what had hit them. Maybe she could talk some reason into her sisters after all.
Just as the bell rang, the boy grabbed his books and fled his seat. There was a moan of disappointment from the girls in the seats around the abandoned desk. He headed for the back of the room and took the desk next to Esme’s, smiling at her again as he sat. And again, Esme felt that intoxicating sexual energy wafting from his pores.
“Zack,” he said, by way of introduction, offering a hand. He was covered head to toe with clothing. He hadn’t removed his hat or goggles or gloves.
“I’m Esme,” she responded. Her palm was sweating, for some reason.
The teacher, Miss Edwards, was at her desk, examining an entry paper and entering Zack into the roll book. She looked up when she’d finished. “Zackery?” she asked. “Zackery Kallas?”
“Ma’am?” he responded.
“Zackery, we don’t wear sunglasses in class, or hats,” she admonished.
“Terribly sorry,” he answered. He removed a file from his soft leather satchel, stood, and approached the teacher. She rose as well.
Esme watched Zack talking in hushed tones to Miss Edwards in the front of the classroom. He showed her the file, pointing to a few specifics on the pages inside. Esme couldn’t hear any of it from the back of the room. Miss Edwards was into Zack’s personal space in an inappropriate manner, to Esme’s mind. It galled her. The teacher had a large bust, which brushed against Zack’s arm as she leaned in to share the contents of the folder. She was even twirling her hair in a flirtatious manner. She wasn’t bad-looking, but she was ancient, thirty at least. Esme wasn’t the only girl in the class who was peeved.
“Mind if I look on with you?” the boy asked, scooching his desk over until it touched Esme’s. Scientific objectivity notwithstanding, Esme was picking up on whatever it was about Zack that had already hooked her sisters. The unassuming confidence, the accent, the fact that he was the best-looking boy she’d ever seen … overkill. He didn’t even need the pheromone thing: He was smoking hot. She slid her book over so the spine was on the crack between their desks, rereading a sentence for the fourth time.
“You know anything about the Edo period?” he asked, a second attempt to engage her.
No, not at the moment. “Yeah. Enough.” Esme was resolved to resist his charms.
Centuries passed, before he spoke again. Edo came and went, then the Meiji dynasty. Esme read well into the Taisho period. Big earthquake and fire in Tokyo. Tens of thousands killed, cultural landmarks a millennia old destroyed.
“Listen, Esme,” he said. “I’m in a bit of a mither here. Care to meet after school, and give me a few pointers? A brew at Starbucks all right? You can show me the town … ”
His voice caused the blood in Esme’s ears to pulse. Her palms were sweating. “Why me?”
Zack regarded her. The horn-rimmed glasses, the very ordinary brown hair, the unremarkable nose. She was just his size. Pretty at best, but not beautiful. “You remind me of someone,” he said. “Anyway, I just need a friend right now.”
Esme swallowed. “I have to drive my sisters home after school.”
“Four o’clock, then?”
The bell rang. Esme swept up her books and held them to her chest with one hand. She scooped up her backpack, and Veronica’s, and slung them over her shoulder. Her eyes were downturned, but she nodded an affirmation to Zack as she made her escape.
Ten minutes after four, and no sign of Zack. Esme nursed her latte. There was another coffee shop in town that she preferred, which the junior college crowd frequented. But this was where he said to meet her, on Fourth Street, in the middle of town. Zack struck Esme as a player, a charming, very good-looking boy who could and probably would have any girl he wanted. So why had she agreed to meet him? Curiosity? The fact that everyone else wanted him? Her sisters would be pissed, when they found out. And they would find out, because everyone in Middleton was always up in everyone else’s business. Suddenly, he was there at her table, seating himself. She hadn’t seen him come in.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “A bit dodgy, getting here. A couple o’ girls from school were shadowing me.” He sat with his back to the window, facing her.
Esme had chosen the seat in the front window so he’d be able to find her easily, and so she could keep a watch out. Or possibly so she could be seen with him, although she didn’t like admitting that to herself. “I thought you liked girls.”
He grinned. Goddess, he was handsome. “It’s kind of a drag, after a bit, eh? I don’t know what gets into them.”
Esme had a clue or two. “Are you having coffee?”
“Oh, right, I’ll queue up and place my order.”
Esme watched peripherally as Zack purchased a plain coffee. The counter girl was flirting shamelessly with him. Esme disapproved of her: covered in tattoos, half her head shaven, and enough hardware in her face to pick up radio transmissions. The barista also flirted with him when he received his coffee. Esme disapproved of her as well, though she didn’t know why exactly. Something huge passed between Esme and the window, blotting out the light from the street, displacing all the air in the room.
“Hey, Esme, I saw you in the window,” Norman said. “I thought you liked the other place.”
She shrugged, sipping. “It’s all right.” There was no way she’d be able to get rid of Norman before Zack saw her talking to him. For some reason that was important. Past Norman, through the window, Esme spied Wilson and Nick hanging out on the street. Zack would think she hung out with the freakiest reprobates in the school.
“Hey, did you want to come by later and study for the biology test? My dad’s in town, I remember you said you wanted to meet him … ”
“Maybe another time,” she said neutrally.
“Norman, innit?”
It was Zack’s voice, disembodied. It came from somewhere behind Norman, who turned around with some delicacy.
“Zack,” he acknowledged.
“You two know each other?”
“Hard to miss this bloke,” Zack answered. “Bloody impressive, he is.”
“Computer programming class,” Norm explained. “Not that we spoke or anything.”
There was something in Norm’s tone of voice, in his expression. Esme almost didn’t catch it. It recalled to her that one time, out by the Dumpsters, when Logan had pushed him too far. Norm was angry, aggressively so. For some reason, he hated Zack. It was so unlike him.
“Zack’s in my AP world history class. He missed the first six units; we were just meeting to see if I can catch him up,” Esme explained.
Norm was so menacing-looking, the way he loomed up like a mountain, with the scowl on his face, an expression of anger, and something else. Jealousy? “Does he know Katy’s your sister? I saw him in the hallway today with his arm around her. And a
few other girls.”
“Katy?” Zack asked. As if it didn’t even register. “Goth chick? Nice kid, that one. Is that what’s got your knickers in a twist? Because we’re all just friends an’ all.”
“Does she know that?” Esme asked.
“I suppose.” Zack shrugged. “But if she got the wrong idea, we’ll get her sorted, all right?”
“Good. Because if there was anything between you and my sister … ” If there was anything between Zack and her sister, what? What was the implied ultimatum?
Zack edged past Norm and into the seat opposite Esme with his back to the giant. “It’s nice, you looking after your sister an’ all.”
“Katy’s the best,” Esme testified. “We have our disagreements like any sisters, but we’re very close. I’d kill for her. Or Ronnie.”
“Ronnie? You have a brother?”
“Veronica. You can’t have missed her. She’s the most beautiful girl in town. Too young to date, of course.”
Norm wasn’t used to being ignored. It was impossible to ignore him. “On the record,” he mentioned, “I’d also kill anyone that messed with your sisters. Or you.” He clenched and unclenched a fist the size of a Volkswagen menacingly.
“Norm, we were having a conversation, so … uh … check you later?”
“Like sisters to me,” Norm mentioned ominously, as he slowly walked out the door.
“That was so unlike him,” Esme said. “He’s usually so mild-mannered.”
“I get the sense he didn’t much care for me.”
“I think he has a thing for me. But you know … not my type.” Esme had a sudden inspiration about what her type might be.
“I’m not sure he’s anyone’s type,” Zack said.
After coffee, the two took a stroll on the promenade along the river. The weather was comfortable in early November, with a breeze that rippled the Susquahilla. The leaves on the trees were yellow and red, in full fall color.
“Beautiful, this bit of country,” Zack mentioned. “All the space is so open and wild. In Europe, everything is so manicured, you never feel like you’re out in nature.”
“You grew up in England? Whereabouts?”
“Oh, here and there,” he demurred.
“Do you miss it much? England?”
“It’s all right,” he said.
But she could tell he did miss it by the wistful way he said it. “Ah. British understatement.”
He smiled at that. “I can do Irish hyperbole, if you prefer: England is the greatest place in the world. Everyplace else is hell, in comparison.”
He was so beautiful when he smiled. Esme couldn’t help but steal glances as they walked, basking in him. “So … What was that, with Miss Edwards today? About the hat and gloves and glasses. You never take them off. What was in that note, that got her off your back? Or am I being too nosy?” She was being too nosy, but Zack made her feel at ease. He wasn’t at all the flirt she’d expected; just an attractive, funny guy with a very sexy accent.
“Oh, that. I guess everyone will find out eventually. It’s called solar urticaria. A rare form of photosensitivity. It’s genetic. Dad has it, too.”
“So you’re sensitive to sunlight? How bad is it?” It hadn’t hurt his looks, anyway.
“Oh, a bit worse than an albino I guess. I can’t let direct sunlight touch my skin, or I burn horribly. Eyes are extremely sensitive, too. So I have to keep my skin completely covered in the daylight, and wear this industrial-strength sunblock. But at night, I can take off the glasses. I suppose I’d never come out in the day at all if I didn’t have to go to school. But Dad, he wants me to have a normal life. Because he never could, you see.”
“Wow, I’m so sorry. Now I feel like a rat for asking. But I’m glad you told me.” She reached out and took his gloved hand in her hand and gave it a squeeze. He felt so natural, so right. She’d had objections to him before, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember them. He was a really nice guy. No wonder girls all liked him. They walked on, holding hands. Esme pointed out the pier and a few historical landmarks while they strolled.
“So,” he asked. “Esme. You don’t hear that name a lot. With love and squalor?”
So perfect, that he knew that. Everyone knew J. D. Salinger, because of Catcher in the Rye, but nobody knew his other stuff. Her copy of Nine Stories was dog-eared and ratty with the pages falling out of the binding, she’d read it so many times. “Not Salinger. Think Victor Hugo.”
“Ah,” he offered, “short for Esmeralda. That doesn’t bode well for your giant friend, I’m afraid. But I do have a thing for gypsies.”
That was when Esme pulled Zack toward her and kissed him on the cheek. Because he was perfect in every way. And he’d read The Hunchback of Notre Dame. And probably … oh, everything. Maybe she loved him. She’d never loved anyone else before, but she couldn’t think of any other explanation for what she was feeling.
“Do come in, Miss Edwards. I’m afraid we weren’t expecting you, but perhaps we could scare up a pot of tea.” The Ancient held the door open wider to let Zack’s history teacher into the entry hall.
“I’m sorry to impose, Mr. Kallas—”
“Please,” he said, all charm, taking her hand. “Call me Drake. And you are … ?”
“Oh,” she replied, feeling a bit light-headed. “Cecilia.”
He led her by the arm into the living room, which was rather grandiose, though the furnishings were sparse. The real estate community had been abuzz for weeks about the rich European who’d bought the old Hampstead estate in a cash deal and brought a team of architects from Italy to renovate the place top to bottom in a whirlwind of activity that had employed half the contractors in the county. Laughton Hampstead had been one of the founding fathers of Middleton, and though the family fortune had fallen on hard times, there were still several hundred acres of prime farm and grazing land, now fallow, surrounding the estate.
“Please, have a seat,” he insisted, steering her to the sofa. There was an enormous coffee table before it, comfortable armchairs opposite. “Zackery!” he called, though not very loudly, considering the size of the mansion. Zack had impeccable hearing, practically sonar. Like a bat.
Drake took the seat next to Cecilia on the sofa. There was very little space between them, but she didn’t mind. She judged Zack’s father to be in his late forties, and rousingly attractive. He wasn’t wearing a wedding band, which she found intriguing.
“Is your wife at home?” she asked.
“I’m afraid she’s departed,” he confessed.
She found the information horribly tragic, and exciting.
Zack entered the room from the library. “What is it, Father?” He sized up the situation. The Master had not fed for several days. Zack was also feeling a bit peckish. “Oh, hullo Miss Edwards. In trouble already, am I?”
“Oh, no, Zack,” she muttered, blushing. “I was concerned about your condition. I went right home after school and looked up solar urticaria, so I wanted to come by and talk to your father to see if there wasn’t something I could do … uh … that is, we usually have an IEP … ”
It was dark out, after 8:00, so Zack and Drake were not covered head-to-toe in clothing. The Master wore a smoking jacket and slacks. Zack wore sweats and a red Manchester United soccer jersey with the legend WAZZA across the back and an emblem of a red devil wielding a pitchfork on the front. “Zack, would you get our guest some tea?” the Master said.
“No thank you, I’m fine,” Cecilia replied. Though in fact, she was feeling a bit dizzy.
“Does anyone know you’ve come to see us? Do you have a boyfriend, or someone you live with?” Drake’s question, though rather personal, did not seem out of place.
“No, I’m just an old spinster,” she demurred, smiling. Twirling hair.
Drake leaned toward the teacher. “Pardon me if I’m being forward, but you have something on your neck. Do you mind?”
Cecilia tilted her head. “Please.” She was
nothing if not cooperative. Drake licked the fingernail of his index finger, then reached out and scraped a bit of skin near her jugular, as if to remove a smudge. A trick he’d taught Zack very early on. Their saliva was a hundred times as powerful as the pheromones.
“Ooh, that feels nice,” she cooed, eyes glazing, neck tilting, her tongue moistening her lips.
Zack liked Miss Edwards. He hoped the replacement teacher would be as nice.
The sisters spent Monday evening pursuing and hiding from each other all over the house. Katy was deliriously happy about the new boy, and wanted input from her sisters on what to wear to school and whether she should kiss him aggressively just to let him know she was into that kind of stuff. She pestered Esme from room to room, fluctuating between giddy joy and anxiety: She’d seen Zack walking the halls with a few other girls during the course of the day. She’d really felt a connection with him, and she was the intuitive one, so she figured she’d know if it wasn’t the real thing. “Don’t you think? Esme? Right? Don’t you think so?”
All this, entirely clueless to the fact that Veronica was in her room, crying rivers into her pillow. When Ronnie stomped through the kitchen to fish a celery stalk out of the refrigerator for dinner, Katy was oblivious. “Did you see him, Ronnie?” she asked, giving Veronica a hug and attempting to dance her around the kitchen. “Isn’t he the hottest boy ever?”
Veronica wriggled out of Katy’s hug and stiff-armed her, fleeing the kitchen wordlessly.
“Well, what’s gotten into her?” Katy asked. She shrugged. “Sometimes I think we’ve spoiled Ronnie, what do you think? Esme? Esme! Anyway, like I was saying, he’s from England, you should hear how cute he is when he talks … ”