by Clara Kensie
My brother pasted a miserable frown on his face. “I’m in Molinski’s class.”
“I hear she’s brutal. I’m pretty good in history, so if you need help, let me know.” He faced me next. “Ready to run, Clockwise?”
I was always ready to run. I darted off, for a moment considering running home rather than down the path. But... a small part of me wanted to run with him. Just this once.
So I turned on to the path, clockwise of course, and ran alongside him. I could do this. Tristan and I were jogging together, that’s all. Not even that—we were jogging next to each other. Despite what my siblings were trying to do, Tristan would never be my friend.
But I couldn’t stop myself from sneaking glances up at him. Every so often I caught him peeking down at me too, and instead of running on concrete, I might as well have been soaring through the clouds.
* * *
Our shadows stretched far on the sidewalk as Logan and I walked home from the park. My shadow bobbed up and down, replicating the skip in my step. I’d run farther with Tristan than I’d ever run with my siblings and was still going strong when Logan had appeared at the entrance to the loop to say it was getting late. I hoped my reluctance hadn’t shown on my face when I’d said good-night to Tristan.
Maybe I had made a friend after all. A boy with blue eyes and broad shoulders named Tristan Walker.
As we walked up our driveway, Logan stopped short and stared at the house, head tilted, frowning. I followed his gaze but couldn’t see anything. “What’s wrong?”
“Look at the front window,” he said. “What do you see?”
“White curtains. Closed.”
“No. Look at the window. Not through it.”
I looked again. When I tilted my head just the right way, the setting sun shone on the window—and in the bottom left corner, I saw it.
A handprint.
A little streaked, a little smeared, but definitely a handprint. And big—definitely a man’s handprint. Like he’d been crouching in the bushes under the window. Watching. Listening.
I whirled around, suddenly noticing all the places someone could hide. In the bushes. Up in the trees. Across the street, behind the fence. In that car parked down the road.
I also noticed Logan’s face. Usually so controlled, so strong, I sometimes forgot he was my little brother. But now his eyes were wide. Young. Scared.
Seeing him like that only heightened my own fear, but he must have realized that, because a moment later his usual stoicism wiped away his vulnerability. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Don’t—don’t say that just to make me feel better. It’s not nothing.”
“I’m serious. Look.” He pointed to the house next door, its driveway cluttered with sports equipment. “That kid is always outside hitting baseballs with his dad. He probably hit one into our bushes.” Each word was more forceful than the one before it, like he was trying to convince himself as well as me. “And then his dad leaned on the window to get it.”
Far-fetched but plausible. In any case, it couldn’t be Dennis Connelly’s handprint. Our father would see him before he could get close to us. “You’re probably right.”
Logan marched up to the window and, using the sleeve of his jacket, wiped the handprint away. Then he reached into the bushes and pulled out an orange plastic hockey puck, which he held up triumphantly. “See? No reason to freak out.” He pitched it into the next yard, where it bounced, then rolled, and finally came to rest next to the basketball hoop.
“Dad still should have known someone was that close to our house,” I said.
Instead of heading to the front door, Logan returned to me on the driveway, this time not bothering to conceal the worry in his expression. “A few nights ago he had a bloody nose.”
“I’ve seen that too.”
Together, we trudged up to the porch. Logan stopped before opening the door. “You know, when Dennis Connelly finds us this time, we should stay. Stay and fight. Mom couldn’t beat him on her own, but Jillian’s PK is almost as strong as Mom’s is now. And I’m getting there too. Between the three of us, we could beat one guy.”
But then his gaze dropped to my stomach, and he sighed. It didn’t matter how strong they were. They couldn’t defeat someone who could slice a person open with just a glance.
Hands fluttering to my belly, I mumbled, “I wish you wouldn’t say his name out loud.”
Without using his PK, Logan opened the door and went inside without another word.
I squinted up at the darkening sky and shivered.
* * *
Late that night, after my nightmare had woken me up, I heard furtive whispering coming from Jillian’s bedroom. As my heart rate slowly returned to normal, I slipped out of bed and padded, barefoot, across the hall.
The desk lamp shed a dim light on Jillian as she reclined on her bed, fiddling anxiously with the heart charm on her bracelet. “I don’t care,” she muttered. “I’m not stopping.”
“You’re wasting your time.” Logan’s shadow loomed large on the wall as he paced. “And mine.”
Were they talking about Tristan and me again? Logan was right: Jillian was wasting her time if she thought I’d do anything more than go jogging with him. “What’s going on?” I asked.
They startled, then looked up. “Oh. It’s only you,” Jillian said, relieved. “We’re just talking. Go back to bed.”
“No.” I crossed my arms. I was sick of these two plotting behind my back. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing you can help with,” she said, then added, “Sorry.”
“Why not?” Maybe this wasn’t about Tristan after all.
“I was trying to help Jillian with her stupid remote vision idea,” Logan said. “But it’s not working.”
“I swear I’m getting close,” Jillian insisted.
“You’ve been getting close for weeks,” he said, “but really, you’re no closer now than when you first started.” He took my arm. “Seriously, Tessa. Go back to sleep. I’m going too. I’m not staying up all night anymore to help her with something that will never work.” He pulled me from the room.
“Quitter,” Jillian jeered at him, then her door closed itself behind us.
“You don’t think she can do it?” I whispered to Logan in the dark hallway.
“No. She’s just desperate,” he said. “But you don’t need to worry. I’ll figure something out.”
I didn’t need to worry. Because Logan would figure something out. Because Jillian wouldn’t let anything bad happen. Because our parents would keep us safe.
They never asked me to help, because they didn’t think I could help.
I went back to bed, but instead of sleeping, I sat with my knees tucked under my chin, stared at a silver paperclip on my nightstand, and willed it to move.
It didn’t.
Chapter Five
Tristan waited for us at the entrance to the running trail every day after school. Logan sat contentedly at the picnic table and studied his fake notes while Tristan and I ran through the park together, always in the clockwise direction. He easily matched my pace in a way Logan and Jillian never could and sometimes quickened his, challenging me to run faster than ever before.
Our rapid pace saved me from long discussions with him, and when we did manage to pant out a conversation, I kept the topic neutral: school, teachers, TV, music. After our runs, I began to feel a strange new ache—not in my legs from running so hard, but in my cheeks, from smiling so much.
I had to admit, I liked having a friend.
One day on the jogging trail he slowed to a stop and raked his hand through his hair. “I was supposed to go home to Milwaukee this weekend,” he said. “My parents were coming back for a visit. But my mom got the flu, so they had to ca
ncel the trip.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Which means,” he said, “I’ll be here.”
“Oh. Good.” Now we could run together over the weekend. I started jogging again but he didn’t, so I stopped.
“It’s Homecoming,” he said.
“It is?” I feigned ignorance, but I’d seen the posters, heard the chatter. Jillian was going with a boy named Ethan. Our mom had already taken her out to buy a fancy dress, and last night they’d studied the magazines to pick out a hairstyle. Even Logan was going, with a group of friends from jazz band. I had no interest in Homecoming, neither the game nor the dance.
“I never asked anyone to the dance,” Tristan said, “because I wasn’t going to be here. But now I will be. So...”
I stepped back. No. Please don’t. Don’t ruin this.
“I know it’s last minute, but will you go—”
Another step. “I can’t.”
He blinked. “Are you going with someone else?”
And another step. “I’m not—I’m not going at all.”
I heard him ask “Why not?” But I’d already run away.
* * *
I had to squint to see through the haze of hairspray in Jillian’s room. “Ouch!” She cried out as our mom pinned her hair up with a dozen rhinestone clips.
“Sorry,” Mom said. “That’s the last one.” She stood back and covered her mouth with her hands as her eyes filled with tears. “You’re so beautiful, Jillian.”
And Jillian was beautiful, even more so than usual, standing gracefully in a violet taffeta dress, her hair pinned up regally with a few playful tendrils hanging past her shoulders. Mom had done her makeup, a bit heavier than normal, just enough to make Jillian’s pink lips sparkle and her gray eyes smoky. Without question, she’d be the most stunning girl at the Homecoming dance tonight.
Mom had to stifle tears again when she saw Logan. Happy to finally have a chance to wear formal clothes rather than the baggy tees and ripped jeans he wore to blend in, he strutted into the room in his white dress shirt, navy sport coat and pressed Dockers. He was going as part of a group, but there was one girl in particular, a clarinet player, he wanted to dance with.
My mother gave me a pained look as I sat on the floor in my jeans and hoodie, knees tucked under my chin. “Are you sure you don’t want to go, Babydoll? You can hang out with Jillian and her friends. I even bought you a dress. Green, to match your eyes.” A kelly-green halter dress floated into the room and wiggled itself so its rhinestones sparkled.
“That’s pretty, Mom,” I said. “But I didn’t buy a ticket.” I’d never told her that someone had asked me to the dance and I’d turned him down. It would devastate her.
I slid my hands into my sleeves, knowing I was devastating her anyway.
“I thought you and I could cook something tonight,” I said, to make it up to her. “You can teach me how to make a soufflé.”
With a tight-lipped nod, Mom sent the dress from the room and adjusted a clip in Jillian’s hair.
I hadn’t seen Tristan at all since I’d run away from him. I sat on the steps at lunch, stopped at my locker when he wasn’t around, stayed in my room after school. Jogging with him every day had given him the wrong idea. Now he thought we were more than friends.
Well, not anymore.
I’d done the right thing.
Downstairs by the front door, Dad went over the rules again, something he did each time Jillian or Logan went out with their friends. We divided our going-out rules into two categories: Rules for regular kids, and rules for kids who were hiding from a telepathic killer hired by the government. “No smoking, no drinking, no drugs, no sex.” He counted off each rule on his fingers. “Do not get in a car with someone who’s been drinking or doing drugs. Stay within a ten-minute drive of this house. Be home by midnight, not one minute later. Remember our cover story. If you slip up at all, run. If you see anyone or anything suspicious, run. If anyone looks like he’s watching you... run.”
Our parents also reminded them not to get their photos taken. “Not just formal portraits,” Mom said. “Candid pictures too. You know what to do if your friends start taking pictures.”
My siblings gave a solemn and serious nod. They’d have to use their psychokinesis to break something in the camera, guaranteeing those photos would never turn out. Cruel, but necessary.
I had no way of stealthily breaking a camera. Another reason not to go to the dance. Now I was positive I’d done the right thing.
“Keep your cell phone with you at all times,” my dad added. “The music will be loud, so put the ringer all the way up and keep it on vibrate.” Logan slid his phone in the inner pocket of his sport coat. Jillian slipped hers inside a secret pocket our mother had sewn under her skirt. She wouldn’t feel the vibrations if it rang inside her little handbag.
A car pulled in the driveway. Jillian’s date. My dad added one more thing right before the doorbell rang. “I’ll be watching.”
Instead of a solemn nod, Jillian bit her lips shut. Then they spread into a smile as she opened the door.
For a moment—just a millisecond, really—I wished it would be Tristan standing on the porch.
But it wasn’t. The boy on the porch had black hair down to his jaw. The first boy Jillian had smiled at on the first day of school. We all held our breath as she let him a few steps into the foyer, as far as we’d ever allow anyone inside our house. “Mom, Dad,” she said, “this is Ethan Mitchell.”
A quick introduction, a brisk handshake, and Jillian pulled Ethan outside to his car. In and out in less than a minute. Perfect.
Mom drove Logan to the dance so he could meet his friends, and Dad and I stared at each other in the silence. “You didn’t have to say no when that boy asked you,” he said.
“You saw that?”
He nodded, pity clear in his eyes.
“I just...” My throat started to close up. “The lying, and—and the cameras—he was starting to think—” I had to force air into my lungs. “I can’t, Daddy. I just can’t.”
He sighed and drew me against his chest. “Oh, Blessa. I wish I could make you feel safe.”
* * *
The cheese soufflé I made with my mother was a success: airy and scrumptious. Not successful enough to her make her forget that I didn’t go to the Homecoming dance, but at least her disappointment in my social life was replaced with pride in my cooking skills. I had more fun cooking with my mother than I would have had at that dance, lying to Tristan and avoiding cameras, anyway.
Just before curfew, Jillian slipped into my room, still in her dress. I was awake, staving off my inevitable nightmare by reading a book. “What happened to your hair?” I asked.
She shrugged and tucked her messy locks behind her ears. “Some clips fell out and I couldn’t find them.” She spun around the room, telling me every detail of the dresses, the decorations, the music. The Homecoming queen ripped her dress up the back. One girl got into a fight with her boyfriend and left the dance crying. Ethan was clumsy during the fast dances but smooth on the slow songs.
I hugged my knees to my chest and listened for a half hour, but she still hadn’t told me the only thing I wanted to hear. Finally I had to ask. “Was Tristan there?”
She sank onto the bed. “Yeah. He was.”
I swallowed hard, certain by the sympathetic look on her face that he hadn’t gone alone.
“He went with Gianna,” she said. “You know, that tall girl with the curly hair. I thought they were just friends, but I guess not anymore.”
“Oh.” I expelled my breath like I’d been hit in the chest, surprised at how hot the tears felt in my eyes. I blinked them away before they fell.
Maybe I hadn’t done the right thing after all.
Chapter Six
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Wind, cold and drizzle wouldn’t have driven me from my private lunchtime spot on the school steps, but the storm that blew in the next Monday came full-force. Thunder, lightning, even hail. I couldn’t sit outside.
But I couldn’t go to the cafeteria either, not with Tristan there. The girl with the curly brown hair, Gianna, would be there too, and they’d be together. I couldn’t bear to see that.
I found a new hiding place, a storage area under the dim back stairwell. I sat between two folded-up tables and pulled my Civics homework from my book bag, barely able to hear the rumbling thunder through the brick walls. This place was even better than the outside steps. Weatherproof. Quiet. Isolated.
Isolated, until the door swung open and two men in denim work shirts walked into the stairwell, pushing a cart of folding chairs. I jumped and maybe whimpered a little bit. The younger man, dark hair brushing his collar, smiled shyly, but the squat, older man with the shiny moon-face frowned. “Kids aren’t allowed back here. Why aren’t you in class?”
“Um.” I forced myself to speak. “It’s my lunch period?”
“Then go to lunch!” Like a warden escorting a dead man walking, he followed me down the long hallway to the cafeteria.
The lunchroom was darker, gloomier than it had been on the first day. Fog seemed to seep in through the panes of windows, which showed a sky of black clouds, hail pelting the cars in the lot and corn stalks struggling to remain upright against the wind. All the students who usually went off-campus to eat must have decided to stay in, because the lunch line reached all the way across the cafeteria.
Holding my breath, I slunk in with my eyes and head down, praying no one would notice me.
And thanks to years of invisibility practice, no one did.
But I couldn’t resist the urge to look for Tristan.
I found him immediately, standing on the far side of the lunchroom, talking to Gianna. The girl who used to be just his friend. In her high-heeled boots, she stood even taller than Jillian and almost as tall as Tristan. He leaned in close and whispered something, making her laugh.