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Mindless Teenage Drones
WHAT WAS THE POINT OF SCHOOL, anyway?
Gaia took one look around the grim rows of identical lockers and knew instantly that coming here had been a monumental mistake. She hadn’t done her homework. She hated the stinking cafeteria food. (Not nearly enough sugar.) She definitely didn’t want to socialize. Not with these mindless teenage drones, churned straight from the pages of Seventeen magazine. No, in fact, she wanted to stay as far as possible from two specific members of the student body, those being one Ed Fargo and one Heather Gannis.
So why stay? What did she need with this place?
She couldn’t think of one good reason to stay. Not one. This place was a freaking dump. It wasn’t as if she needed a formal education. She’d probably read more books by the age of twelve than most of the underpaid English teachers here had read in their entire lifetimes. She had a good grasp of calculus. She sure as hell didn’t need to go to gym—not with her freakish build. So what did that leave? Art? Fine. She’d take up finger painting in her spare time. Anyway, her lifelong dream was to be a waitress, and it didn’t take a high school diploma to serve two eggs over easy or to get her butt pinched.
Fine. It was a relief. She was glad she’d made that decision. School and Gaia Moore would no longer have anything to do with each other.
She turned and shoved her way back to the exit, nearly knocking over a couple of faceless meatheads on her way.
“Watch it, bitch!” one of them snapped.
“Bye!” she called sweetly.
A blast of winter air hit her as she burst out onto the front steps. It was crisp and invigorating. She laughed out loud. A couple of stragglers stared at her: the chronically late, dope-smoking crowd. She blew them a kiss. She was free! Free at last!
It was so easy. So perfectly simple.
The city seemed to stretch out before her, filled with limitless possibility. She had the whole day to spend exactly as she pleased. Talk about liberating. She couldn’t believe it had taken her this long to drop out of school. What had she been thinking, anyway?
Maybe she should just toss her book bag in a garbage can to make it official. It was weighing her down. Nah … she might need it for other things. Like to carry around all the money she would win from hustling chess games in the park. Yes. That’s what she’d do with her time. She’d spend the next few months earning a small fortune on the tables in Washington Square Park (maybe kicking the ass of a random thug or two every now and then, just to keep the area safe)—then she’d blow this town for good. No more Ella and George. No more Ed and Heather. No more creepy uncle. No more Sam—
She stopped short.
Sam.
A twinge of electricity shot down her spine.
He still hadn’t explained himself. And he still wasn’t answering his damn phone, either.
Gaia was riding high on recklessness. Who cared what happened tomorrow? All that mattered was living large this minute. Now was the time to confront Sam Moon. She was sick of waiting around and wondering. Fed up. She would go straight to his dorm. If her uncle jumped out at her again, she would ignore him. If Sam was in class, she would just hang around his suite until he got back.
There was no stopping her. Not this time.
Decomposing Mold
“… MR. MOON? DID YOU HEAR ME?”
Sam jerked up from his microscope with a start. Dr. Witchell was glaring at him over the rims of his wire-frame glasses.
“We were talking about the rate of decomposition,” Dr. Witchell stated.
The words floated over Sam’s head. He swallowed. He had no idea what his professor was talking about. And the truly frightening thing was that he’d been sitting in this biochemistry lab for almost half an hour, going through the motions of examining this chunk of decomposing mold—even jotting observations down in a notebook. But his body had been working independently of his brain. When he looked through the lens, he didn’t see thousands of little cells. He saw Ella’s wicked smile. He saw Gaia lying unconscious on her front stoop.
“I’m sorry,” he finally choked out.
Dr. Witchell sneered. “Sorry?”
“Listen … I—I have to go,” he stammered. He scrambled to gather his notebook and pencil, then pushed himself away from the table. His stool screeched loudly on the tile floor. A few people around him winced. “I’m sorry—”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Dr. Witchell demanded, aghast. “You can’t just come and go as you please….”
Sam was already sprinting down the hall. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that this was inexcusable. He very well might be jeopardizing his entire college career by running out of class. But he also knew there wasn’t any logical reason to stick around anymore. He couldn’t concentrate. It wasn’t as if he could improve his slipping grades by pretending to be studious.
He skidded to a stop by a drinking fountain and ran his face through the lukewarm stream of water. But nothing could calm him down. Every time he thought of Ella, every time he thought of the way she’d just laughed him off Saturday—as if he weren’t even real, as if he were some kind of toy—a wave of panic overtook him. This was no way to live. He knew that. It couldn’t even be called living, really. Running around the West Village, hiding in his room, avoiding phone calls, not sleeping … He was going slowly insane. And it Scared him.
His eyes darted to the stairwell. He had to get out of this building. He had to do something. He still hadn’t talked to Gaia since Friday. Of course, he knew now that telling her the truth would solve nothing … but he had to see her face. To say something. Anything. He still hadn’t talked to Heather, either. As far as Heather was concerned, everything between them was just the same. He laughed. How crazy was that? If she even knew the tiniest fraction of the truth … Of course, he hadn’t heard from her this weekend, which was a little strange—but maybe she was waiting for him to call. That was exactly the kind of game she liked to play.
He had to go see Gaia now. Nothing else mattered. The fact that he might well see Heather in the process was just another of the sick coincidences in his life.
Bullet to the Brain
ELLA’S STOMACH DROPPED AS THE elevator whisked her up to Loki’s apartment, and it wasn’t simply due to the speed of the ascent. For the past forty-eight hours his behavior had been disarmingly … calm. Friendly. Affectionate, even. As if her lies and her failure had been abruptly forgotten or forgiven—both of which were impossible. No, she knew that he had a new strategy, a new agenda.
Her knees wobbled as the doors slid silently open. Every time she’d been here this weekend, she’d half expected a bullet to enter her brain the moment she stepped into the hallway. But once again she was greeted only with silence. She stepped quickly across the plush carpeting and rapped on Loki’s door.
“Come in,” came the muffled reply. “It’s open.”
Ella turned the knob and stepped inside, hesitating in the foyer. Loki was lounging on the lone couch in the living room, flipping through a New Yorker. She frowned, not knowing what to make of the scene. It was so oddly domestic. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him read anything other than intelligence reports or financial statements.
He flashed her a relaxed smile. “Anything new to report?”
She bit her lip, debating again whether or not to tell him about Saturday’s incident with George. It was probably best just to get it out in the open. Loki invariably discovered the truth, anyway.
“George thinks I’m having an affair,” she whispered.
Loki snickered. “That’s something he and I have in common.”
“But it’s not true!” she cried. “I’m not—”
“Shhh,” he murmured. “There’s no need to get excited.”
She held her breath, staring at him. He sighed and tossed the magazine on the barren floor, then stood up. His shirt was halfway unbuttoned and untucked. The smooth muscles of his chest were
plainly visible beneath the flimsy fabric. Ella’s breath came a little faster. Even in her fearful state, she couldn’t help but desire him; she couldn’t help but drink in his rugged sexiness. He wasn’t a man, Loki. He was a force. She lowered her eyes.
“So you’re not having an affair,” Loki stated. “Fine. I believe you. The question is, how are you going to make George believe you?”
Ella shrugged. “I—I … don’t know,” she stammered. “I told him that my career was taking up a lot of time. I told him things would get better when I wasn’t as busy.”
Loki laughed quietly. “Spoken like a true housewife. The nervousness and evasion is perfect. You never cease to amaze me, Ella. Your skills are exquisite.”
The words sent a shudder down her spine. Too bad I really am nervous and evasive, she thought, not trusting herself to lift her gaze. Why did she always feel so helpless around him? So out of control? Again she perversely wished that he could see her with Sam or George—even if only for an instant—so that he could witness for himself just how in control she was when it came to the rest of her life. Then he would know for certain that she was worthy of his love.
“And what of Gaia?” he asked.
“She’s in school,” Ella muttered. “It’s a Monday. That crippled boy came by to pick her up.”
“Right, right,” Loki mused. “Ed. He’s harmless enough.”
Something’s definitely going on, she thought with a chill. Loki never dismissed anything so casually when it came to Gaia’s life. He dissected every little event in a thousand different ways, searching for any possible significance. So his reaction must have been false. His whole demeanor was false.
But what was real?
“Well, I think that’s enough business for today,” Loki stated suddenly.
His voice was thick, husky. He stepped briskly across the room and grabbed her chin, lifting her head so that her eyes were less than three inches from his own. His breath came in quick, short gasps. Before she could even cry out, he smothered her lips in a harsh kiss. She found herself kissing him back … slowly at first, then with greater passion and finally abandon.
There was no resisting Loki. There was only succumbing to his will.
The Color of Chalk
NO WAY.
Heather shook her head, blinking. Obviously her imagination was running just a bit wild. Obviously she was just paranoid. No way could that disheveled, crazy-looking person lurking in the hall be Sam.
Her eyes darted to the clock, then to Mr. Hirschberg (still rambling on about Daisy Buchanan), then back to the little window in the classroom door. Class was almost over. Maybe she was just—
Jesus. She flinched. The face filled the window for an instant, then vanished again. It was Sam. Either that or his evil twin. What the hell was he doing here? And why did he look so terrible? Her heart started to pound. This wasn’t good. Something was definitely wrong. He was drenched in sweat: wide-eyed, pale. His curly, ginger-colored hair was unkempt. He looked like he hadn’t bathed in a week. At least, not from the neck up.
Ed must have called him.
Oh God. There was no other reason he’d come hunt her down in the middle of a school day, looking like a psycho. She squirmed in her seat. She could just picture the conversation. A man-to-man kind of thing. Her insides clenched. Sometimes Ed could be a real idiot. And it was just the kind of macho stunt he’d pull—out of a misguided sense of decency. “Look, pal, I just thought you had a right to know. Heather and I are back together again, all right? So stay—
The bell shattered her thoughts.
She stole another quick peek at the window. Shit. Sam was staring straight at her. A bunch of kids jostled her as they gathered their bags and scurried for the door, but she couldn’t move. She felt like her butt was glued to the seat.
“Miss Gannis?” Mr. Hirschberg asked. The class was quickly emptying. “Is everything all right?”
“Uh … yeah,” she croaked. She forced herself to stand. Her legs were shaky. She should have called Sam herself. She should have done it the second she’d gotten home last night. This was not the way he was supposed to find out. But truthfully, Sam hadn’t even entered her mind. All she could think of was Ed. Even this morning she was still reeling from the ecstasy of that kiss….
She stepped into the hall.
“Heather,” Sam gasped.
She swallowed, unable to look him in the eye. Instead she stared down at the sea of moving legs and feet. “What, uh … what are you doing here?” she murmured. “Shouldn’t you be in the lab right now?”
“I can’t concentrate,” he said. His voice was clipped. “I really need to—I came here because—Look, never mind.”
His eyes were darting wildly up and down the hallway. He moved away from her. His stare was glazed and preoccupied. Suddenly he seemed to have forgotten she was there. “I gotta go,” he mumbled.
Heather’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you here?” she asked. “What’s going on? Maybe we should talk.”
He hardly seemed to hear her. “Yeah, well, maybe some other time….” He shot a manic glance at the kids rushing past them, then ran a hand through his damp hair. “Look, I can’t explain it all right now, okay? It’s just … things are a little crazy right now.”
Translation: You’re a little crazy right now. Heather thought, taking a step back. She was starting to get freaked out. It seemed less and less likely that this little surprise visit had anything to do with her and Ed. No, clearly there was something else, and she had a strong suspicion it had to do with Gaia. And the sad thing was, Heather really didn’t care at this point. Not after what she’d shared with Ed. She just wanted to get away from Sam. As fast as possible. God, did he look like crap. His skin was the color of chalk.
“You’re looking for Gaia,” Heather stated flatly.
Sam didn’t bother to deny it. “You don’t know where she is, do you?” he persisted, obviously desperate.
“Try the local satanic cult,” Heather muttered. She turned and hurried down the hall. Her next class was in the opposite direction, but she’d just have to be a little late.
As she broke into a jog and rounded the corner, she realized for certain what she’d suspected over the past few weeks: She and Sam were over. For good.
Unsent Messages
IT WASN’T UNTIL THE STAIRWELL door had slammed shut behind her that Gaia started breathing again. Not that she had to worry. She didn’t even have to sneak past the security guard this time. His face was buried in a Sports Illustrated. She could have walked right past him with a submachine gun. That would be kind of funny, actually. Maybe he assumed that nobody would try to break into the dormitory during the middle of the day. Whatever.
A familiar haze of conflicting emotions enveloped her as she climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. She wasn’t scared. But she did feel that electric fizz in her veins. She couldn’t tell if she was more upset about the possibility of Sam’s being there or the possibility of his not being there. Of course, chances were good that he was in class. It was just before noon on a Monday. Prime class hours. She should know. Conversely, chances were slim that he was in his room having sex with Heather—but then, Gaia couldn’t be too sure. Judging from her past surprise visits, that seemed to be a fairly common occurrence.
Her breath quickened as she walked down the hall to his suite. The door was closed. Maybe nobody was home. She knocked once, but there was no answer. Then again. Nobody was home. On a whim, she gave the doorknob a try.
It turned.
Gaia frowned. Weren’t these guys worried about theft? This was New York City, for God’s sake. Did they actually have faith in that moron downstairs? Oh, well. She stepped through the pile of empty pizza boxes strewn about the little common room (what was it about college that turned otherwise intelligent males into pigs, anyway?), then put her ear to Sam’s door.
Nothing.
She turned that knob, too. Though no longer broken, it was also, thankfully, unlocke
d.
Okay. Her heart was now officially racing. Her mind, of course, was simultaneously numb and alert. She’d done it. She’d come to confront Sam Moon. On his turf. This was where he lived. This was where he slept. In this little cell, no bigger than a closet. She’d been here before. The tiny room held awful memories, but a few foggy (possibly fantasized) ecstatic ones as well.
So what did she do now?
Wait, she supposed. She collapsed onto Sam’s unmade bed. The curtains were still drawn, but a lone shaft of light illuminated the dust motes in the air. She breathed the faint smell of him left on his sheets and felt an almost chemical longing for him seep through her body.
There were footsteps in the hall.
She stiffened and peered out into the common room, hoping to catch sight of him breezing through the entranceway. Nope. It was some buffed fraternity type in a sweatshirt who looked like he’d been taking steroids since the age of three. She sighed. The glowing red numbers on Sam’s digital clock changed from 11:59 to 12:00. Maybe he’d come back here for lunch.
With her luck, probably not, though.
Her eyes fell to a photo on top of his desk. A photo of a little boy … she squinted at it. Hold on. A puzzled smile spread across her face. Was that Sam? It must be: The boy had the same brownish red hair, the same hazel eyes. He was holding a trophy. Of course. A chess trophy. For some reason, the picture brought a lump to Gaia’s throat. He looked so happy, framed by his parents—but a little lost, too. Even as a little child, Sam had a melancholy aura, as if his smile was really concealing something deeper and more complicated—
The phone rang.
Shit. Gaia dropped the photo. It fell with a dull thud onto the bed. She glanced into the common room again. Obviously she shouldn’t answer that. But maybe it was Sam, calling in to check his messages. In that case, she could intercept him and let him know that she was here, that she was waiting for him. Without thinking, she lunged for the receiver—bumping his chair, which slammed into his desk. Whoops. A person could hardly move in here.
Liar Page 12