As the heat washes over my face and neck, I gaze into the box, my distorted reflection staring back at me from the rounded cuff. It’s a moment or two before I realize the cuff is reflecting something in the lid of the box: another note. I grab and open it in one motion.
This will help.
Jake hasn’t addressed it or signed it, but both are unnecessary. His heat signature is all over the little piece of paper. I have no idea what this magnificent trinket is, but that it’s something beyond technology, beyond human understanding, is entirely plain.
How did Jake come across it? Is this the source of the mystery surrounding him, or just another piece of the puzzle?
He intends me to wear it—that much is obvious—and I want more than anything to make him happy, to honor this borrowed gift by putting it on immediately.
Still, I hesitate.
Never put it on. Isn’t that what Gandalf told Frodo?
Feeling reckless, and maybe a little brave, I pick up the cuff, fantastically surreal, and slide it onto my left wrist.
Amazing.
It’s like Jake is holding my sleeve again. That same blaze of fire, calm and reassuring, travels up my arm and spreads to the rest of my being. The stress of the day vanishes. The grief that shakes my hands darts away.
I am at peace.
14
Brielle
I need to make good on my commitment to Dad, so I don’t linger at Jake’s house. Tucking the cigar box under my arm and snapping off the lights, I step onto the porch and lock the door behind me. According to Jake’s note, he has no idea how long he’ll be gone, and I can’t imagine leaving the door unlocked one minute longer with that colossal entertainment system in there. Granted, someone would have to rent a moving van to get it all out, but I’ve lived in the city long enough to appreciate the passion of a thief.
The cuff is hidden under the sleeve of my hoodie, but as I go through the motions of driving to and from the video store, I wonder vaguely what I’ll tell Dad if he sees it. I can’t imagine. I’m suddenly grateful for the coming winter and the opportunity to wear long sleeves.
Without much thought I decide on a Steve Carell movie. It’s fairly middle-of-the-road. Not at all bloody, in case I happen to actually catch some of it, and certainly not too girly. I grab some popcorn and am back home in a flash, having taken marginally more time than normal.
Still, Dad notices. He snaps my thigh with the towel he’s using to dry his hair. “I was about to call the sheriff again, kid. What took so long?”
“You just got out of the shower. I could ask you the same thing.” I do my best to sound exasperated, and he lets it go.
We sit side by side on the couch, munching on popcorn, our minds in two different places: his on the raunchy humor and mine on the fascinating turn my life has taken in the past three days. My body’s reaction to the cuff has not subsided. On the contrary, not only is my body entirely heated and at ease, but I can literally feel my muscles relaxing. My shoulders and back unknot. My head bobs forward on excessively relaxed neck muscles, and I have trouble keeping my eyes open.
“Brielle, baby,” I hear Dad say, “you don’t have to stay up with me. Go to bed, little girl.”
I mumble something and wander to my room, leaving him to turn off the lights. I climb under the covers, fully dressed. But somewhere between awake and asleep, I realize that the cuff is getting heavier and heavier on my wrist. Where before it felt light as air, it now feels like it weighs ten pounds and is gaining weight with each passing moment.
Irritated, I tug it off and set it on my lap, where again it feels more like steam, weightless and warm, than a piece of clunky jewelry. I’m not entirely awake, and the idea of parting with it and sinking into a freezing cold, numbing state of unrest does not appeal to me. I nearly break into tears at the thought of it.
Before I consider the predicament any further, the cuff begins to twist and coil and unravel. It’s breathtaking, really—the liquid-gold shine and the precision with which it moves. I watch through sleepy eyes as it reforms into the crown-sized ring.
Should I wear it on my head to sleep? But what if Dad sneaks in to check on me? That could be an awkward conversation. Instead, I decide to try something. I take the ring in both hands and slide it under my pillow. I force myself to stand and leave it, just long enough to change into a tank top and boxers. Then I crawl back under the covers, crossing my fingers that my experiment has worked.
Ever so slowly I lay my head down, and immediately breathe a sigh of relief. The ring has completely warmed my pillow. The reassuring heat moves down the mattress, down my back, my thighs, my calves, until even my toes are toasty warm. I succumb to the ridiculous serenity of it all and allow thoughts of Jake to pull me into unconsciousness.
My dreams are full of nothing but colors—like oil mixing with rain on the blacktop, they swirl in and out of each other, taking no specific shape and never ceasing in their movement. First a palette of dark blue and purple dances before me, and then a passionate wave of orange and red, followed by shocks of gray and black before a bright green and white wash my mind clear.
Over and over again, the colors bow and curve. The heartbreak turning to passion, passion interrupted by mourning, mourning giving birth to new life. It is peace. It is joy. And when I wake ten hours later, I haven’t moved an inch.
Lying in bed, I listen to the sounds of a fast-approaching winter. The wind rattles the trash cans outside, and leaden raindrops tap like Fred Astaire against the roof. What will it be like when I have to give this trinket back to Jake? Will I be able to sleep as naturally without it? Probably not, though I’d gladly trade the undisturbed sleep of this night for a day spent in his company.
I wonder if he’ll be at school today.
I leave the ring under my pillow and shower quickly. Pulling on a sweatshirt and fleece-lined cargo pants, I run to the kitchen for a bite to eat. Dad’s loading his lunch box when I walk through the doorway.
“Hey, baby.”
“Mornin,’ Dad.” I kiss him on the cheek.
He turns suspicious eyes on me again, but I ignore him while I wait for my Pop-Tart to toast.
“I’m outta here,” he says from the door.
“See ya, Dad. Be safe.”
“You seem . . . happy today.”
My Pop-Tart pops.
“Do I?”
“Uh-huh.”
I don’t really have an answer. I wrap my Pop-Tart in a paper towel, kiss him again, and dash back to my room. “Be safe,” I call over my shoulder.
“You said that already.”
A minute later I hear the door swing shut behind him.
I’m alone.
I reach under my pillow, feeling around for the ring. To my surprise I pull out the cuff. I have no idea how it knows what I need, but the prospect of seeing Jake hurries me, so I simply slide it on my wrist and run out the door. I chance a look at his house as I climb into Slugger, but there’s no way of knowing if he’s returned or not.
I’m the first to arrive in calculus, and I busy myself scribbling my name in the front of each of my books. The teacher looks half asleep still and ignores me. Each time the door opens my head snaps up, expecting. Finally the bell rings, and I’m forced to acknowledge that perhaps Jake hasn’t returned.
I stare at the blackboard, at the teacher whose name I cannot remember, and pray for steady hands. Lately all my emotions have been so extreme. After Ali, everything was so dark, so sad, and then with Jake and this strange gold ring came excitement and peace. I don’t trust my emotions to understand he’ll return.
Calculus plods on, though, and I learn something.
Not about mathematics. No, nothing that tedious.
I miss Jake.
Probably more than I should, really.
But without the numbness that had overtaken me before, I’m able to think more clearly. I’m not in pain. I’m just disappointed. I’m not abandoned. I’m just alone. This I can deal with. I s
lide my right hand inside my left sleeve and grip the cuff. The effect is instantaneous, and my body is aware again of the heat that has not left me.
I eat lunch with Kaylee and allow her to drag me to the parking lot to show off her new seat covers.
I’m sure it has something to do with the strange little cuff buried under my sleeve, but I feel more and more like my old self today. I feel almost right again. For that, and for this borrowed gift, I owe Jake more than I’ll ever be able to repay.
The afternoon rolls by, slowly for the most part. Photo arrives, and I hide out in the darkroom sorting through film. We have a critique tomorrow, and I’ve done absolutely nothing to prepare. Eventually I settle on a shot of a maple leaf—the last one left on the tree. In the background, out of focus, is the dilapidated mess of boards in which Jake and I weathered the storm.
I expose and process the picture and mount it on a golden-yellow backdrop. Using photo oils and a cotton swab, I paint the leaf burnt orange. As the final minutes of class tick by, I lay it out to dry next to several other pictures already in place for the critique.
Maybe Jake will be back by tomorrow.
But Tuesday arrives, and then Wednesday. Still Jake hasn’t returned to school. His house, which I glance at more often than strictly necessary, looks the same as it did when I left it on Sunday night. I work hard to focus in my classes and spend both lunch and my after-school hours with Kaylee.
She’s different from Ali, to be sure, but her friendship, I’m realizing anew, is something I need.
Ali forced me to think. Forced me to consider. Turned me into a better person because I had discussed life, discussed change, debated my thoughts and abilities. Whenever I was with her, I was always challenged to excel, to move forward, to make a decision. Not because she required it, but because her very presence drew it out of me. Certainly, we had fun, but it wasn’t without growth, without change.
With Kaylee, I can just be. I don’t have to consider anything other than the present. She doesn’t challenge me academically or philosophically, and she is far too clumsy to be my physical equal, but she reminds me of the person I used to be—the person I was before some ballet shoes and a talent scout changed my world forever. She reminds me that I don’t have to be so composed, so prodigious all the time.
And I’ve never slept better. This I can only attribute to Jake’s gift. Each night I pull it off my wrist and watch as it transforms exquisitely into the ring. With it tucked safely under my pillow, my dreams persist just as they had that first night: colors and colors, over and over. Each morning I wake in the same position I’d curled up in, and when I reach under my pillow, the cuff is there, warm and waiting.
It’s weird that it knows what I need. Strange that it transforms. It gets heavy at night, when it’s time to remove it from my wrist. Light as air when it’s where it’s supposed to be. Like it’s nudging me, reminding me to sleep, to rest.
I feel mothered.
What a strange, strange thing.
15
Brielle
Somehow Eddie got my number,” Kaylee says. We’re sitting across from one another at Jelly’s. Cheese fries and hot chocolate between us.
“Eddie?”
“You so don’t pay attention to me,” she says, scowling. “Eddie. The guy from the Auto Body.”
“Oh, Dimples.”
“That is the worst nickname ever,” she says. “Anyway, he asked me to a movie Friday night.”
“You going?”
“I don’t think so,” she says, adding a handful of marshmallows to her mug. “You’ve inspired me. I’m not settling till I find my Jake.”
“Kay . . .”
She waves me off. “You heard from him?”
I stab a cheese fry with my fork.
“And he didn’t say when he’d be back?”
“Nope. Maybe today.”
“Maybe,” she says, showing me her crossed fingers.
We leave the diner and climb into her Honda. She launches into a story about her gym teacher and a ketchup-covered doorknob while I stare out the window and think about what she said. I’m not settling until I find my Jake. I remember feeling that way about Ali and Marco: jealous, in a you’re-still-my-best-friend sort of way.
She was so adorably in love with him. I remember her disappearing behind that leather journal of hers after their first date. I remember how she smiled through their eternal phone conversations. How she repeated his name in her sleep. How she did his laundry in our tiny dorm washer when his broke. How she panicked when he ran the slightest bit late. She’d named their future children, for crying out loud.
Yeah, Ali loved him. Absolutely loved him.
Right up until he killed her.
It’s something I still can’t wrap my mind around: Marco killing Ali. If it weren’t for the bruises . . . but there were bruises. Lots of them. Maybe if she hadn’t trusted him so blindly, she would have seen the violence coming.
I shiver, and like a true friend, Kaylee turns up the heat.
She drops me at the top of my driveway, and I let her talk me into the movies with her and Dimples tomorrow night. Third wheel. Should be fun.
We did our homework at the diner, and Dad’s out of town— he and his crew are logging in the mountains a couple hours away—so I have nothing to fill my evening. Maybe I’ll upload my digital pics to the computer and mess around in Photoshop for a few hours. Dad won’t be back till Sunday night. I bet I can get a collage together of the property before he returns. Kind of an early Christmas present.
Habit pulls my attention through the trees to the old Miller place. My breath hitches. Every window is full of light.
“Brielle? You okay?”
My head whips around. It takes my eyes a second to find him, but there he sits. On our porch swing, in the shade of the awning.
“You’re home.”
“I am.” He laughs.
I tell my legs not to skip toward him, but they only sort of get the message.
“Finally,” I mock, fumbling for a slice of pride.
“Sit,” he says, sliding over so I can sit next to him on the porch swing. My arm presses against his, and I note with relief that he’s still very, very warm.
“You missed the critique,” I say. “In photo.” I try to be nonchalant but fail miserably.
“What was your picture of?”
“A maple leaf.”
“You win?”
“No,” I say, forcing my gaze to the street and kicking my legs to get the swing moving. “Grace had a time-lapse photo of the storm hitting Main Street.”
“Was it good?”
“It got my vote. I blame you for the loss, though.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. I lost by one vote.”
“Oh, and you assume I would have . . .” He stands and raises his right hand, like he’s swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. “I shall never be absent again.”
“At least not on critique Tuesdays. I don’t take losing well.”
“Understandable,” he says, turning back to me. He leans against the rail, his expression soft. “You got the box I left you?”
I slide my sleeve up and show him. “I did. Thank you so much, by the way. I have no idea how, but it really helps.”
“What do you think of it?” he asks.
There’s something about the way he says it, like it’s the most important question he’ll ever ask. I have no idea what I think but can’t imagine that answer being adequate.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. There are just far too many adjectives to describe the thing. “Can you tell me what it is exactly?”
“Absolutely, but I’d like you to meet Canaan first, if that’s okay?” He takes my hands and pulls me to my feet. “Your dad’s not home?”
“Na. He’s working.”
A grin stretches his face like taffy, and I smile with him. It’s impossible not to.
“What are you smiling
at?”
He releases my hands and starts down the porch stairs. “Come on,” he says, pushing through the trees toward his house. I follow him, the smell of wet pine and damp grass everywhere.
“You’re awful at answering questions.”
“It’s a sickness. I’m working on it.”
“You do that.” Eleven steps later I ask, “So where have you been? I mean, I know you like to cut class, but three days?”
“Canaan got called away for work. Didn’t want to leave me behind.”
“Wow, he is overprotective.”
“You have no idea,” he says.
“Dad’s left me behind for years.”
“By yourself?”
“When I was younger I stayed with Kaylee and her aunt, but that’s just a whole lotta chaos. I’m sure Canaan will loosen up eventually.”
“Doubtful. But it’s okay. He hasn’t yanked me out of school since Spain. He was due.”
“You lived in Spain?” Surprise after surprise. Puzzle piece after puzzle piece. Will I ever capture the entire picture?
“And Vienna. London for a few months.” He doesn’t seem enamored by this information. In fact, it seems to bore him. “For the past two years or so, we’ve been back in the U.S. I prefer it that way.”
“Do you? I’ve only been on the one European tour, but we were shuffled around so much we didn’t get to do much sightseeing. I saw the Eiffel Tower from a bus. How lame is that? I’d really like to go back.”
“I’ll take you, then. One day. I’m a great tour guide,” he says easily. So easily I’m lost again in the comfort and warmth of everything about him.
“I have to warn you, though, I hate flying.”
“Really? That’s funny.”
His lips curve in that mischievous way, and he laughs. I love it. Could never hear enough of it.
“Bet you’d feel different if you had wings,” he says.
“Well, who wouldn’t?”
We’re just steps from his front door now, and the fact that I have no idea how to do this smacks me in the face.
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