by Clara Kensie
Good. I didn’t want him to notice me anyway.
He must have felt me watching, though, because when he and Gianna walked to their table, she sat down, but he didn’t. Instead he kept walking. Toward me. His steps were hesitant, like he was afraid I’d flee if he came too close. He reached me but kept his distance. “Hey, Sarah.”
“Hi.” I forced myself to look into his eyes. “Sorry.” Sorry for running away when he asked me to the dance. Sorry I was wrong about not wanting any attachments. Sorry I’d missed my chance with him.
He nodded. “Me too. I thought... well. Anyway.”
To avoid looking at him, I scanned the room for a seat. No empty tables, near an exit or otherwise. The table I’d used on my first day was occupied again, this time by six girls. Their plates still full, they wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon.
“You’ll never find a table today,” Tristan said. “Why don’t you sit with us?”
Us. How could such a tiny word sound so ugly? “Won’t your girlfriend be mad?”
“My girlfriend?” He looked genuinely surprised that I knew about her.
“Gianna.” I swirled my finger in my hair, indicating her curls. “You brought her to Homecoming.”
“Gianna? She’s not... When she heard I was staying in town, she asked me to go. As friends.” He gave me a playful nudge. “She has a boyfriend who’s away at college.”
Warm relief swept over me, opening my lungs. “Oh.” My face grew warm too. He grinned, and just like that, the awkwardness between us melted like ice in the sun.
We shuffled down the lunch line. All of the entrees had meat in them, so I chose a garden salad, an apple and milk. He grabbed a fried chicken sandwich, a bag of Doritos and a Coke. I wrinkled my nose and sneaked an apple on his tray. He stopped in front of the desserts, where he selected the largest piece of chocolate cake and put it on my tray. Then, before I could protest, he took my tray and headed toward the group of students sitting right in the middle of the room. His friends.
I tapped my cell phone. My feet twitched, aching to run, to find a new hiding spot. The girls’ bathroom, maybe.
No. I could do this. I could sit with Tristan and his friends in the middle of the room. Just this once. I commanded my feet to follow him. Thank goodness he was holding my tray. My hands shook so badly I would have dropped it. I slid them inside my sleeves.
The fog thickened and thunder rumbled as we wove through the sea of tables. I imagined that fog wrapping itself around me like a blanket, dulling my anxiety as I followed Tristan to the table.
“Hey, guys, make room for us,” he said as he climbed onto the bench. I changed my mind—us wasn’t such an ugly word after all. He patted the empty spot next to him. Cheeks burning, insides churning, I climbed in and tried to fight the nausea as everyone stared at me. Tapping my phone again, I planned an escape route through the crowd in case it rang.
“This is Sarah,” Tristan said, then introduced his friends. “This is Gianna, Chad and Vanessa.”
I gave Gianna an apologetic smile, which she returned with a polite one of her own. Chad was Tristan’s tennis partner with the bushy eyebrows, and Vanessa was the girl from my Spanish class who’d played doubles with them. I nodded hello at everyone, then glanced at Tristan, silently begging him to take their attention off me. He obliged, steering the conversation to the Thunderclouds’ football team. I relaxed a tiny bit and released the phone from my grip, then picked the green peppers from my salad.
“You did great,” Tristan said to me once the football conversation was in full swing. His cool breath brushed my neck, under my ear. “It’ll be easier tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? No way. I’d be sitting outside, alone on the steps, tomorrow.
He looked at me, lighting up from the inside out: first his eyes, then his smile.
And that was it. No more solitary lunches on the steps for me. Tomorrow I’d be back here, sitting with Tristan and his friends. Maybe I’d even speak.
He polished off his sandwich and chips, then took an enthusiastic bite of the apple I’d put on his tray. Handing me a plastic fork, he slid the chocolate cake between us.
I hadn’t thought about Dennis Connelly in at least ten minutes. No wonder Jillian was so boy-crazy.
I took a forkful of the cake and smiled at Tristan. He squeezed my knee under the table. Lightning flashed in the sky, and for a split second, everything was brighter.
Chapter Seven
Although it was still storming, Mom, Logan and I went to the town square that afternoon. Logan needed another composition book from the music store, and Mom and I had to go to the supermarket to pick up ingredients for dinner.
My mother shared her beauty with Jillian, her intelligence with Logan and her psychokinesis with both of them. She shared her love of cooking with me. We made dinner together every night. I used to paint, oils on canvas, but stopped when my parents declared we didn’t have room in our getaway car to bring my creations along. But like Logan’s music and Jillian’s dancing, cooking left nothing personal behind. Mom and I always made our meals from scratch. No mixes, frozen, or heat-and-eat meals for us.
She was beaming this afternoon, and for the first time I could remember, those proud smiles were aimed at me. Dad had checked on me during my lunch period and reported to her that I was sitting at a table with other kids. Tonight’s menu had originally called for veal—ugh—but Mom let me change it to something I would actually eat. I chose eggplant parmigiana.
“Maybe this Tristan boy will ask you on a date.” She slipped her arm through mine in the produce aisle.
“It’s not like that. We’re just friends.”
She and Logan exchanged knowing glances. I pretended to inspect the eggplants.
We stopped at the deli counter for the mozzarella, and as we passed the seafood section, Mom’s face turned slightly green. Fish was never on the menu. It was the only thing she wouldn’t teach me to cook. Logan and I quickly steered her to the bakery to pick out some fresh bread.
With our grocery bags hooked over our arms, we dashed through the rain to the minivan. I jumped into the front passenger seat, and Logan slid in behind Mom. She turned the key in the ignition, but nothing happened. She tried again. “That’s odd. The car won’t start.” She took her hand away and stared at the key. It turned again on its own, but the engine only clicked, barely audible over the rain.
The color drained from her face. “He did this.” Her panicked gaze darted around the darkening parking lot. “He’s here.”
“Who?” Logan asked.
There was only one he.
“It...it can’t be him,” I said. “Dad would’ve seen him coming. He would’ve called us.” But I couldn’t help looking out into the parking lot myself. Could Dennis Connelly have somehow slipped past my dad’s mobile eye? There were dozens of cars in the lot, and he could be hiding in, under or behind any one of them. I covered my stomach with my hands, already feeling him slashing it open again.
Mom let out a strangled cry. With a loud snap, the doors locked themselves. “If it’s not him, then why won’t the car start?” Her voice sounded like a child’s. The key twisted itself in the ignition again, but nothing.
“It’s an old car,” Logan said. “Let me out and I’ll check under the hood.”
“No!” she cried. Rain pounded on the windows. The key turned in the ignition, over and over again, faster and faster. The gear stick jerked back and forth, and the glove box vibrated on its hinges.
“We can’t sit in here forever.” Logan’s firm, quiet tone, so much like Dad’s, helped to soothe her. “I’m sure it’s just a problem with the engine. But come out with me to keep watch. If anything happens, anything at all...we’ll fight.”
She threw me a tormented glance. “What about Tessa?”
Logan frowned at me
and pointed to the floor between the front seat and the dashboard. “Get down there.”
“But—” There had to be some way I could help. “I can help Mom keep watch.”
“Then she would have to watch you too.” He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over. “Get down there and hide under this.”
Logan thought I was a distraction, a hindrance. Holding back tears, I slid down and pulled the jacket over myself.
“On three,” Logan said to Mom. “One, two...three.” I heard them each take a deep breath and open the doors, then jump out into the pouring rain.
* * *
Dad had slept through the whole thing.
He sat in shamed silence on the sofa in our living room, grasping Mom’s hand in his, as Logan described how they had locked the doors of the minivan to keep me safe as I huddled under the dashboard. How he’d opened the hood and waved his palm over the engine, learning how it worked with a single swipe. How Mom had paced around him, regarding everyone in the parking lot, even a young mother who dashed past with an umbrella in one hand and holding a toddler on her hip with the other, with suspicion. How he’d discovered the battery cables had come loose and how he’d simply tightened them to get our getaway car started again. How he’d had to steer from the backseat with his PK because Mom was too rattled to drive us home.
“It’s an old car,” Logan said. “That’s all it was.”
I couldn’t let myself believe that until my dad confirmed, with a nod, that Logan’s assessment was correct. An old car. Not Dennis Connelly.
But I would have felt better if Dad’s nod wasn’t so shaky.
It was no one’s fault the getaway car hadn’t started, but Dad blamed himself. “I shouldn’t have let a little headache bother me. I should have been watching you.” His voice was weak as Mom stroked his cheek. “I could have called. Told you Connelly was nowhere close.”
Jillian, however, blamed Dennis Connelly. She stormed around the room, shoving end tables and armchairs out of her way with an angry glance. “He’s nowhere close, but he still manages to terrorize us. It’s not fair. When is it going to end?”
We all knew the answer to her question, but it was too horrible to say out loud.
Chapter Eight
I tapped my foot impatiently by Jillian’s locker. I needed to go home, change and get to the park. I’d been sitting with Tristan and his friends at lunch every day for two weeks now, and we’d resumed our Logan-chaperoned runs after school. We were supposed to meet on the path in half an hour. But Jillian had stopped packing her book bag and was standing still, her gaze unfocused. Daydreaming.
“Come on!” I poked her.
“That’s so cute,” she murmured. “Logan’s helping a girl open her jammed locker.”
I peered down the hallway. Students chatted in groups as they dug textbooks and jackets from their shiny orange lockers. A few feet away, a girl applied lipstick in the mirror hanging inside her locker. At the other end of the hall, a boy leaned against his locker as he texted someone. But no girl with a jammed locker, and no Logan.
“Oh, good. He got it open,” Jillian said, then snickered. “He probably used his PK and she never even knew it.”
Logan was nowhere around. There was no way Jillian could see him, unless—
My whole body grew hot, then cold. I couldn’t speak. Or move. “You did it?” I finally managed to squeak. “You have a mobile eye?”
With a smirk, she pulled me close. “Not really. It only works when Dad’s doing it. Right now Dad’s watching through Logan, and I’m piggybacking. We were watching through you earlier today.” Then her tone fell flat. “Damn. He kicked me out again.”
A group of chatty girls passed by, one of them calling Jillian over. “Shelby, over here!”
“I gotta go talk to them,” she said, slamming her locker shut. “I told you that you didn’t need to worry.” I remained frozen as she shouldered her book bag and sauntered off to join her friends.
Jillian had piggybacked on our father’s mobile eye. One step closer, a monumental step closer, to developing a mobile eye of her own.
This was a good thing.
I was relieved. So relieved, in fact, that my knees shook, and I sank against the lockers.
Jillian was going to save us. With her new psychic ability. Logan had two abilities, psychokinesis and hypercognition, and now Jillian had two psychic abilities, as well.
And I still had none.
“Everything okay, Sarah?”
I jumped at the voice, but it was just Tristan, walking by with Chad. He held his textbooks and notes in one large hand.
I managed to give him a weak smile. “Everything’s great.”
He frowned, clearly not believing me. “Still up for our run today?”
No way I was up for a run today. Not when Jillian had developed a new psychic power. Not when Logan could shrewdly un-jam a girl’s locker with his psychokinesis. Not when I couldn’t even levitate a stupid paperclip.
But then I changed my mind. I had no paranormal abilities, but I had a friend. A friend who made me feel valued instead of inferior and useless. A friend who ran with me in the park because he wanted to, not because he was obligated to. A friend with broad shoulders and blue eyes and tousled brown hair that reflected gold in the light.
My weak smile became genuine. “I’ll meet you at the park in half an hour.”
* * *
Tristan was already at the entrance to the running path when I got there, swinging his arms to warm up his muscles and wearing an orange TLC baseball cap backwards. “Hey Clockwise. Where’s Scottie?”
It took me a second to figure out he was talking about my brother. “I told him he could stay home.” He hadn’t wanted to come anyway, and this time, I hadn’t argued.
Tristan brightened, first his eyes, then his smile. But his smile was softer this time, like he was honored I’d finally given him my trust. Together we sank to the grass to stretch. His gaze met mine, then lingered. “Wildflower eyes,” he murmured.
“Hmm?”
“Your eyes. They’re bright green with little flecks of color. Like wildflowers.” He gestured to a small patch of violet, gold and blue flowers, surrounded by green grass.
Like a butterfly, his words fluttered into my heart.
He hummed a little tune, soft and sweet.
“What’s that?”
“An old song I heard the other day that made me think of you. ‘Wildflowers.’ By Tom Petty. Do you know it?”
I shook my head. God, his eyes were so blue. Electric. Beautiful.
“Do you want to hear it?” he asked.
“Hear what?”
He chuckled. “‘Wildflowers.’ I put it on my iPod.”
“Oh. Yes, please.” I couldn’t take my eyes from his face as he searched for the song on his iPod and handed it to me. I pressed the earbuds in, and he watched for my reaction as I listened. The lyrics sang of running away to find love and freedom. They were...
“...Perfect,” I whispered. As the song played, I imagined Tristan holding me close, my head against his chest. I turn my head up, he bends his down, and we...
I pushed the image away right before we kissed.
I blinked, yanked the earbuds out, hopped up. “Let’s run.”
* * *
We ran side by side, matching each other step for step. Invisible strings kept the corners of my lips pulled up. My eyes were drawn to him like a magnet, to the way his pecs pulsed when his arms pumped, the way his hair bounced with each step—
“Eyes on the road, Sarah.” He pulled me out of the way just before I would have crashed into a woman running in the opposite direction.
“Thanks,” I said, feeling my face get hot.
“Good thing you have me to keep
you safe.”
I did feel safe with him. But no matter how safe I felt, he couldn’t protect me from Dennis Connelly.
That thought stopped me short. What would I do if Dennis Connelly stepped out from behind a tree right now? What if my dad failed to see him coming? The smeared handprint on our front window. The loose battery cables in our getaway car. What if...
Oh God. I started to run faster.
“Ready to pick up the pace?” Tristan asked as I shot past him. “You got it.” A second later he was at my side, then he poked me. “Tag, you’re it!” He darted off at full speed, then looked back at me with a goofy smile.
I forced myself to stop being so paranoid and have some fun. Jillian and Logan did it, maybe I could too. Quickening my steps until I was in a full-out sprint, I wove between the other joggers a few steps behind Tristan, trying to catch him. My feet pounded on the trail as I pumped my legs harder.
Tristan glanced behind him and slowed his pace. I leaped and grabbed the hat from his head. “Ha!” As I ran past him, I shoved the hat on my own head.
Oh—doing that slowed me down. Tristan was too close. I laughed and picked up speed again. But his hat was too loose—it was about to fly off. I pulled my ponytail through the hole in the back. There. That kept it on. I sped up again, determined to outrun him at least until we finished the lap.
I came close but didn’t make it. He caught up with me just before the starting point. “Not bad, Sarah. But not good enough!” He grabbed his hat as he zoomed past and within seconds was far ahead of me. If I didn’t run faster, he’d soon be around the bend, out of my sight.
I bore down, picturing my legs as pistons, pumping faster and faster. Tristan ran several paces ahead, but I kept him in sight. His lead was big enough that he could slow down and stop. He turned to face me, and with a teasing grin, adjusted the hat on his head before taking off again.
Big mistake. I shot myself forward like a cannon. A bullet. A few more steps and—yes! Just before we reached the starting point again, I caught up with him.
“Not good enough?” I jumped up and grabbed the hat back. “We’ll see about that!” Sailing down the path for the third lap, I vowed to make it all the way around ahead of him this time. I jammed the hat on my head and ran. Sprinted. Flew. I heard him right behind me. He laughed, which slowed him down.