Run to You Part One: First Sight

by Clara Kensie

  “It’s Sarah, right?”

  I looked up—broad chest and shoulders, confident smile, blue eyes. Tristan Walker. So much for invisibility. “Yeah. Sarah.”

  He didn’t seem to notice the way my voice tightened when I said my fake name. Instead, he placed his lunch tray down and climbed into the seat across from me.

  “I—” Before I could say anything to deter him from eating with me, he took a bite of his cheeseburger.

  “I had Physics with your sister this morning,” he said, swallowing his food. “She said you were a little overwhelmed. I don’t blame you. This place is huge. She asked if I would show you around.”

  So instead of claiming Tristan for herself, Jillian had decided to play Cupid. She’d tried to set me up in Vermont, and in Nebraska and Montana, too. I did like the boy in Montana. He was sweet, and funny, and the most talented artist in the school. Jillian, remembering that I used to love painting, had made a good match. But it wasn’t the boy—it was me. Everything I said to him was a lie. I was a lie.

  It just wasn’t worth it, getting involved with Tristan. I shouldn’t even let him show me around the building. “That’s really nice of you to offer,” I told him, “but I’ll figure it out.”

  A group from a center table called his name and waved him over. That girl with the curly brown hair was among them, along with a guy with bushy black eyebrows. He gestured to two empty seats.

  “That guy’s my tennis partner,” Tristan said. “You want to go sit over there?”

  My face must have turned bright red, or maybe horror was reflected in my eyes, because he chuckled. “Or, we could just stay here.”

  “Yes,” I said, relieved. “Thank you.”

  He took a handful of fries, dipped them in a paper cup of ketchup, and ate them all at once. “Will you be in Twelve Lakes long?”

  “Probably not.” I picked the green peppers from my salad. “The longest we ever stayed in one place was fourteen months. The shortest was six days.”

  “Six days? What town was that?”

  “I don’t remember.” That was true. “My mom registered us for school, but we didn’t even get to start before we had to leave again.” Dennis Connelly had tracked us down that time through our internet use, and we hadn’t used the internet since.

  I slid my hands into my sleeves. I had to stop talking. I’d already told him too much. But since he wouldn’t leave me alone, I decided to ask him some questions of my own. “Where did you move from?”

  “Wisconsin. Near Milwaukee.”

  “Why did you move here?”

  “My dad was transferred to Malaysia.” He took another big bite of his cheeseburger. “My mom and sister went with him, but I didn’t want to. My uncle’s the new facilities manager at TLC, so he and my aunt let me move in with them until I go to college next year. It’s close enough that I can go home sometimes to see my friends.”

  Between bites of cheeseburger and fries, Tristan continued chatting, about his friends, his spot on the TLC tennis team, and deciding between Northwestern and Stanford. I wanted to respond, I wanted to ask him more questions, but all I could do was nod and give him weak smiles. The girls at the next table were watching us. Everyone in the lunchroom was watching us. Whispering. Pointing. Sitting with Tristan was making me visible. The glow-in-the-dark kind of visible. The cafeteria seemed to become more crowded by the second. Was it smaller now than it was a few minutes ago? Everything became hazy, like a cloud had settled over the room.

  “Are you feeling okay?” Tristan’s brows furrowed.

  I blinked to quell the dizziness and mumbled something about first-day jitters. When the bell rang I jumped up, almost tripping over my feet, and scurried out of the lunchroom.

  * * *

  Jillian and I walked home together without Logan, who’d stayed after school to audition for jazz band that day. He’d have to downplay his talent, of course, and he could never perform on stage, but he was happy enough just to play his sax. Jillian felt the same way about dancing. Our parents let her take all the dance classes she wanted, but, like Logan, she could never participate in a performance. Band concerts and dance recitals were off-limits since we left Virginia. When performance day came along, they would miss it, claiming strep throat or a twisted ankle. They’d put on a private show for us, at home, instead. The last few years Jillian stayed in her room.

  Jillian had her first class at the town’s dance studio later that afternoon, and I had to hustle to keep up with her as she rushed home to change. When we got inside, all the lights were off—unusual, because we always kept the curtains drawn tight. In the dim sunlight that managed to seep through, we found our mother on the family room couch, stroking our dad’s forehead as he slept.

  I dropped my book bag and rushed over. Dad’s headaches had never been this bad so early in the day before. Mom held a finger to her lips, then gently slid out from under him, laying his head on a throw pillow. She followed us as we tiptoed through the kitchen into the dining room.

  “I knew it!” Jillian snapped. The light bulbs in the brass chandelier over the table flickered on. “He overdid it, didn’t he? He used his mobile eye all day today.”

  Our mother ran her fingers over the top edge of a framed painting on the wall. “We wanted to make sure the three of you were adjusting to your new school.” With a frown, she inspected the dirt on her fingertips.

  The light bulbs brightened as Jillian’s eyes darkened. “Dad needs to watch for Dennis Connelly. Not us.”

  “Dad watched for him, too, Jillian,” I said. Never say Dennis Connelly’s name out loud—that was another rule, one I had made for myself; a rule I had broken only once and will never, ever break again. “He always does.”

  A dishrag floated in from the kitchen, and Mom started polishing the frame with it. “Your safety is more important than your privacy.”

  “It’s not just about privacy,” Jillian spat. “Dad needs to save his strength.”

  Mom’s grip tightened on the rag, and she spoke through clenched teeth. “We are not having this discussion again.”

  “But if you’d just try something new—”

  “I said no.” The rag dropped to the floor. My mother and sister glared straight into each other’s eyes, mirror images but for their hair.

  The light bulbs grew brighter.

  “Jillian.” I swallowed hard and tugged her sleeve. I had to get her out of here. “You have dance class, remember? Jill?”

  But she didn’t move, and neither did our mother. The room grew brighter and brighter, until the light bulbs exploded with a bang. Trapping a scream behind my lips, I flew behind a chair as the room was sprayed with shattered glass.

  The house was dark again, and silent.

  “Wendy.” Just a whisper, but it rang loudly as my dad hobbled over. “Jillian, take Tessa out for a run.”

  “But I have dance—”

  “Jillian.” Dad’s expression was stone, his glare cutting. “Go.”

  White-faced, Jillian pulled me up, and we backed out of the room.

  * * *

  Jillian hated jogging even more than Logan did, but she had no problem keeping up with me on the trail that day. Leaves tore off branches, and twigs snapped off trees as she stormed past them. It wasn’t long, though, before both the tree wreckage and her pace slowed, and when we reached the entrance to the path again, she stopped to catch her breath. She closed her eyes and became very still.

  “You need to stop making Mom so mad,” I said. “She’s got enough to worry about.”

  “Shh. I’m trying something.” She raised her hands to her temples. After a minute, she opened her eyes and dropped her arms with a defeated groan.

  “What were you doing?”

  “I was trying to see through Logan’s eyes. You know, by remote vision
.”

  I blinked at her. “You can do that? Since when?”

  She kicked at the ground, ripping a patch of grass from the dirt. “Since never. I thought if I had a mobile eye, then I could take over watching you and Logan and Mom, and Dad could concentrate on watching for Dennis Connelly.”

  “But it’s not working?”

  “No. I thought it did, once, back in Vermont. I thought I saw through Mom’s eyes when she was at the grocery store. Turns out she didn’t even go to the store that day, but that’s what gave me the idea. Since then I’ve tried seeing from your eyes, and Mom and Dad’s, and even my friends’ from our old locations.” She rotated a heart-shaped charm around the gold chain on her wrist, the one her boyfriend from Nebraska had given her. “But nothing’s working. I may as well be you.”

  I flinched at that comment but only internally. “Maybe Dad can help you.”

  “I asked, but Dad’s scared that I’ll get headaches too. And Mom doesn’t want me to spend all my time keeping watch over everyone. She said it’s their job to keep us safe, and my job to be a normal kid.” She snorted. “Like that’s even possible.”

  “You’re going to keep trying, aren’t you,” I said. It wasn’t a question. Once Jillian decided she wanted something, she wouldn’t quit until she got it. Even something as impossible as this.

  “That’s right. I don’t care what Mom says, and I don’t care if I get headaches. If something doesn’t change, we’re all going to die.” She shot off down the path again and shouted over her shoulder. “But you don’t have to worry. I won’t let that happen.”

  Developing her own mobile eye wouldn’t stop Dennis Connelly from coming, but if Jillian could take some of the pressure off Dad, his headaches would lessen or even stop altogether. Mom wouldn’t have to take care of Dad all the time, and then she wouldn’t be so stressed. Dad would be sharper, more alert, and maybe see Dennis Connelly coming sooner. We’d have more than a thirty-minute lead when we fled to our next place. We might be able to evade him forever.

  Doubt, mixed with the tiniest bit of hope, pumped through my veins as we ran the loop once more before heading home. We cut across the park, where squealing preschoolers raced down the slide at the playground. Parents rooted for their Little Leaguers on the baseball field to the left, and on the soccer field to the right, a group of little kids surrounded a tall, broad-shouldered boy in a light yellow T-shirt.

  Tristan.

  He juggled a soccer ball from his feet to knees to ankles, up to his head and back again, to the delight of the kids watching him.

  “Hey Tristan!” Across the park, the bushy-eyebrowed boy from the cafeteria whistled and waved a tennis racquet in the air. With a powerful kick, Tristan sent the ball soaring over the kids’ heads and into the soccer net across the field. He gave each of the kids a high five, then picked up a racquet from the grass and headed to the tennis court.

  “How was lunch today?” Jillian said, blinking innocently at me.

  “Horrible. Please stop trying to set me up.”

  “But you like him, right?” A little red leaf blew in front of me, making a heart shape in the air.

  I swatted it away with the back of my hand. “Stop that. We’re in public. And no, I don’t like him. Not like that.”

  “He doesn’t have to be your boyfriend. He can just be a friend.” The leaf made a series of wide swoops before skidding onto the grass. “It would make Mom happy too. She’s just sick that you won’t make friends.”

  I picked the leaf up and held it by the stem. Crimson on one side, brown on the other. I twirled it between my fingertips until it became a colorless blur. “They can’t be real friends when we can’t even tell them our real names.”

  Then I crushed the leaf into tiny little pieces and let them flutter to the ground.

  * * *

  It was selfish, I knew, to keep my dad up late that night to help me study. He’d worn himself out that day, watching us on our first day of school. But he stayed up with me as long as he could. He knew what I was doing, because I did it every night. He knew I’d stay awake as late as possible, hoping that when I finally fell asleep, I’d be too exhausted even to dream.

  It never worked.

  Mom’s psychokinesis and Dad’s remote vision protected us from Dennis Connelly. But no paranormal ability could protect me from my dream. Partly nightmare but mostly memory, it came every night, for so many years now that I didn’t remember which was which.

  I sit under a tree in the yard, reading a book while nursing my injured knee with an ice pack. The sun is shining and a shadow creeps over me. I look up and see a man, a man with thinning hair and a gentle smile beneath his graying mustache, and his blue eyes are kind and merry behind his round wire glasses. He smells kind of sweet, like a cherry cough drop. I like him, so I smile back. He tells me not to be scared, and I’m not. He holds a finger to his lips and says his name is Dennis Connelly and he is so happy to meet me. He asks me questions, and I don’t have to answer out loud; this man somehow hears what I’m thinking.

  It’s a fun game, but then his face loses the smile and his eyes turn mean and he holds out his hand and tells me to come with him, come with him right now, and I am scared so I say no, out loud this time, and I know I should run run run away but I am frozen, and the man grabs me, carries me to a big black car and locks me inside. Up front, a lit cigar, smelling sickly sweet like burned cherries, fills the car with smoke. I cough and scream and pound on the window as the man dennisconnelly runs back to my house and sneaks inside. Distant, curdled screams pierce the smoky air, and I know dennisconnelly will kill my mommy, kill my daddy, kill my sister and brother, and he will take me away and kill me too. He will cut us all, he will slice us right down the middle, and we will bleed, and we may escape this time but it doesn’t matter, we can run and run and run but he will find us, he will hunt us down, he will never stop until he kills us all, kills us all in a flood of blood.

  And every night when the smoke cleared, I’d wake up sweaty and out of breath, heart pounding, biting my lips to keep from screaming.

  Never, ever, ever scream. That was another rule, a rule just for me.

  Chapter Four

  Peeking into the lunchroom the next day, I spotted Tristan sitting at the table we’d shared the day before, his tray loaded with a saucy meatball sub and a slice of cherry cobbler.

  Jillian wasn’t going to give up this time. Should I just go sit with him? Just walk over, sit down, and start talking?

  No. Everyone would see us, and the room would shrink and run out of air.

  And he’d call me Sarah.

  I slipped away before he saw me and rushed outside. I found a spot on the concrete steps behind a pillar, sank down, and opened my book bag. I’d forgotten to do my Civics homework last night, and it was due next period. It would be easier to do it out here anyway.

  I couldn’t find my Civics notebook, but I stayed out there in the shadows behind the pillar until the bell rang.

  After that, I didn’t bother with the cafeteria. Every day I returned to my safe, private little hiding spot on the steps.

  Now that I sat outside for lunch, I saw Tristan at school only when he passed by my locker between classes. I saw him at the park most afternoons, though, when I went running with Logan. A few times he was jogging on the path, in my direction—clockwise. When he wasn’t on the trail, he was usually on the tennis courts, lobbing the ball to the guy with the bushy eyebrows.

  Today I stopped short at the sight of them playing tennis with two girls—the tall girl with curly brown hair—and an even taller girl from my Spanish class with straight black hair.

  Drawing myself up to my full fifty-eight inches, I twisted my not-quite-blond, not-quite-brown, not-quite-curly, not-quite-straight hair around my finger. Logan caught up to me and stopped too. The curly-hair
ed girl hit the tennis ball to Tristan. He returned it with a graceful swing, but instead of arcing elegantly over the net, the ball veered off his racquet at an unnatural angle, aiming straight at me.

  I glared at Logan, who looked back with wide innocent eyes and a shrug, and I dashed away.

  Logan went with me to the park the next afternoon too, but just before we reached the entrance to the jogging path, he detoured to a picnic table and sat down.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  He pulled a stack of index cards from the back pocket of his shorts. “I have a history test tomorrow and I need to study.”

  That couldn’t be true. Logan never needed to study. He never even took notes.

  “But don’t worry,” he said, shuffling through the cards. “I know you don’t like to run alone, so I asked someone to go with you.”

  Oh no.

  Logan raised his hand in a wave and shouted across the park. “Tristan, over here!”

  And there he was, jogging over to us with an orange TLC shirt stretching over his chest, and his tousled brown hair turning gold in the sun, and his smile....

  “This was Jillian’s idea, wasn’t it?” I muttered to Logan.

  “Hers and mine.” He grinned and tapped the index cards on the table. They were covered with musical notes and treble clefs.

  My stomach tumbled, and it was all I could do to keep my feet from sprinting me away. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I hate jogging, and you need a friend.”

  “But what if...” I lowered my voice. “What if he comes?”

  “If Dennis Connelly comes anywhere close,” Logan said, “Dad will see him. You have your phone. I’ll be sitting right here. You’ll be fine.”

  As Tristan approached, Logan slid the cards under his leg, and I tried to remember how to breathe.

  “Hey, Scottie,” Tristan said to Logan. “Big history test tomorrow?”