by B. F. Simone
She’d woken up the next morning expecting to go home and spend the day watching Saturday morning cartoons in front of a bowl of sugar, cereal, and milk. She didn’t expect him to be in her room after she got out of the shower.
“Sorry,” he said jumping at the sight of her. She gripped her towel and threw the closest thing she could grab—a handful of pens. He held up his hands to shield his face.
“How did you not know I was in the shower? I was thinking about hot water.” She kicked him out and didn’t let him back in until after she put on clothes and towel dried her hair. She was still mad about his bipolar episode last night and she wanted to make it a point that she didn’t work on his schedule.
“Do you want to see more or not?” he said, sitting on her bed—his butt placed directly on one of her pillows. “Sorry,” he mumbled moving it. He was wearing the yellow shirt with the blue lining that shaped his broad shoulders nicely. It brought out his eyes too, but nearly everything he wore did.
He turned away from her and stared at the wall. She blushed, of course he heard that. Of course he thought she was checking him out. “It’s just a nice shirt. Jesus. Can’t I think it’s a nice shirt? It’s just a shirt. I say lots of people have nice shirts.” Shut up. Stupid. Shut up!
She felt him smile. She didn’t know how she could feel that, but she did. “Just show me another memory,” she sighed sitting on the bed next to him.
“Unless you think my pants look nice too,” he laughed, stretching out his legs to show off his jeans. She slapped him with her pillow until they were laying back, legs dangling over the bed and memory surfing.
He idolized his father, every memory he showed her today was about him. The way his dad’s laugh shook the ground, the wrinkles in his face when he smiled. How he only saved laughs and smiles for special moments, all other moments he was resigned and constantly thinking. When she looked at Tristan now, she could see how similar they were—contemplative, reserved, and stoic. But when he laughed—as he was now, explaining to her why his mother falling out of the boat was so funny—he shook the earth too.
It didn’t take long for him to slip into The Black Void. This time, it was as his father started to tell him about an underground city. His father faded out and silence filled her mind. Him in an empty house walking through quiet rooms—waiting and waiting.
She braced herself for him to throw up his wall and move away from her as if she had brought on the memory. This time she would refrain from saying anything, she would just sit there and feel helpless. Try not to think anything because that would set him off too.
She prepared herself for all of that.
None of it came.
Tristan grabbed her hand. He squeezed it, breathing like he was running from whatever lay just under the surface of his mind. She didn’t know what to say or what to do. She imagined anyone else would have known how to make him feel like everything was all right. He squeezed her hand tighter and she looked over at him, his eyes wide open as tears collected at the edges. She looked away.
He could not be crying. Tristan, could not be crying. She wasn’t equipped to handle this. She squeezed his hand back because that was all she could do. Good friends wipe away tears, she could do that. She looked back at him, but they were gone and his eyes stared up at the ceiling with less alarm.
They lay in the bed silent and unmoving aside from his chest slowing down until it was smooth and natural.
He relaxed and his body sighed; the storm had passed. She felt proud. He let her in. Not really in, but he didn’t run away from her, and she could still generally feel him. That counted for something.
Tristan’s hand twitched a little and she became aware of them holding hands. She didn’t dare look at him, or move an inch. They were, after all, holding hands while lying on a bed….
He shifted and his thumb brushed against her hand.
They both froze.
Her palm itched. Of all times. It was sweating, he would think she always had sweaty palms—not that she cared. But still.
He stiffened again, and this time she thought he’d stopped breathing. Their legs were touching too. She hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a slight pressure…or was she imagining that. The more she thought about it the more it wasn’t there. Not that she wanted it to be. They were just friends having good old fashion mind-reading fun. Not that I think this is anything else. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m not saying anything…
Silence.
I mean I…I…I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts deedly-dee, there they are just standing in a row. Big ones, small ones, some the size of a bed.
“Katalina?”
“…” She cleared her throat.
“I think you mean, ‘some as big as your head’.”
“I don’t have a big head.”
“No, you have a—I’m talking about the lyrics.”
“...”
“We should probably call it quits today.”
“Probably.”
He cleared his throat before pulling his hand away from her and standing up. She tried hard not to think of the shocking cold his absence left—not just from his hand, but from his body so close to hers. “We should train instead.”
“Good idea,” she said, going over moves in her head. That new one with the kick at the end. That was the most awkward—move—I’ve ever done. So awkward…the kick, just tossed in there like that, with no warning.
Tristan cleared his throat. “Okay, see you in ten minutes then.” He had that funny twisted frown on his face. The one that made his eyebrows pop up to the top of his head. “Okay then.” He crossed the room in three quick steps and tripped over her book-bag as he left.
That moment between them—whatever it was—was forgotten as soon at is ended. Not because she didn’t secretly wonder about it every night for the last three days, but because Tristan acted as if it never happened. Like they were just good friends and that day was one friend being a good friend to the other. And that is what it was.
What am I, twelve?
Katie fixed her pillow and snuggled up in her green blanket. Her room was dark and cluttered like usual. She stared at her orange cat lamp glowing under the moonlight.
She was being immature about holding hands. No wonder he nearly ran out of the room. But what if….
No, she had way more important things to worry about, like the test she had to take tomorrow. She had no idea how she was going to pass it. Tristan hadn’t been on her about meditation like he had been, in fact he hadn’t been on her as hard in training either—and here she was thinking about Tristan again.
She rolled over in her bed. There wasn’t anything wrong with thinking about him. They spent all their time together. Like earlier today, they laughed more than they worked. Everything was funny—when she accidentally slapped his forehead or when he’d take on Russian personas and say, ‘I’m going to kill you,’.
But there were other awkward times, the worst she played over and over in her mind humiliated by what she’d done, but secretly glad she’d done it.
She’d pined him on the leaf covered ground.
“This is a weak hold,” he’d said.
“I’ll droll on you then,” she’d said, making him laugh. His laugh always made her laugh, it was contagious and spread through her like wild fire.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” he’d started to worm his way out of her hold. “As soon as I’m out I’m going to kill you.”
She felt herself losing her grip, and so—she bit him. On his stomach. And he laughed frantically trying to get her off. Then she laughed astonished that of all places to be ticklish—he was nearly in tears.
“I got you,” she’d said in a terrible Russian accent—and then it happened. That feeling of unease when an imaginary line is crossed. He threw her off with strength he had never allowed her to feel before.
“That just got weird,” he said. There were tears on his face and his eyes gleamed. “You so
unded like a hooker, or a really bad honeypot.” He laughed harder.
“It’s not my fault it was the accent,” her face burned, but watching him fall back laughing made her grin.
“Next time leave out the accent, Honeypot.” He smiled up at her before shaking the world with his laugh.
What if it wasn’t her imagination. She hadn’t imagined the way they brushed their arms against each other whenever she ate dinner at Lucinda’s. He sat next to her there too, like during lunch at school and every class they had. He’d pick food off her plate when Lucinda wasn’t looking, and scrunch up his nose. Sometimes she knew he liked it. She wondered if he’d ever stop drinking blood and just eat food like her. She could never drink blood.
She turned over in her bed again and closed her eyes. Pitch blackness, like his hair. She wondered what it would be like to touch his hair. She’d smelled it the other day as a joke—said she bet it smelled like girl shampoo, but it didn’t. It smelled like fresh soap. Bar soap.
Katie and Tristan were on their way to school. Allison had stopped walking with them a few weeks ago when she decided to jog there instead. Katie could have used a jog that morning. It would have calmed her nerves. She couldn’t stop hyperventilating.
“Sometimes I wonder about you,” Tristan said, when she told him she was going to fail the evaluation. He laughed and it only made her more frantic.
“We are at the bridge, Tristan! We are going to cross it and get our memories erased. Okay, maybe not you, but I’m going to have my memory fried. Again.”
“Katalina, you’re not going to have your memory erased. You’ve been ready for weeks now,” he said with his crooked smile.
“Oh my God. You’ve lost your mind.” She wanted to slap him. He needed to be serious.
“Please don’t hit me,” he said, eyeing her. “You’ve been transporting your consciousness into my body quicker and quicker all week. What did you think memory surfing was? In order to find your center you just have to concentrate on yourself, not me.”
“Why did you wait till now to tell me that?” Katie said, still not knowing how she was going to completely do that. She felt a little cheated. She thought he wanted to show her those memories, not use it as an exercise. Besides concentrating on Tristan was easy. Concentrating on herself was like those stupid, “tell me about yourself” surveys teachers hand out at the beginning of the school year. As if they really care what my favorite color is.
“Obviously you didn’t read chapter seven. It covered the basics on using meditation to find your core. No wonder you got a ‘C’ on that test.”
Now was not the time to chastise her. “How did you know I got a ‘C’? You went through my book-bag?”
“No, that would be a violation of your privacy, I got it from Mr. Carver’s grade book.”
She stared at him. There are so many things wrong with what you just said.
“You’re concerned about all the wrong things. When it’s time for your test, just relax and think about what makes you feel strong. Imagine a pit of energy in your stomach.” She should have practiced before the test. What was wrong with her? Tristan put his arm around her shoulder and his laugh reverberated throughout her body. “It’s not that serious. You are a guardian, the power is there, you just need to concentrate long enough for them to see it.”
She looked up at him. He only had seven inches on her but she still had to look up—especially when they were this close. “Are you sure?”
“You should actually read the book. Not just look at the pictures.”
She punched him and he laughed pulling her closer. She told herself the reason her heart was pounding so hard was because of the test.
At school, she began to calm down. At least there were four periods and lunch before the evaluation. She could warm up and find some confidence. Maybe do breathing exercises three through five. Then she could do a full cycle in second period; but when she walked in her English class, all her plans died an agonizing death as Mr. Carver smiled at her.
“Tristan. Katie. Just the two people I was looking for. I asked Mr. Rhineheart to excuse you from class. Now is the only time I’ll be able to give you your evaluations,” he said, wearing a red tie and checkerboard chess suit that made him look like an Alice in Wonderland executioner.
It’s all over. At least I won’t have to remember all the horrible things. Being shot, the blood, a decapitation...
Tristan nudged her as Mr. Carver ushered them to his classroom. “Who’d like to go first?” Mr. Carver asked, opening his office door in the back of the room. Katie looked at Tristan and silently implored for him to let her go last.
“It won’t make any difference,” Tristan said, glancing in her direction. “I’ll go first.”
Katie exhaled. He was right, it wouldn’t make any difference, but she wasn’t ready to say goodbye to the world as she knew it. She waited ten, too short, minutes before Tristan came out of the office. She had been too busy having a mental breakdown to notice him walk over.
“You’ll be fine. Just remember to breathe.” She nodded, her hands sweating. “Want me to wait?” he asked in a way that startled her. Why was he being so nice if this was a piece of cake? “It’s not that.” He offered a smile.
She shook her head as Mr. Carver called her in.
Katie walked into the office and was surprised by the presence of another man. He was tall, lean, and dressed in a jet-black suit. A stylish executioner.
“This is Mr. Reynolds. He’s a good friend of mine and he’s going to help us with your evaluation.” Mr. Reynolds stuck out his hand for her to shake. When she saw the moon tattoo on the inside of his wrist, he winked.
“I’m a werewolf, but I promise I won’t bite.” She shook his hand and he gave her a firm but soft jerk. “How do you do, Miss. Watts?” He had an English accent and sounded much older than he looked. His hair was the color of ditch-water, and his chin covered in stubble.
“I’m fine thank-you,” Katie said, clearing her throat. She sat down in the only chair in the tiny room. A tiny, frail-looking, window behind Mr. Carver’s desk let in a little sun—dusk particles floated in the rays. All of his office looked like that frail window—seconds from falling apart. The walls bulged a little; his desk was wood, but flimsy; and the books stacked up to the ceiling, looked older than her.
“It’s a bit warm in here. No—maybe it’s just me,” Mr. Carver laughed. “Let’s get started then. Katie, we’ll give you about five minutes to find your center, and then I want you to imagine power right there in your core. You’ll know when you are ready, at that time just hold out your hand, palm down.” There was an eerie silence sitting in the room with them. “Is everything clear, Katie?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Then begin.”
She closed her eyes and followed the same breathing patterns she did when moving herself into Tristan’s mind, but instead of thinking about Tristan, she imagined a small circle in her stomach. It glowed like an ember. First a dull green, a violent orange, a fiery blue, and finally a blazing silver. It had come too easy, like it was there all along waiting for her to see it. It moved, a flickering flame in her mind, and then throughout her body.
She tingled with excitement because she had never felt anything as magnified as this. She felt suspended in the air. Was this what it felt like? She held out her hand palm down. But soon, she started to feel overwhelmed. The fire was growing with no where to go, getting bigger and bigger as if it would blow her body to bits.
There was pressure against the back of her hand followed by a deep growl.
A gust of icy wind slapped her face as she jumped out of the chair. Her head was going to explode.
Slowly, the sensation subsided and she was left breathing hard backed up against one of the bulging walls. Mr. Reynolds held his hand to his chest, letting out a string of curses. Books had fallen from a stack and pages floated to the ground. Confused and shaking, she look at Mr. Carver. He was standing over the win
dow, frozen. Wind filled the room with cold air.
“What happened?” Katie said, looking from Mr. Carver to Mr. Reynolds.
“That’s a good question.” Mr. Carver said with his eyebrows raised. He still held onto the window. He looked from the books on the floor, to her, and to Mr. Reynolds.
“I’ll tell you,” Mr. Reynolds said with a laugh. “That girl nearly seared my bloody hand off. You have a nasty bite, Miss. Watts. And that’s coming from me.”
“Here, John. Put some of this on it,” Mr Carver said, handing him a tube of ointment from his desk drawer. “That was extraordinary, Katie. You did it in less than a minute. I thought Tristan was remarkable. I kind of expected it from him though, he’s a transfer, but you…”
“What do you mean?” Katie couldn’t take her eyes of Mr. Reynolds. He didn’t look angry, but she felt terrible. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—do whatever I did.” But she did, didn’t she? Wasn’t she supposed to do what she did, or else get her memory taken?
“Well actually you did. This,” he held out his hand with an angry red scar, “Isn’t exactly what I signed up for, but Carver here didn’t tell me these were advanced evaluations. I thought these were base-line evaluations.”
“They aren’t. I mean they were supposed to be base-line. I didn’t expect Katie to be able to—I had no idea you’d be this focused. Considering—well you’re new and all.” Mr. Carver laughed. “You really did a number to his hand.”
She felt all the blood rush to her checks. Katie apologized over and over.
“Oh, are you proud now, Carver?” Mr. Reynolds said, approaching Katie. Hesitantly, he put his hand on her shoulder. She was embarrassed for smiling a little, and even more so for being consoled by a stranger. He was making her cheeks burn worse. “Don’t worry. My hand doesn’t hurt all that much,” he said, patting her shoulder.
“I guess we’re all done then. We’ve got a starting mark for you. You can go now.” Mr. Carver said.